Coq, page 13
“He’s fifteen. In a foreign country!” A duck cuts in front of me to get first dibs on a shattered waffle cone. “This is ridiculous,” I mumble. “Maybe if you’d stuck around, you’d know the shittiness of your parenting right now. We know nothing about this girl. Not her address, not her phone number — we don’t even know her last name.”
“Le Roux,” Glen says, cool as a charlatan. “Her family’s from Brittany. She plays basketball and has a pet rat. She’s into astronomy, Hollywood movies, and if it isn’t obvious, our son.”
“A pet rat?” Wes hates rodents.
“Named Bebe.”
“Bebe,” I yell into the entrails of a stranger’s cigarette smoke. “That’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard.”
“Her parents are quite lovely.”
“You met her parents?” I’m shouting on a bridge in Paris. The group of men who’d catcalled me earlier have migrated in my direction. They think I’m crazy and dodge my gaze. “Tell me I’m pretty now!” I holler. The oldest of the crew turns his back. Hands and words fly in conversation as a lone pigeon pecks at the street, searching for its reflection.
“I’ll bring him back to your hotel,” Glen says. “Give him ’til midnight.”
“Great. You do that. In fact, why don’t you bring them all back? The whole family: Célestine, her parents, Bebe. They can all stay the night. Won’t that be fun? I’ve come to Paris to have a sleepover with a rat!”
“You had other options,” Glen says.
“It sounds like you still do.”
I hang up before Glen has a chance to say anything else. Wes and Célestine are gone again. I drag myself to the last place I saw them, at the centre of the bridge. I know exactly the spot because there’s a fresh lock fastened to the rail. A gold one, Sharpied with their initials W H + C L and the most precious heart I’ve ever seen. They’ve left the Sharpie behind. I pick it up, replace the lid, and head back to the tower.
I don’t want to know who Glen is with, or why Wes has told me nothing about Célestine. Why he only told his father. Of course Wes knows I would set rules and boundaries and curfews. I would caution him about falling in love with a girl he’ll never see again. I’d remind him we’re here to commemorate his grandma’s memory. I’d say no. I would help him see the truth of the situation. The real world. I would absolutely wreck things.
I pass the Eiffel Tower and head toward Trocadero. There are lamplights and fountains. Hulking statues, tiny birds. I climb the stairs to the square. A rat tiptoes along a wall, camouflaged by leaves and vines. Maybe it’s Bebe. The rain has turned to a milky drizzle. From up here, the view of the Eiffel Tower is luxurious and golden.
I see the women from the restaurant strolling the promenade below. They stop to take pictures with the statues. Foolish ones. Their laughter floats through the night sky like a hot air balloon. I imagine one of the women is my mom. The quiet one in the back, clutching her purse out of hyper-vigilance. She would have read about pickpockets and petty thieves. Her friends urge her to squish in for a picture but they are too close to a set of high-pressure fountains resembling gatling guns and she fears getting wet. She fears her hair falling flat and her shoes not drying out before tomorrow’s walking tour of Versailles.
I whisper, “It’s too late, Mom.”
Her friends have already climbed into the fountain. They wade like disciples hungry for deliverance, miracles, mercy, touch. One of them dunks herself and comes back up, rolling and gasping for air. Not my mom. She stands in the shallow pool, away from the spray and her galivanting peers, sopping but contented. I hope they get arrested. Mom never had the chance.
“You should join them.” A street vender nods. He’s taken a break from packing up his garbage souvenirs to watch the women. He shakes his head at the debauchery.
“You think?” I ask.
He bundles a heap of figurines in tired bubble wrap, secures the lump with a cinching strap. “I think,” he replies, with a smile that is equal parts wise and boyish.
I want him to tell me why. Does he think I’m as old as the women in the fountain and that I belong on their “last chance” trip and should be doing last chance things? Zany and vaguely naughty and not-at-all noteworthy things? Flirting with much younger men, wearing outrageous clothing: neon, mesh, beads the size of baseballs, waxing on about sex — no — waxing on about fucking. I’m too young for that.
Maybe it’s that I look bored or cautious, or uptight. Like my mother. Maybe he believes I’m depressed and thinks should I drown myself.
The vender stuffs the remainder of the souvenirs — a few sparkling keychains and a collection of handheld fans — into a duffel bag. He heaves the bag over his shoulder and flinches from its weight.
“Bonne chance,” he says, with a wave. Below, one of the women howls. I peer down at them. Their age and the alcohol have caught up with them. Instead of frolicking, they’re now wading, stumbling, dragging themselves as though the water has turned to sludge.
I look back at the vendor heading into the night and wonder if he made enough money to pay his rent. I should have bought a souvenir. I should have bought all of them.
“Wait!” I call out. “I want a souvenir.”
He turns and hesitates, as if contemplating whether the sale of a single souvenir is worth the bother of dismantling his duffel bag and consequently missing the next train, or kissing his son goodnight.
“How much for the Eiffel Towers?”
“Two euro.”
“How many do you have?”
“Je ne sais pas. Maybe twenty?”
“I’ll take them all.”
I pay, and he packs the Eiffel Towers in a tattered paper bag. He thanks me and I wish him good luck because sometimes, more than hard work and goodwill and thoughts and prayers and patience, luck is what we need.
It’s ten o’clock and Trocadero is eerily quiet. I call Glen under the guise of confirming that he’ll bring Wes back at midnight. But it’s her voice I want to hear. Whoever she is.
“I’ll get him home by midnight,” Glen says.
I strain to hear her in the background: a peep, a pardon, a je m’excuse. Worse, I hear her laugh and it’s so full of life and hijinks, I almost trip down the stairs.
By the time I hang up with Glen and reach the fountains, the foursome of women is gone, recovering probably at some hotel one of them got a good deal on. I find a Holiday Inn key card on the ground, a wet stick of gum, a bent box of corn removers.
I kick the remnants of their shenanigans aside and sit on the pool’s edge, dipping my pinkie in the cool water and wondering where Wes is now. He’s probably making out on the subway or having sex in Célestine’s bedroom. Her parents are probably feeding them strawberries and oysters. Ew. They better not be making bébés.
I shake the thought from my head and text Dan an update: Wes is with Glen.
We’re in my room, Dan replies. Liam and Joan are playing cards. Where are you?
At the Eiffel Tower.
Why?
’Cause I’m in Paris.
Come back to the hotel and have a drink with me, my brother says and I find the invitation both endearing and appealing. I’m glad he’s here.
It’s not like you have any options, he adds.
I check the time on my phone. One hundred and twelve minutes until midnight.
I do have options, I reply.
Like what?
Not what, I think, but who. I open LinkedIn and find Felix’s message. Because Glen’s right: Love that makes you crazy doesn’t come around that often.
And as luck would have it, I have options.
twenty-five
I wait at the fountain for a response, but nothing comes. Scientists probably don’t sign up for notifications. I try texting instead, crossing my fingers that I’ve transcribed his number from my arm correctly. I stare at my phone. My reflection looks desperate. I splash water on my face and immediately regret it. It’s probably filthy. Tinged with bleach or bacteria or bird. Contaminated with lost wishes and the regrets of the dying. I’m drying my cheeks on my sleeve when my phone chimes with a response. It’s not from Felix. It’s Cody from Joggins. More specifically, his dick. It’s a helluva of a pic. Like he might have taken it in the woods after building a cabin with his bare hands, or wrestling a bear. I delete the text and block the number. I touch my wrist where Felix’s phone number was once inked into my skin. Of course the last digit wasn’t a seven. That would have been lucky. There’s nowhere to go but back to the hotel.
I hail a taxi from the Eiffel Tower. The driver is an old-growth forest. Hair sprouts from his ears and shoulders. A Serbian flag spins from a cord on his rear-view mirror.
“You doing what in Paris?” he asks, his accent thick, austere.
His question catches me off guard, though it probably shouldn’t. It’s the exact question I’d ask if I were driving a cab in Paris, if I were driving a cab anywhere. But for a second, I don’t know why I’m in Paris, in this cab, clutching a bag of trinkets.
He eyes me in the rear-view mirror, waiting for a response. “I don’t know.”
He furls his brows. “You don’t know?”
“No idea.” I start to laugh.
He taps the steering wheel, gently nodding as though processing my response. A bus cuts us off. The driver swerves, causing the dangling Serbian flag to spin. On the backside of it is a poorly-laminated photograph.
“Your family?” I ask, pointing to the picture.
We pass a pharmacy with an electric green sign. We’re close to the hotel.
The cab driver cups the photo in his hand, while gunning through an amber light.
“My mother,” he replies.
“I guess that’s why I’m here,” I say. “My mom.”
A tram, lit up like a display window, lumbers by cradling weary passengers. Shift workers and hustlers. Teens. I can’t help but think of Wes. I don’t want think of Wes.
A passenger van is parked in front of the hotel. A sports team with matching duffel bags and tracksuits spills out. My driver waits for the chaos to clear and then pulls over to the curb.
“How much?” I ask, gathering my belongings.
He waves, like he can’t be bothered to collect the fare. I dig down in my purse for cash, but I’ve spent it all on souvenirs.
“Twenty-nine years since I see my mother,” he says quietly.
“Ten for me,” I say, edging toward the door.
“And yet I still remember her voice. Very serious,” he says, smiling, “like mine.”
I sit back with the understanding I’ll be here for a while, paying my fare with commiseration.
“My mother liked to sing,” I say. “You know ABBA?”
He chuckles. “Dancing Queen.”
“That, she was not.”
We both laugh. We both sit. The cab, an older model Citroen, idles and laces the air with the faint smell of gasoline. The driver takes a drink from a thermos wedged into the cup holder. Petit Vert is etched into the metal.
“I’m also here for work,” I say.
The driver turns in his seat, sizes me up. “What do you do?”
“I’m in the grocery business.”
“That’s good, yes? Everybody eats.” He pats his stomach.
A staticky call comes in over his radio, the directions indiscernible to me, but he shifts the car into drive. He gestures for me to leave. I reach through the centre console and give him an Eiffel Tower, a grey one to match his ancient sweater. I pause to look at the picture of his mother.
“You look like her,” I say.
He swallows and I exit the cab. I watch him pull away. He makes a U-turn, and disappears onto a darkened side street. With him, thoughts of our mothers dissipate like tailpipe exhaust.
I amble past the sports team toward the elevators, but stop short of pressing the up button. Mona’s hunched at the bar alone, sipping a spring break drink in a curvy glass. Her hair is pulled back, revealing a bald spot. She doesn’t see me right away. When I call her name, she jumps.
“Claudia!” She taps the barstool beside her. “Have a seat. Your dad fell asleep reading to Emma.”
My father’s signature move. A thousand times I’ve shaken him awake, shown him to his room amidst a debris field of picture books, shucked socks, reading glasses.
“You want a drink? Try something fun.” Mona waves down the bartender.
I should be checking in with Joan. I haven’t seen her since the Adidas store but the idea of drinking fun is more appealing. I want to swallow a carnival. Mona points to something on the menu, and orders for me. The bartender, a handsome woman with dainty spectacles and swirly braids, gets to work, lining up shot glasses and opening cans of soda water and lemonade.
I tell Mona about Wes’s disappearing act at the Eiffel Tower. I want her to worry the way my mom would, but she just stirs her drink, a mischievous smile on her face like she too is on his side, on Glen’s.
The bartender sets my drink on a leather coaster. A flayed strawberry floats on the surface. “He’s just like his father,” I say. “Reckless and inconsiderate.”
“Some would call that romantic.” Mona rests her sagging face in her hand. “I mean, Glen just dropped everything to surprise you in Paris. And Wes —” she pauses to pluck a cherry from her glass, “he’s young and in love. You’re only in your forties, Claudia. Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten how that feels?”
“The last time Glen dropped everything, I was everything. He dropped me.” I kick off my shoes and they fall to the floor like cement bricks. “Makes it easy to forget.”
“What about the guy on the plane? According to Joan you were holding hands as though one of you was being shipped off to war.”
Did Joan tell all of France that Felix and I had held hands? She probably put it on TikTok. My face reddens. I ditch the straw from my drink and take a sports fan slug. The strawberry gets caught in my throat. I think back to the plane. It already feels like years ago, not days. A fizz of pleasure fills my chest. And then I remember Cody from Joggins. His reptilian cock, maroon ball sack and boreal thighs, thick and nocturnal. I start coughing and then, as always, my thoughts return to Glen, like a homing pigeon.
“He’s with another woman,” I say with a prick of rage. “Right now.”
“Glen?”
“Yes, Glen.”
Mona orders us another round and I swing my legs from the barstool as though I’m on a Ferris wheel.
“I betcha it’s the woman from his bike trip. Don’t worry though. She’s a lesbian. You really should have gone to his talk at the library. Did you know he almost died in Kosovo?”
Mona went to Glen’s talk at the library? I shrug.
“My youngest served there,” she says, wiping a drink spill with her shawl.
I wonder if it was Rodney, but remember he’s the oldest, not the baby of the family. I want to ask her what happened to him, but how can I talk about mortar shells and IEDs and amputated fingers when she’s dressed like happiness? When she’s dressed to forget?
I change the subject. “I tried texting Felix.”
She bats my arm. “Good for you,” she says, a proud father. “You took a little risk.”
“It was the wrong number.”
“Maybe Wes is more like you than you think.”
I shake my head. “He’s all Glen.”
“Or maybe,” she says, beady-eyed and almost jubilant. “Maybe he takes after your mother.”
“My mother?” I shoot back from the bar and laugh. It’s a quarter ’til midnight. Fifteen minutes until this frigging day can end. The paper bag of Eiffel Towers spontaneously tips and the figurines tumble out like piñata candy. My heads spins. A boozy tilt-a-whirl. “How on earth could Wes be anything like my mother? I mean, besides the obvious.” Same nose, same penchant for rain and bread. French lovers. For fuck’s sake. The word “lovers” doesn’t even sound right. Too mature for Wes, too scandalous for Mom. “They enjoy French people, so what?”
The bartender glances up from a tray of glasses, and the tall German at the other end of the bar says something in German. I can’t tell if he’s agreeing with me or mocking me. The other customers don’t seem to notice. They drink wine and discuss things over opened laptops, oblivious to the hour. They are plugged into the real world, the tangible one with tasks and responsibilities. Spreadsheets, wire transfers, freight. I don’t even remember my job title.
Mona whispers, “I found emails.”
“What emails?” I’m louder than I mean to be. I lower my voice. “What emails?”
“From Émile. To your mom.”
“My mother’s been dead for ten years.” I tell Mona as if she’s a stranger. Based on the looks of the other patrons, I’ve told them too. I try again to lower my voice.
“Your dad’s computer wasn’t working. You know the old desktop he kept in the guestroom?”
I nod. It had barely survived the hoard.
“I was fixing it and stumbled across some old emails.”
How does one digitally stumble? Did the mouse trip? Or did Mona open every last one of my parents’ files?
“You read my mom’s emails?” The glass in my hand might shatter.
“I know I shouldn’t have,” she says, her eyes pleading and apologetic. Despite my fury I can’t help but notice the charm of her eye colour: candy floss blue. “But I couldn’t help it. They were beautiful.”
“My mom loved my dad.” My throat catches.
“Oh yes, she did. And he loved her. Still does,” she smiles, almost wistfully. “But so did Émile.”
I let this sink in. I don’t want to know anymore. I want out of Paris. I want back in the real world of deadlines and meal prep. Soccer practice, chores, runs in the park.
“The heart can love more than one,” Mona says. She’s matter-of-fact now, like we’re discussing something domestic, or mechanical. The multiple uses of coconut oil or a Leatherman. “I mean, no one disputes that when we talk about children. I have five boys. I love them all. It’s no different with romantic love. Your mom knew it. So does Glen.”
