Parisian Promises Page 8

  Monica broke down in silent tears in the barren pantry. She didn’t want Jean-Michel to see her bloated from the alcohol and totally disheveled from the restless nights and anguished days. She shook her head in disbelief. Did he just say that he had the most dreadful two days? He obviously never even considered her predicament––her three-day transformation from a naïve optimist to a broken-down weakling. She’d not only been abandoned by him, assaulted by self-doubts, and attacked by the eeriness of the locked doors and weird whistles, but she’d been cold, hungry, and utterly disoriented. Monica wanted to strike Jean-Michel across his handsome face for deserting her, just the way her father had greeted her repentant mother years ago after she had disappeared for a few days. That “welcome home” punch had taught Monica well. As much as she loved Rocky, every so often she felt obliged to crack the whip to get his attention, too. But one look at Jean-Michel’s worried face when he walked into the kitchen and Monica remembered that it had been her fault, entirely her doing that had pushed him into leaving her stranded. As quiet as a mouse, she crept out of the pantry and whispered, “Here I am.”

  Jean-Michel set down his shopping bags near a stone-cold fireplace, his laughter and spirits as jolly as a gift-bearing Santa Claus. He scooped up Monica and carried her to a leather chesterfield sofa. From a nearby chest he retrieved a mothball-scented cashmere blanket and wrapped her in it, and then he rubbed her feet and hands and kissed her warmly. Monica started to feel warm for the first time in days, especially when Jean-Michel tucked her blanket-covered body against the back of the sofa and lay in front of her, heating her body with his.

  She wanted him just to lie there, just to kiss and hold her, but instead he began recounting an unlikely tale of woe.

  “A friend was in a traffic accident down in the Loire Valley, and I had to drive there to make sure that the hospital was taking good care of him.” Jean-Michel stroked Monica’s hair and cupped her icy cheeks. “He’s always been the most inept person at everything, such that even a simple thing as driving south was a monumental effort to him. Thankfully, we will not have to deal with him again…since he’s back home by now.”

  “He’s fortunate to have you as a friend.”

  Jean-Michel rubbed her back and legs until he felt her body warm up. “You would do the same for a friend you loved, wouldn’t you?”

  Too quickly, Monica answered, “Absolutely.”

  She didn’t want to upset Jean-Michel ever again, and she didn’t think he would hold her in high regard if she admitted to having few friends. The women she was rooming with here in Paris had become her only close human friends. Even zany Madame Caron de Pichet, who late at night offered unusual and bawdy advice about dealing with men, had become a sort of friend. Yet Monica knew she wouldn’t go out of her way to help any of them. Not because they’d been lacking as friends: Monica simply would not let anything get in the way of accomplishing her dream of living in Paris or, more precisely, falling madly in love in Paris. All through her life, she’d always thought of Rocky as her best friend, in a way, and had taken comfort in grooming, training, and riding him. He understood her every gesture and mood, and––unlike her feuding parents––Rocky and his calm nature warmed her heart. His devoted animal love satisfied her more than any friendship could.

  What Monica needed now was the intensity of a torrid love affair with this particular man of her dreams, the man who now rubbed her and ignited the fire inside her. She was in Paris, even if the last few days weren’t quite the Paris of her dreams; she was lying next to a sensuous and intriguing man, and she knew she had to turn whatever was evolving between them into the love of her life––both of their lives. She would settle for no less, and she silently promised herself to give her all to this goal.

  She stroked his hair and kissed his forehead. “When you stayed away, it worried me so much. But I knew you’d come back to my arms.”

  “That’s all I thought about,” he lied.

  Monica wanted to direct him back to their lovemaking of three days ago, but she played her cards cautiously. “You know, I’ve been waiting to hear the rest of your most romantic love story about Isabel and the Amazon.” She massaged his back, and he moaned in fake pain as if he had run all the way back from the Loire. “If you’re not too fatigued from your long drive, I’d love to hear it.”

  Jean-Michel approved of this new, even more submissive Monica. The tactics he’d learned about forcing a female target into an environment of isolation and mind-clouding techniques appeared to have paid off. His persistent knocks on the door and enigmatic whistles had accomplished their objective: to confuse and undermine Monica’s logical train of thought the last two nights. It was his own version of a Pavlovian experiment: knock softly, yet persistently, to get her attention, and whistle the mystical three notes to confuse her. This one-two punch had forced Monica to get up throughout the night, make her way to the door, and turn the locked door handle––over and over and over again.

  From the peepholes Jean-Michel had installed on the common walls of the empty apartment next door, he had observed her gradual decline––hour by hour––and he’d cherished it. He’d sat in the neighboring apartment and sketched Monica’s eventual decline until she looked like a naked ghost floating from the bat-filled bedroom to the sterile library, trying to turn lights on and attempting to cover herself in anything to combat the cold. He’d seen her sobbing quietly, staying away from the windows because she clearly didn’t want to let anyone on the outside know how much she was suffering inside the apartment. This particular reaction indicated to him that Monica must feel guilty and somehow responsible for her miserable situation––and this was precisely the outcome Jean-Michel wanted.

  He had deprived her of sleep, food, clean water, light, clothing, and warmth––and not once did he have to get his hands dirty like the other fool squads. He’d sat next door in the empty apartment that belonged to his now-deceased great-uncles, and he drank their exquisite wine, ate delicious bread and cheese, and sketched to his heart’s content. Had his two eccentric and absent-minded great-uncles still been alive, they may not have even noticed that a young woman was being held captive in the adjacent apartment they used as a warehouse for their odd collections of taxidermy and unwanted art.

  Jean-Michel had heard that some less sophisticated squad leaders physically and sexually abused their female targets before they offered them the pity and kindness that elicited their captives’ fidelity, but in Jean-Michel’s estimation, such brute force was tantamount to admitting that the squad leader’s mind was not strong enough to “mind control” the female targets. He would have to present this modified version of traumatic bonding at a future meeting of his compañeros.

  As Monica massaged his legs and rubbed her flimsy body against his in a feeble attempt to seduce him, Jean-Michel decided to name his new style of assault on a target’s identity as the “California Girl.” It was a catchy title that implied that even smart-ass, independent, American chicks could be broken down with the surgical scalpel wielded by a master manipulator such as him.

  Jean-Michel had previously made the rounds of several clandestine insurgent groups embedded in Paris. He admired the revolutionary zeal of some of the group leaders, but he determined that he did not have the same driving force. He had not experienced injustice, discrimination, poverty, or political submission. In effect, he had never suffered a day in his life; he’d gone from a silver spoon to a generous trust fund––and now he resented his family for feathering his bed too luxuriously. He was attracted to the idea of creating such a suffering persona, but he did not convince anyone of his underdog status––and this made him rabid with indignation. While at a nightclub in Paris he ran into friends from the same Swiss boarding school. Soon the alcohol surging through their veins turned them hot-blooded, and they started talking about Che Guevara and continuing the revolution, their drunken talk igniting their bravado. Soon thereafter Jean-Michel started calling them compañeros and allud
ing to their formation of a special squad of insurgents, soon to be called to action. In the meantime, they drank the finest Bordeaux and lounged at various cafes and bars, seducing women and periodically pamphleteering or taking unknown packages from one building in Paris to another. The formation of their supposed insurgent group gave the compañeros a structure to their days and a sense of purpose to their disaffected rich-boy life, and it satisfied Jean-Michel’s need to be perceived as a leader.

  Jean-Michel kept moaning in fake pain while a still-shivering Monica massaged him. He noticed her chewed nails and trembling body, and decided to switch tactics––to keep the ball rolling, as Americans liked to say.

  “You’re a sweetheart,” he said, wrapping her in the blanket. “I feel better already. Shall we have a bite to eat?”

  Monica wanted to wolf down the croissants and slices of ham and cheese he’d brought, but before she could put a bite in her mouth, Jean-Michel said, “Surely you’re not going to eat the whole thing, are you? I love your litheness.”

  He pinched her frozen nipples, and Monica tried not to grimace. She shook her head.

  “No, not at all. This plate is for you.” She handed him the full plate. “I’ll just have a couple of bites from what’s left.”

  “Yes, that’s a good idea. Your thighs are much too plump for a woman your size,” Jean-Michel said as he ate everything on his plate, and most of what remained in the other shopping bags.

  Every detail of Monica’s appearance revealed a woman who had relinquished control of her own life. From her sunken eyes to the chewed fingernails and disheveled hair, she exuded defeat. In a fragile voice, she asked, “Won’t you please tell me why you cherish the story of Isabel and the Amazon?”

  “Sure, why not. But it really is chilly in here, isn’t it?” Jean-Michel wrapped himself in the cashmere blanket and Monica squeezed her body between his and the chesterfield to warm up. “It’s a very long and fantastic story, but I’ll only tell you the highlights.” He yawned. “I’m so tired from trying to protect all my friends.”

  He yanked the blanket closer to him, so Monica’s back was completely exposed.

  “Isabel was the most faithful wife,” he told her. “She married Jean Godin des Odonais, who was part of the 1735 French expedition led by the well-known naturalist Charles-Marie de La Condamine. Isabel listened to every word her husband told her, and when he decided to go on another expedition to French Guiana, she stayed in her hometown of Riobamba…I think she loved her horses like you do.”

  Jean-Michel put his arm around Monica, but when she wrapped her body around his, he pushed her away.

  “I can see that you’re not really interested,” he said, sounding hurt. “Shall I stop?”

  “No, no, I love the story. It’s just that I’m really cold. Do you know where my clothes are?”

  “So now you’re threatening me? Just say so and the door is wide open.” Jean-Michel stood up and stalked to the door.

  Monica didn’t budge. A tiny whimper escaped her mouth.

  “Well, make up your mind, please. Either you leave now or you stay and listen to the story and then we can make love all night. Which is it?”

  “I, I’d love to stay––please.”

  “But of course. Let me pour you a nice Cognac. It will warm you up.” He rummaged through one of the bags and pulled out the bottle.

  “This is delicious, thank you,” said Monica, grateful for a swig and not daring to ask for a glass. “Won’t you please continue with Isabel’s tale?”

  “As I was saying, before you interrupted me, Jean Godin could not return to Riobamba in the Ecuadorian highlands due to a series of snafus, but in a letter to Isabel he commanded her to take a boat and cross the entire Amazon River to meet him. Did Isabel complain about it being too cold or too hot or too many insects or the fact that she’d already buried her child? No, she did not.” He slapped the cocktail table.

  “She certainly did as she was told,” whispered Monica.

  “That she did. Did you know that her boat capsized and just about everyone on board drowned? Those who didn’t ended up bitten or eaten by the mighty black caimans and were glad to die. Did I tell you that her father and brothers who had accompanied her also perished?”

  “No,” Monica said, wondering if a caiman was like a crocodile, but not wanting to sound stupid by asking. “How sad! I can’t believe she could continue.”

  Jean-Michel slapped the coffee table again. “Damn it, if you don’t believe what I’m saying then get out.”

  He pointed to the door, and Monica started to cry. She was so tired, cold and hungry, and her clouded mind could take no more. All she could think of doing was to make love with Jean-Michel, to verify that she’d felt something unique, something life-altering, with him. She wanted to return to their first few idyllic hours together when she’d been swept off her feet. And if she didn’t recapture that feeling, then she would have to escape this morgue––before he locked her in all alone again.

  He ignored her tears, glaring petulantly towards the door. Monica straddled him and covered his face with kisses, hoping to seduce him again, but he pushed her aside as though she were a pesky lap dog licking him.

  “So, as I was saying, Isabel Casamayor traveled the rest of the way alone. And naked, I might add.” He slapped Monica’s buttocks not-so-gently. “But she made it to the mouth of the mighty Amazon and landed in her husband’s arms––twenty years after she’d last seen her beloved.”

  Monica was still kissing and caressing him, but her mind was whirring, thinking of ways to leave his cage. But his story was over, and she had to think of something to say.

  “How does the toucan remind you of Isabel?” she managed to ask.

  He picked up Monica and carried her back to the bedroom. She wasn’t thrilled to be back here again, with its now-silent menagerie, but she wasn’t about to admit that to Jean-Michel. They both leaned against the window where the stuffed toucan dwelled mute and motionless.

  “It is said that this true-blue toucan made her home on the balsa wood raft that floated down the Amazon with Isabel on it, and…” Jean-Michel broke off abruptly and looked out the window. “Putain, what are they doing here?”

  “Who?” asked Monica.

  “Never mind. Put your clothes on––they’re in the black bag,” he ordered. “You need to go. Quick, dress and run down the stairs. Talk to no one. I know where you live, and I’ll come and fetch you.”

  Monica ran to the living room, her heart thumping. She found the black bag and grabbed her clothes, relieved to see them again. She slipped on the blue dress over her naked body, and hurried to the front door, shoes in hand. This time the outer door was unlocked.

  “Don’t forget that you’re mine––and that I love you,” Jean-Michel called, as Monica slipped out, almost skidding on the shiny floor.

  She made her way down the staircase, not replying until she heard Jean-Michel’s footsteps and realized he’d come out of the apartment to watch her go. She looked up at his handsome and forlorn face and her heart melted

  “I, uh, I love you, too,” she said, and then ran down the stairs, just as he’d commanded.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Madame’s Advice

  The famous grisaille of Paris, the all-encompassing, monochromatic gray brushstrokes of the city, intermittently camouflaged Monica as she lurked from street to alleyway. She was on her way back to Madame Caron de Pichet’s grand old house, trying not to notice if people stared at her or judged her for daring to walk out in public looking like an exhausted, sex-crazed waif. Monica knew that the transparency of the diaphanous dress revealed every frozen feature of her body and perhaps even announced to passing pedestrians that she had allowed a total stranger to invade her body and mind. She scampered anxiously back to the Rue de Condé, trying to cover herself with open palms but knowing it really did no good.

  Monica passed the concierge’s open door, ignoring the old woman’s look of disdain, and climbed
the stairs to her room, feeling drained and ashamed. When she reached Madame’s front door, Monica sighed in relief. She’d finally escaped Jean-Michel’s confusing cage of fear and dominance. Yet despite herself she shivered, knowing at the back of her mind that she still craved to relive those extreme, intimate moments with Jean-Michel––again and again.

  In her state of turmoil, Monica attempted to bypass the salon where each and every evening Madame Caron de Pichet reigned supreme. But she was out of luck. The elderly landlady sat in her Recamier, lights off, shaking her half-full, rounded belly glass––as if in a trance.

  “Mon Dieu,” she cried out at Monica’s spectral appearance, “what has happened to you, child?”

  “A lot, but, I, I’m going to bed now.”

  “Mais, non, you must get it off your chest. It is therapeutic,” insisted Madame Caron de Pichet. “Besides there isn’t anything so horrible that you can describe to me that I have not already experienced. Tell me, dear girl––maybe I can help.”

  “My brain is so addled with conflicting emotions, Madame,” admitted Monica, sidling closer to the lady’s chair. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Always begin with pleasure, dear. Soon enough, life will definitely knock the wind out of you.” Madame gazed at Monica’s pained face with compassion. “Or perhaps you already know all about disillusionment?”

  Monica turned to walk out of the salon, but Madame grabbed her dangling hand.

  “Start wherever you want––just get it all out!” She shook the ice cubes in the Armagnac glass as if she were throwing dice in the game of life. “You don’t want to end up like me, do you?”

  “You seem to lead a gracious life, and I love all the stories you’ve told me about your heroism with the Résistance during the war. Why wouldn’t I want to stay and live in Paris… forever?”

  “Ah, you do see the world with rose-colored glasses, don’t you?” Madame took a sip. “Paris is my home, and I know it inside and out. True, I once was bold and beautiful during the war, but alas, those times are forgotten by all. But, even now, in my old age, I will never sink in the depths of the Seine since I know its murky waters too well.” She squeezed Monica’s hand, and the American girl winced.