2003, Paris, France

By Kathryn Hawkins

I step out of the Métro in Montmartre to a vision of fruit stands. Wooden carts sprawled across the narrow sidewalks, bunches of bananas bright as daffodils hanging from the awnings, baskets piled with pale green apples and plums with purple-black skins. The merchants are men with white hair and wisps of dark mustaches. They ply their trade in low tones, their French tongues soft as a kitten’s purr.

These streets are cobblestone, steep and gray. As I walk uphill, people rush past me, their scarves brushing against my face like brightly colored feathers, young girls with rosebud lips and black tights, men with high cheekbones and full-length coats. I can smell fresh bread from a small patisserie, where the baker stands in his white apron beside an open door, and the dark fog of coffee from the cafe next door, where couples huddle on the patio watching steam rise from their china mugs.

I want to linger here, buy a cappuccino and a croissant, sit and watch the crowds rush by, but I cannot stop yet. I am loaded down with 50 pounds of books and clothes, my backpack an absurdly heavy tortoise shell. I have a reservation for a hostel down the street. Once I check in, change clothes, freshen up — then I will head out into the half-light of sunset, the air full of smoke and ripe perfume. I have heard a thousand times that Paris is the city of love. I am ready to be seduced.

That evening, I study the map inside my guidebook and decide to explore the city. I head down the street, where the shops are shutting for the night, but the pavement is thick with people. There are couples drawn together tightly, teenage girls walking arm-in-arm, bundled in hats and green and purple overcoats. Their French surrounds me, a sea of words, a beautiful wave of sound. I am lost inside it.

A tall man with a crooked nose is coming toward me. He catches my eye, sees that I am alone. “Bonjour,” he says.

I think he is merely being friendly. “Bonjour,” I echo.

He changes direction suddenly and begins to walk beside me. He asks me a question, but I have lost my high school French; I only understand a word or two. “Je ne parle pas francais,” I tell him. He shrugs; this does not faze him.

“Americaine?” he asks. I nod. We walk in silence for a minute. He keeps looking at me from the corner of his eye, lagging half a step behind, tracking my motion.

At the bottom of the hill, the man taps me on the shoulder and points to a familiar set of golden arches. “McDonald?” he asks. He wants me to go there with him for dinner. It is American food; he thinks it is what I want.

I shake my head. “Non, merci. Au revoir.”

He gets the hint, finally, and steps through the McDonald’s door alone. The twin scents of bacon grease and French fry oil mingle and waft out into the night. The smell does not leave me until I cross the street.

The next morning I head for the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa’s crooked smile up close. I walk down the Champs-Elysées, in the center of the large path. On either side of me are beautifully sculpted bushes and trees. In front of me, a stone fountain, streaming cascades of water, and then the Louvre’s glass pyramid, capturing the sunlight like liquid fire.

Tourists are everywhere, unfolding maps, reading aloud to one another from their guidebooks. A group of Japanese men crowd for a picture in front of the fountain, smiling for the flash. I keep walking, separating myself from the herd. My guidebook and camera are safely hidden in my bag. I want to look like I belong here, like I am not as lost as I feel.

I find an empty bench and pull out a cigarette, because everyone smokes in Paris. As I am searching for my lighter, a dark-haired man approaches me with a lit flame. He holds it to the end of my cigarette, and I thank him.

He is scarcely taller than I, but strong. I can see his muscles tense beneath his crisp white shirt. “De rien,” he says. “Je m’appelle David.” He pronounces it Dah-veed. It seems like a beautiful name suddenly.

“Je m’appelle Kathy,” I respond, my American name seeming flat and ugly in my own mouth. He says it back to me: Kah-tee. In his voice, it seems richer, full of breath and life.

“Parlez-vous Francais?” he asks me, and I shake my head.

“Seulement dans l’école … le lycée,” I tell him. “Parlez-vous Anglais?”

He smiles and shakes his head back at me. We both laugh a little. He is cute, and I don’t mind his company. When he gestures toward a nearby cafe, I nod my head and enter with him.

At the table, I order potage d’onion and struggle to communicate with David. We both grasp for the few words we know in the other’s language. A middle-aged French couple watch us from the next table, amused by our futile efforts.

He asks me a question, something about un avion. The word sounds familiar, but I don’t remember what it means. I look at him blankly. He holds his arms to his sides and tilts his body, making a brrr sound with his lips.

I nod. An airplane. He is asking how I came to Paris. “Oui, un avion.”

“Oui,” he says, smiling, “airplane.” His teeth are very white.

We finish our lunch and pay separately. Outside, we stand beneath a maple tree. David smiles, touches my cheek, and calls me “tres jolie.” Tourists mill around us, taking pictures of the beautiful gardens. Light glances off the glass roof of the Louvre, making me squint to look at him.

He tries to kiss me. I let him, but keep my own mouth closed as his lips graze my face. He grips me tighter, and I feel him beginning to stiffen. I draw back, but his arms are tensed around me and I can hardly move.

“Hotel?” he murmurs in my ear.

I push him away and shake my head. “Non.”

He says something else I can’t translate, a look of scorn in his eyes. He turns and trudges off, his eyes already scanning the promenade for another jolie Americaine.

Just past sunset I walk back to my hostel to a chorus of bonjours. Old men with long beards, teenage boys with jack o’lantern smiles. I wrap my scarf tightly around me, do not make eye contact, do not respond. Already, I am sick of seductions.

I come upon a small bistro, warm light glowing through the windows. I step inside, and the elderly waiter smiles and shows me to a table. I am the only person here alone. At the bar, I see a couple drinking wine and laughing. The woman has a sharp fringe of black hair, a cigarette in one hand. The man is older, balding, dressed in a gray suit. His hand tightens on her thigh as he probes me with his eyes.

The waiter brings me a menu. It is all in French, with no translation. There are a few words I understand: jambon, poulet. The rest is a blur of letters.

I order a Cabernet and struggle to answer the waiter’s next question. He takes pity on me, pointing to the first item on the menu. “This is a filet mignon with mushrooms, red wine sauce, and asparagus side,” he tells me. “Next is salmon in lemon Hollandaise with side of potatoes.”

Later on, I do not remember what I ate there, how the food tasted in my mouth. I do not remember the face of the man at the bar. Most of Paris has left me — its men, its lilting tongue, its seductions. What’s left is the waiter’s voice, turning the beautiful rush of letters into words I could pronounce, giving me the power to say what I want.

Kathryn Hawkins lives in Gray, Maine. She has published poetry in The Bitter Oleander and freelance journalism in numerous magazines. More information is available at her website, www.kathrynhawkins.com.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Tuesday, April 17th, 2007 | Email This Post

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