The Last Dress from Paris(59)
As the Seine gently bends, the boat slows, taking up its position alongside many others in front of the illuminated Eiffel Tower, standing proud over Paris, confident of its ability to impress. Every face on every boat is looking at this one bold landmark, watching as its elevators slowly rise through the heart of the metal structure like mechanical bugs chewing their way to the top. Antoine doesn’t look at the tower, he looks at Alice. Taking advantage of everyone’s gaze being directed elsewhere, he kisses her deeply, and she can feel all the hurt and doubt of the lost time since they were last together melt into relief now that he has her in his arms again.
The boat turns and starts to retrace its journey back past the H?tel des Invalides, on their right now, and the huge twin clock towers of the Musée d’Orsay before it docks at Quai Malaquais and Antoine takes her hand to disembark. Within ten minutes they are turning right onto the narrow, gallery-lined rue des Beaux-Arts, Alice feeling a long way from the wealthier boulevards of the Right Bank.
“I know, it’s everything my mother despises, isn’t it?” suggests Antoine, trying to read her thoughts. “It’s partly why I live here and not in the cosseted mausoleum they want me in, north of the river.”
“Would she really despise it?” It seems like an odd thing for Madame du Parcq to direct her anger at.
“Yes. The place is crawling with actors, writers, singers, musicians, poets. Everyone she would deem frivolous, those of us with no desire to be doctors, lawyers, or politicians. Where other people see creativity and diversity, she smells wastefulness and procrastination. She will never understand people who work from a café table during the day and from the dark cellar of a jazz bar at night. This is not her world, Alice. It’s mine. She hasn’t once visited me here, preferring to rely on tales from her equally ill-informed friends rather than experiencing it for herself.”
“And you’ll never go back?”
“I doubt they’d want me back. Not the real me anyway, only the version they hoped would continue where Thomas couldn’t.” As they continue down the quiet, cobbled road, he gestures back over their shoulders to the beautiful building, its black railings barely visible behind the student bicycles attached there. “I live in the shadow of the art school for a reason. To remind myself. Maybe one day I’ll get there.”
They turn into a small covered alleyway that opens onto a secluded courtyard at the end, completely enclosed by the residential buildings surrounding it for several floors up. She notices all the windows of the ground-floor apartments are barred, and the tiny gated garden off to the left, encircled by black railings, is overgrown. The garden has one small metal table just big enough for two, and two rusty chairs that no one would trust to sit on. They’re hard to pick out in the darkness. Broken bulbs in the lantern lamps haven’t been replaced, and there are tangles of neglected shrubs running wild. Someone went to the effort of planting several stone pots, then ignored them all, their now unidentifiable contents left to brown and shrivel.
“Follow me.” Antoine unlocks the garden gate. He takes her inside, up two small flights of stairs, and into one big room that seems to be his entire living space. There is a large, low bed pushed against one wall that remains unmade from last night, its white sheets and blankets thrown open and left. A battered old chaise, its fabric fraying around the legs, sits closer to the window, providing a view onto the courtyard below. There is nothing covering the wooden floor, and Alice can feel the coldness creeping through the wide cracks between the exposed boards. Overstuffed bookshelves line one entire wall on either side of an open fireplace that’s overflowing with ashes. Another wall is covered in Antoine’s own sketches—people, mostly, going about their everyday lives, unframed and carelessly tacked to the paintwork. Otherwise there is a small desk positioned between the two windows, a wooden wardrobe, and a cluttered side table piled high with more books and a half-finished bottle of red wine on one side of the bed. It’s all the furniture Antoine appears to own. Another door leads to what she assumes must be his bathroom.
“Is that him? Thomas?” she asks, pointing to a sketch of a smiling young man with striking features whose face appears several times across the wall.
“Yes, that’s him. It’s how I like to remember him.”
“What happened to him, Antoine?” She wants to hear more and senses, after the earlier confrontation with his mother, now might be the chance for him to open up.
Antoine is preparing a fire, throwing a few last remaining logs into the grate before he slowly stands.
“His death was my fault, at least they see it that way.” He takes a few steps toward her. “He was back with us, his part in the war was done. We were all walking home from a café where we’d had dinner.”
Antoine’s eyes lose focus, like he’s deep within his memories. “Thomas had told us he was going to propose to his girlfriend, Estelle. He’d even shown us the ring. My mother had burst into tears at the table, my father offered his firmest handshake. They were so happy. When we were saying our goodbyes at the roadside before Thomas diverted back to his apartment, I was messing around—making fun of him for being so in love. For being . . . so happy.”
He pauses for a few seconds, hesitating, questioning whether he can finish the story.
“As he crossed the road, I shouted good luck for his proposal, and he glanced back at me for a couple of seconds.” His voice grows so soft, Alice can barely hear it. “I remember his smile was so wide I couldn’t see his eyes. He didn’t even register the bicycle taxi swinging onto the path he was taking.”