You Deserve Nothing - Alexander Maksik [5]
Pauline walks into the kitchen and kisses Séb on the shoulder. She sees me in my window, waves, and turns away to wrap her arms around his waist.
Watching them I imagine Isabelle, the two of us standing here looking out across the rooftops, the cold air slipping in, her back warm against my chest.
I used to think of her often. Washing dishes after dinner, I spoke to her. When it was cold and the heaters still weren’t working I brought extra blankets to bed and pretended to hold her. In the evenings I came home to messages on the machine. Listening to her voice was like setting her free in the room. I made dinner and talked to her.
“Cut them thin,” I said. “So thin they can’t hold their own weight.”
“I know, you’ve told me a thousand times.”
“My mother cut onions like that.”
But I never called her back.
She stopped leaving messages. Her voice was no longer there.
But there were still days when she appeared in front of me while I was standing at the window, and I could almost remember the way she smelled.
* * *
Sunday. On the street there are cool-eyed women everywhere. Bar du Marché is overflowing with people standing on the sidewalk waiting for tables. I cross Boulevard St. Germain at a jog, dodge a woman on a scooter. She smiles. I glide down the steps at Odéon and am on the métro in five minutes.
When I enter the gates of the school there are people milling around. Parents, grandparents, families from all over the world, all dressed for the day, summer dresses, hats, suits, video cameras. Walking through the crowd I hear French, Arabic, German, Korean, and Italian. But in the courtyard, and then in the foyer where people are waiting, it is mostly English, accented and punctuated with those other languages.
Just as I reach for a drink Mazin picks me up off the ground.
“Dude.”
“Dude,” I say, “put me down.”
Laughing, he drops me, steps back, and puts his hand to his chin as if inspecting a painting.“Nice threads.”
“Damn right. Hands off.”
“I need to go have my picture taken for, like, the millionth time with my brother but I’m going to see you tonight, right? Party chez moi.”
“I’ll be there, Maz.”
He leans in, “Dude, did you see Carolina? Dude, girl is off the hook!”
I shake my head. “Mazin, go away.”
* * *
That evening as Mia and I walked along the Quai de la Tournelle there was a strong wind blowing from the north.
We arrived at a perfectly maintained building. We could hear laughter from the balcony above us.
I entered the code and pushed open the heavy wooden door. As it closed behind us the street noise was gone and we stood in a wide courtyard. I’d walked past the building for years without a glance. And now, with a magic code, here was an immaculate courtyard. A neat rose garden. A purling fountain.
At the carved wooden doors I pressed an engraved silver button. A tall woman with long dark hair loose around her shoulders let us in—Mazin’s mother. She wore a black satin dress and a wide hammered-gold bracelet on her wrist.
She kissed both of us and, although we’d never met, she knew who we were.
“Welcome. Welcome,” she said, ushering us into the enormous apartment. In other rooms we could hear people talking, glasses clinking.
“You’ve both done so much for our boys. We’re very happy to have you here. Please, have something to eat, some champagne.”
The apartment was full of people—students, parents, friends and relatives. She led us down a wide hallway, which ran the length of the apartment. A bar had been set up against the wall and a serious-looking Frenchman in a tuxedo stood pouring champagne. When we got to the table he filled two delicate flutes with Krug and handed them to us.
The buzzer rang. “Please excuse me,” Mazin’s mother said. Across from us was a large dining room where a long table was spread with white tablecloths and platter after platter of Lebanese food. Beyond the tables were floor-to-ceiling windows, which opened to the terrace.