Hungry Woman in Paris (23 page)

I studied my
carte de séjour
and was happy to be out of the shadows. I was happy to be legal, but this moment didn’t compare to finally getting my green
card. When it was handed to me I practically cried. I remember having to use a fake Social Security card for many years so
I could get work, and how my heart would pound when my employer examined it closely. I remembered all the times I walked around
like a shadow or a stain in downtown Los Angeles, hoping this would not be the day the raid would happen at the department
store I worked at, despite all the rumors.

I left the immigration center with my brand-new
carte de séjour
and thought to myself that at last I was almost French. Now I had three identities, Mexican, American, and French, but I
was still as lost as ever, with not a clue about what to do with my life or who I really was.

I
was passing by the Louis Vuitton store on the Champs-Élysées when a Japanese woman approached me and complimented me on my
black leather bag.

“I love it,” I told her. My purse had become more than an object to carry and store my things: it was a keeper of my secrets
and dreams, a companion on my journey to my dark side.

“Are you an American?” she asked me. I wondered how she knew, but by her American-accented English I figured she had studied
in the United States.

“Yes,” I answered her.

“Would you be interested in making some money?”

“It depends on what you want me to do,” I said cautiously. The way she was eyeing me made me a little suspicious.

“I just need you to go in and buy some bags for me,” she explained.

“You can’t buy them yourself?”

“No. They don’t like selling a lot of merchandise to Asian women,” she explained. “They limit how much we can buy, more than
the average tourist.” She offered to pay me a hundred euros if I bought all the merchandise on the list.

“Is this illegal?” I had to ask.

“Yes. Everyone is allowed to buy one of each item, but no repetition,” she elaborated to diminish my suspicions. I didn’t
think it was fair that Asian women were being discriminated against like this, and I desperately needed money, so I agreed
to help her.

“Thank you. My name is Hiromi,” she said, introducing herself.

I introduced myself too: “My name is Canela.”

Outside the store she told me what to say to the saleswomen so they wouldn’t hassle me. She handed me a stack of euros and
I entered the store and quickly made my purchases, collecting them at the main counter without any trouble, while my new Japanese
friend waited patiently for me around the corner. I told her everything had gone smoothly and they’d been very nice.

“They are never nice to me,” she said. She turned to me, thanked me, and handed me a hundred euros.

“Why don’t they like selling to Asian women?” I asked.

“We resell the bags for more, many in private boutiques in Japan and China. They are afraid we will make fake ones exactly
like these new models,” she confessed. It was none of my business, but I had to ask.

“Will you copy them?”

“Of course. How else can the regular woman afford these?” she admitted, and I nodded. She appreciated that I was so calm and
hired me a couple more times. You might be wondering why, if I am a fighter for justice like I keep claiming to be, I could
participate in this. Simple: it should be illegal to pay more than a hundred dollars for a handbag.

Hiromi liked me so much she had me do shopping runs twice a week and she grew to trust me. After each shopping spree I would
meet her at Bistro Romain, across the street from the store. She would buy me lunch and we’d pretend to be friends and then
she’d leave with the gigantic brown shopping bags with the LV emblem.

One day while working on an order I approached a counter where a Muslim woman covered by an ivory silk veil was crying. I
didn’t realize she was crying until I saw her digging into her large Chanel purse. I opened my purse and handed her a tissue.
She smiled at me and took the tissue. She looked around and saw that the other Muslim women, perhaps the other wives of the
same sheikh, were busy getting their bodyguard to get them assistance. The bodyguard followed after an LV saleswoman and was
out of sight. She turned to me and said in a low whisper what I could barely make out to be “Help me.” I looked at her, not
sure what she meant. She said it again with more urgency: “Help me.”

“Help you? How?” I asked, but she did not understand or speak English. She just repeated “Help me” as though it was something
memorized from a travel guide.

She turned to see if her bodyguard was still away. He returned, but he was far enough away that he couldn’t see her easily.
“Help me,” she begged me quietly. I looked at her and nodded slightly. Then I committed the cardinal sin at LV and reached
over and grabbed the bag on display by myself, without any assistance from a salesperson. I put the bag in her hand and made
her grab one of the handles while I grabbed the other and pretended to be in a tug-of-war over the purse. I looked at her
and pointed with my chin not to let go so they would have to kick us both out.

“Give that back to me, I had the purse first!” I said loudly so the security guard would see us. Immediately the LV “CIA”
man came over. I acted as though she was being rough with me and made myself out to be the victim. Then I snatched the purse
back. Security escorted us both out immediately. Many of the customers turned to see the commotion and blocked the bodyguard
running toward us. They pushed us out the door and I grabbed the woman’s hand. We ran as fast as we could, but her veil and
her heels made a speedy escape impossible. We ducked into an alley, cut across a block, and hid in a cheap souvenir shop.
We went all the way in and covered our faces with maps. We caught our breaths and smiled after a few minutes. She remained
in the back and I stepped outside to see if her bodyguard was following us. I went back in and tried speaking a few words
of French and English to her.

“Altair,” she said, pointing to herself. Her English and French were nonexistent, so I pointed to the map to ask her where
she wanted to go. She looked at the map and didn’t understand me. I handed her my cell phone and gestured for her to make
her call. She shook her head and pointed at me. Did she want to go home with me? Did she not have a backup plan?

“Me?” I pointed to myself.

“Oui,”
she said. I took a deep breath and took in what I had just done. Now what? I nodded and pointed to my eye. I left the shop
and saw a taxi approaching the curb. I took her hand and we ran out of the store and into the taxi as a passenger was just
getting out. I gave the driver my address. The taxi driver was a Muslim man who looked us up and down and spoke to us in Arabic.
Altair asked him to translate for her. Although they spoke a different dialect, the taxi driver was able to converse with
her. She cried as she tried to explain to him, and he translated in French for me. I struggled to make out what he was saying.

“Her name is Altair,” he said. “She says thank you for saving her life” was what I could make out. He turned to me and asked
what had just happened. I begged him to continue translating. “She says she wants to go home with you until she can figure
out what to do next.” He turned to me and insisted I tell him what had just happened. Should he take her to an embassy or
a hospital? I told him as best as I could that she just needed to rest at my apartment and then she would be all right.

We got out of the taxi and made it into the lobby. Madame Bodé saw me with Altair and raised her nose up in the air and walked
up to her apartment on the first floor. We took the service elevator to the sixth floor. I bumped into Marina and didn’t bother
introducing Altair to her. I told her I would explain later and quickly went to my little room. I locked the door behind us.
Altair took in my room and cried. Sometimes when I looked at my tiny little place I would cry too, so I didn’t blame her if
she hated it.

She cried for an hour nonstop. I remembered when Luna would call me and cry on the phone a lot; I would tell her to leave
her husband, but she didn’t have the strength to do it. I wondered if Altair was regretting her actions already or if the
relief of finally being a “free” woman was so overpowering. I heated up some leftovers and she tried to eat. I handed her
my cell phone again and asked her in both French and English if she wanted to call anyone. She shook her head and offered
me a gold bracelet. She put it in my hand and folded my hand to show me it was for me to keep. I shook my hand and told her
I could not take it. I asked her in English and my best French what she planned to do. Did she have lots of money to rent
an apartment or travel somewhere? She emptied her purse and took out a pen. I gave her a piece of paper and she drew a plane.
She shook her head.

“No passport,” she uttered. For many hours we babbled, until I understood that she was scared for her life because her husband
had threatened to kill her when they returned to Turkey because he suspected that she was having an affair with her bodyguard.
He’d beat her the night before and she showed me the bruises on her legs. She couldn’t run because of her bruises.

I had read that since Turkey was trying to get admitted to the European Union “honor killings” were no longer allowed, but
that didn’t mean they didn’t happen. If she returned to Turkey her husband’s family could starve her and force her to commit
suicide and get around the new laws. Altair was heartbroken because she could never go back to see her own family again. She
was scared for her family and children… and I’d thought the life of a Latina in the United States was tough.

The next day we went to a boutique on the rue de la Pompe and she pawned all her valuables. She got back lots of money, but
not enough to last her a lifetime, or even a year. I tried convincing Altair to go to the French authorities to see if she
could get asylum, but she refused out of fear that she would get deported back to Turkey.

I knocked on Marina’s door and explained Altair’s situation. She immediately sympathized and took Altair with her to be her
assistant on her nanny and cleaning lady jobs. Marina kept her ears open for any new jobs that Altair could assist her with.
Altair learned things quickly, and adapted to a new life. She was a new woman, but she still could not take off the veil;
even a bird that lived in a cage all his life before he escaped misses his cage.

T
he phone rang in the middle of the night. Altair grabbed her purse and stared at the door, as if waiting for someone to kick
it open. I picked up my cell phone and wondered what kind of emergency merited a call at that time.

“Hello,” I snapped.

“Canela, it’s Gina, sorry to wake you—” the voice said.

“Gina? How did you get my number?” I interrupted.

“I got it from your sister Rosie,” Gina explained. Damn, I had told her not to give it to anyone, especially someone from
my past.

“How did you know I was in Paris?”

“Girl, I can get dirt on anyone, you know that, so finding you was easy,” she bragged. “Listen, I know it’s late in Paris,
but I wanted to get you on an assignment right away,” said my former editor—not the one who’d accused me of losing my objectivity
or the Latina magazine editor I’d left holding the bag.

“I’m not a journalist anymore.” I replied.

“I heard, but we don’t have anyone stationed in Paris right now—so maybe you can cover the riot,” she said.

“What riot?” I asked.

“The one happening over the two Arab teenagers getting electrocuted,” she said.

“Oh, yes, yeah,” I said, pretending to know what she was talking about.

“Can you do it?” Gina asked, almost begging.

“I don’t do stories—” I was about to explain how I didn’t want to write anymore.

“I know you can do a great job. So can you do it?”