stool
before someone sues. No, if I say that, I’ll definitely sound American.
“How can you tell?” I don’t know why I bother to ask. Since the moment our plane touched
down in London, it’s like there’s been a neon sign above my head, blinking: TOURIST, AMERICAN, OUTSIDER . I should be used to it. Except since arriving in Paris, it felt like it had maybe
dimmed. Clearly not.
“Your friend tells me,” he says. “My brother lives in Roché Estair.”
“Oh?” Am I supposed to know where this is? “Is that near Paris?”
He laughs, a big loud belly laugh. “No. It is in New York. Near the big lake.”
Roché Estair?
“Oh! Rochester.”
“Yes. Roché Estair,” he repeats. “It is very cold up there. Very much snow. My brother’s
name is Aliou Mjodi. Maybe you know him?”
I shake my head. “I live in Pennsylvania, next to New York.”
“Is there much snow in Penisvania?”
I suppress a laugh. “There’s a fair amount in Penn-syl-vania,” I say, emphasizing
the pronunciation. “But not as much as Rochester.”
He shivers. “Too cold. Especially for us. We have Senegalese blood in our veins, though
we both are born in Paris. But now my brother he goes to study computers in Roché
Estair, at university.” The Giant looks very proud. “He does not like the snow. And
he says, in summer, the mosquitoes are as big as those in Senegal.”
I laugh.
The Giant’s face breaks open into a jack-o’-lantern’s smile. “How long in Paris?”
I look at my watch. “I’ve been here one hour, and I’ll be here for one day.”
“One day? Why are you here?” He gestures to the bar.
I point to my bag. “We need a place to store this.”
“Take it downstairs. You must not waste your one day here. When the sun shines, you
let it shine on you. Snow is always waiting.”
“Willem told me to wait, that Céline—”
“Pff,”
he interrupts, waving his hand. He comes out from behind the bar and easily hoists
my bag over his shoulder. “Come, I take it downstairs for you.”
At the bottom of the stairs is a dark hallway crowded with speakers, amplifiers, cables,
and lights. Upstairs, there’s rapping on the door, and the Giant bounds back up, telling
me to leave the bag in the office.
There are a couple of doors, so I go to the first one and knock on it. It opens to
a small room with a metal desk, an old computer, a pile of papers. Willem’s backpack
is there, but he’s not. I go back in the hall and hear the sound of a woman’s rapid-fire
French, and then Willem’s voice, languid in response.
“Willem?” I call out. “Hello?”
He says something back, but I don’t understand.
“What?”
He says something else, but I can’t hear him so I crack open the door to find a small
supply closet full of boxes and in it, Willem standing right up close to a girl—Céline—who
even in the half darkness, I can see is beautiful in a way I can never even pretend
to be. She is talking to Willem in a throaty voice while tugging his shirt over his
head. He, of course, is laughing.
I slam the door shut and retreat back toward the stairs, tipping over my suitcase
in my haste.
I hear something rattle. “Lulu, open the door. It’s stuck.”
I turn around. My suitcase is lodged underneath the handle. I scurry back to kick
it out of the way and turn back toward the stairs as the door flies open.
“What are you doing?” Willem asks.
“Leaving.” It’s not like Willem and I are anything to each other, but still, he left
me upstairs to come downstairs for a quickie?
“Come back.”
I’ve heard about the French. I’ve seen plenty of French films. A lot of them are sexy;
some of them are kinky. I want to be Lulu, but not
that
much.
“Lulu!” Willem’s voice is firm. “Céline refuses to hold your bags unless I change
my clothes,” he explains. “She says I look like a dirty old man coming out of a sex
shop.” He points to his
before someone sues. No, if I say that, I’ll definitely sound American.
“How can you tell?” I don’t know why I bother to ask. Since the moment our plane touched
down in London, it’s like there’s been a neon sign above my head, blinking: TOURIST, AMERICAN, OUTSIDER . I should be used to it. Except since arriving in Paris, it felt like it had maybe
dimmed. Clearly not.
“Your friend tells me,” he says. “My brother lives in Roché Estair.”
“Oh?” Am I supposed to know where this is? “Is that near Paris?”
He laughs, a big loud belly laugh. “No. It is in New York. Near the big lake.”
Roché Estair?
“Oh! Rochester.”
“Yes. Roché Estair,” he repeats. “It is very cold up there. Very much snow. My brother’s
name is Aliou Mjodi. Maybe you know him?”
I shake my head. “I live in Pennsylvania, next to New York.”
“Is there much snow in Penisvania?”
I suppress a laugh. “There’s a fair amount in Penn-syl-vania,” I say, emphasizing
the pronunciation. “But not as much as Rochester.”
He shivers. “Too cold. Especially for us. We have Senegalese blood in our veins, though
we both are born in Paris. But now my brother he goes to study computers in Roché
Estair, at university.” The Giant looks very proud. “He does not like the snow. And
he says, in summer, the mosquitoes are as big as those in Senegal.”
I laugh.
The Giant’s face breaks open into a jack-o’-lantern’s smile. “How long in Paris?”
I look at my watch. “I’ve been here one hour, and I’ll be here for one day.”
“One day? Why are you here?” He gestures to the bar.
I point to my bag. “We need a place to store this.”
“Take it downstairs. You must not waste your one day here. When the sun shines, you
let it shine on you. Snow is always waiting.”
“Willem told me to wait, that Céline—”
“Pff,”
he interrupts, waving his hand. He comes out from behind the bar and easily hoists
my bag over his shoulder. “Come, I take it downstairs for you.”
At the bottom of the stairs is a dark hallway crowded with speakers, amplifiers, cables,
and lights. Upstairs, there’s rapping on the door, and the Giant bounds back up, telling
me to leave the bag in the office.
There are a couple of doors, so I go to the first one and knock on it. It opens to
a small room with a metal desk, an old computer, a pile of papers. Willem’s backpack
is there, but he’s not. I go back in the hall and hear the sound of a woman’s rapid-fire
French, and then Willem’s voice, languid in response.
“Willem?” I call out. “Hello?”
He says something back, but I don’t understand.
“What?”
He says something else, but I can’t hear him so I crack open the door to find a small
supply closet full of boxes and in it, Willem standing right up close to a girl—Céline—who
even in the half darkness, I can see is beautiful in a way I can never even pretend
to be. She is talking to Willem in a throaty voice while tugging his shirt over his
head. He, of course, is laughing.
I slam the door shut and retreat back toward the stairs, tipping over my suitcase
in my haste.
I hear something rattle. “Lulu, open the door. It’s stuck.”
I turn around. My suitcase is lodged underneath the handle. I scurry back to kick
it out of the way and turn back toward the stairs as the door flies open.
“What are you doing?” Willem asks.
“Leaving.” It’s not like Willem and I are anything to each other, but still, he left
me upstairs to come downstairs for a quickie?
“Come back.”
I’ve heard about the French. I’ve seen plenty of French films. A lot of them are sexy;
some of them are kinky. I want to be Lulu, but not
that
much.
“Lulu!” Willem’s voice is firm. “Céline refuses to hold your bags unless I change
my clothes,” he explains. “She says I look like a dirty old man coming out of a sex
shop.” He points to his
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