“Come on then,” he said, propping me up. “You can’t hop the entire way.”
Part of me was absolutely terrified he was going to offer to carry me, but we leaned together like two old drunks and made silly small talk of the kind you do when you’ve just kissed someone and then kissing has, for whatever reason (like blood), suddenly fallen off the agenda. He didn’t ask me where I’d gotten the injury, for which I was grateful.
At my door, I tried to get away as quickly as I could. He noticed it and seemed slightly hurt. I covered it up by being as brisk and breezy as I could.
“Lovely to see you,” I said, suddenly sounding like I came from Downton Abbey.
He blinked. Then he looked as if he’d just made up his mind about something, leaned forward, and kissed me very, very gently on the lips.
“Perhaps one time you can tell me about it,” he said. Then without another word, he raised his arms and walked away, disappearing into the night. I listened until I heard the scooter fire up with its usual roar, then turned into the house, finally letting the tears flow.
I didn’t even bother putting the lights on as I marched up to the sixth floor, sobbing loudly, uncaring of who heard me. At one point I thought I heard a door open again, but I didn’t even bother turning around.
Sami was in the middle of looking at himself in the mirror and putting on a gigantic earring made of peacock feathers. I suspected he’d done nothing else since I’d left.
“Cherie!” he cried out, jumping up. “Cherie…”
He saw my stricken face, the tears messing up the beautifully applied makeup he’d done just hours before.
“What happened?”
“He saw my foot and completely freaked out,” I said. “Can’t say I blame him.”
“Didn’t you warn him?”
“What, that I’m hideously deformed?”
“Yes!”
“No, I didn’t get the chance. I fell over and my shoe came off.”
Sami hit his forehead with the flat of his palm. “My love.”
He jumped up and disappeared into the tiny kitchenette, reappearing shortly with a tub of warmish water, a soft cloth to bathe my foot, and a cocktail glass full of clear liquid with three olives in it.
“Dirty martini,” he said. “It’s the only way.”
He then gently lowered my foot into the bath.
I looked at the glass, took a gulp, then nearly choked. It took about five seconds to hit my bloodstream.
“God, that is helpful,” I said, feeling its warmth spreading about my body. “It’s like medicine.”
“It is,” said Sami. “I’m a doctor.”
I managed a grin then burst into tears again. “No one will ever want me again,” I said.
“Don’t be stupid,” said Sami. “You almost scored a really hot bloke. All the girls love Laurent. He has an air of mystery.”
I snorted. “There’s nothing mysterious about him. He’s just a bit grumpy. Well, sometimes. Then he lightens up and, well, he’s really interesting.”
Sami sighed. “Yes. Maybe you being unimpressed is why he likes you?”
“No. It’s because he’s unimpressed by me,” I said sorrowfully. “Why can’t everyone just fancy me and then I could choose the ones I wanted?”
“Ah yes,” said Sami. “The great beauties, they have such happy lives. Anyway, you are dressed. Come with me.”
“Where are you going?”
“You will like it. It is a rehearsal.”
“That’s what I needed. A rehearsal. No, hang on,” I said, the cocktail getting to me. “Laurent was meant to be my rehearsal, so I could go off and find the real thing. And I stuffed it up.”
“No matter,” said Sami, glancing at himself once more in the mirror to his satisfaction, then putting on a silver waistcoat, a pink scarf, and some incredibly tight trousers.
“Oh Lord,” I said.
“Darling,” he retorted, “as if anyone’s going to think you were with me.”
- - -
I followed Sami down to the street and he disappeared. Did anyone in Paris actually walk down the roads? It was as if there were streets for the tourists and shortcuts for everyone else. I wouldn’t be in the least surprised to hear about him climbing over the rooftops. He had gone around the back of our house, which I saw to my surprise contained an old, overgrown garden into which someone had placed some sheds of gardening tools and assorted odds and ends, then cut over a major thoroughfare to the Pont Saint-Michel. We went into a huge building that appeared from the top to be some kind of radio station, but down some steps by a side door, with a commissionaire lazily peering over his copy of Paris Soir to nod us through, was what was clearly a recording and theater space. It had red velvet seating, thick walls, plush carpets, and a huge stage that was dimly lit. There were about six or seven other people there down the front, two of them smoking. One raised his arm to Sami, who waved back madly as I followed him.
“Anna is unlucky in love,” he announced to the throng, who all made sympathetic noises and budged up to let us sit in the middle.
At the front of the stage, an anxious-looking man with long gray hair and a walking stick was talking quickly into a walkie-talkie. Then he hit the stick on the ground quickly, twice, twisted around, and shouted to someone in a dimly lit box over our heads. Instantly, lush waltz music started up from a huge sound system. Startled, I jumped. The lights changed on stage, and suddenly it was as if it were lit by millions of flickering candles from behind the screens. Figures started to emerge from the wings; men from the left, women from the right. The men were wearing buttoned jackets, and the women were in wide crinolines, their faces pale. They looked like they had come from a different age. To my eyes, the two groups came together absolutely seamlessly, the women slid into the men’s arms, and they began to dance. It was sublimely beautiful to be so close to them, as they spun and floated across the dance floor with the music, the skirts rustling as the men picked up the tiny women and spun them as if they were feathers. The music changed and slowed down, but the dancers, instead, sped up, now beating double-time and pirouetting faster and faster. It seemed incredible that none of the couples would hit each other moving across the floor, and I was riveted.
“Non non non non non!”