Just One Day(76)

He nods solemnly. “You did not come back for your suitcase.”
I shake my head. “Have you seen him?” I ask.
He looks at me for a long moment. He nods again. “One time. The day after I meet you.”
“Do you know where I might find him?”
He strokes the goatee on his chin and looks at me with a sympathy I could really do without. After a long moment, he says, “Maybe you should better speak with Céline.”
And the way he says it, it implies all the things I already know. That Willem and Céline have a history. That I might’ve been right to doubt him all along. But if the Giant knows any of that, he’s not saying. “She is off today, but sometimes she comes to the shows at night. Androgynie is playing, and she is very good friends with them. I will see if she is coming and let you know. Then you can find out what you need. You can call me later, and I will let you know if she will be here.”
“Okay.” I pull out my Paris phone, and we exchange numbers. “You never told me your name, by the way?”
He laughs at that. “No, I didn’t. I am Modou Mjodi. And I never learned your name. I looked on the suitcase but there was nothing.”
“I know. My name is Allyson, but Céline will know me as Lulu.”
He looks perplexed. “Which is correct?”
“I’m beginning to think they both are.”
He shrugs a little, takes my hand, kisses my cheeks twice, and then he bids me adieu.
_ _ _
It’s only lunchtime when I leave Modou, and with no idea when I will see Céline, I feel oddly relieved, like I’ve been given a reprieve. I hadn’t really planned on being a tourist in Paris, but I decide to do it. I brave the Metro and get off in the Marais quarter and go to one of the cafés along the beautiful Place des Vosges, where I order a salad and a citron pressé, adding plenty of sugar this time. I sit there for hours, waiting for the waiter to kick me out, but he leaves me alone until I ask for my check. At a patisserie, I get a ridiculously expensive macaron—this one a pale tangerine, like the last whispers of a sunset. I eat it and walk, in and out of the narrow streets, through a lively Jewish section, full of Orthodox men with black hats and stylish skinny suits. I snap a few pictures for my mom and text them to her and tell her to forward them to Grandma, who’ll get a kick out of it. Then I wander around looking at the boutiques, gazing at clothing I can barely afford to touch. When the salesladies ask me in French if I need help, I answer in French that I am just browsing.
I buy some postcards and go back to Place des Vosges and sit down in the park inside the square. Amid the mothers playing with their babies and the old men reading their newspapers, puffing away on cigarettes, I write them out. I have a lot to send. One to my parents, one to my grandmother, one to Dee, one to Kali, one to Jenn, one to Café Finlay, one to Carol. And then, at the last minute, I decide to write one to Melanie too.
It’s kind of a perfect day. I feel totally relaxed, and though I’m undoubtedly a tourist, I also feel like a Parisian. I’m almost relieved that I haven’t heard from Modou. Kelly sends me a text about meeting up for dinner, and I’m getting ready to make my way back to the hostel when my phone chirps. It’s from Modou. Céline will be at the club after ten o’clock.
I feel like the mellow relaxing vibe of the afternoon disappears behind a storm cloud. It’s only seven. I have several hours to kill, and I could go meet the Oz gang for dinner, but I’m too nervous. So, I walk the city in my nervousness. I get to the club at nine thirty and stand outside, the heavy bass thump of live music making my heart pound. She’s probably already there, but it feels like being early is some kind of faux pas. So I linger outside, watching the stylishly edgy Parisians with razored haircuts and angular clothes filter into the club. I look down at myself: khaki skirt, black T-shirt, leather flip-flops. Why didn’t I dress for battle?
At ten fifteen, I pay my (ten-euro) entry and go in. The club is packed, and there’s a band on the stage, all heavy guitars and a violin screeching feedback, and the tiniest Asian girl singing in this high, squeaky voice. All alone, surrounded by these hipsters, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so out of place, and every part of me is telling me to leave before I make a fool of myself. But I don’t. I haven’t come this far to chicken out. I fight my way to the bar, and when I see Modou, I greet him like a long-lost brother. He smiles at me and pours me a glass of wine. When I try to pay, he waves the bill away, and immediately, I feel better.
“Ahh, Céline is there,” he says, pointing to a table up front. She sits, alone, watching the band with a strange intensity, the smoke from her cigarette curling witchily around her.
I walk over to her table. She doesn’t acknowledge me, though I can’t tell if it’s because she’s snubbing me or concentrating on the band. I stand next to the open chair waiting for her to invite me to sit down, but then I just give up. I pull the chair out and sit. She gives me the slightest of nods, takes a puff of the cigarette, and blows smoke all over me, which I suppose counts as a greeting. Then she turns back to the band.
We sit there, listening. We are sitting right up close to the speakers, so the sound is extra deafening; my ears are already beginning to ring. It’s hard to tell if she’s enjoying the music. She doesn’t tap her toes or sway or anything. She just stares and smokes.
Finally, when the band takes a break, she looks at me. “Your name is Allyson.” She pronounces it Aleeseesyoohn, which makes it sound ridiculous somehow, an SUV of an American name with too many syllables.