The Hands of Strangers Read online

  Estelle goes into the bathroom and runs a bath and lights a handful of candles. Jon listens until the water stops and Estelle splashes into the tub, then he goes into the kitchen and washes his face with cold water.

  They spend Saturday processing the good news, trying to stay even, discussing what they should do. The day drags as a nervous energy fills the apartment that no chore or meal or movie can pacify. “Tomorrow,” Jon says around midnight, “we have to get out of here.” Sunday morning they are up early, and after quick showers and a quick breakfast, Estelle and Jon ride the RER to Les Saules. The plan is to walk and look.

  The neighborhood is what Jon has imagined in a place where children are hidden. Despite the crisp morning, the air is strange, somewhat thick and humid, as if they got off the RER in another country instead of another part of the city. The faces of the buildings are worn and colorless. On street corners, men huddle in small clusters around square tables filled with watches or fake leather or cartons of cigarettes. Jon and Estelle pass the tables without paying much attention, but that doesn’t deter the random peddler who will walk along with them for seven or eight steps and offer gold necklaces or Eiffel Tower key chains. Some of the men are old, some young, but all share the same expression—if you need it I got it. Jon exchanges looks with them hoping he will recognize the man who has taken his daughter by a particular eye color or scar, but they mistake his stare as interest and he has to tell them no several times, even has to push a more ambitious peddler away as he tries to wrap a silver bracelet around Estelle’s wrist as she walks.

  The morning seems to belong to the peddlers as the shops are closed on Sunday, and no one else is on the street, as if the buildings were only a movie set of a long-forgotten production. Estelle holds Jon’s arm, and after they have walked for ten minutes, the street peddlers thin out and they slow their pace. Estelle asks Jon what to look for and he can’t find a way to answer. Rusty iron gates are pulled across the front of stores and restaurants and Jon stops once to peek inside a closed café, though he doesn’t know why. They weave through the streets without direction, and as the morning grows on, the sunshine breaks through a thin film of clouds and more women and children appear, though they look at Estelle and Jon much like the men did, as if they are waiting for the opportune moment to take what they want.

  There is graffiti along the bases of most of the buildings, like a belt wrapped around the city blocks, the greens and blues and reds faded by the sun and the rain. The graffiti reaches as high as the artist could reach. Jon and Estelle pass from street to street, surrounded by large, loopy letters that spell unreadable words, cartoonish cats and dogs, sensationalized faces with open mouths and bulging eyes, topless women. Each street is the same as the one before. And a smell lingers around every corner. The smell of a place that has quit trying. At a street corner, they stop and look around and Jon feels in his coat for cigarettes but has forgotten them at home.

  “This place is hollow,” Estelle says. “Everything. Everyone. I wish we wouldn’t have come.”

  Jon says, “I can see why the woman who called the police didn’t follow.”

  “Have you noticed anyone that might be one of Marceau’s men?”

  “No. Have you?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Do you think they know who we are?”

  “Who?”

  “The people around here. The men trying to sell us stuff.”

  “I doubt it. Why should they?”

  “I don’t know,” she says again. “Are we sure this is the place Marceau said?”

  “This is it.”

  Again they look up and down the street and neither remembers the direction of the the train station. Jon begins to offer a direction, but Estelle turns to him and says, “Do you feel her?”

  Jon sighs, pauses. Then says, “I want to.”

  “I thought we would. I didn’t expect this.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “Maybe she can feel us,” Estelle says. “Maybe she’s behind one of these walls and when we walked by she could feel us.”

  “Or maybe she’s not around here anymore,” Jon says. “And that’s why we can’t feel her.”

  Estelle shakes her head, looks as if she wants to try and answer, but can’t make sense of the words. Instead of speaking, she leans her face into Jon’s chest and he hugs her.

  “Do you want to go home?”

  She nods. Then she wraps her arms around his waist and they sway together. In the distance a police siren sounds and they hear a rush of shouts, sharp and clean like barking dogs, from a couple of blocks away.

  “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go. But let’s promise to forget about today. About this place. Don’t talk about it. Nothing.”

  Estelle steps back and says, “Yes. Let’s promise. Keep thinking about the good news.”

  “The good news. We never came here.”

  “Never,” she answers, and she takes one more look around. “Never.”

  She grabs Jon’s hand and they begin to search for a train station stop or a taxi. The sirens draw closer. The shouts of a few become the shouts of many and they seem to amplify along the bare streets. Estelle holds Jon’s hand more tightly and they walk faster than they did before, until the shouts shrink away and they feel as if they have escaped from somewhere.

  8

  On Monday Jon returns to work at L’École des Langues, and when he comes out of the building at five o’clock, he finds Marceau waiting on the sidewalk. Marceau walks over to him and offers a cigarette, then says, “Can I walk with you for a moment?”

  Jon nods and reaches for the cigarette and knocks it to the ground. Marceau picks it up and says, “A long day?”

  Jon nods again, and says, “Which way?”

  “No matter.” Marceau wears a hat and gloves though the bite of winter is gone except for the early mornings. They smoke and walk and Jon asks if he has news.

  “No. Not today. But soon, we hope. I have something else to ask you.”

  Jon puts the cigarette to his mouth and notices his fingers shaking and he drops the cigarette again. He steps on it as if he were done and says, “Sure. What is it?”

  Marceau reaches into the pocket of his overcoat and pulls out one of the new pamphlets of Jennifer. He holds the pamphlet toward Jon and they stop, and Marceau says, “This is nice work. Very clear, very good photo. Thorough information. And now we have a lead because you and Estelle have done so much to help. But I have heard complaints about the man who was giving them away a few days ago at Abbesses. Do you know something about this?”

  Jon rubs his forehead, then he says, “I was having a bad day.”

  Marceau takes Jon by the arm and they walk again. Marceau says, “I understand that you are having bad days. But you cannot run around the city drunk, screaming, and scaring old women who are walking down the street. From what I hear, people were very patient with you. If you expect to get this done in the right way, then you are going to have to control yourself during these bad days. No more throwing these things into the doorways of restaurants or open doors of buses. If you make this a joke, that is how people will take it. And I know you don’t want this to be taken as a joke. Do you?”

  They reach the corner and stop for the light to change. Jon says, “I will do better. That hasn’t been a habit.”

  “I know. That’s why we are talking now. So it won’t be. If you need to drink and scream, go out of town. Or do it at home. When Estelle is not there.”

  Jon nods and says, “Do me a favor and don’t mention this to her.”

  “I’m not. I think this is something we can keep to ourselves.”

  The light changes and the crowd crosses the street. Marceau shakes Jon’s hand and says he will call, then he turns around and walks back toward Jon’s office. Jon watches until Marceau makes a turn and is out of sight. He feels sweat under his arms
and he takes off his coat and folds it over his arm. The light changes and he waits with others on the corner until it is time to walk again, then he crosses the street to the metro and goes home. The days are slowly growing longer and the last light of day remains as he walks along his street, the sidewalks busy with bodies ready for home. He comes to M. Conrer’s café and on the sidewalk are a handful of small, round tables for two that weren’t there when Jon walked by on his way to work in the morning. The same tables have appeared in front of cafés and restaurants all over the city in recent days, as if they had been lying dormant under the sidewalks all winter, staying warm, shielded away from the cold rain, and now eager to sprout through the cracks with the first days of sunshine. M. Conrer’s tables are in a clutter, without chairs, and a boy wearing an apron comes out and wipes the tops and legs with a damp rag. Jon stops and watches him and finishes a cigarette. The boy asks Jon if he wants a whiskey but Jon says he’ll come inside for it.

  Jon walks in and over to a bar stool. The café is empty except for an old woman reading the newspaper. Dirty plates and glasses fill several of the tables as if a crowd has just left. M. Conrer appears from the kitchen door, sees Jon, and he claps his hands and smiles and says, “Yes. Yes. The good news has arrived. I told you that you were closer. Didn’t I? Didn’t I say that you were closer?”

  The old man reaches over the bar and shakes Jon’s hand violently and his grin is full, almost stupid. Jon knows Estelle has been here for lunch and only God knows what promises she and M. Conrer have made each other about Jennifer. Twenty-four hours? Within the week? At least this month? He gets his hand away from M. Conrer and the man is so enthusiastic, he wonders if Jennifer isn’t waiting in the kitchen as a surprise.

  “Didn’t I say that?” M. Conrer keeps repeating until Jon nods and smiles to shut him up. All I want is a drink, he wants to say. But instead he says, “You said it. You were right.”

  “Every moment you are closer.”

  “Every moment.”

  And then there is silence, only more nodding and smiling, as if the optimism needed its own space to soak in. Jon looks over at the old woman and she turns the pages of the newspaper. He looks back at M. Conrer and his expression hasn’t changed and Jon says, “I bet you have some whiskey back there.”

  “Oh. Yes, yes,” he answers, and he sets a glass on the bar and pours. “Such a busy day. Estelle with the news and time to put the tables out and so many for lunch that we run out of the special and these tables still filled with plates. All day a race. This time of year seems filled with miracles. It is your time.”

  “If you say so.”

  “It is. Estelle believes it. You can see by the color of her face that she believes it. There is blood in her cheeks again.”

  “We haven’t been made any promises.”

  “No. Not yet. But it’s a sign. Like the first warm sun.”

  Someone calls from behind the swinging door and M. Conrer says he’ll be back and he goes into the kitchen. Jon drinks slowly and takes in small bits of the old man’s enthusiasm. Today he can understand it, can feel closer to it. He looks at himself in the bar mirror and checks for blood in his own cheeks but his face is the same pale face he has looked at all winter.

  M. Conrer returns and says, “Why don’t you call Estelle and ask her to come down? Have some wine and I will make you a good meal.” Jon nods and M. Conrer hands him the phone from behind the bar. Estelle agrees, and after Jon hangs up the phone, he moves to the only clean, empty table. M. Conrer calls to the boy wiping the tables outside, and when he comes inside, he and M. Conrer bus the dirty tables, M. Conrer directing in quick snaps—take this, empty this, hold this, come back for this. Once the tables are clear, the boy takes the rag and wipes away the crumbs and spills and then he begins to sweep. M. Conrer brings over a carafe of wine and sits down with Jon. He’s short of breath and he wipes his moist brow with the back of his hand. “I’m getting old,” he says, then he notices that he forgot glasses and he’s up again. Jon watches the woman finish the newspaper, then fold it neatly and stick it in her purse. Jon has never seen her before but she mentions to M. Conrer that she will see him tomorrow and Conrer answers with, “The usual.” Then she puts on her coat and hooks the purse over her shoulder and she walks out, looks into the sky, and shakes her head as if she disagrees with the order of the clouds. Estelle appears and bumps into the woman as she walks with her eyes still toward the sky. The purse falls from her shoulder and they both apologize as Estelle bends to pick it up.

  Jon smiles as he watches Estelle stoop for the purse. She wears her black sweater that fits snugly around her waist and hips and reaches her knees. When she bends the sweater drags the ground and hides her legs and her body disappears behind the black. Estelle puts the newspaper back into the purse and stands, and when she does it’s like a lift-off, the sweater falling open and her innocent smile and trim figure an awakening to Jon and he catches himself on the verge of crying. He puts his fist to his mouth and presses, bends his head and closes his eyes until the threat of tears subsides, and he looks up again and the woman and Estelle are talking, the woman’s arm around Estelle’s waist. The old woman has a consoling air as she speaks and Estelle listens. He sees the color in her cheeks that M. Conrer noticed, the renewed, rosy blood. The woman stops talking and she and Estelle hug and again Jon fights off the need to lay his head on the table and sob in heavy heaves, without a care for where he is or who is watching. Estelle turns to walk in the door and she sees herself in the window’s reflection and she brushes her hair away from her face, straightens her sweater, adjusts her belt buckle over the button of her jeans. Once she’s satisfied she opens the door and she waves to Jon, who can only smile, then look away, afraid that anything else from her will cause him to let it go.

  “Estelle,” M. Conrer calls out, and he comes over and kisses her. This gives Jon time to take a deep breath and gather himself, then he stands and greets Estelle in the same way, except that after he kisses her, he puts his arms around her waist and hugs until she makes a little grunt. “You’re killing me,” she says and he lets go and kisses her again on the cheek.

  They sit and M. Conrer brings wineglasses to the table and tells them to relax, sit back, and talk to each other. He asks if they want a salad and Estelle does and Jon doesn’t. He fills their glasses from the carafe then goes toward the kitchen, looking over his shoulder at them before he pushes through the swinging door.

  Estelle folds her arms on the table. Jon slumps in his chair. They both look out of the window and back at each other.

  “How was today?” she asks.

  He shrugs and says, “A day.” Then he reaches for his glass, bumps it, and several drops of red spill on the table. Estelle slips her hand into the cuff of her sweater and starts to wipe away the wine. “Don’t,” Jon says and he grabs her wrist. “I like that sweater.”

  “It has wiped up more than this,” she answers. And it has. Ketchup from Jennifer’s mouth, dripping ice cream from Jennifer’s hand, blood from Jennifer’s knee. “Isn’t there a saying about old habits?” she asks, and then she forces a smile. He lets go of her wrist and she wipes the wine.

  “You look nice,” Jon says.

  “Two compliments already? Is there something you want?”

  “Only what Conrer said. To sit and relax and talk and have a good meal with good wine.”

  “With me?”

  “With you.”

  Estelle reaches across the table and lays her hands out with the palms up. Jon sits straight and puts his hands in hers. Her hands are warmer than they have been. She wears eyeliner and earrings and perfume.

  “I feel like something will happen,” she says.

  “Something already has.”

  She squeezes his hand when he answers. A positive word, she thinks. Finally, a positive word. She wonders if he has noticed the small extras of her appearance. She wan
ts to say that she has also painted her toenails, shaved her legs, pretended that today was a normal day. But she doesn’t wonder long as he continues to look at her like she is the woman he loves. M. Conrer walks in from the kitchen with Estelle’s salad, but when he sees them holding on to each other across the table, he slips back through the door unnoticed.

  No other voices. No clanging from the kitchen. For the moment, no one passes along the sidewalk. One moment of peace, Jon thinks as he looks at her. And it is here, in this pause.

  “Do you think Monsieur Conrer would notice if we left?” Estelle asks.

  “He may notice but he wouldn’t care. Do you want to go upstairs?”

  “No. Anywhere but upstairs.”

  “Okay.”

  They stand and walk out of the café. Several blocks away, along the walk to the metro, is a one-star hotel stuck between a wine store and butcher shop. Jon and Estelle walk in that direction without a word. They arrive and a frumpy middle-aged woman sits at a desk folding pillowcases. Jon asks for a room and she looks at them curiously when she notices they are without luggage. She looks Estelle up and down and Estelle winks at her. The woman takes a key from the wall and they follow her up a skinny staircase to the second floor. Jon takes the key and says thanks and the woman is slow to leave, as if waiting on them to explain. Jon says thanks again and Estelle wants to shove her along but she finally turns and goes down the stairs. The room is musty and square and Jon opens the window and Estelle moves behind him and pulls his shirt out of his pants. The evening is still as Parisian families are settling into dinner, as stores are closing, as the night falls and hides away the dirt. Jon and Estelle reach for each other slowly, cautiously, protecting themselves from any quick, abrupt shift that might shatter a moment’s fragility.