“Ménage! Housekeeping!” a voice comes from behind the door, along with what I now recognize as a knock. The accent is neither French nor English.
Before I can respond, the door unlocks, letting in a sliver of artificial light. A cart rolls through it, pushed inside by a cleaning woman in a brownuniform. That’s when she sees me, the body in the bed. I sit up, try to shake myself awake.
“Pardon, pardon!” she says, covering her eyes with one hand and stepping back.
I’m wearing my T-shirt and underwear. My bra, jeans, and leather jacket are folded on the back of the desk chair.
“Can you—” I start, then try again. “Pouvez-vous revenir plus tard?”
I’m not entirely sure if I said what I wanted to say, but she nods, then grabs the DO NOT DISTURB sign.
“Sur la porte!” she says, as she hooks it over the handle on the outside of the door. Her tone is half-scolding, half-panicked.
“Désolée,” I shout, but she’s already gone.
Huh. I didn’t know I spoke that much French, even though I’ve been studying it for years. First at school, reading my textbooks cover to cover before the year had even started, and then later with an app. I kept wanting to take lessons too, but I never had the money for that.
I reach for my phone, my lifeline. The screen is black. Jamming my index finger against the home button, I’m only greeted by the “recharge battery” flashing sign. Crap. I look around the room for a charger, forgetting that I didn’t bring one. Because I didn’t bring anything.
Putting aside my useless phone for a moment, I get up to open the shutters—the latch squeaks painfully before releasing them to the light—and take in my surroundings. If this is the special room they reserve to honeymooners, the other ones must be tiny. I hardly have enough space to walk around the bed. There’s no wardrobe, only a rail attached to the wall and a handful of hangers dangling from it. Underneath, a wooden shelf covers the world’s smallest fridge, with three kinds of water, a mini bottle of Coke, and a can of orange juice packed tight in there. Next to the fridge is a safe-deposit box.
The hotel attendant’s words ring into my ears.Paris is not always safe.I open my bag, grab most of the cash, and shove it in the little black box.Then, I add my phone. Before I can think about it too much, I close my eyes as I type a four-digit code at random—one I can’t memorize. Slamming the door shut, I so desperately want to feel a sense of freedom at being cut off from the world—unreachable, unfindable—but instead, every cell in my body lights up with a mix of fear and guilt.
But there’s also the thrill of what awaits. Paris is out there.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m showered, wearing yesterday’s clothes, and on the street, where the air smells like baked bread rolled into cigarette smoke. The hotel is off Les Halles on the Right Bank, close to a lot of shops. I glance at the windows as I pass by. There’s an optician with wooden heads on display—lips painted red for the female mannequins and twirling mustaches for the male ones. On the next corner is a pharmacy, with a blinking neon-green light in the shape of a cross above the door and, inside, a line several people deep. A flashing sign also indicates the time: 10:34. Running the math, I realize I must have slept for fourteen hours. I had a lot of catching up to do.
Further down, a strong waft of butter and dough hits me, making my stomach grumble. As soon as I walk inside the boulangerie, my mouth waters at the sight of the golden pastries and the glazed fruit—strawberries, apricots, apples—topping shiny little tartlets. Behind the register, the shelves are full of different types of baguettes: épi, ficelle, aux céréales, tradition, etc.
A memory comes to me. I’m three or four, running my finger against a glass partition, my mother watching as I make my pick.Just one thing, she says with a strained smile.What are you getting, Mommy?Her smile disappears as she glances inside her coin purse.Just one thing for you.
This memory doesn’t really exist. I’m pretty sure I made it up in my head and nurtured it over the years I’ve spent without her, since we were ripped apart. Pretty sure, but not certain.
I buy a croissant, a pain au chocolat and an espresso in a tiny paper cup, which I eat and drink standing on the sidewalk outside the bakery,ignoring the dismissive looks of a few older passersby. It’s okay if they’re shocked by my poor manners; I don’t have to care what people think of me over here. Swallowing the last bite, I crush the paper wrapper in my fist before dropping it in a trash can.
I keep walking. It could be ten minutes or two hours later when I see a woman step out of what looks like an expensive hair salon. Moody portraits hang in the window, behind which I notice a row of leather seats. The woman’s auburn hair is shiny and blow-dried to perfection in bouncy curls. She slips on her sunglasses and looks back at her reflection in the window with obvious satisfaction.
My heart does a little somersault. This is exactly what I need. Soon I’m sitting in one of these chairs, communicating with hand gestures and some Frenglish with the tattooed stylist behind me.
“You want what?” he says in the mirror as he runs his hands through my long, unkempt brown hair. His accent is the thickest I’ve heard so far, and it takes me a moment to translate in my head.
“Quelque chose différent.Trèsdifférent.” I try a smile, but my throat feels like I’ve swallowed a bag of cotton balls.
“Couleur? Coupe?”
I nod. He raises an eyebrow, then pulls a strand and studies it carefully.
“You’re sure?”
“S’il vous plait.” I try to sound confident, like this is merely a style choice, and not like I have to change everything about me. I can’t keep roaming the streets looking like this.
“So why you’re in Paris?” He runs his hands through my hair, giving me a head massage in the process. It takes me a while to relax into it, but then it feels kind of nice.
“I’m visiting family,” I start. My eyes widen as they meet his in the mirror. I didn’t intend to say that. I didn’t intend to give anything away.
“You have French family?” He can’t help but look down at my basicjeans, scuffed boots, and faded jacket. It’s too warm for it, but I needed something to comfort me. A security blanket of sorts.
“Yes. I mean, no. Forget… Oubliez…” I try to switch to French but the language is not the problem.
