Jack, you’re going to give her an American accent, her mother had warned later, overhearing him helping Lili pronounce Arabic words, crouched down beside the spice tubs: the feeling of ground wild thyme, dried sumac, coarse salt running between her fingers.
He rolled his eyes.Would you rather I speak to her in English?
Her mother had grinned, mischievous.Maybe just don’t speak at all, she’d teased, knocking her hip against his shoulder.What should we make for dinner?
He stood up to his full height, slinging an arm around her shoulder.Let me worry about that,he said.Come on, Li—let’s race to the car.
Her father was the cook in their household; his work hours were long, but predictably so, whereas her mother’s office hours and labs often ran late without warning. As a little kid, Lili regularly stayed up with him, far past her bedtime, sitting on the counter as he cooked for her mum, feeling illicit and happy. He let her crush pistachios with a wooden spoon as he clarified butter, rip apart parsley with her bare hands, sneak spoonfuls of yogurt from the carton. He taught her how to peel pomegranate without making a mess: bowls of cold water, his efficient slice of a sharp knife before letting Lili dunk the fruit and its white flesh underwater, peeling apart the honeycomb and dislodging its little red seeds together. He learned the trick from her mother. He did all this cooking—Lebanese food, Middle Eastern recipes from various cultures—for her mother.
Now, decades later, Lili asks the elderly shopkeeper for help with the prepared foods behind the glass deli case. He says something in French; she doesn’t understand. He tries again in Armenian; she gives a weak smile, shaking her head, apologetic. He smiles, waving a hand, forgiving. Through gestures, he ascertains which olives, desserts, cooked vegetables she would like to buy.
As she checks out, the shopkeeper manually ringing in the items of her small grocery haul, she wonders if he can see anything in her face: anything that marks her as from the same part of the world as him, however distant; any sign of how many memories she has packed down tight inside of her. There is no particular sign of acknowledgment from him—polite nod, warm smile—as he hands her the plastic bag of groceries. Lili thanks him in French, leaves.
She’s cooking in the kitchen, back at the apartment, when James and Amina get home.
“Hey,” she says, as they come in the door. “I’m making a late lunch, want some?”
James grins, and the look on Amina’s face is radiant.
She makes fattoush salad: chopped tomatoes and cucumbers, crunch of radishes, bitter parsley, pomegranate molasses, fried pita bread, smashed garlic. She is deeply out of practice with folding grape leaves, so she bought premade warak enab, roasted red peppers, olives, soft, fresh pita. Baklava with crumbled walnuts, plus labneh and feta for her friends.
They eat together, lounging in the living room. James puts on an Arthur Russell album. The three of them discuss the paintings that Jamie and Amina just saw at the Picasso museum—Lili and Amina are adamantly not fans of his, Jamie sees his appeal—and the intensity of the rain, getting caught in it. They touch on logistics for tomorrow, Amina’s gallery meeting before their train. Amina serves herself seconds of fattoush, and Lili hides a small smile.
There’s something light, and delicate. Hopeful, hesitant; easily trampled, but with roots.
The clouds do clear in the late afternoon. The sun grows with the beginnings of a brilliant sunset, and they go outside. They get ice cream, basil sorbet and noisette gelato. There’s a tiny square, a city park at the edge of the Île de la Cité, willows draping into the water; Notre-Damelooms within sight, passing hum of bicycles, the rush of water lapping against riverboats.
Along the bank, groups of friends and couples sit with wine and food. A few lone people doze in the sunshine. Fragments of conversation, drifts of warm laughter. Amina spits cherry pits into the Seine, while Jamie uncorks the cheap rosé they’d brought along, tells a story from William, stuck on vacation with their father and stepmother back home. Amina makes a dry joke, and when Lili laughs, shaking her head, the other two exchange a look.
And she is thinking, too, of words by another river, and of memories from decades earlier in this same city. But fragilely—hopefully—promising, now, not wretched—in the remembrance of it; in the chance of forgiveness, if asked; in tentative possibility again.
The next morning, she slips out of the apartment early. Their train doesn’t leave until the afternoon. Her friends are still sleeping, and she leaves a note.
Outside, fresh sunlight washes the empty streets. The occasional boulangerie is open. She notes the location of one, making a mental reminder to pick up croissants for James and Amina when she returns. Most other shops are shuttered as she walks over the bridges, and heads back into the Left Bank.
The Luxembourg Gardens. He said he’d gone there.
The gardens are just opened, gated iron entrances unlocked. Lush foliage, thick trees. Gravel crunches underfoot, soft with white sand. Navigating around the huge fountain, heading into the trees and shaded paths, Lili settles into one of the green metal chairs scattered everywhere.
A few other early risers pass by; some runners, parents with strollers. Small groups silently practice qigong between the trees. Passing students and nuns from the nearby Institut Catholique head to summer language courses. A businessman in a relaxed suit readsLe Figaro; twin toddlers, a little boy and girl, run across the island of grass and flowers, which the French usually leave untouched, sacred and inviolable.
Lili watches the children for a few moments, before she relaxes into her chair and slides open her phone.
It’s getting late in New York. Markets closed, Asian markets still open.
Aleksandr Petrov.
Her finger hovers for a moment before she hits call.
The dial tone rings. She chews on her nail.
Would he be asleep or awake, right now—and could he be thinking of her? Is there a chance, any chance, that he’s waiting for this—
A double beep, and then the call disconnects.
Lili frowns, glancing at her phone screen.
Roaming shouldn’t be an issue. She hasn’t had trouble reaching her friends.
