“It’s nice you visit,” he says. Maybe he’s choosing to ignore what I said, or maybe he didn’t understand me. In any case, I need this to stop.
“I’ve always wanted to come to Paris.”
My family history is not one for strangers. I’ve seen enough pitying looks for a lifetime, enough pats on the shoulder and claims of being so sorry for what happened when I was a child. How lucky I survived. Was it? Luck, I mean. I didn’t die, but what came after felt like it wasn’t much better.
For the next couple of hours, I bury myself deep inside gossip magazines telling stories I don’t fully understand about famous people I don’t know.
“Et voilà,” the stylist says, running a soft brush across my neck. It sends shivers down my spine.
Looking up, I’m faced with glossy, dark-blond locks with a few lighter strands, chopped in a chin-length wavy bob that hangs around my face like perfectly draped curtains. I’ve never liked my nose—too pointy—or my jaw—too sharp. To be honest, I’ve never liked much about myself.
“What do you think?” The stylist seems genuinely curious.
“It’s…good?” I reply.
He shoots me a questioning look through the mirror. “You’re happy?”
I know what he means—am I happy with this new hair—but no sensible answer comes. It does look good, but I’ve never let myself think about my happiness before. I smile and nod. That’s all I can do.
When it’s time to pay, he protests at the amount I drop on the counter.
“Too much,” he says, sliding a few bills back my way.
“It’s a tip…pour vous,” I explain, confused.
He points at the price list. “You pay what is written. Tips are not done here.”
“Take it,” I say, pushing the money back.
I walk away before he can say anything more. Where I’m from, it’s not done to steal a whole wad of cash, either. Part of me wants to get rid of it as fast as possible, so I can forget I even took it. But the other part knows that when this money runs out, my time’s up. And then what?
A few streets down, I enter a boutique with lots of florals and swingy skirts in the window display. Inside, I let the young sales assistant, with her braided hair and bright lipstick, guide me through racks of chic dresses and striped T-shirts. I’ve worked retail on and off for years, but I never buy new clothes for myself. I grew up on hand-me-downs that were too small for me, like my body was too big for the world I found myself in. Later on, the idea of spending money on myself felt as foreign as the possibility I might one day come to Paris. Back home, I go to thrift stores, stick to a palette of black and gray so everything matches, and wear every piece until it falls off me.
But now I have money.For nowI have money. I tell the sales assistant that my luggage was stolen, again with that lie, whenI’mthe thief. I’m the one over here, getting away with a crime. I buy everything she suggests and then some, including a red dress with daisies that makes me feel like I’m in costume, and the kind of ballet flats you see on every other French girl. I change into a black polka-dot skirt and a white T-shirt, which I pair with my boots, before leaving the store.
Back on the street, I start to notice the intricate molding on the buildings’ ivory facades, the imposing wooden doors painted in various colors, and the pigeons clambering down the pavement, alert for any crumbs. I’m not a city person but there’s a lightness to Paris. People smile, laugh, even. They look around themselves, noticing, like I do, the little pieces of street art painted on the walls, the greenery in the tidy little parks every few blocks, and the ambient charm.
I stop at a few more stores along the way, stocking up on new lingerie and a few other accessories. Eventually I get to Le Marais—the hip neighborhood in the heart of the city—and come upon a lively corner café witha terrace spilling onto the street. In the building above, oversized teddy bears with sweet faces look down from the windows. Their smiles give me the creeps, but my feet are aching from the hours of walking and I haven’t eaten anything since the pastries this morning. I stare at an empty table long enough that a passing server motions for me to take a seat.
I do, stacking all my shopping bags on the chair next to me. Then I allow myself a deep breath. The hardest part is over.
“Bonjour!”
Expecting the server has come back to take my order, I force a smile on before I look up. It’s a trick I learned as a little girl—always start smiling before the other person can see you. This way it has time to reach your eyes, which is how you make it look genuine. But it’s not the server speaking; the voice comes from the man next to me. He has thinning salt-and-pepper hair and is wearing thick-framed glasses with a plaid short-sleeved shirt, a newspaper folded next to a half-drunk beer.
“Belle journée, n’est-ce pas?”
There’s something cringeworthy about the grin on his face, like he’s trying too hard. I scan the space between us, trying to convey the fact that I don’t think he’s talking to me. It does little to deter him.
“You speak French?”
“No,” I say, focusing on the menu in front of me.
But my throat tightens, my mind swinging back to the safe in my room. Has anyone noticed I’m gone or tried to reach me? I peek inside my bag, but of course my phone is not in it.
The server comes back, at last, and I order a glass of white wine. Whichever one he recommends is fine by me. He takes the order of another table behind me, and it’s not until he’s out of sight that the plaid-shirt man speaks again.
“I saw you before.”
