The Paris Effect by K. S. R. Burns

Author:K. S. R. Burns [Burns, K. S. R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Booktrope
Published: 2014-12-09T18:30:00+00:00

twenty-three

I AM HALFWAY DOWN the stairs when Manu catches up to me. “Bonjour! Again.”

He finished with Margaret’s computer awfully fast.

We descend side by side, pivoting in unison at the landings. Despite the tisane I am still a little drunk, and need to focus on Manu’s tomato-red running shoes to keep my balance. “Margaret’s a wonderful person, don’t you think?” I say after a moment.

“Oui. Margaret is formidable,” he says. For-mee-dah-bluh. “She suggests, perhaps, that I accompany you. To your hotel.”

“Accompany me? Oh no, I’m fine really.” We have reached the last flight of stairs, which is wider and grander than the rest and opens into a courtyard. “It’s not far. I can walk. No problem.”

“Indeed it is not a problem,” he says, pulling open the heavy door that leads to the street. “Voilà. My car, she waits for you.”

It’s a van, not a car, parked half on the sidewalk and half on the pavement. The windows are pitted, the doors dented, the upholstery ripped, and the cargo area in the back calf-deep in coats, books, computer cables, rubber boots, backpacks, flashlights, headlamps, and comic books. I get into the van because Margaret sent Manu and because my head is hammering like a Gila woodpecker. Maybe I’ll take a nap before going out to the phone store. It’s not late. In New Jersey, where William is, it’s still morning. There’s plenty of time to call him.

“I am staying at the Hôtel du Cheval Blanc,” I say as Manu hops in beside me and revs the engine.

“Bon. I know it. I live in this quartier.”

We lurch off the curb with a nauseating plop and rattle down the narrow street, missing a clump of parked motorcycles and shooting right through a stop sign on the corner. We brake only when a large white delivery truck wheezes to a halt in front of us, completely blocking the street.

“Mais non,” Manu groans as the driver of the truck, cigarette clamped between thin lips, leaps out and starts unloading plastic crates filled with heads of lettuce. “Ce n’est pas possible.” He’s grinding the van into reverse when two grinning male faces appear in his window.

“Manu, Manu! Arrête!” the two men shout, pounding on the glass. “Balzac! Il est arrivé!”

Manu cranks the window down. “Mais c’est pas vrai!” he cries.

“Si! Si. Balzac, il est là!” they answer and all three begin chattering in high-speed French. I listen with every brain cell I have in my head. But it’s no use. Four years of advanced placement French in high school. Four years of French composition and French conversation and French civilization in college. And every moment of it, apparently, a total and complete waste of time.

“Une amie de Margaret, elle s’appelle Amy,” Manu says, more slowly, when the two newcomers have scrambled into the back of the van. “Amy, these are my friends,” he says to me. But does not tell me their names.

“Bonjour, madame,” the older one murmurs. He’s wearing a thin moustache and a black beret. An actual French person wearing an actual French beret—Kat would go nuts over this.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.