Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [89]
I watch the night people of Paris as they move through the streets—a prostitute in black tights and a short skirt shivering on a corner; a guy in a suit, looking rumpled and dazed; street cleaners; garbagemen; farmers setting up stalls for the Saturday morning markets; antiques dealers heading for the fleas.
I love this shadow city. I love the red-lipped working girl in her cheap heels. And the hornswoggler slinking home after his one-nighter. I love the pink-cheeked farmer’s wife carrying a wheel of cheese above her head. I feel something watching them. I’m not sure what it is. I feel something sitting here. In the darkness. With Virgil. It takes me a little time to recognize the feeling because it’s been so long. But then I do.
It’s happiness.
44
We climb. Higher and higher. Up Montmartre to Sacré-Coeur, the church on the hill. To see the sun rise.
Virgil wedges the car into a space the size of a shoebox on a narrow street just south of the church. He gets out, opens the trunk, grabs a tarp, a bag, and a blanket.
“Are we going camping?” I say, looking at the blanket. “Otherwise, that’s pretty forward of you, son.”
He rolls his eyes. “Take this,” he says, handing me the bag. “Let’s go. We don’t have a lot of time.”
I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. I wonder if he’s going to try to put the moves on me. Any other guy would’ve tried something at one of the two million traffic lights we stopped at along the way. But I already know he’s not any other guy.
When I don’t walk up the steep, cobbled street fast enough, he grabs my hand and pulls me along. We climb a flight of stone steps and come out on the huge, slanting lawns in front of Sacré-Coeur. You can see all of Paris here. Its lights are twinkling like stars in the darkness. He picks a spot in the middle of the lawn and puts the tarp down.
“Sit,” he says.
So I do. He sits next to me and drapes the blanket around our shoulders. I like sitting so close to him. He’s got that amazing smell guys have, warm skin and Tide. Or Persil. Or whatever they use over here. He opens the bag, takes out a thermos of hot coffee, a plastic food container, and two forks.
“Bistella,” he says, handing me one of the forks. “My mom made it. Sorry it’s cold. It was supposed to be my dinner. It’s a chicken pie—”
“—and it’s made with raisins, almonds, and cinnamon. I know my bistella,” I say. “I live near Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. There’s a Moroccan restaurant there. A Syrian one. Yemeni. And Tunisian.”
I take a bite. It’s delicious and I tell him so. I take another. Bistella’s my favorite dish in the world. I take a third bite, then remind myself that I’ve had my dinner and he hasn’t.
“I have to ask you something,” I say, licking my lips.
“Mmm-hmm?” he says, chewing a bite.
“When does it happen?”
He gives me a look of majorly fake puzzlement. “When does what happen?” he says.
“Ho, ho, ho. It’s soon, right?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But he’s smiling now.
I start looking around, but apparently I’m looking the wrong way, because he takes my chin in his hand and gently turns my head. “There,” he says, pointing. “In the east.”
I look where he’s pointing. And then I see it. The reason he brought me here. I see fiery streaks of pink and orange along the horizon. I see the sun’s first golden rays. I see the frost-kissed rooftops of Paris glittering as if they’re made of diamonds.
“Oh, Virgil, it’s beautiful,” I whisper. Because I can’t speak any louder.
“I thought you might like it. Because you said you liked my song,” he says quietly. “The one about watching the sun rise over Paris.”
He did this for me. This whole schlep out here. The coffee. The tarp. The blanket. All for me. He’s been driving all night. For hours and hours. He should have gone home to sleep. But instead he brought me here. To see the sunrise.
I should say something more. I should tell him thank you, but I can’t. The big fat lump in my throat won’t let me. I get up and walk to