When the Heart Falls(20)

It occurs to me that someday I'll be able to read her books, even if we aren't together. I like knowing that. "You know the gargoyles and chimera were originally painted in bright colors that faded over the years, leaving the gray stone exposed." I direct her attention to the arches. "The building was built with the thinner walls popular in Gothic architecture, but they couldn't sustain the height, and stress fractures developed. See those arches offering support around the building? Where the gargoyles sit?"

"Yes."

"Those are flying buttresses, and it's the first building to employ that style. The gargoyles and chimera were added for additional support and as water spouts."

Winter is silent for so long I think I've bored her with my talk of old buildings. I've been told on more than one occasion by girls I've taken out that no one wants to hear about architecture, but Winter surprises me.

"I get it now," she says, still staring at Notre Dame.

"Get what?"

"Why you love this. It's like life, like a visual metaphor for life." She turns to me, her eyes bright. "As humans, we strive to grow taller and taller, to do more, be more, accomplish more, to push the boundaries of what's possible, right? And like in life, sometimes we outgrow our foundation and we start to crack under the pressure." She moves her hands as she becomes more animated. "To survive we have to come up with new ways to provide support for our own expansion, and that is beautiful. That adaptation, that creative use of resources, is what makes the human story so elegant and poignant. It's why I love words; they are my drawings, books my buildings. We're not so different, you and I. We're both doing our best to learn how to paint metaphors for life with the tools we understand and know—you with your buildings and me with my books."

We've fallen behind our group, but I don't make an effort to catch up. My current company is too enjoyable. This woman in front of me is so unexpected, so perceptive. Like the perfect building, she has the foundation, the framework needed to stand the test of time, and the beauty to make gazing on her so addictive. Because of that I have to be careful around her. She's staying in Paris. I'm going home, or back to somewhere, in just a few months. There's a shelf life on our time together and so I must hold her at a distance and keep our friendship platonic.

No matter how stunning she looks as she turns and runs to catch up to the others.



Inside the Sorbonne is like a museum. Ornate trim and detailed paintings bring the walls to life. The lecture hall is large, forming a semi-circle around the center stage area. We huddle into the first few rows, and Monsieur Bellugue addresses us. "First, we will cover rules, safety tips and important information you need to make your time here enjoyable. Then, the instructor will come to do the first part of the placement exam, the dictation, after which you will be called in for individual interviews in French. D'accord?"

"D'accord," we murmur.

"Tres bien. The French word for condom is préservatif and the slang is la capote anglaise. Many of you will find yourselves out with members of the opposite sex. Some of you might even engage in the act of sex. Others of you don't have to worry about that."

Students snicker throughout the auditorium.

"The first rule is to remember the French words. The second rule is to actually use a condom. You will bring many new things home from our great country, but there are some souvenirs I'm sure you don’t want. Comprenez-vous?"

Someone giggles from behind me and everyone says, "Oui." Even as my eyes wander to Winter, who's sitting next to me, her legs crossed to expose her thigh, I assure myself I won't be needing this lesson. And a hidden part of my mind hopes that Winter won't be needing this lesson either. My jaw clenches at even the thought of her with someone else.

The rest of the instructions are basic. What to do if we get lost. How to make change. Weather patterns this time of year.

I can't concentrate on any of it as I focus my free attention on pulling up all the French I've crammed into my brain in preparation for today.

Someone passes down paper, and I pull out my pen, stowing my book bag under my chair. Once the introductions are handled, a stern older woman, bun tightly bound on her head as if it's trying to escape, stands at the podium and begins speaking rapid French.

This is nothing like what I imagined. I used audio tutorials to study, but they spoke at a normal human rate, not this hyper-speed auctioneer rate.

I'm lost after the first word.

Winter's hand moves back and forth over her page, her penmanship elegant. As I write, pulling out one or two words in each sentence and hoping they, at least, are correct, my page looks like a chicken stepped in ink and scratched over my work.

When called into a private room to face the imposing professor, my mouth is dry. All my confidence is gone, lost in the scribbles on my pathetic dictation sheet.

The professor rapid-fires more French at me like bullets—as if she's trying to slay me with her words alone. She might even succeed.

She sits and waits for me to respond.

I don't understand, but I'm doing my best to learn French. Now, if I could just remember how to say that all in her language, since I fear she'll use a hidden whip on me if I utter a single word in English. I sound out each word in my head before saying it out loud. "Je ne comprends pas. Je suis encore à apprendre le fran?ais." I hope I said that right. I hope that my answer appeases her, that she'll see I'm trying.