The Hands of Strangers Read online

  They ate lunch at a café on the rue Saint-Jacques and in the afternoon she taught him the metro. The day after she took him through the Gardens of Luxembourg and the Tuileries. And so on and so on, day after day, until the city and Estelle merged into the same experience, one as new and intimidating and hopeful as the other.

  He found a three-room apartment and took a job in a trendy café in Saint-Sulpice that opened early and closed late and gave him a look at the women with the sleek hips at night and the men with the newspapers and cigars in the morning. Estelle would come and sit in the café at night, sometimes with friends and sometimes alone, and he would pass by her table each trip around the floor, touching her shoulder or lighting her cigarette or sometimes sitting down and staring as if she were a work of art. She often stayed until he closed the café and walked home with him and spent the night with him and he would leave her asleep the next morning as he left early and she never seemed to have to be anywhere. A benefit of being a daughter working for my father, she had said when he commented on her leisurely schedule.

  “But it won’t last forever,” she said. “Spring is almost here.”

  When spring arrived, the flower shops boomed and the tables turned. Jon spent his few free hours in the afternoon chasing after her as she crisscrossed the city tending to the family shops, and he not only was introduced to the serious side of Estelle, but also to her serious but good-hearted father and her blue-eyed mother whose eyeglasses always sat on top of her head. The spring turned into the summer and on his days off he helped out in the shops, working in the back, Estelle’s mother teaching him how to cut and trim and set a bouquet and her father taking Jon along on big deliveries to graveyards and wedding receptions. Estelle made fun of him, warning that the only reason her parents liked him was because he gave them free labor. And lying in bed one night in his apartment, after she had waited on him to close up the café, he joked back that free labor was a small offering in exchange for their only daughter.

  He had meant to do it but he hadn’t meant to do it like that. But it had come out and she sat up in the bed and said, “What does that mean?”

  “You know what it means,” he said. “Are you brave enough to marry me?”

  “Let’s see who is the brave one,” she smiled and said, and she made him get up and get dressed and they took a taxi across the city in the middle of the night to her parents’ apartment. She had a key but instead she knocked and knocked on the door until her father opened it and he stood there in his robe.

  “Okay,” Estelle said to Jon. “Tell him what you asked me.”

  “You’ll pay for this,” he answered. Then he took a deep breath and told her father that he wanted to marry his daughter. Her father told them to wait and he closed the door. When it opened again, her mother was there with her father.

  “Start again,” her father said.

  Jon looked at Estelle and said, “Yes. I am the brave one.” Then he told her parents that he wanted to marry Estelle and that after all this, he fully expected everyone to agree.

  At the beginning of autumn, as the breeze cooled and the blooms began to hide away for another year, Jon and Estelle stood together in front of a priest in a four-hundred-year-old cathedral along the Seine, white rose petals from a family store tossed into the aisle, smiles on both of their faces.

  They honeymooned in the south. Saint-Tropez. A tiny village made for millionaires and beautiful children, yachts in the harbor, sunshine almost touchable. They had a quaint hotel room over a café with windows that looked into the harbor, small and semicircled, and bars and restaurants surrounding it. Sunglasses on everyone, even into the evening, and the smell of baking bread creeping into the open windows of the room in the early morning.

  Around the turn of the harbor and into the rocks and behind the lighthouse was a bench. They sat there at night and the wind blew in their faces and across the bay the white lights of the houses and villas shined like new answers. A slapping of the water on the rocks, an easy beating. Stars scattered in the sky like a handful of salt tossed across a puddle of oil. Her head in his lap. No words. They woke up and couldn’t believe they had fallen asleep, then couldn’t think of a better place to fall asleep and the sun was coming up, and the sky was a deep blue, so true across the horizon that it was hard to tell where the sky stopped and the water began. Jon offered to get espresso and left her lying stretched out across the bench, the curve in her hip as beautiful as any eastern glow.

  Steps away from her, it started to push him, that same feeling that came over him the last days in Geneva, that perfect loneliness, safe and unflinching. It came hard, shoving into his back and between his shoulder blades and then right through the top of his head, and he believed it, listened to it, agreed when it said that from here on there is not only love but the responsibility of being two together and he walked into the harbor, past the early morning cafés.

  But he didn’t let it win. He shoved back and told it that those days were over as he imagined the way that her hair was brushed away from her neck as she lay with her hands folded under her head. The day was slowly growing brighter, breaking from the softness of a heavier light, as long white birds were diving for breakfast. In the sky the moon lingered, not ready to give in to morning, and he kept walking and kept pushing the solitude to the back of his mind until he was confident that he had won and the walk felt something like a victory lap.

  Moments later, he sat down next to her, rubbed her back until she woke. She sat up, yawned and stretched, saw the espresso and chocolate croissants, and she couldn’t believe she had fallen back asleep so easily and they sat quietly with each other until the sun sat on the horizon.

  3

  He often thinks about the night in Saint-Tropez when he left Estelle asleep. And he remembers it now as he looks across the table at her in an Italian restaurant. Marinara sauce drips from her chin when she takes a large bite. He points and she wipes her mouth and says, “Why aren’t you eating?”

  “I am. It’s good,” he says.

  The sun shines and there has been talk of an early spring but that talk arrives every year—the first glint of sun, the first dry week, and hope for the new season begins. A couple sits at a table outside and they watch them through the window.

  “Look at her,” Estelle says. “She’s shivering. And he’s sitting on his hands. They never learn.”

  “I think you should write a book about Paris. The Truth, you could call it.”

  “No one would read it. No one wants the truth.”

  “Then we could name it My Beautiful Paris and trick people into the truth whether they want it or not.”

  Estelle pours herself more wine from the carafe and says, “That’s the only way.”

  Month four. Second week. Jon has a week’s vacation beginning tomorrow and they will make another loop around Paris with new, full-color folding pamphlets and two-by-three-foot posters to replace the flyers. The cost of the high-gloss paper and the posters has nearly wiped out what remains of their savings. It will be a hurried week and late last night Estelle suggested, to Jon’s surprise, that before it begins, they should spend Sunday out of the apartment, away from the telephone that doesn’t ring, away from the television without news. Her rule: not a word about you know what.

  They woke early, dressed warmly, and walked three blocks to their favorite bakery. The owner, a short, plump woman with dyed black hair, said she was happy to see them again. She asked about Jennifer but Estelle only shook her head. The woman wouldn’t let them have croissants from the basket on the shelf but instead made them wait on hot ones from the oven. She brought them another coffee when the first was gone. When they stood up to leave, she wouldn’t let them pay.

  They took the metro to rue Saint-Germain and to a string of bookstores, used paperbacks covering large tables along the sidewalk. It was early still and easy to browse. By the last bookstore they had bo
ught six novels that they knew would never be read. The streets weren’t crowded and they continued slowly along the sidewalk, pausing to look in store windows at shoes and coats. Jon bought cigarettes at a magazine kiosk and offered one to Estelle but she declined and left Jon outside to smoke as she went into a hip clothing store for teenagers. He only smoked half the cigarette and then he followed after her. She went to the racks of jeans and pulled out a pair of dark denim, low-waist jeans. She held them to Jon and said, “I bet I could fit nicely into these with a little more walking.” Jon nodded, hoping the same thing. Estelle finished browsing and they moved along to a frame shop and then a pottery store, never buying, only picking up items they liked, showing them to each other, and moving on.

  Then they walked. The sun shined but the wind remained cool. They came to the river and walked past the outdoor vendors selling vintage magazines, prints of the city, LPs, silver jewelry. More people emptied into streets in the late morning. They left the river and walked until they stumbled upon an empty playground and they sat down on a bench and watched the birds peck in the sand. A father with two small boys came to the playground and they got up and left. Estelle suggested Italian for lunch and Jon suggested a couple of places but it meant getting on the metro and they were avoiding the metro. So they kept walking. Jon said, “Maybe we’ll get lucky.” And they did, finding an Italian eatery on a quiet corner, not another restaurant on the block. The meal had been good and now the wine warms them as Estelle continues to poke fun at the couple sitting outside.

  “What’s next?” Jon asks and takes out cigarettes. They each take one and Estelle says, “A movie?”

  “Sounds good. How about another carafe first?” She nods and Jon lifts the empty carafe to the waiter, who quickly brings another.

  When the wine is finished, they stand, both lighter than before. They walk until Jon waves down a taxi and it takes them to Odéon. The sun shines full on the early afternoon and Estelle opens the buttons on her coat. The narrow square at Odéon is busy with people in and out of the metro and groups gather and talk with their hands in their pockets. Some walk with bicycles and some walk with dogs and some stand alone and turn in a circle, wondering if they are early or late. Several cinemas surround the square, flanked by sandwich shops and walk-in cafés. Jon and Estelle join the others who stroll from cinema to cinema and skim the movies and times.

  “Do you have a preference?” he asks.

  “Something that doesn’t require thinking. How about one of those action films with lots of explosions?”

  Jon has seen the previews to a film titled ProActive and plane crashes and a burning White House flash in his mind. Estelle nods okay and they get tickets, then popcorn, and they sit in the back of the theater.

  In the opening scene, a good-looking cop in the streets of Washington, D.C., manages to chase down, on foot, an SUV filled with Eastern European spies. The cop shoots the tires and the SUV does two somersaults through an intersection. Then the bad guys, unfazed, jump out of the burning car with their guns blazing but are cut down by the handsome man who has barely broken a sweat in the D.C. afternoon. After the scene, Estelle slumps in her chair, squeezes Jon’s arm, and whispers, “Good choice.”

  It’s two hours of quiet between them. Two hours in the dark without imagining. Two hours of good conquering evil, no matter how many bullets or bodies it takes. The film ends with the hero sitting on the lawn of the charred White House, fire engines and high arches of water in the background, the president’s hand on his shoulder, certain they have rid the world of what ails it. The sparse crowd empties out of the theater but Jon and Estelle sit still as the credits roll, then the screen goes blank and the low lights of the theater are turned on. Jon looks over and Estelle is asleep, her body turned to the side, her hands together as if praying, tucked under her cheek.

  Her mouth is slightly open and she breathes deeply. He looks at the screen and it is gray in the low light. Two teenagers in black pants and white shirts come in with brooms and garbage bags and begin to clean the aisles.

  Almost five months, he thinks. And then he prays that if the end is going to be bad, at least give her back so we can have a funeral.

  Estelle shifts but doesn’t wake and he looks at her. He remembers the clarity of her face the day he met her on the train, full of answers, full of everything that could be good about a train ride. The days and weeks and months learning Paris, learning her. Her pregnant belly, her lust for a cigarette during the final weeks, the green eyes of the baby. And then he can’t remember anymore, his mind drawing a nine-year blank.

  Estelle shifts again and this time she wakes. She sits up, stretches, wipes her mouth. “Good morning,” Jon says.

  “How long did you let me sleep?” she asks and falls over into his lap.

  “Not long. I’m guessing you missed the big ending. America was saved again.”

  “Maybe that’s what I need to listen to at night to sleep, gunfire and bad dialogue.”

  “We’ll rent some movies on the way home.”

  Outside, it is twilight and cooler than before. Jon hails a taxi, and as it gets close to their neighborhood, Estelle says, “Let’s walk some more.” She asks the driver to take them to Luxembourg. The park is nearly empty and the evening grows dark quickly, like a stage after the final scene. They walk around a fountain that is turned off and the water sits still like a pond. Waiters from the outdoor cafés turn up chairs onto tables. At the gates which open into the Place de l’Odéon, they pass two old women pushing two grocery carts filled with dirty clothes and shoes. One of the women holds an empty paper cup toward Jon and he gives her the change in his pocket. The other woman asks for a cigarette and he gives her five. Cars pass through the intersection lethargically, without the hum and hustle of midday, and across the street from the park gate, two policemen stand in front of a restaurant and talk with its animated owner.

  Along Saint-Germain the stores remain open and the window lights illuminate the sidewalks. Shopkeepers stand in the doorways, their arms folded, ready to go home. Jon and Estelle turn left at rue Saint-Jacques and walk toward the river and when Estelle feels a raindrop she says, “Let’s go home.”

  He asks if she’s hungry but she says no and they stop at the Quai Saint-Michel to wave a taxi. Cameras flash across the bridge as the lights of Notre-Dame glow orange in the dark sky. A guided group of Japanese tourists approach and swallow Estelle and Jon. He takes Estelle’s hand and tries to step out of their way but it’s at least seventy-five of them, chatting and aiming their cameras and unaware that other people are on the street. Over their heads Jon sees taxis passing and tries to wave but the taxis speed by. The street sign says “Don’t walk” and the group stops, Jon and Estelle caught inside. Goddammit,” Jon says and clenches his jaw.

  Estelle says, “Calm down,” but Jon squeezes her hand tighter and pushes through the small crowd with his forearm, the Japanese calling him names he can’t understand.

  “It’s just a church! You’ve never seen a church before?” he yells at them when he and Estelle are free. A few of the men shout back in quick vowels and then over their shouts and over the hum of passing cars, Jon thinks he hears a voice call, “Daddy!”

  “Did you hear that?” he asks Estelle.

  She looks around. “Hear what?”

  “Listen.” He holds his finger to her mouth. Looks up and down the street. Hears it again. Then he sees a brown-haired girl and a woman in a business suit crawl into a taxi half a block away.

  “It’s Jennifer,” he says and takes off running for the taxi. “Arrêtez! Arrêtez!” he yells, the brake lights shining red as the taxi sits still. Estelle runs behind him and calls out but he doesn’t listen and he is twenty feet from the taxi when the brake lights disappear and it moves into traffic. He runs behind, reaching out, the taxi trunk barely out of his reach. The taxi speeds and he looks into the backseat and the girl turns and h
alf waves at Jon. “Goddammit! Stop!” he screams again, and lunges out once more and he loses his balance and falls forward, banging his elbows and knees on the asphalt. The taxi pulls away, the driver not noticing the man running and screaming behind them.

  Estelle catches up, finds Jon lying on his back in the middle of the street. She turns and faces the traffic and waves several cars around. The light at the end of the block turns red and the traffic pauses. She kneels beside him and says, “What are you doing? Are you okay?”

  He rolls over, gets on all fours, and crawls to the sidewalk. She sits down beside him. “What was it? Was it her?” she asks, and he knows that she only asks to appease him, in the way that she let him run and believe.

  He shakes his head, leans back, and rests on his elbows. “We’re not supposed to talk about it today.”

  Estelle takes a deep breath and her eyes water. The light changes and cars again move down the street. “Do you want me to wave the taxi?” she asks, and he shakes his head. “I don’t care,” he says.

  She pulls her collar up around her neck. Does the same for him. He doesn’t move. She moves parallel to him and leans on her elbows and they are twins stretched out on the sidewalk, her legs nearly as long as his. They stare into the sky and the chimes of Notre-Dame resonate in deep, throbbing tones. Several of the Japanese tourists who have watched the action sneak along the sidewalk closer to them, take their picture, then hurry away.