Chapter 37
Aurora
As we leave the Metro Line 13 at the Saint-Denis - Université terminal station, it feels like I've landed in a different world. Clutching the package for Maxime's mother tightly to my chest, I look around as we cover the last hundred yards to her apartment, where Maxime grew up.
Thoughtlessly discarded trash litters the streets. In the flickering light of the lamppost, I can see metallic syringes and charred spoons. On the other side of the street, a group of teenagers loiter with beer cans and cigarettes outside a snack bar. They're harassing an elderly woman who leans on her walking stick with shaky arms, bravely trying to pass by them.
So this is Saint-Denis. This is where Maxime's roots lie.
Even though no one is trying to sell us drugs or rob us of our cash on our way to the plain apartment building with crumbling plaster, I feel uncomfortable. I wonder what it was like to live here.
I don't dare ask Maxime because I can already guess the answer. Besides, he's been so happy since he started dancing again, and I don't want to take that away from him by making him confront his likely difficult childhood.
I steal a glance at him briefly. He clenches his teeth together and nods toward the door with the number three. "Here it is," he says shortly.
Normally, you're supposed to say something nice when you see your partner's home for the first time, but there's no way to sugarcoat this. It's better to stay silent, and that's exactly what I do as I follow Maxime up the worn-out staircase. A wild mix of smells assaults my nose—unpleasant odors, sweet fragrance, and pungent onion notes. On the third floor, I hear a man yelling. Shortly after, the door with the number thirty-three shudders as if someone is crashing into it.
I quicken my pace and breathe a sigh of relief as Maxime stops in front of an apartment and presses the doorbell. I'm about to meet his mother. It's a big step, and even though Maxime assured me that she's a generous person, I'm still nervous, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
The door opens. A tall woman with chin-length dark brown hair streaked with thin gray strands appears. At first, she looks uncertain, almost fearful, but when she recognizes Maxime, her lips curl upward. Undeniably, Maxime inherited his attractive features from her.
"Bienvenue," she says with a radiant smile, waving us into the apartment. "You must be Aurora. It's lovely to meet you. I'm Lisette."
Having lived in Paris for six months now, my French has improved significantly, allowing me to greet her, wish her a happy holiday season, and say a few words about our gift as I hand it over.
"That wasn't necessary," she says, blushing slightly, as she accepts the package. "Come on in. The roast is ready."
There are only three steps between the hallway and the living room where she leads us. The furnishings remind me of the seventies, with yellowed curtains. I spot bed linen stackedbehind the sofa, and it immediately becomes clear to me that this must be the only room in the apartment.
Maxime and his mother shared this tiny living space for years. Day and night.
I sneak a glance at him, but unlike before on the street, he appears completely at ease. As if he doesn't carry any painful memories because this situation has always been natural to him. Seeing that hurts me almost more than imagining his past life, which relentlessly flashes before my mind's eye.
I see worn-out shoes, faded T-shirts, pant legs ending above the ankles. Fast food, toothbrush bristles pointing in all directions, and a boy with longing eyes flipping through a toy catalog he retrieved from the trash.
My heart feels heavy, but at the same time, something else happens. Until now, I've only hoped that convincing Maxime to dance again was the right decision. But now, as I stand in the midst of the life from which he could escape solely through dancing, I know with every fiber of my being that it was the right thing to do.
"Take a seat." Maxime's mother pulls a chair back for me to sit down. The table is beautifully decorated; she spared no effort in preparing a festive meal for us. "We have red wine with the beef roast. You do like it, don't you?" she asks, speaking slowly for my sake.
"Oui, merci," I smile gratefully at her and take the intricately folded napkin to examine it more closely. Angel hair and holly branches spill out from the funnel-shaped opening, their spherical red fruits contrasting brightly against the dark green.
Maxime takes a seat next to me and reaches out his hand under the table. "That looks amazing, Maman," he says.
"I hope you both have an appetite," she replies, placing a tureen in the center of the table. The aroma makes my mouth water. I've been running along the Seine for five hours today.It took that long for this wonderful feeling of control to wash over me. When I got home, Maxime was already waiting for me. There was no time for dinner.
"And how," I blurt out, my rumbling stomach confirming it for everyone to hear.
With a bright laugh, Lisette takes my plate and serves me a double portion. It comes with fried potatoes, a colorful mix of vegetables, and gravy. She takes less than half for herself.
The food is of the finest quality, and as we sit together and get to know each other better, I can't help but wonder how long Maxime's mother must have saved up for this festive meal.
I learn that she works at the nearby supermarket and volunteers at the social center in her free time, proudly telling everyone about her successful son. Maxime's father is not mentioned at all, nor anything else that could remotely sound like problems. She acts as if everything is fine even though her apartment, her probably self-cut hair, and her faded clothing tell a different story.
The longer I listen to her, the clearer it becomes that she is one of those people who always sugarcoat everything. They ignore every shadow, sweep difficulties under the rug, and keep unspeakable things quiet.
It's crazy, but the world where her thoughts reside has something incredibly relaxing about it.
"Tell us about your family," Maxime's mother requests just as I'm spearing the last broccoli floret with my fork. "You have an estate in Tuscany, right?"
