Page 7 of The Crimson Lily
I have no idea what the Westin Vendôme is, but it sure sounds fancy. The mention of my boss does make me cringe a little. I don’t think I like the man that much. But wait, I’m confused now. Does Maksim want me at the reception? And what are we supposed to do there?
“Are we going there?” I ask, sniffling a little again. My voice is ragged. I’m really doing my best not to go into panic mode in front of this giant stranger.
“You’re asking stupid questions,” he remarks in a cold tone. “Get yourself together.”
Ouch. That last part makes me freeze. I think I might burst into tired tears now, but I’m interrupted by Maksim pacing toward me and handing me some kind of black card. I look at it and flip it over. It’s a credit card.
“Make sure you wear something nice,” he requests, his voice absolutely emotionless.
I raise my eyes to meet his. He stays for more than a second there, by the right side of the bed, staring with his silvery gaze. I realize I don’t want him to leave. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t know what overtakes me, but I lay my hand gently on his arm, some kind of motion to tell him not to go.
“Where are you going?” I ask. I really should stop with the questions. My voice has almost broken down entirely.
I know he’s not going to answer. As expected, he pulls his arm back, but our fingers still touch. I linger on that feeling while he turns around.
“That’s none of your business,” he declares.
His answer leaves me numb.
He makes his way out of the room with his black duffle bag. When I hear the door close, I hide underneath the sheets again.I’m still holding the credit card in my hand. Maksim just handed me some cash to buy anicedress for a fancy reception. That all feels weird. I don’t think I’m really the type to be gold-digging around. I’d buy my own dress. Maksim and his credit card can go fuck themselves.
I stare at my phone screen, which I’ve been staring at for about an hour. I have Facebook Messenger open to my conversation with Béatrice Leclerc. I’ve been scrolling up, reliving our chats, our digital laughs. Now, I just have to make contact. That’s the only thing I need to do.
Hey, Béatrice, I heard you were in Paris. Well, so am I! Let’s meet.
No. I can do better. That sounds dumb. I candefinitelydo better.
Hey, Béatrice, I don’t know what happened between us, but I’m in Paris now, so?—
No! Good start, but no. You don’t tell someone you obviously had beef with that you’reback in town. If Béatrice has completely erased me from her life, I need to give her a really good reason to come back to me. Hang on…shehasn’tcompletely erased me. We’re still friends on Facebook. Maybe that doesn’t mean much to some, but in today’s society, it means something to most. However, there’s another theory, another explanation as to why she’s gone out of my life. DidIerase her? Was I the one to break all contact? I have to find out.
Béatrice is smart, cunning. I can’t give her words with no meaning or information that wouldn’t add anything to what she already knows. Béatrice will see through a lie the minute I tell one. I have to give her something she’d believe, something that sounds too improbable to be made up.
It’s clear to me what I have to say, and it’s more than clear that I don’t really have any other options. I have to tell her the truth. I just hope, with all my heart, that she will answer.
Hi, Béatrice, I had an accident on June 15, and I lost my memory. I don’t know what happened between us. I was in the hospital for a week. I feel like shit. I haven’t remembered much in two months, but now, I remember you. I’m in Paris. Let’s meet…please.
And she does answer. Five hours later, I wake up again to the sound of a Messenger notification. I grab my phone then put it back immediately, afraid of what I’ll find. Afraid of what her answer will be. Afraid she’ll say no. There I am, trying to muster all the courage I have left to seize my freaking phone and unlock it. My heart pounds in my chest like it’s about to burst. I open the messaging app and read:
Liliana…I don’t know what to say. Can you meet me tomorrow at 2 p.m. at Columbus Café near Luxembourg?
I exclaim a sigh, if that’s even possible. I’m going to see Béatrice again. Whatever happened between us, tomorrow she will shed some light on a whole lot of darkness around me. I GoogleLuxembourg, and find several pictures of a park that looks familiar. The feeling of numbness leaves me the minute I confirm our meeting. I’m going to see my best friend again. I am relieved.
4
Iwake up at 4 a.m., tired and jetlagged. I am pacing around the room like a hungry bear again. 7 a.m…8 a.m…9…I go down for breakfast and have the best croissants I’ve ever had in my life, then brush my teeth and shower—all the non-interesting things. Outside, the sun is shining, and the temperature is a good 77 degrees Fahrenheit. I dive into my jeans and a nice little white T-shirt with an upper bodice and sleeves made of lace roses. I like this T-shirt. It makes me look a little more cheerful than I’ve been so far. I look into the mirror before leaving. You really need to stare at me for a long time to notice anything. The bruise on my cheek can simply be explained by a bicycle fall or something. I flip my hair to the side and head out of the room, on my way to visit the amazing Quartier de l’Opéra.
I am in awe, like a little girl discovering a new land of colors and magic. I walk the Boulevard Haussmann, stop to inspect each shop, each boutique, turn left at Rue Halévy, and stand, mouth agape, in front of the beautiful Palais Garnier. I take a moment to admire its multi-era architectural blend and its two gold angelic statues watching over the street, but the gilded bronze color of the roof is what captures my gaze most.
I head down Avenue de l’Opéra and come face to face with an adjacent passage with stone arches that seems to lead to another mysterious place. But it is no mysterious place. As I cross the passage, I end up on Place du Carrousel, right between the magnificent Louvre and the Tuileries Garden. I knew it was the Louvre the second I saw the pyramid of glass and the huge line of people amassed at its foot. It feels like my favorite place on Earth. I’ve stood in that line many, many times before. To my right, there is the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, the gateway to the long-gone Tuileries Palace. I am no architect, but I definitely seem to have a taste for buildings with more history than history books.
When in Paris, I might as well do some tourism. I walk the Tuileries until I reach the Place de la Concorde behind the Ferris wheel. My shoulders literally drop at the overwhelming sight of this huge plaza of unending traffic, buses, people, noise…This is a little too much noise for me, yet it is still magical. I haven’t felt so amazed in a very long time. It’s like I’m rediscovering what it means to exist, to live, to walk the streets of this very City of Lights. I raise my arms in the air, feeling the warm breeze and the sunlight on my face.
“I’m alive,” I murmur to myself.
In this moment, nothing matters. Just me and Paris.
But then, just like that, as I close my eyes, the reflection of a metallic object flashes in my thoughts. I can see it clearly, the glint of a gun. It is aimed at me.
