We'll Never Have Paris by Andrew Gallix

Author:Andrew Gallix
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Watkins Media

The Irish Genius

Gerry Feehily

Myers flicked his Marlboro away and walked to the entrance of the Hôtel de Crillon, Place de la Concorde. Two porters stood on both sides of the revolving doors to this august five star residence. Bonsoir Monsieur! they cried, snapping to attention, their tone somewhat jocular. Both wore green swallowtail coats, green top hats and white kid gloves as in some terrible alcoholic dream of being chased down alleys by little goblin men.

Bonsoir, said Myers, himself in a vintage tweed overcoat, of uncommon yellow and red weave.

J’ai un rendez vous, he said, his throat tight.

Just ask at the reception, they said as one, in English, their eyes wet with glee.

Myers shoved his way through the revolving doors into the lobby. White and black tile floor, columns, a vast marble reception desk. A group of Brazilians, in baggy jogging pants and t-shirts, ogled the frescoes on the ceiling thirty feet up. On a white sofa, a Chinese couple with two gangling teenage boys sat slumped, surrounded by bags from the swishest fashion designers that Paris had to offer the world. All gazed into their mobile phones, the white light of the future glowing on faces gone bloodless from a day at the boutiques of Avenue Montaigne. All was lofty, all was hushed, long velvet curtains, delicate gold leaf patterns running down pillars, receptionists in tight black suits and Human League quiffs. And somewhere, did Myers not hear the putter of water, and a hand gliding along a harp?

A bellboy came to enquire.

Je cherche le bar, said Myers, kneading the bunched up tissues and Métro tickets in his coat pockets.

Mais bien sûr, Monsieur! said the bellboy, chuckling, and directed him to the lift, pressed the silver button for him. As he did this he sniffed the air a second, looked Myers up and down, and then mutely doffed his hat as the lift door hissed open. Myers sniffed the air too, catching a smell of something. It wasn’t a hotel smell. It wasn’t his deodorant, but something else.

His sister Aisling sat engulfed in a giant velvet armchair in the bar looking for all the world like the actress she’d dreamed of becoming as a child. A PR consultant to one of the world’s largest humanitarian organisations, she had that air of being someone, a name on the tip of one’s tongue, the sort of woman you see in airport lounges, going round the Earth, a universal gringa at the heart of conflict zones. Hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing a white dress of ancient Greek inspiration, she was on her way to Venice, but had decided on a stopover in Paris.

Something very special had happened in her life, she’d explained over the phone. She wanted him to meet her fiancé, Hamilton.

I want him to meet my older brother, who lives in Paris, she’d said.

She stood up, they kissed.

Yuck, cigarettes, she said.

Myers’ future brother-in-law, Hamilton, was sitting on the sofa opposite her.

Oh hallo Gus, he said.

So here was the multi-millionaire his parents had been raving about — Hamilton, and that was his first name.

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