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Summer turned his room into a humid box where the last pleasant days of spring met their inevitable death. I peeled myself off of Giovanni, away from his sour breath and sticky skin, and freed myself from his bed, where our sweaty bodies made the mattress damp and inhospitable. He was still asleep, chest shiny from sweat; his torso moved slowly like a half-dead frog. In the dawn light, he seemed monstrous. I dressed quickly and left before he could wake, before he could ask me to write to my father for money, before his eyes could probe into me and ransack my mind for secrets about Hella or my plans for the future.
*
If it was hot in his room, it was an inferno outside. Hordes of identical Americans, clustered like pigeons around the tables of every cafe, offered some small protection against the sun, which somehow managed to find its way directly into my eyes from every corner of the square. I sipped my wine, neatly slotting my father’s letter back into its envelope—If he wanted me back in America with a girl on my arm, he only needed to wait. Hella’s letter smelled like the sun and the beaches of Spain, but something deeper, her face powder and dress linen.
Mon cher, Spain has been absolutely magnifique. I wish everyone could see it. The stone buildings rise around you, and the sun and sky come up over all of it, like God’s hands surround the whole landscape. I tried to imagine it, then, Hella writing, the wind in her hair and ruffling the hem of her skirt; the sky lighting her face in shades of blue and gold; her chest moving like that of a beautifully painted salamander. I must admit, mon cher, that this will be my last letter.
I set my wine back on the table, but she continued—i t has not been just the landscape that I have fallen in love with— my hands shook, blurring her words— when I was staying on the coast, I became acquainted with a fisherman named— I stuffed the letter back in the envelope and downed the rest of my wine in one gulp.
I stood up slowly from the table, backing away from the letter as though it would stab me through the chest, but still Hella’s words reverberated through my mind. I whipped away from the table and slammed my way through the crush of Americans.
Hella could keep her Spanish boyfriend and perfect new country; she could take it all, take it and never return: I had enough of her.
As I sped along the rue , my feet slapping against the cobblestones, I caught sight of a young man, short with dark hair like Giovanni. As I watched, he pressed closer to the much older man next to him, fingers snaking around the man’s arm; in response, the older man shot a glance at him that was not so much a smile as a leer. I turned my head away and increased my pace until I was practically running down the street.
*
Guillaume’s bar was smoky and hot, summer turning it into an oven, as if to give us a taste of what Hell would be like. The lamps outside were starting to turn on, casting the bar in a haunting light. I strode in and tried to look like I wasn’t holding back a cough. Jacques sat right where I thought he would be, tucked away across the room, hidden by the smoke, fingers sliding too close to the arm of an acne-spotted boy. I slid next to him and cleared my throat, loud enough to startle him but not so loud as to attract Guillame’s attention from the other end of the bar. Jacques turned and the young boy fled.
Jacques sneered as he took me in. “Well, look who’s come crawling back,” Jacques stumbled, breath already thick with something atrocious. “Did your woman finally leave you all alone in the dark?” Jacques rested his fingertips on mine, and I shuddered involuntarily; I gathered up my last remnants of hope.
“I was wondering,” I began, “If you would lend me some money.” Jacques’ hand was over mine now, his hot breath exploding over my face—if you lit a match too close to his mouth, the whole bar would go up in flames.
Jacques roared, and I became very still as the whole bar turned to look at us. “Money? You want money?” He cackled, spitting a little on my face as he laughed, sweaty hand still clenching mine, and looked down the bar. “Guillaume! Can you believe this man? Everything he’s put me through, and he comes back asking for money!” He broke out into a deep belly laugh as Guillaume glided down to us, eyeing me the way a gambler eyes his next mark. He leaned in close to me, close enough that I could count the whiskers he’d missed when shaving. “If you’re not here to drink,” he began, voice sinking to an impossibly low tone, “then you’d better consider leaving.” I glared up at him, Jacques’ sweat staining my shirtsleeve, alcohol and smoke filling my lungs. My last few francs slid towards him and Guillaume grinned.
*
I staggered out of Guillaume’s bar, the last of my money gone, no more coming in, from Giovanni or my father or Hella or anywhere. My feet stumbled as I dragged myself down the street, trying not to notice when passerby stepped out of my way or leaned towards the Seine to avoid me. I tried to remember the last time someone had leaned towards me anywhere besides a bed; my brain invoked a memory, my arms around a sobbing Giovanni; I tried to stop remembering.
My shaky feet took me right up against the Seine, high stone walls to my back and bathwater warm water in front of me. The moon was new, but the yellow cafe windows and streetlights cast the roads in warm gold. Only a little light filtered down to the Seine.
I would never see Hella again. She was in love with someone else, someone who wouldn’t leave her for a man in Paris, someone who would listen to her speeches about women’s rights and think only of her when they were coupled.
A boat bobbed by, lights forming little circles in the rippling river. It was easy to hear the people laughing on board, even over the other sounds of the city. I followed the boat until I was under a bridge, in complete darkness.
Jacques, my personal coffer, had finally run dry. He had grown tired of me stringing him along. He crushed me in his sweaty fist and sicced his personal wolf on me, and I fell apart under the attack.
The river was too dark to make out much of anything. If someone fell into the Seine, no one would notice until it was too late. It could be months until the body was recovered, especially if the only person to notice was an Italian living in a maid’s apartment.
The world tilted, and I felt the cold stone hitting my head before I heard the crack of my own body against the ground. Something glinted in front of me, and my hands identified it as a franc before my eyes, which were already half closed. I put it on my tongue, the cold metal tainted with the taste of dirt and salt. I held the franc in my mouth, watching the world fade into black.
*
The only thing worse than passing out under a bridge is waking up under a bridge. I pushed myself up slowly, trying to sneak around the splitting pain throbbing inside my head. It didn’t work. My vision blurred, and I saw my own hands press into my temples.
After an indefinite amount of time spent on collecting myself, I finally gathered up enough strength to cross the bridge on shaky legs and spend my last franc at the convenience store. As I trailed along the banks of the Seine, paper bag rustling in hand, I saw a man slowly slide his cafe chair closer to the chair of his tablemate. The other man smiled covertly at him, passing him a piece of toast. I kept walking.
*
I creaked open the door of Giovanni’s room, but Giovanni didn’t seem to be there. The house was dark, and the heat in the house was stifling, but not from human warmth. Our clothes and trash were still littered across the floor. I kicked a loose bottle away and knelt down on the ground with my new purchase, emptied it into a bucket with some water, and began to work.
At length, I heard the jingle of keys in the lock. A sliver of light hit me, then stopped as Giovanni paused in the doorframe. I averted my eyes, beginning to feel foolish. He was only a man, yet here I was, sneaking around and showing up to his empty place to do chores. But then the light sliver grew, and Giovanni stepped in. I looked back up at him. He looked awful. His hair was rumpled, as though he had not seen his own reflection in days, and his eyes were deeply set and red. His shirt was untucked and wrinkled. Giovanni took a few steps in and stopped, kicking at my bucket. I set down my sponge.
Giovanni let out a shaky breath. “What are you doing?” He paused. His voice wavered, “Where were you?”
I turned away again, like a child who has been caught doing something wrong. “… It’s wallpaper remover. I hate these ugly walls.” I took up my sponge again, scrubbing at the wallpaper, which softened and pilled at length.
I heard a sniffle behind me—Giovanni was crying. His footsteps trailed away, and I stilled. I did not hear him for a long time. I just sat there, my wet sponge resting against the wall. Then I heard his footsteps get louder again. He knelt next to me, dipping a rag in the cleaner and water mixture and begging to scrub the wall himself.
We stayed there, scrubbing the wall, until the sun sank low and we could no longer see with only the light from the windows. As we worked, Giovanni’s hand would brush against mine. At first, he tried to avoid this contact, but when I did not stiffen or move away, he grew bolder, following my hand with his own in hopes of them meeting. When the last rays of sun were replaced with the lights of Paris, we finally stepped back, taking in the whole of the wall, lit with only a few fingers of light through the glass. The paper was finally gone, old glue tinting the water in our bucket. Giovanni stretched, picking up the heavy bucket and emptying it carefully into the sink.
Giovanni turned to me from across the room. “Your wallpaper remover.”
I started at hearing his voice after such a long silence. “Yes.”
“It smells awful.” We stood for a moment, the scent finally hitting us. It did smell awful. I gestured to the windows, looking to him as if I were asking a question. He nodded, and I cracked them open.
Cool night air flooded in. The heat wave must’ve broken while we were cleaning off the wall. The bitter air rushed out, replaced with the cool summer smells of Paris. Pasta and bread wafted up to our room. Someone smoked cigarettes on the balcony below us. The chatter of people below overlaid with the splash of the river, which overlaid with the rustle of Giovanni taking off his shirt to sleep. I shook out our bedclothes and lay down, staring at him with the full intensity of my gaze. He slipped into bed next to me. The electric lights downstairs bounced off the clean wall and shone across him, illuminating a soft glow onto his face. As he wound his arms around my side, the cool air from outside rustled his hair, and his breath rustled mine, as he fell asleep.