Frankie in Paris (14 page)

“No
good?
 
You mean like, stealing dirt or
public drunkenness?”

She
guffawed again and held the door open for me.
 
I paused for a moment.
 
“You know,
I don’t even know your name.”

“Call
me Dan.
 
Or Dannie,” she said, “my real
name is Daniella, but I hate it.”

Yep, we definitely have more in common
than I originally thought.

“Where
did you get those boots?”
 
I asked.

“At
the street market.
 
I got them for a
steal.
 
You know you have to bargain with
those people.
 
They expect it.” She
nodded her head vigorously.

“So
I’ve heard.”
 
Damn.

The
Louvre was a bust.
 
I didn’t appreciate
the artwork, and I was mentally fried.
 
After my chat with Red Psycho (I actually felt kind of awkward trying to
hate her after our chat), Lulu and I half-heartedly looked at a few more famous
pieces and then took the Metro back to
 
the Hôtel de
Lutèce
.
 

Crawling
back into the lobby, I was sweaty and dusty.
 
The dust was purely incidental, not smuggled.
 

My
hateful bangs were glued to my forehead, and I felt like a moron for wearing
black tights and boots.
 
I would have
deeply appreciated a stiff drink and a soft bed.
  

The
staff looked up at me and they all began speaking at once.
 
I caught:

“
Mon Dieu
!”

“CALL
AMERICA
NOW!”

Silence.
 
Then they all started up again, all speaking
at the same time.
 

 
Henri, who must have just begun his shift,
pulled me aside. “You must call your boyfriend immediately.”

“Oh
my God, is he alright?
 
What has
happened?”
 
Panicking,
 
I could actually feel adrenaline being
released throughout my body.

“I
sink he is alright, but you must phone him:
 
he eez sreatening to come to Paree.
 
He sinks you are
très
miserable
.
 
He says zat you left him a message and he wants to come to your rescue… ”

“Oh
crap!”
 
I remembered the distressed
message which I left on my way out that morning.
  
It seemed like a million years had passed,
but it had happened only hours ago.
 
He must be so worried!

“What
is it?”
 
Lulu asked.

“I-I
have to call Rich."

“I’m
sure it will all turn out.
 
I’m going to
our room to take a rest.”
 
She was
totally oblivious to the fretful energy bursting around her.

***

I
pushed my way back out into the hot Parisian air and found someone else at the
phone booth.
 
The damned thing had been
empty all week.
 
Probably all year.
 
And yet, there stood a boy who looked like he
was on the verge of a mental breakdown.
 
I can appreciate his mood, but I need the
stinking phone.

The
booth's occupant was unusually thin and was wearing a pair of shorts, sans
shirt.
 
He had apparently brought a pair
of yellow plastic flip-flops with him, but they had been discarded on the
floor.

“
Non
!”
 
He cried.
 
I mean, he
really
cried.
 
I watched, fascinated, as tears rolled down his cheeks.
 
“
Je
t’aime
!”
 
he screamed, professing his
love to the invisible person on the other side.
 
“
Je t’aime
... ”
 
He collapsed down the wall, much like Dan, a
couple of hours ago.

Upon
closer inspection, I realized that he was probably around my age.
 
Looking at the phone as if it had wronged
him, he began slamming it against the glass in desperation.
 

Oh, no
!
 
What if he breaks the stupid thing?
 
The moment seemed terribly passionate, but I
needed the handset and receiver to be fully functional.

“He-hello?
 
Are you finished?”
 

The
almost-nude man was sobbing quietly.
 
Letting
the phone drop from his hand, he curled his arms around his bare legs and
dropped his head to his knees.
 
The
handset bounced along the floor of the phone booth.
 
Except for the small shudders rippling
through his narrow shoulders, he was still.

“Can
I use the phone, please?”
 

Apparently
he wasn’t going anywhere, any time soon.
 
He lifted up an arm and let it drop to the floor.
 

“S’kay,
you just stay right there.”
 
I maneuvered
into the booth.
 
The only way for both of
us to fit was for me to straddle his knees.
 
If he were to lift his head, it would be
inside
my skirt.
 
My tights
would keep him from seeing anything I wanted kept secret.
 
Besides, I was desperate!

For
 
a horrible moment I couldn’t find my mom’s
phone card.
 
I held my bag up to my face
and tried to be discreet, mind-moving the items in a quick shuffle inside.
 
The card was tucked under some Kleenex.
 

I
squatted and scooped up the phone, then dialed.
 
The foreign connection seemed to take hours, but it didn’t even finish
one ring before his mother answered.

“Goodgriefareyoualright?”

“I’m
fine.
 
Can I speak to Rich?”

“Uh...
he isn’t here right now.
 
He’s... at the
airport.”

“Oh
my God!
 
He’s at the airport?
 
No!
 
How can I reach him?”
 
Perspiration
gathered under my hair.

“Try
paging him.
 
He is really, really
worried.
 
Pretty mad, too.”

“Oh,
no... ”
 

“Hang
up, for God’s sake!
 
Try to reach him, or
you’ll be seeing him in person.
 
In about
twelve hours, or so.”

“He
can’t come here, damn it!
 
He’ll kill
me!”
 
I didn’t say good-bye.
 
I just slammed down the receiver and fumbled
with the card again.
 
It drifted into the
boy’s lap, and he lifted it up to me, without raising his face.

“Crap!
Crap!
 
Crap!” I dialed Rich’s pager.
 
Some bored caller had scratched off the first
three numbers off of the booth, so I couldn’t enter the return number.

I
was at a loss.
 
If Rich flew to Paris to rescue me,
things would get really complicated, fast.

Tears
began to roll down my cheeks, the stress creeping up on me like a black
fog.
 
I tried to breathe, but my chest
just heaved and wouldn’t allow enough air into my lungs.
 
Great.
 
My very first anxiety attack.
 

Sliding
down the glass door, I ended up toe to toe with the skinny boy.
 
I sobbed and wiped my nose on my wrist.
 
A bony arm reached across the small space and
offered a hand.
 

I
grasped it, and we cried together.

***

How
does one end up in a muggy, foreign phone booth holding hands with a
half-naked, unusually thin stranger?
 
I
have no idea.
 
It just happens, I guess.

***

We
studied one another for two-thirds of a second.
 
He was actually kind of handsome, when not engaged in a lover’s
tantrum.
 
A mysterious scar weaved
through his right eyebrow, up into his shiny black hair
—which was pretty spiky
where it had been squeezed in his
fist.
 
He detached his hand from mine and
snapped his fingers.

“You
must call zee airport immediately.”
 

“Good
idea.
 
You’re right!”
 
As our feet tried to untangle, I struggled to
stand.
 
He ended up standing first,
pulling me to my feet.
 
I was heavier
than he, so it wasn’t as graceful of a movement as it could have been.
 
Story of my life.
     

Holding
the door open with his bare back, he gnawed on his thumbnail and gestured at me
to hurry up.
 

I
tried to find my itinerary
—
which Lulu had
finally allowed me to hold, once we had begun our flight.
 
The phone number for the airport was probably
on it somewhere.
 
Since I was being
watched, I had to search manually.
 
My
bag had become stuffed with a bunch of tourist crap as our trip
progressed.
 
I began ripping various
receipts and pamphlets out and letting them fall to the floor.
How on earth did all that crud fit in my
tiny bag?
At the very bottom of the now empty purse sat a crumpled page.
 
The number for the airport was on the top of
it.

I
dialed and reached a recording.
 

“If
you would like to reserve a wheelchair for transport through the terminal, press
one.”

Damn
.

“If
you would like to make a vegetarian selection for your flight, please dial your
individual airline.”

Damn.

Operator!
 
I needed an operator!
 
I dialed “0.”

“SFO,”
 
a nasally voice reported.

“Yes.
Hi. I have an emergency!”

“If
this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 9-1-1.”

“Nonono!
 
Not that kind of emergency!
 
My boyfriend thinks I’m in trouble and is
about to fly to France
to rescue me!”

“This
all sounds very romantic, but what do you expect me to do about it?”

“Don’t
you have some sort of system for paging people?
 
I know you do!
 
I’ve heard
it!
 
Can’t you call him to an information
desk?
 
His name is Richard Cavelli.
 
Customer service desk, or something?”
 

“I
suppose we could try.
 
How do I know that
this is not some sort of a prank?”

“Please!
 
This is not a joke!
 
I am calling from Paris-freaking-France, and
we have to stop him from getting on the plane!
 
He doesn’t need to come here, and he will be so damned pissed at me if
he flies out here for no reason!”

“Do
you really have to use that sort of filthy language?
 
Young ladies shouldn’t say words like
“pissed.” It’s very unbecoming!
 
And even
when you say “freaking,” I know what you are
really
trying to say!”

Just
my luck that I would find an ultraconservative person on the other end of the
phone.
 
She sounded just like my
grandmother. We were running out of time!

“I
am so sorry.
 
I don’t usually use
profanity, but I am really beginning to panic!”
 
What a lie.
 
I
used to be
someone who didn’t use
profanity.
 
How swiftly things can
change!

“Oh,
all right,” she blustered, as if I’d really put her out.
 
“Please hold.”
 
No problem.
 
This would only be the most expensive phone call that I had ever made.

I
looked at Slim.
 
He raised up his arms in
question, so
 
I gave him a thumbs-up.
 
He stopped munching on his thumbnail and switched
to the left middle finger, inadvertently flipping me the bird.

The
operator had not hung up the phone, so I could hear everything.

“Richard
Cavelli.
 
Please report to the
information kiosk.
 
Richard Cavelli.
 
Please report to the information kiosk.
 
Do not board your flight to France.
 
I repeat:
 
do not board your plane.
 
Please
report to the information kiosk.”

Now
I was also chewing on a nail.
 
It was my
pinky nail.
 
I could hear papers
shuffling and someone in America
stopping by to ask where the bathroom was.
 
The operator heaved another great sigh before she gave directions.
 
Then I heard his voice.
 
Over miles of air and modern technology, I
heard my favorite voice of all voices.

“I
am Rich Cavelli.
 
I just heard the
announcement that I was to come here.”

“Oh,
right.
 
This is for you.”
 

“Rich?
 
Oh, God
—
Richie!”

“Frankie?
 
What is
going on
?”
 
He sounded so confused!

“Don’t
get on that airplane!
 
I’m alright!”

“What
do you mean, you are alright?
 
Did you
hear yourself leaving that message?”

“I’m
so sorry.
 
I can explain it all
later.
 
Lulu is just... she’s not easy to
travel with.
 
I’m having a little bit of
a rough time.
 
But I’m figuring it
out.
 
You don’t need to come here.
 
I swear. Although I love you more than ever
for planning on it.”

“If
you’re sure... ”

The
grumpy operator could be heard in the background, urging him to wrap up the
conversation.
 

“I
am sure.
 
Absolutely sure.
 
Just... don’t let me travel with her again,
okay?”

“Francis
... ”

“Really.
 
I will see you in a few days.
 
I love you.”

“I
love you, too.
 
Please call me
tomorrow.
 
I have to know that you are
alright.”

“You
got it!
 
Oh, and tell your mom that I’m
sorry that I didn’t say good-bye.”

“Will
do.”

I
could hear the operator say, “Are you almost finished?”

“I
have to go.”

“I
know.
 
I love you, Richard Cavelli.”

“I
love you, too, Frankie.
 
Good bye.”

“Au
revoir.”
 
The line went dead.

***

An
anxiety attack apparently takes a lot out of a person. I was pooped.

“
Mon amie
?” my new friend asked,
reminding me that he was there.

“
Oui
?”

“Giiirrrl,
you need a haircut.”
 
I had not expected
him to say that.

“I
—
I do?”
 

“Uh-huh.
 
Now zat zee drama is over, you have to follow
moi
.”
 

Is this the dreaded kidnapper?
 
Don’t human traffickers wear clothes in France?
 
He must have recognized my reluctance to
follow him because he laughed and pointed up the street.

“I
work at zee salon, right zere.
 
I weel
cut your hair.
 
I am not
expohnseeve.
 
I weel make you feel
belle
.”
 
I loved the way that he said “sa-lohn.”

What do I have to lose?
 
I could really use some pampering about now
and Lulu is probably asleep.

“I
am Pierre.
 
And you
—
?”

Wow.
 
A real life Pierre.
 
How much... Frencher... could you get?

“
Je m’appelle Frank
.”
 
A dimple popped out from under his right
cheek when he smiled at my use of his language. The usual questioning eyebrow
lifted at the introduction of my name.