Running Barefoot in Paris

By Brandyn Barbara Artis

What would you do in a foreign country for the first time in your life without knowing anyone? Mrs. Dillon Devon Jones greets Paris and moves around like an exploratory jazz solo. While a beloved husbands music provides a wistful soundtrack in memory le monsieur materializes during a simple act of kindness, consequentially all is exposed. Two love stories, one in the past, the other the present, collide. Constraints of language, matters of the heart blaze, smolder and disintegrate in the luminous intensity of the City of light this summer of 1996.

Expressly for women and those who love them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462845385

Brandyn Barbara Artis

Brandyn Barbara Artis, actress and playwright has performed her acclaimed stage play “Sister, Girl” across the United States and internationally. Her fiction has been published by THE DALLAS MORNING NEWS and in ‘The Breast An anthology’. She lives and works in Los Angeles and Paris.

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Copyright © 2011 by Brandyn Barbara Artis.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011911351

ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4628-4537-8

Softcover 978-1-4628-4536-1

Ebook 978-1-4628-4538-5

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any

actual persons, living or dead, events,

or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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101153

For Miuccia.

Everything is possible.

I have no particular destination.

Entering the gate to the gardens of the Tuileries, annoyingly amused, I’m distracted by the smiles and endearments from men who find ways to attract attention. Several pairs of eyes look at me like a potential piece of dark chocolate as I walk towards an unknown horizon.

Where I come from eternal youth is more valuable than strong currency in a weak economy.

What the hell are they looking at? My ovaries are in retirement. Surreptitiously, I check and recheck every button that is supposed to be buttoned. And the zipping of each zipper, zipped.

Today, untold numbers of naked, perfect statues have multiplied and given birth to replicas of themselves. Nipples show unabashedly in sheer fabrics leaving nothing to the imagination. Everyone and everything is deliriously overt. Summer is no longer on hold.

I remember you said I would always have a man in my life. We were young then, whispering secrets to each other, too intimate to say aloud.

After years of not smoking to calm my last nerve, knowing I should not, I purchase a pack at the tabac and ride the Metro to God knows where.

I sure don’t.

But you can’t know where you’re going until you know where you’ve been.

*     *     *

It was September, a Saturday evening, and I remember it being sticky hot, not unusual for Yazoo City, Mississippi. There were seventy-five guests in a small kitchen without an air conditioner. His friends and family were there. My mother was not.

I watched Dillon raise a glass to toast a small knot of well-wishers then beam his fabulous smile at me across the room, as if he might lift my sad face and prevent me from crying. It was Dillon, in crisp white shorts and an unbuttoned denim shirt, standing next to a table with a bowl brimming with crumpled bills and several coins, who was the center of attention.

Earlier that day, when we had driven to buy a duffel bag for his trip, Dillon had been too excited about going to France to notice that I said virtually little. Later, holding hands, we ducked in the bus depot and took photos in a coin-operated booth. Sepia-tinted strips spilled out of the slot, featuring a skinny sixteen-year-old girl with big breasts and a twenty-year-old man-child on the brink of what-happens-next.

At the party, I stood near the front door while people coming and going brushed past me and occasionally said hey or bye. I remember his mother coming up to talk with me, in a moment of unwanted consolation, meant to oblique my disappointment of not going with him. The kitchen, as you saw, was overcrowded, and I had flashed a peace sign as if I too could move beyond my expectations. Meanwhile, I thought then that whatever happened in my life wouldn’t be happening without Dillon.

When we were younger than we wanted to be, we overcame distance. It was the strength of always and forever that blinded us to inevitable finality.

I always wanted to know: Did you open the tiny gift I left in your shaving kit? Did you read the note?

At the end of the going-away party, the bowl of money passed from hand to hand, and there was a hush. It was more money that most in the room would ever see again. I watched Dillon clear his throat—humbled, handsome, and unashamed to weep—and try to speak. He would leave early the next morning. I silently vowed to never stop loving him.

Even then, I couldn’t bear goodbyes.

*     *     *

This afternoon, on a whim, deep in the heart of historical Paris, the Marais, I lunch near the famous Place des Vosges.

Ville de Paris. Maison de Victor Hugo, the plaque announces, a hop, skip, and jump away from the outdoor café I discover. A string quartet plays under a vaulted corner of the faded brick and seen-better-times-but-I’m-still-here stone-arched passageway.

I sip a glass of crisp Chablis to mark the significance of this June day, an anniversary, although bittersweet, and I’ve dismissed my annoyance at Madame DelaBalme’s failure to keep our ten-o’clock appointment this morning. The owner of the rented pied-à-terre might be located by following the scented promises of her pungent perfume, but this morning, no scent and still no contract.

Some serious damage will be done to the traveler’s checks today—espadrilles and apparel more appropriate for the heat.

Salons de thé and sidewalk tables, lilliputian streets unchanged since the 1600s. The boutiques, jewels along the petite pathways, are filled with dégriffé, garments with the designer labels scratched out. My friends back home would not believe the quality and affordability of this stuff.

An inflamed blister has already thanked me a hundred times for the softness of cloth being tried on my toes. Flats, thigh-high, lace-up shoes, kitten heels—I’m in shoe heaven. Next, cotton dresses with no sleeves blatantly call. And I answer.

Bonne journée, Madame, merci, au revoir.

Soon, I’m nearly popping out of my pores, my arms stuffed with elegant shopping bags.

Each shop offers an enticing glimpse of what else might be found inside. Am I really ready for this? Yes.

Mentally, dollars are being converted into francs. This is difficult to do without a calculator. What is the exchange rate today?

A newly purchased stiff-brimmed creation, rakishly angled on my head, barely shields the skin. I cross to the shady side of the street.

Time passes quickly. If the watch is correct, it is now five-thirty.

I’ve wandered around the picturesque Marais for more than four hours. Neighborhood markets have long since come back to life, reopening after lunch. My steps are slowed as I peer into large loft-like spaces tucked behind haughty courtyards. I pass Medusa woodcarvings on doors of rue Vieille du Temple art galleries and catch glimpses of adventurous contemporary art inside.

I am tired but not exhausted. Would someone younger have the same aching feet in new shoes? Maybe it has nothing to do with age, but instead the unyielding, hard cobblestones. Some days I feel much the same way as these stones. Today is not one of them.

This is a significant day, I remind myself, also a celebration of beautiful weather as I pass through the Jewish quartier, and sniff aromas of chicken soup, corned beef, and fat falafels that are tantalizingly eaten in front of carry-out or eat-in restaurants. I cannot carry another thing. Tramp, tramp, tramp through passages of shops and baubles. I cannot overlook the many four—legged pets. There are dogs in taxis, dogs in restaurants, doorways, windows, bars, outdoor cafés, and buses. They’ve got to go somewhere. They go everywhere and watch your step.

Brilliant psychedelic oranges lay across a cleverly designed window. In bright almost evening light, I’m attracted to the dappled prisms of Sarouks, Kilims, and Bohkaras.

Dillon had taught me to recognize quality. To give attention to the woven silk threads and the manner in which they took the dye. I follow the tangerine odor of incense. A young, friendly woman greets me in English, eager to share the history of several exquisite pieces.

Someone sits, turning pages of a catalogue at an elaborately carved antique desk. The shop has sold carpets for hundreds of years.

Asseyez-vous, Madame.

The young woman extends an invitation to sit, instantly at ease. I thank her with a smile, and instead, we remain standing in a field of my unburdened shopping bags.

Was that thunder? I ask in response to a loud crackling.

Yes. I’m afraid so. It will pass. It is a… how do you say in English? The young woman searches for the word.

A squall? I suggest.

Yes, I think so. She flicks a thick clump of purplish bangs out of her kohled eyes. The rain, it comes, it goes just as quickly.

I tell her, Down home, in my country, we used to say the devil was beating his wife when the sun shines while it rains. And here I am without an umbrella.

I could stay in the company of cozy carpets for hours.

A clock behind a man’s head at the desk says it’s six. It is time to leave; I move to the threshold and look outside.

Sure enough, the labyrinthine street is slick and wet. But the storm has passed, for now.

Please, if you like, come back anytime. I have many friends in the United States. Your hat, I like it very much, you wear it well.

Oh, I forgot I was wearing it. The straw brim is touched in a sort of salute. Thank you. You have so many beautiful things.

Goodbye. The young lady waves. Merci.

I am waiting to cross the busy Boulevard Beaumarchais, amazed by the sky shine of evening during the summer months, beginning to understand why Paris is known as the City of Light.

A repeated Madame, Madame calls from behind me.

Then in French, the voice asks, Would you have a drink with me? Who on earth could me be?

I turn my head toward the voice, blinking and raise my chin. In between narrowed lids and sunspots stands a slim, smiling man in a cream-colored silk shirt. He is at least six feet two, with the most impeccable moustache on his attractive face. Gray twinkles at his temples. His teeth and mouth offer a grin wider than the shopping bag I’ve accidentally left, which presently hangs from his right hand. The monsieur from the carpet shop… how can I not thank him for his kindness?

Oui, I say, and we walk together without saying another word. Countless sidewalk cafés surround the memorial in the center of Place de la Bastille. In the dappled shadow of the phallic, kiss-the-sky symbol, all that is left from the storming of the prison, we sit.

Something tells me I’ve lost my mind, or is it low blood sugar? I had only the one glass of Chablis with fresh fruit and cheese for lunch.

I understood him correctly. His French is understandable and measured. He had been sitting at the desk during my conversation with the young woman, he explains.

Across from the Opera Bastille, we sit for some moments, watching heat waves dance around the square while waiting for the garçon. Something is murmured. Suddenly, I do not understand.

I’m sorry… Américaine… et…

The rest is lost in my embarrassment. Do you speak English?

Parlez-vous français… Uh, anglais?

Non… A little.

He says, Vous parlez très bien français.

His compliment about my ability to speak French disarms me.

The waiter comes, a cold-blooded penguin in black and white, balancing aloofness and a small round tray. I order l’eau minérale. The Monsieur une bière blonde.

We sit side by side, I suppose, waiting for a miracle to jump down our throats and make two tongues magically fluent in each other’s language.

The penguin returns; I sip the mineral water.

Actually, I could not help but notice the mute monsieur at the carpet shop, sitting in profile, directly behind the young woman.

It happened to be the things that he did not do that had caused my eyes to wander toward him. He had not interrupted. Yet he did not appear to be disinterested in the conversation.

The manicured nails were noted as pages turned on the catalogue. And now, there is the deliberate way he removes his dark glasses in not trying to hide his casual glances.

I am fascinated by the way his fine moustache moves with his smile. Sincere gray eyes turn their full attention on me. A brain scan searches my mind for the few phrases in his language I know for sure.

Merci. So he thinks I speak French. "Trop vite, too fast."

I add. I am trying to make him understand how difficult it is to latch on to the words of the fast-talking Parisians. Hand gestures are added to make the point. He nods in agreement.

He wants to know my name. His French is slower, more precise.

My name? Lord, I can’t remember. So instead, I ask the same of him.

He responds, Je m’appelle Jean-Claude Goldberg… Bonjour.

Bonjour, enchanté… Nice to meet you too.

Well, now I’ve gone and stepped in it.

I pray my hands are not shaking.

Vacation… long temps? he asks.

No, that’s not all. I mime writing on the table. He doesn’t get it. What is the word for writer? Think.

Écrivain. Having located the word, I’m not sure what else there is to say. I know there’s the book project, but I am not thinking clearly. I am stunned to discover it has nothing to do with the language.

Aah… écrivain! he pronounces it correctly. Bon.

This is when he asks me to dinner… and suggests vendredi… Friday.

Shit. I am not prepared for this. Out to dinner with a complete stranger. No, sir. The switch that controls my mouth and speech fails. Non, merci beaucoup, Monsieur, mais non, I think, but instead, out plops a surprising agreeable…

Oui.

The encounter turns into a bad movie, as a street musician strapped in an accordion takes his professional stance in front of us and begins playing La Vie en Rose. I only wanted to show my appreciation for the return of the shopping bag!

We laugh together. My laughter does not sound like me. Applauding at the conclusion of the song, my tablemate gives the musician a few francs. Le numero? he asks as the garçon returns.

I have forgotten my phone number. What is wrong with me?

Seeing me reach inside my handbag, he assumes I am attempting to pay for the drinks. Non, Madame l’écrivain. His eyebrows raise and show surprise.

Oh no… In my purse. Te-le-phone. Really, the word is the same in French. I find then, search for something on one of Madame DelaBalme’s small business card to cover my huge faux pas before scribbling the rental number.

He takes the business card and nods.

Merci, Jean-Claude. Au revoir.

I stand. He stands, and then his mustached lips press the back of my hand. No stranger has ever done that before. My tongue is dry after finishing l’eau minérale.

Au revoir… à vendredi, he says.

Uh-huh… Later. Goodbye… Friday… Au revoir.

Shopping bags are gathered while he watches, smiling. Am I having a hot flash?

I didn’t think I had those anymore.

I want to leave the hustle and bustle of the Bastille. At the curb is a taxi stand, the fastest, most expedient escape. If I can just walk without falling and get inside the damn cab, even though the traffic terrifies me, I’ll chance it. Legs might be unsteady, but I sense his unrelenting, gray-eyed gaze boring into my back like an X-ray.

Unsolicited statistics begin to crowd my head before the taxi leaves the tête de station.

How many rapes a year are committed in this country of l’amour? How many women murdered by psychopaths, or the number of tourists involved in a crime? Odds are he probably will not call at all. France has the highest number of AIDS cases of all the European countries, and crazily, I think of something that has to be done. But I must slow down.

My taxi heads toward rue de Rivoli. Dillon had lived above one of the jazz clubs near here. I could find some of the late-night bars, sleepwalking with a blinding headache—so vivid was Dillon’s description.

Eyes closed, I lean back and sink into weathered leather.

Yes, I had used the first-class ticket two weeks ago, swallowed and digested the fear of crashing over