Taxi to Paris Read online

  Above all, this made me realize something. I'd need to go grocery shopping, for her and for myself. That was something new. It would be fun.

  I went back into the kitchen, got a second cup of coffee, and rummaged through the cupboards. Apparently, she really never cooked, not even here. Other than the coffee and several varieties of tea, I found a few frozen entrees - for emergencies, I assumed - and that was it.

  I considered. It would be a couple of days yet, surely, before she could go out. But she needed something fortifying to help with her recovery. And for myself, I wouldn't want to do without baguettes or cafe au lait. Everything was set. I made a little list and went back into the room where I had slept. I got dressed. Before I left, I looked in on her once more. She was still asleep. That was good.

  I really enjoyed my shopping trip. Just the chance to speak French was something special, though mine was rather rusty from years of disuse. And then there were the people, who simply laughed and scolded and yelled and then in the next moment fell into each others' arms again. It was simply lovely.

  My final purchases bore little resemblance to my original list, but that didn't matter. The pure pleasure was worth it.

  I walked back to the apartment whistling. People I met wished me a cheerful "Bonjour!" and I answered just as cheerfully. Back in the apartment, I put away my purchases in the kitchen, whistling softly so as not to wake her. I set a pot of milk on to warm - for the first cafe au lait of the day! - and went to her bedroom. When I came in, she looked at me. I stopped whistling immediately. She, of course, wouldn't know what I'd been doing and might find it inappropriate.

  I went over to her in the bed. "Did I wake you?" I asked with concern.

  "No," she replied, still quietly, but it was obvious that she was doing better. "I was already awake." Her speech was somewhat slurred. Her lips were still swollen.

  I wanted to grab her up in my arms to show my joy at her improvement. But that wasn't yet possible. "I went shopping," I explained. "Would you like something to eat?"

  "No," she said again. "I was wondering where you were."

  Oh, boy, that didn't sound good! Despite her soft voice, I could hear the ice crunching. What did she mean, where I was? Did she think I'd left her alone? That I'd gone home? She was too ill to discuss it with her now. "I'm making myself a cafe au lait right now," I told her, as though I hadn't noticed her tone. "Do you think you can drink something?"

  She hesitated. I elaborated on my offer. "I also have oranges. I could squeeze you some juice. That'd probably be better for you anyway. Besides, you have a remarkably nice juicer." I grinned encouragingly.

  "Do I?" she asked gloomily.

  She was lucky that she was so sick! In any other case, I would've told her exactly what she could do with her juicer. But now I just confirmed, "Yes, you do. So orange juice it is - don't help, don't hurt!"

  "Pardon me?" If I hadn't known for certain that we'd seen each other before - and more - I would've had serious doubts about that now.

  "Even if it doesn't help, it won't hurt you, either," I repeated with my best grade-school diction.

  She just looked at me.

  I sighed internally. Then I put on a friendly smile. "So I'll go to the kitchen now and squeeze you some orange juice. Besides, my milk is probably about to boil over by now." I turned around and left.

  In the kitchen, I asked myself what her behavior was supposed to mean. She had been assaulted horribly. In her desperation, she'd called me. I had brought her here. Was she sorry to be forced to spend time with me like this? Did she want, now that she was here - obviously her most secluded and private retreat - to get rid of me? That she could have! But only then when she was well enough that I could leave her alone with a clear conscience. She'd have to put up with me that long!

  I made the orange juice, poured it into a glass, and took a straw from the package I'd bought. I put everything on a breakfast tray - she had one of those, of all things - and brought it to her.

  She must really have been doing better; she had sat herself up without my help. I set the tray across her lap and took my coffee mug from it. Then I sat down - in spite of her bad mood - across from her on the bed. I indicated to the straw. "I thought that would be more comfortable for you."

  She took the glass carefully. "Yes." She drank a sip. "Thank you for thinking of it." She didn't look at me. Her voice did not indicate to me whether she meant that earnestly or was only being polite.

  "Your apartment is absolutely enchanting," I gushed. Like you, I wanted to continue, even if she didn't want to hear that. But I left it unsaid. Perhaps it was still to soon for that.

  "Do you think?" she replied, reserved as expected.

  I went on, ignoring her mood. "I looked around a bit while you were sleeping. I hope that was permissible."

  She looked at me through narrow eye slits. Although I knew she couldn't open her eyes much wider if she wanted to, it looked intentional. It fit her tone. "I've never had to decide that before," she said.

  With all the experience I'd had with her up to that point, I knew that it was most unforgivable to her when someone invaded her private sphere. I couldn't help that. I'd neither read her love letters - had she ever written or received any? - nor rummaged through her closets - except for the kitchen, but that didn't count.

  "I hope not." I acted unimpressed. She should know that I wouldn't give in to her defensiveness.

  She noticed. "I'm thankful to you for everything you've done for me," she said again, without indicating whether she was being genuine or not.

  "How are you doing?" I asked. She certainly couldn't imagine an ulterior motive behind that question.

  "Better." She didn't seem too excited to give out more information.

  I reacted with mild irritation this time. "That's nice," I commented artificially. I was slowly beginning to get sick of this. What was her problem?

  "Take your sweatshirt off," I demanded coolly. A small shock would do her good.

  It worked. "What?" Startled, she looked up.

  I let her squirm just a little. Then I explained what I had in mind. "I bought a salve for your bruises. I'm going to rub some on you. Also, I found a medicinal bath. You're going to soak in that this afternoon. And you have to take that sweatsuit off anyway. You've had it on since yesterday." So - let her try to contradict that!

  She didn't try to. She just stared at me through her swollen eyelids like a woman from Mars.

  I set my coffee mug on her breakfast tray and stood up. "Where do you keep your pajamas?" I asked. If I'd gone through her closets, I would've known that already, wouldn't I?

  She pointed at the middle drawer of an antique bureau. I opened it and saw at least a dozen pairs of silk pajamas. I turned around. "Don't you have anything else besides silk?"

  She swallowed. I'd really ruffled her. "No," she explained, much more cooperative than before, "it's -".

  "I know," I smiled warmly. "It's so comfortable against the skin." I took out a pair and laid them on the bed. I went to the kitchen and got the salve. When I came back, she hadn't budged. She must still have been completely perplexed.

  I took the breakfast tray and set it aside. I looked at her. I felt sorry for her already. Everything I was about to do to her was going to hurt. But it was necessary. "I'll help you." I reached around her waist and pulled the sweatshirt up. She moaned. Slowly, I raised her arms over her head and pulled the shirt over them. Her moaning got louder. Finally, it was done. Her arms fell back to her sides and she yelped again in pain. "Now your pants." I pulled back the blanket. "You'd better lie down."

  She got herself slowly and painfully into a lying-down position. It was easier to get her pants off. She didn't have to do much for that.

  I could barely look at her. Everything was green and blue. I asked myself who could have done this. I'd certainly never ask her.

  I took the salve. "If it hurts, yell," I said. I'll be as careful as I can." I knew I couldn't protect her from the pa
in. Still, I suspected she could tolerate more pain than I wanted to give her credit for.

  I began to apply the salve. She jerked at every touch. After awhile, she began to moan softly. Before I made her turn over, I granted her a small break.

  I looked at her. "Yell if you need to," I offered painfully. "Nobody's going to hear you." I wished I could have done it for her.

  She looked at me dejectedly. "I can't," she said.

  We got through the procedure eventually. I put the pajamas on her, after which she collapsed back into sleep.

  It became more and more clear to me that I was developing a sense of vengeance against whomever had done this to her. While I was treating her, I had discovered deep gouges in her wrists. Someone must have handcuffed her. No wonder she looked like that. She had been completely unable to defend herself.

  It was still a mystery to me what exactly had happened. She had assured me that she wasn't into this kind of violence. So how did she get herself into a situation where she could be handcuffed?

  Or had she done it willingly after all? I just couldn't imagine that. But until recently, there was a lot I couldn't have imagined. A number of those things involved my relationship with her, of course. That she was a prostitute and that I loved her, for instance.

  I wasn't happy about that, and certainly not about her profession. However, I was more prepared to accept it now. Perhaps not in the context of a relationship, but at least as her lifestyle.

  What that meant for me was already clear. I would always love her, but we wouldn't be together. If I was lucky, she might accept me as a platonic girlfriend.

  I smiled through my grief. Platonic - with her erotic charisma! I could forget that already.

  I suddenly noticed that I was getting hungry. I went to the kitchen and gathered together a few things I'd bought for breakfast earlier. I wouldn't have to deal with her for awhile, after all. I took a baguette and some cheese into the small salon.

  I knew why this was her favorite spot. I could feel the inner warmth that the room gave off. Again, she had sought the warmth from things that she didn't get from people.

  Couldn't I change that? It had to be possible to give her back a little of what she gave out so freely, whether she realized it or not. The joy of beauty, love.

  I would've loved to sit in the overstuffed chair, but I didn't want to take her seat. So I sat in the armchair across from it and imagined her sitting in her chair and reading her book.

  It must be wonderful to spend the evenings with her, sitting there peacefully and reading, looking up to see her beautiful face. Would I ever experience that?

  I let myself sink back into the chair and gave myself over to my daydreams. I must've nodded off, because I was suddenly awakened by her screams. It was such a blood-curdling scream that I dashed immediately to her room. She wasn't awake. She screamed in pain, but not the pain her body felt. It was a nightmare. I ran to her and shook her. Even if I hurt her that way, it was still better than letting her relive that horrifying experience again.

  She woke, still screaming. Now, I took her into my arms, even if that had to hurt her. I stroked her hair and tried to calm her.

  "Shhh, be calm," I soothed her. "I'm here. And no one else is here. You're in Paris. You're safe now." Her whole body was shaking. She was tortured by the muscle cramps. I looked in her eyes. They were dry. "Go ahead and cry," I pushed desperately. "Crying helps."

  It shook her again, but she didn't cry. How could she get rid of the pain and the tension?

  It took at long time before I calmed her enough that she could breathe normally. I couldn't speak to her. I laid her gently back down. I didn't want to cause her any more pain. She sank back onto the bed and moaned again - this time from the pain she felt at the moment.

  Some of her wounds had split open and begun to bleed. I saw the blood seeping through the pajamas. They were shot! But that was the least of her problems. I got one of the tablets the doctor had prescribed and gave it to her. If only she could go back to sleep! I would watch over her sleep and, if I saw the slightest hint of another nightmare, wake her immediately.

  She was still in agony. She looked at me, but I didn't even know if she recognized me. Then, finally, she sank moaning into sleep. I got a blanket from the next room and stayed in an armchair next to her. If this kept up, I'd soon be able to sleep better in armchairs than in beds! When I had the feeling that she was really sound asleep, I went over to the library to get myself a book.

  She didn't have anything simple at all. Most of it was in French, and what she had in German wasn't exactly relaxing. I could certainly imagine that she didn't read romance novels, but not even Agatha Christie or The Name of the Rose? So I took Madame Bovary - why she had that, I really had to wonder! - and went back to her. In school, I'd always refused to read this book in French. I would never have believed that I'd end up in a situation one day where I'd read it voluntarily.

  I read, and when she moaned, I looked up at her each time. She slept a little more calmly as time passed. I became more and more absorbed in the book. After three hours, I still couldn't believe what drove Emma Bovary to love that guy.

  It occurred to me that something had changed. She wasn't moaning any more. I glanced at the bed. She was watching me. I shut the book and set it aside. "You're awake?" I asked unnecessarily.

  "Yes." She still had me fixed in her gaze. I began to feel uneasy. What was it now?

  "Can I do anything for you?" I asked rather formally. I stood up. "I bought some soup. I think that would be good for you now." I wanted to head for the kitchen in order to escape her stare.

  "Stay," she ordered before I could take a step toward the door. I stood still. I understood her. She felt absolutely wretched. But did she always have to take her bad mood out on me? On whom else? After all, there was no one else there.

  I stood with my back to her and said resignedly, "Yes?".

  "Please, come over here."

  I turned around and went over to her. I stood next to the bed.

  "Sit down," she said.

  I sat on the very edge of the bed. She lifted her arm, wincing a little. "Don't," I protested.

  "Yes." She caressed my cheek gently. Then she let her arm fall, tired. She wanted to smile, but all she could manage was a pain-twisted grimace. "I've wanted to do that ever since I first regained consciousness," she said.

  I wanted to kiss her, to hug her. I sighed. The most obvious was not, at the moment, possible. I looked at her. Even in this condition, she looked to me like the most beautiful woman in the world.

  "I'm glad you're feeling better." I looked down at her tenderly.

  "Without you, I wouldn't be," she stated earnestly.

  "I'm afraid that's not all true," I replied with a sigh. "Without me, for example, you wouldn't have to take a medicinal bath this afternoon."

  She didn't allow herself to be distracted. "Without you, I wouldn't be in Paris."

  "Probably not," I had to admit.

  She wanted to laugh at my silly embarrassment, but the pain kept her from doing so.

  "You see," I came back. "If I weren't here, you could've avoided that pain just now."

  "Please, make me the soup." She tried with great effort to keep from laughing. "Or else I'll have to admit that you're right."

  I stood up and smiled down at her. Then I turned around and went to the kitchen.

  I arranged everything on the breakfast tray again: soup, baguette, and orange juice with a straw, and brought it to her. As before, she had sat up by herself. But this time, she looked much more relaxed.

  "I'm even hungry," she remarked in astonishment. What did she think, then? That her body had endless reserves?

  "That's good," I joked. "They only had the soup in liter packages. There's still a bunch left."

  She coughed, probably to avoid laughing again, but of course that caused her just as much pain at the moment. "Ow," she said softly. Then she looked at me. She said nothing. She took the straw an
d drank her juice. Then she ate her soup cautiously. She had great difficulty holding the spoon level. It kept shaking in her hand.

  "Should I help?" I asked.

  She shook her head and tried the next spoonful. It all landed back in the bowl. "Well, maybe," she admitted. "But please, don't say, ‘One bite for Mama, one bite for Papa...’."

  I laughed. "Of course not!" She was truly on the way to recovery. I could have jumped for joy.

  I took the spoon and fed her. When the bowl was empty, she said, "Under these circumstances, I'd rather pass on the rest of the liter. Do you mind?"

  "No, not at all." I felt quite relieved. "I'm happy that you ate anything at all."

  She leaned back and moaned a little.

  "Does something hurt?" I asked fearfully.

  "Something?" she asked back. "Everything! It feels like I've been put through a meat grinder." She looked that way, too. I wasn't going to ask, but my facial expression said everything.

  "I don't want to talk about it." She closed herself off again.

  "You don't have to," I reassured her. I understood. Who could ask that of her! I, too, would rather think about something else. "Would you like to sleep some more now, or would you prefer to go right for the bathtub torture?" I asked as cheerfully as if she had to choose between oysters and caviar.

  She moaned - somewhat exaggeratedly. "Can't I take the bath tomorrow?" she suggested hopefully.

  "If you do it today, you'll feel much better tomorrow."

  She sighed. "I understand," she admitted. "But then right away. I've already slept enough anyhow."

  She'd see that differently after her bath! "I don't want to cause you any unnecessary pain," I began. "Can you stand up by yourself? I'll support you then."

  "Yes," she said heroically. "I'll try." She managed it, and with a little help from me, we made it to the bathroom. I opened the faucets. Water shot out in fountains.