We link arms and begin our ascent. We weave between gaggles of tourists and clusters of tireless street vendors pushing French flags and berets and Eiffel Towers and snow globes and tea towels daubed with effigies of various monuments. Dull yellow light presses into us from shop windows and shrouded restaurants and when we reach the tip of the slope I see Sacre Couer leaning over us, holding its shape against a night sky dotted with silver stones. We stop walking for a moment to look up at it, disturbed only by the whirring and jangling of a rotating carousel ahead of us. She tugs me to the base of the steps and before we even start to climb I am winded. We talk about why I’m back in Paris and I lie and say it’s because I missed this place so much. I confess to her that she’s partially to blame; the way she spoke about this city during her visit to the Water Poet was inspirational. She loves that she’s had this effect on me, enough to show me all of her teeth. ‘You’ve made the right choice,’ she says. We’re halfway to the summit. I afford myself a short glance back and I can see the city being birthed from the stone canal of the street we just came from. The higher we get the more of it is shown to us, and it is pecked at by street lamps and the noise of lovers and locals and friends congregating in its cavities. When we reach Sacre Couer itself we sit on stone steps as the city throbs ahead of us. It bares itself to us and lets us see all of its intimacies. Louise takes a bottle of wine and two plastic cups from her bag. She unscrews the bottle and tips a good few inches into each cup. She hands me one, takes up her own and taps it against mine, saying ‘welcome back.’ I drink half the liquid down and watch her studiously as she sucks sips into her round pink mouth. The fur of her coat vibrates in a slick wind. She pours out another few fingers of red and now I feel warm all over. ‘So, how’s your Parisian reunion going so far?’ ‘Well, let me see. I had my passport stolen the first day I got here. I completely screwed up an interview for a job I’ve been doing for the last five years. Oh, and I’m currently living in a place in Val de Fontenay that resembles a crack den. How about you, how are things with you?’ ‘Are you serious?’ she asks. ‘Oh yeah, sure I am. Paris has really pulled out all the stops to welcome me back. I’m so grateful. Thank you, Paris!’ I shout the last three words out to the horizon, willing them to glance off the grotesque chocolate biscuit that is the Tour Montparnasse and to ricochet back, bounce around Gare du Nord for a while, circle the Pantheon once or twice. ‘That’s terrible! Are you ok?’ ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘It’s my own stupid fault, all of it. I had my passport in my back pocket in Opera station, for God’s sake. And I didn’t prepare at all for the interview. And I didn’t arrange for anywhere to stay when I got here,’ I lie again, ‘so the crack den is all I could get at short notice. At least I’m here though, right? That’s got to be a good thing.’ She takes a swig of wine, sets down the glass and bundles her hands together against the cold. ‘Couldn’t you have stayed with Rick?’ I tense up at that. ‘I didn’t want to impose, I guess.’ ‘You could have asked me too, you know.’ ‘See above.’ ‘You think you’d be imposing? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m renting a little studio off this really cool French woman. She’s an artist. There are photographs all over the flat of her with famous people. There’s one of her with Sarkozy, if you can believe it.’ ‘Oh well then she must be cool.’ ‘Don’t act like you’re not impressed. I’m sure she would’ve been fine with an extra person staying. There’s certainly enough room going spare. A rare thing in Paris, I know.’ ‘Aren’t you staying with your boyfriend, though? That guy I met in Shoreditch?’ Now it’s her turn to tense up. ‘Ben and I have become estranged. By which I mean he’s a lying, cheating piece of shit.’ ‘I see,’ is all I can manage. ‘It’s alright. I’m probably better off without him.’ To cheer her up I point to a puppet show that has started on the balcony below us. An old man is crouching behind a couple of crates and waving around a woolen dolly and pinching at his vocal chords. It’s cute. He has drawn a small crowd together who are now sitting on the steps and watching it all play out, glasses and bottles in hand. They lean into each other for warmth as Louise and I sit with our legs touching. I’m starting to feel that same old sloshing sensation in my middle but I beg it to leave the two of us alone. I don’t want to ruin things. I’m enjoying her company. In fact, I have little doubt that this is the most content I’ve been since I landed.
Posted on: Thu, 28 Nov 2013 15:24:20 +0000
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