Just One Day(27)

Willem blinks at me, his eyes dark, lazy, and sexy. I can feel us kissing already. I can feel his lips all over me. I can feel the jut of his sharp hipbones against me. The park is almost deserted. There are a couple of younger girls in jeans and head scarves talking to some guys. But they are off in a corner of their own. And I don’t care about propriety.
My thoughts must be like a movie projected on a screen. He watches it all. I can tell by his knowing smile. We inch closer to each other. Beneath the chirp of cicadas, I can practically hear the energy between us humming, like the power lines that buzz overhead in the countryside.
But then I hear something else. At first, I don’t know how to place it, so discordant is it from the sounds in this bubble of electricity we are generating. But then I hear it a second time, cold and jagged and bracingly clear, and I know exactly what it is. Because fear needs no translation. A scream is the same in any language.
Willem jumps up. I jump up. “Stay here!” he commands. And before I know what has happened, he is striding away on those long legs of his, leaving me whiplashed between lust and terror.
There’s another scream. A girl’s scream. Everything seems to slow down then, like a slow-motion sequence in a movie. I see the girls, the ones with the head scarves, there are two of them, only now one isn’t wearing her scarf anymore. It is on the ground, revealing a fall of black hair that is wild and staticky, as if her hair is frightened too. She is huddled with the other girl, as if trying to disappear from the boys. Who I now see aren’t boys at all, but are men, the kind who sport shaved heads, and combat fatigues, and big black boots. The essential wrongness of these men with these girls in this now-quiet park hits me all at once. I pick up Willem’s backpack, which he’s just abandoned there, and creep closer.
I hear the soft cries of one of the girls and the men’s guttural laughter. Then they speak again. I never knew French could sound so ugly.
Just as I’m wondering where he went, Willem steps between the men and the girls and starts saying something. He’s speaking softly, but I can hear him all the way over here, which must be a kind of actor’s trick. But he’s also speaking in French, so I have no idea what he’s saying. Whatever it is, it’s gotten the skinheads’ attention. They answer him back, in loud staccato voices that echo off the empty handball courts. Willem replies in a voice as calm and quiet as a breeze, and I strain to understand just a word of it, but I can’t.
They go back and forth and as they do, the girls use the cover as it was intended and slip away. The skinheads don’t even notice. Or don’t care. It’s Willem they are interested in now. At first, I think that Willem’s powers of charm must know no bounds. That he has even made friends with skinheads. But then my ear attunes to the tone of what he is saying as opposed to the words. And I recognize the tone because it’s one I’ve been privy to all day. He’s teasing them. He is mocking them in that way that I’m not even sure they fully recognize. Because there are three of them and one of him, and if they knew what he was doing, they wouldn’t still be standing there talking.
I can smell the sickly sweet odor of booze and the acrid tang of adrenaline, and all at once, I can feel what they are going to do to Willem. I can feel it as if they are going to do it to me. And this should paralyze me with fear. It doesn’t. Instead it fills me with something hot and tender and vicious.
Who takes care of you?
Without even thinking about it, I’m reaching into Willem’s bag and grabbing the thickest thing I can find—the Rough Guide—and I’m striding toward them. No one sees me coming, not even Willem, so I have the element of surprise on my side. Also, apparently, some serious fight-or-flight strength. Because when I hurl that book at that guy closest to Willem, the one holding a beer bottle, it hits him with such force that he drops the bottle. And when he raises his hand to his brow, there’s a welt of blood blooming like a red flower.
I know I should be scared, but I’m not. I’m oddly calm, happy to be back in Willem’s presence after those interminable seconds apart. Willem, however, is staring at me wide-eyed and slack-jawed. The skinheads are looking right past me, surveying the park, as if they can’t quite believe that I could be the source of the attack.
It’s their moment of confusion that saves us. Because in that moment, Willem’s hand finds mine. And we run.
Out of the park, past the church, and back into that crazy mishmash neighborhood, past the tea shops and cafés and the animal carcasses. We leap over the overflowing gutters, past the congregation of motorcycles and bicycles, dodging delivery vans disgorging racks of clothing heavily bejeweled with glitter and sparkles.
The neighborhood’s residents stop to watch us, parting to let us through like we are a spectator sport, an Olympic event—the Crazy-White-People Chase.
I should be scared. I am being chased by angry skinheads; the only person who’s ever run after me before is my dad when we’ve gone out jogging. I can hear the clomp of their boots beat in time with the heartbeat in my head. But I’m not scared. I feel my legs magically lengthen, allowing me to match Willem’s long stride. I feel the ground undulating under our feet, as if it too is on our side. I feel like we are barely touching the earth, like we might just take off into the sky and run right over the Paris rooftops, where no one can ever touch us.
I hear them shouting behind us. I hear the sound of glass breaking. I hear something whizz past my ear and then something wet on my neck, as if my sweat glands have all opened up and released at once. And then I hear more laughter and the boot steps abruptly stop.