13 Little Blue Envelopes(37)
curtains from aprons I found in a secondhand shop.
I bought up old plates, smashed them in the
courtyard out back, and made them into a mosaic.
My Paris was just this tiny room, and a few
junk shops, and occasionally walks down the
street either at night or when it was raining.
This, I thought, is what Paris is all about.
Remember, this city is where the peasants seized
control and took over and beheaded all of the
royals and the rich. It takes pride in the poor
artists who have lived here in the past—all the
painters, writers, poets, singers who made the
bars and cafés famous. Think Les Misérables!
Think Moulin Rouge! (But without the TB.) Mari
lived on the streets of Paris for three years! She
danced in clubs, and painted on the sidewalk, and
slept wherever she could.
So this is the CHERCHE LE CAFé PROJECT. (I know
you take French, but just in case . . . it means
FIND THE CAFé.) I want you to find my café based
on what I’ve told you and what you know about me.
And, of course, when you get there—have
something delicious for me because I am your
loving . . .
Starving Artist Aunt
Ginny looked over at the watch of the man sitting next to her and saw that it was almost six, so she decided to leave. The word sortie, which was on signs all over the place, meant “exit.”
So she followed the signs.
Sortie, sortie, sortie . . .
And then suddenly she was standing in front of the Virgin Megastore, in front of a display for Star Wars: La Menace Fant?me.
Did sortie mean “This way to Jar Jar”? And why was there a Virgin Megastore in the Louvre?
After ten more minutes of trying unsuccessfully to escape, Ginny finally found the exit. Since the Seine River was right there and there were dozens of bridges over it, she decided to cross. Things were smaller and tighter on the other side. This was the Left Bank, she knew. The student quarter. She glanced around and turned back to walk over the bridge.
Paris seemed to make good on the promise it made in every photograph of it she’d ever seen. People carried long baguettes.
Couples walked hand in hand through asparagus-thin streets.
And before long, a round moon hung overhead in an electric blue sky and the Eiffel Tower began to twinkle with a thousand little lights. The air was warm, and as Ginny leaned against the side of the Pont Neuf and watched a dinner boat slide along the Seine under her, she thought that this was a perfect Paris night.
But she didn’t feel perfect. She felt alone, and the only thing she could think of to do was go back to the hostel.
170
Les Petits Chiens
That night, Ginny sat in the wide, empty lobby, at the long table with the mismatched wooden chairs that held the hostel’s computers. Every seat was taken. People from all over hunched intently, reading their e-mails from home, composing epic Web logs, totally unaware of each other’s presence.
There was a smell of old smoke from the woman at the
front desk’s constant sequence of cigarettes. On the wall above Ginny’s head were old maps of the world dotted with white star-shaped scars and little holes on the points where they’d been folded time and time again. White stars all over the world, in the oceans. Holes in China, Brazil, Bulgaria. There was even a tiny hole in New Jersey, though much closer to the ocean than where she lived.
For the first time since she’d been away, she had access to the outside. She could write to anyone she wanted—that is, if she didn’t follow the rules. The only thing stopping her from talking 171
to Miriam right now was a razor-thin strip of willpower. No electronic communication with America. There was no ambi-guity on this point.
But there was nothing in the rules about England. And
while she didn’t actually have Keith’s e-mail address, she guessed it wouldn’t be impossible to find. She was good at finding things. She was an Internet bloodhound.
Finding Keith proved to be absurdly easy. She tracked him down through the Goldsmiths site. But it took her a full hour to come up with what she wanted to say to him in her e-mail. It took one hour and about twenty-six versions, in fact, which finally resulted in: Hey, just wanted to say hi. I’m in Paris right now.
She read it over as soon as she sent it and immediately
regretted the “Hey.” Why “Hey, just wanted to say hi.” Why not just “hi”? Why didn’t she tell him she missed him? Why
couldn’t she say anything cute and clever and alluring? No one would reply to a note like this, because this note was inane.
Except that he did. A reply popped up in her in box. It read simply:
Paris, eh? Whereabouts?
She grabbed her fingers and stroked them to steady them. So, the simple approach had worked. Fine. She would keep it simple: The UFC Hostel in Montparnasse.
And should she ask him if he was still mad . . . or was she the one who was mad? Maybe better to drop the mad part
entirely. Keep it informational.
She waited for half an hour. No reply this time. The night’s excitement was over.
172
She went back upstairs to the dorm, where her roommates were clustered together once again on their side of the room.