The Last Time I Saw Paris (12 page)

They hurried onto the plane and slumped into their seats, exhausted. The doors were slammed, the engines roared.
“Finally,”
Lara sighed.

“At last.”
Dan grinned. “We're on our way.”

Lara smiled at him, elated. She felt like Eve about to enter the Garden. And she just knew that Paris would be their Eden.

W
as it Lara's imagination, or was there a different feel about the arrivals hall at Charles de Gaulle? For a start there was the smell of strong cigarettes in the air and a fluid, elegant bustle about the way the people walked and the way little urban dogs peeked at her from behind legs and baggage. And there was that wonderful language that made even the commonplace
“Bonjour, madame”
sound as though it were being sung.

They were at carousel 22, waiting for their baggage. Lara slid her arm through Dan's. “Hey,” she whispered, “we're in Paris.”

He grinned down at her. “I never would have known.”

She glanced at her watch. “A mere twenty-five hours ago, we were in California. We could have been in Australia by now.”

“I'd rather be in Paris. With you,” he added.

The carousel began to move. Bags bounced out of the opening, drifting past them, quickly claimed by other passengers. Lara could easily identify her black bags because she had put bright yellow tags on them, and Dan's was a dark green duffel. She frowned anxiously at the few that were on their third or fourth trip around the carousel. A few minutes later the carousel was switched off.

“Oh, God,
I don't believe it,”
she wailed as it
dawned on her that she was in Paris but now she had nothing to wear.

“It'll be okay, honey, I'll take care of it,” Dan said reassuringly. “Sit right here; don't get upset and don't move.”

Lara watched as he strode to the distant information desk, all the way at the other end of the enormous baggage hall. She knew in her gut it was hopeless. Their luggage might be anywhere. San Francisco, Cincinnati, Frankfurt. Or even in China with Bill.

“But you don't understand,” Dan was saying to the Air France attendant at the lost-luggage desk. “We have no clothes. Nothing.”

She looked pityingly at the handsome young American as she handed him a blue zippered bag, similar to the ones airlines give passengers on long flights, but larger. “Take this,” she said with a supportive smile. “It will have everything you need.” And when Dan said he doubted it, she gazed into his eyes and said, “Trust me, m'sieur. And by the way,
normalement
the Lufthansa flights come in at Terminal C. You might look for your luggage there.”

Dan hurried back to tell Lara, who was wilting badly by now, then he dashed off again in search of Terminal C, leaving her all alone in the cavernous baggage hall.

Lara watched him disappear around a distant corner, thinking wistfully about her sexy new lingerie and the pretty new dress, and of how good the bed at the Ritz was going to feel when they finally got there. They had been traveling almost twenty-six hours and she'd had no sleep. She felt dizzy, light-headed, exhausted. Half dozing, she waited for Dan to get back.

Terminal C seemed like about a mile away to Dan and he figured this must be French-style “close by.”
When he finally found it, he was directed to a pile of luggage in a corner. None of it was theirs. He grabbed a passing airline employee and tried to describe his dilemma. Though he spoke no French, the man seemed to understand. Try Terminal D, he advised. But at Terminal D,
“Non, non, m'sieur,”
he was told. “Perhaps Terminal A.”

At Terminal A, Dan stopped and took stock of the situation. Time was passing. The luggage was gone. And he had left Lara, waiting, all alone. He had to get back to her. He turned to retrace his footsteps, but everywhere looked the same: the same brightly lit hallways, with the same advertisements, the same endless corridors leading to nowhere. He couldn't remember which way he had come. And Lara was just sitting there, waiting for him, expecting him to work miracles with their lost luggage. . . .

He grabbed another airline employee, asked him which terminal the Frankfurt flight came in at, was told again Terminal C. He clapped a frustrated hand to his head,
“No,”
he explained again in slow, careful English, “it was
not
Terminal C. It was the other,
large
terminal. We were at carousel twenty-two.”

The man shrugged. “But there is no carousel twenty-two, m'sieur. You are mistaken. Try the information desk.”

There was a long line at the information desk. For a moment, Dan thought of pushing his way to the front, explaining the urgency of his mission, that he had lost Lara, that she was waiting for him, that she was all alone. That they had been traveling for twenty-seven hours, he'd been gone over an hour by now. . . .

He was next. He waited politely for the previous customer to move away, then went to step up to the
counter. He felt an elbow in his ribs as someone pushed ahead of him. He swung around, crazy with anger and worry, ready to kill. It was a nun.
A nun in a gray habit had jumped in line, elbowed him out of the way. And he had felt like killing her.
God forgive me, he thought, horrified, giving the nun a forgiving smile.

“M'sieur,” the information clerk told him, “I don't know what you are talking about. There is no carousel twenty-two. Here are all the terminals, A, B, C, D. You must be mistaken.”

Dan slammed his clenched fists on the counter and the clerk cowered back, dismayed. “How can I be mistaken,” he roared. “My woman is sitting there, waiting for me at carousel twenty-two. The Lufthansa flight arrived there. They lost our baggage.
There were twenty-two carousels.
…”

The clerk stared worriedly at the crazy man. “Why don't you page madame,” he suggested faintly.

Of course.
Why hadn't
he
thought of that? Fatigue must have taken away his brain function. But he soon discovered there was no multiple paging system; each terminal had its own. He ran to each of the terminals in turn, paging her. Was he
really
crazy? Had he
imagined
carousel 22? His heart was pounding and he was sweating.
He had lost Lara.
God, what a fool he was. What must Lara be thinking? That he had deserted her, that he had gotten lost—the homeboy abroad—his first time in Paris. He knew the famous doctor husband would not have done this, he would never have misplaced his wife at Charles de Gaulle Airport, he would have swept Lara into a waiting limo, swept her off to a suite at the Ritz.…

He spotted the employee he had first asked for directions, grabbed him by the lapels.
“Don't tell me
again I'm crazy,”
he said through gritted teeth. “There
is
another terminal. I
know
the Lufthansa flight landed there. There were
twenty-two
carousels. My woman is there, waiting for me. . . .”

The man rolled his eyes, shrugged, pushed his cap to the back of his head. “But, m'sieur, you must mean the
new
terminal. Why didn't you say so?” He gave that little Gallic shrug, as though it were obvious. “But of course,” he said, “nobody goes there.”

Dan let go of the man, carefully smoothing his lapels, apologizing for his anger. Then he set off at a run for Terminal F.

 

He's lost, Lara thought, panicked. I should never have let him just go off like that. Men always get lost. This isn't LAX or San Francisco, he doesn't speak the language, no one will understand him.

She looked at her watch again. A hour and a half had gone by. She was rooted to her seat. She couldn't get up and look for him, she had to stay here. One of them had to be where they started out from, otherwise they would never find each other.…
Never find each other
. . .

Dan saw her, still sitting on the steel bench, stiff with anxiety. She heard his running footsteps, leapt to her feet, flung herself into his outstretched arms with a little cry of relief. He clutched her to him. “Oh, God, I'm just so glad I found you. I'm so
sorry,
so
truly sorry,
I thought I was going crazy, they told me there was no carousel twenty-two, I thought I'd never find you again.…”

“I knew you were lost.” She was clasped so tight against his chest she could feel his heart thudding.

“All I could think about was you sitting here, waiting.…”

She touched his hand, found it trembling. “It's all right.”

“There was a nun, she pushed in front of me at the information desk, I wanted to kill her.”

Lara grinned. “Good thing you didn't. I hear French jail is not too comfortable.”

“Will you ever forgive me?” He wrapped her closer.

“There's nothing to forgive.”

“Oh, and by the way,” he murmured through kisses, “nobody knows where our luggage is.”

Lara shrugged, that same little French shrug everyone seemed to have in Paris. “It doesn't matter,” she said again. “We've found each other.”

O
utside the terminal, they stumbled gratefully into a taxi.
“Le Ritz, s'il vous plaît,”
Lara told the driver, then sank wearily back. She couldn't believe they were really here. “There's so much to see,” she said as they lurched through the snarled traffic.

“How about those famous fountains?” Dan asked.

“The fountains?” She was puzzled, was he mixing Paris up with Rome?

And then they were crossing a bridge and threading their way through the streets of the magical city.

Paris. Shafts of sunlight on imposing gray buildings; swooping mansard roofs peaked with dormer windows; elegant residences with tall green shutters; shade trees on the Champs Elysées and round globe lamps on old stone bridges; traffic and noise. Strollers on the boulevards; chic women with good legs accompanied always, it seemed, by well-behaved little dogs; street markets with a pungent, colorful abundance of fresh produce; snatches of music from a window, with lace curtains protecting the inhabitants of the room from prying eyes. Gilded statues at practically every corner; the creamy stone of the Louvre; the gilt-tipped iron railings and the children in straw hats and navy smocks, walking in a line behind a nun, like a drawing out of
Madeline.
The villageyness of the 6th and 7th Arrondissements; the narrow cobbled streets and hidden courtyards behind massive wooden gates; the aromas
of good food and soft perfumes. Sidewalk cafes with little round tables and cane chairs where idlers lounged, sipping a café grand créme or tall pale drinks, as though they had all the time in the world. Dark little boutiques and elegant restaurants; the parks and fountains and, always, the magical artery of the Seine, flowing like lifeblood, because Paris was a city where life was lived out on the streets.

Paris.
The memories came back to Lara, thick and heavy, like fresh cream in their sweetness. It was as though her heart had been living here all these years, while that other, less meaningful part of her remained in California.

Their taxi pulled up in front of the great hotel and Lara heaved a deep, heartfelt sigh as the doorman hurried toward them. It was like coming home. Heads turned to look as they trailed, crumpled and luggageless through the elegant red-carpeted lobby, past the long aisle of vitrines—the windows displaying the wares of exclusive jewelers and expensive boutiques. But by now she was too tired to care what people thought about her appearance. Or how much younger Dan was. She was looking forward to the sumptuous sanctity of their room, and the hot bath that would somehow revive her travel-stained soul.

“M'sieur, madame?” The desk clerk was irreproachable in a dark suit and a pleasant smile.

“We have a reservation. Mrs. Lewis, from San Francisco.” Lara's smile lit up her face. She glanced around the elegant lobby while the desk clerk looked at his list. He muttered something to his colleague then said, “Excuse me one moment, madame, while I check the computer.”

Lara squeezed Dan's hand. “Isn't this wonderful?” she whispered.

“Looks great,” he said, but she noticed he wasn't smiling, and guessed it was because he knew how expensive this must be. He had been adamant that he would pay his own way. It was a matter of self-respect, she understood that, and she had finally agreed, except for the grand hotels like this, which she knew he could not afford.

The clerk returned looking disturbed. “I'm sorry, Madame Lewis, but your reservation was for the day before yesterday. When you did not arrive, the room was assigned to another guest.”

“The day before yesterday?” Lara looked puzzled. “But how could that be? It says the seventeenth right here on my confirmation fax.”

“Today is the nineteenth, madame.”

Lara remembered the lost day. “We missed our flight,” she explained, adding vaguely, “the weather.” And then she realized the travel agent had also forgotten the nine-hour time difference and booked the room for the same date they had left California, instead of the following day.

“I understand, but we weren't informed of your change of plans. I'm so sorry, these things usually do not happen at the Ritz, Madame.”

He was so upset Lara felt sorry for him. “That's all right,” she said, “we'll just take some other room.”

He lifted his shoulder in that shrug that spoke volumes.
“Je suis désolé, madame,
but it is Fashion Week. Every hotel in Paris in fully booked. I already had my assistant call around the other hotels for you”—he lifted his shoulder again, looking sad—“but there is nothing.”

Dan put a comforting arm around her slumped shoulders. “That's okay. We'll find somewhere,” he said. “Come on, Lara, don't worry about it.”

Back out on the street they stared at each other, not knowing what to do, then Dan said, “Since we're homeless in Paris, I suggest a glass of champagne.”