Taxi to Paris Page 14

  I just sat with her and watched her. After I gave her a pill, she usually slept a little, but even in her sleep, she still cried out in terror. Once she yelled aloud, "No!" She woke from that, and although the hour wasn't quite up yet, I gave her another tablet.

  So it went until morning. Then she fell into a restless sleep from which she would not be roused. I sat in an armchair with a blanket and fell asleep quickly. Her moans woke me. When I came to my senses, I saw that she was trying to get up.

  I leapt up. "Are you crazy? Lie down!"

  She sank back, groaning. "I have to go," she whispered through her swollen lips. She almost looked worse than the night before. Now I could see her upper body, from which the kimono had fallen. Her skin was covered with bruises and welts - or, more precisely, I could see a patch or two of skin between the bruises.

  "Nonsense," I replied sternly. "You stay in bed and tell me what it is that you want. I'll get it for you."

  "I don't want anything," she sighed with labored resignation.

  "Fine," I said. I went over to the bed and kneeled next to her. "Are you in much pain?" Dumb question - that was obvious!

  "I'm ok," she claimed. Then next moment, she winced again.

  "Do you want another pill?" I asked, concerned.

  She whispered. I leaned over her, so that her mouth was right next to my ear.

  "I ... want ... to ... get ... away ... from ... here." It took a terrible effort.

  I could understand that! "Should I bring you to my house?" I dreaded the four flights of stairs already, but if that's what she wanted...

  She shook her head only just visibly, but had to groan from the pain anyway. "Paris," she breathed, barely audibly.

  "To Paris?" How did she intend to do that? And then: did she want to lie in a hotel for days in this condition, unable to stand? She'd be better off doing that here. I said, "When you're feeling better, we'll go to Paris."

  Her hands curled convulsively into fists. "Now!" she insisted with all the strength she could possible muster.

  I spoke soothingly to her. "That's not possible. You can't take it. You'll have to wait a couple of days."

  "Please...," she whispered, completely exhausted.

  What was I supposed to say to that? I sighed. "All right, fine. I'll take you to Paris. I don't know how, but I promise I'll do it."

  The tension in her body let up. I stood up. "I'll reserve a room. Do you prefer a particular hotel?"

  She tried to say something again. At first, I couldn't understand her, but then I heard, "No hotel."

  "No hotel? Do you intend to sleep under a bridge in that condition?" I was beginning to doubt that only her body had been affected by the injuries.

  "Apartment," she said weakly. She raised her hand and pointed toward her purse again. I was confused. An apartment in her purse? I picked up the purse and laid it next to her on the bed. She said, "Open." I did. Then she said, "Addresses." I assumed she wanted an address book, and looked for one. I found a small pocket calendar - not the voluminous leather-bound book in which she wrote her appointments. She was breathing very heavily. With a last effort, she gasped, "First page."

  I opened the calendar. On the first page stood her name and an address in Paris. I looked at her questioningly. "Do you want to go there? Do you always stay there when you're in Paris?"

  She nodded, eyes closed. At least I interpreted it as a nod.

  "Should I call? Who lives there?"

  She whispered incomprehensibly. I leaned over her again. "My...," I understood. Who? Her friend, mother, cousin? It occurred to me that I'd never realized she must have a family, too. She took a deep breath, to the extent that she was able. "My ... apartment," she said.

  "That's your apartment?" Her reaction was weak, but I assumed that she was trying to confirm. What else this all meant, I didn't want to think about just then. I had the address; I knew what she wanted. Now there was just the transportation problem.

  I thought aloud about it. "You can't walk. I can't imagine getting you on a train or an airplane." I paced around the room. "That leaves my car." I looked at her, trying to imagine how someone in her condition could tolerate a half-day-long car ride. "I don't know how you'll get through it."

  She murmured something again. "I'll ... manage ... it." She had to have it. And her will could move mountains, or so I hoped. Or at least her body to Paris.

  "Well, then." I gave up, resigned. If it wasn't going to work, I'd see that, and then she'd just have to get used to the idea of staying here until she was better. "I'm going home to pack a couple of things. Then I'll come back with my car. It won't take long." She'd tried to open her swollen eyes in an instinctive expression of fear, but the pain prevented her from doing so. She moaned terribly.

  "I'll be right back. I'll lock the door from the outside again. That worked well last night. Don't be afraid!" I took the key and left.

  At home, I threw a few things together, got out money and travelers' checks, and hurried as much as possible. I took every soft thing I could find: blankets, pillows, and - what I didn't dare forget! - a hot water bottle. Finally, I had everything in the car. I drove, illegally, into the pedestrian zone and parked the car right in front of her door. When I got up to the apartment, she was trying to get up by herself again. She'd managed something between lying down and sitting up. I helped her sit up the rest of the way.

  "I'm afraid it's time to get going," I warned her. "We have to get you dressed." I went over to her closet. Apparently, she drew a sharp distinction between work and her private life here also. There wasn't a single thing in leather.

  I looked for a few soft, comfortable things, finding nothing but silk underthings but taking them anyhow. In her closet, I found a suitcase. I put everything in there except what I wanted to dress her in: a jogging suit. Good thing she at least had one of those. But I'd already determined that she was athletic.

  I came back to the bed. "Do you think you can help me?" She nodded weakly. I gave her the top. She couldn't lift her arms alone and let them fall back down, disappointed. "It's all right," I calmed her. "I'll do it." Afterwards, I was about to take her suitcase down to my car. "I'll come back and get you."

  "No," she protested. She didn't want to be alone another minute.

  I slung the bag over one shoulder and wrapped her arm around the other. She moaned. I ignored it, put my arm around her waist, and pulled her up. She moaned louder, but propped herself up against me as best she could. Where would this end? We hadn't even made it out of the bedroom yet!

  "Don't you think maybe we should reconsider this?" I asked cautiously.

  Her reaction was violent. She gathered up every ounce of strength in her body and took a step. I supported her. We got down to the car with great effort. I packed her in blankets and pillows in the back seat and hoped that that would be enough. She collapsed with exhaustion as I sat in the driver's seat. Perhaps she'd fallen asleep. I had given her another pill back in the apartment. Awake, she'd never be able to stand so much pain.

  As I pulled out into the street, she cried out. I looked in the rearview mirror. "Can you really do this?"

  She gritted her teeth. "Yes," she growled. I'd better not ask her that anymore!

  The first few miles, before we got to the freeway, were extremely awful. I wanted to turn around, or at least get some earplugs. She moaned continuously. Then, when we got on the freeway, I suddenly heard nothing more from her. She'd lost consciousness. That was best. I hoped she'd stay that way as long as possible.

  During the drive, I stopped twice without her waking up. I watched her carefully. Her swollen face was twisted up in pain. Unconsciousness might protect her mind from thinking about her injuries, but it didn't shield her body from them. She continued to moan now and then, but thank God she didn't wake up.

  After the last stop, the industrial areas surrounding Paris suddenly appeared before me. As always, I was surprised by the sudden transformation. First, there was barely a house to be seen,
just a few farming villages, but then all of a sudden there were wide streets and sprawling industrial complexes right and left.

  This artificial landscape never seemed to end. One after another, the garishly-lit, phantasmagoric buildings slid past my windows. Tall buildings whose tops I couldn't even see from inside the car stood between flat, isolated, defenseless-looking warehouses. Flat, pointed, flat, pointed - it looked like a desolate futuristic painting, which with its unusual lighting looked almost filigreed.

  The aesthetics of these constructions took me prisoner. My surroundings seemed to flash by me like images on a giant movie screen.

  I didn't know how long it had been before the scenery changed. The poor suburbs of Paris and their own aesthetic couldn't compete with the industrial region. What perversion! Here lived the people who worked out in that science fiction world.

  I had to turn my attention to the traffic. Even at night, Paris always seemed to be at rush hour. I had to drive through the city. I'd have to take part in the incomparable experience of the Arc de Triomphe traffic circle! Now, at night, I felt up to it, but I'd never in a million years attempt it during the day.

  I drove on, looking for the road that would lead us to her apartment. It wasn't far now. She moaned.

  I looked in the rearview mirror. "Are you awake?"

  In answer, I got a horrible sound from her. Then a sort of rasping. It sounded like metal rubbing against metal. "Where...?" she asked, barely understandable.

  "We're in Paris," I replied in a friendly voice. "Your apartment must be right around here someplace." I was curious what the apartment would be like. Above all, I hoped it had an elevator.

  I found the building and parked in the street. What was I doing in Paris, anyhow? I gave us both a moment to recover, then got out. I opened the back door. "Can you get out?" I asked carefully.

  She moved around a little. "I'll try," she said softly.

  I got her purse out of the car and looked for the key. It was hidden deep in an inside pocket. There was a beautiful silver keychain attached to it. I held it in my hand for a moment, admiring it. She let out a loud noise. I turned to her quickly. Her face was scrunched up in pain yet again. I went to her and wrapped her arm over my shoulder and mine around her waist. I brought her to the door and opened it. Slowly, I helped her inside. The door swung shut by itself.

  We stood in a foyer of enormous dimensions. Left and right stood wide spiral staircases to the next floor. "Oh, my!" I was overwhelmed and deeply impressed. She trembled in my arm. That pulled me back down out of the clouds and to the business at hand. I didn't see an elevator anywhere. The whole thing seemed to be original eighteenth-century construction.

  "What floor is your apartment on?" I asked her apprehensively.

  "First." It sounded very weak. She just barely raised her hand and pointed to the right. "Elevator."

  I was somewhat relieved. The first floor hadn't sounded so bad, but probably that which I saw at the top of the stairs was the first floor. And way up there - those stairs must be half a mile long! I preferred the elevator.

  I lead her slowly over to the right, although I couldn't detect any technological devices. When we reached the corner of the entry hall, I finally saw the elevator doors. They were completely hidden behind a marble column and very elaborately decorated. We got on the elevator. I closed the gate from inside and pushed the button for "1." As I'd suspected, it was actually the second floor. In between, there was yet another story. We rode up.

  On the floor designated here as the first, there were two doors. She started right away for the left one. I brought her to the door and opened it with the second key on the ring. Inside the apartment, she showed me wordlessly the way to the bedroom - if you could call this French boudoir that!

  I laid her on the bed, a French dream of velvet and silk, and took her shoes off. I didn't want to attempt to undress her just yet. I pulled the blanket up over her and looked down at her. She could barely stay awake. I bent down over her and kissed her gently on the nose. That seemed to be the least damaged part of her. "Sleep," I said. "You're in Paris now."

  She closed her eyes.

  Chapter 20

  I had to drive around the neighborhood for half an hour before I found a parking place, and even then it wasn't particularly close. I wasn't sure I'd ever find it again. In my exhausted state, the street signs shimmered before my eyes. Sighing, I parked the car and, after some searching, actually did find my way back to the apartment.

  First, I looked to see if she was still sleeping. She was, exhausted half to death but still restless. At the moment, there was nothing I could do about that.

  I was too tired to take a good look around the apartment. I just had the impression that it was very large.

  In the room next to her bedroom, I saw a chaise lounge that would suffice for a place to sleep. In addition, I could hear her from there if I left the door ajar. Despite the size of her bed, I didn't want to sleep next to her. I was afraid I'd touch her in my sleep and cause her more pain.

  The next morning, I woke up and first had to figure out where I was. In my usual morning haze, I went through a mental list of possibilities. It wasn't my apartment, nor was it hers. Then I heard a soft moaning sound from the next room. Paris! Finally, I was awake.

  I got up and looked after her. She tossed and turned restlessly, but she was still asleep. I didn't think it would be an improvement to wake her. I sat carefully on the bed and watched her.

  It looked to me like her face was even more black and blue than it had been the day before. It was gruesome, especially compared to her ususal beauty. But I reassured myself with what the doctor had said. And all of her external injuries would, in time, heal. How it would go with the internal injuries - the non-physical ones - I couldn't predict.

  I guessed that she would probably sleep awhile longer. There wasn't anything better for her to do. I got up from the bed and looked around. Right off the bedroom, there was a bathroom. I went in. Here, she had a bathtub - and what a bathtub! It was a huge, free- standing one with lion-claw feet. The whole bathroom was one big orgy of luxury. Well, no, perhaps "orgy" was something of an overstatement. It simply contained everything one could need to make oneself feel well, and all of that in first-class style. I could imagine how much she enjoyed her getaways here.

  I left the bathroom and took another look at her on the bed. Her sleep was still a little restless, but she was breathing evenly. I stepped into the hallway outside her room. To the left would likely be the everyday rooms; to the right, I saw a door into another room and a few pieces of antique furniture. Probably Louis XV. I chose to go left. I guessed I'd find the kitchen down that way, and what I needed most at the moment was a cup of coffee.

  I was right. The kitchen was at the end of the hall. It was the sort of kitchen one would expect to find in a place like this: large, old, and perfectly appointed. I asked myself why she needed it, since she never cooked.

  I looked for the coffeemaker. There were two. One was the fancy American style I'd seen before in her kitchen in Germany. The other was a traditional, French hand-cranked model. I chose the latter. It felt right, for the first day in Paris. I found coffee as well, but no milk, not even in powdered form. So I'd have to wait for cafe au lait. When the coffee was ready, I took my cup and went back into the bedroom. She still wasn't awake yet. Better that way. So I set off on a self-guided tour of the apartment.

  Behind the kitchen, I had already discovered another small room. Probably the household staff had slept there once. What times those were! Down the hall from the kitchen was also a dining room and another room that had probably served the same purpose as the first.

  When I left her bedroom this time, I wandered off to the right. The first door on the right opened into another bedroom that didn't appear to be in use. To the left, there was a sort of library. At least that's what I gathered from the old bookshelves lining the walls. Now, the room was obviously used for something else. A large des
k stood next to the window, with a partially inclined surface. I went over to it. On the level portion of the desktop lay a couple of collages. On the inclined surface, there was a filigreed pencil drawing. She drew! I was so surprised, I had to sit down for a moment.

  I felt the tears welling in my eyes. I still wasn't quite ready to admit that Karin had been right, but deep inside, I knew that I loved her like I'd never loved another woman in my life.

  I sat there, shaken and ashamed. If she hadn't been in such bad shape, I would've driven home right then. But I had to wait until she was at least a little better. At that point, she probably wouldn't want anything more to do with me anyhow. Surely, in her desperation, she simply hadn't known whom else to call but me. When she was no longer dependent on my help, she would certainly remember what had happened at out last encounter. But by then, I'd already be gone.

  I stood up and wiped away my tears. On the other side of the room, there was another door. Through it, I came into a small, unostentatious salon. It was clear that she spent much of her time here. There was a comfortable armchair in front of a small fireplace, and next to that an end table on which lay - I could hardly believe it - a pair of reading glasses! By now, the tears were rolling down my cheeks. I looked to see what she was reading. Beaudelaire, Fleurs du Mal, in French! Was that the right sort of material? For her recovery, I'd have to find her something lighter.

  At the opposite end of the room, there was yet another door. Behind it I found the large parlor that I'd already glimpsed from the hallway, the one with the Louis XV furniture. It seemed to serve a more ornamental purpose and was not as cozy as the small salon next door. A large, intricately tiled hearth commanded one corner. On the parquetry floor lay a few scattered throw rugs that had clearly not been bought at a clearance sale. The furniture was very elegant and - as I'd feared - genuine.

  This ended my tour. I looked down at the street through one of the high windows. The typical Parisian bustle made me smile. Several people were crossing the street with baguettes under their arms; a motor scooter grazed a passer-by, who scolded after it temperamentally. Two women met and conversed with a degree of physicality and animation unheard of on German streets. This was what I loved most about France.