Part 20 (1/2)
Nice's station resembles an open-air warehouse filled with trains and people moving in all directions at the same time. Men, women, and children hurry to disembark or board before the trains depart. Overhead signs flash arrivals and departures in military time: 19:00. There are no porters to a.s.sist pa.s.sengers with luggage or directions or translations. Heaving her suitcase onto its wheels, she winds her way through the crowd and down the stairway.
The domed buildings that face the station are older than those facing the sea. Waning daylight does nothing to daunt the crowds milling in and around the station so late in the day. Still no black faces; no yellow or brown faces, either. That was the fun of being in Paris. Of being with Harmon, Bruce, and Cheryl. They made their own community.
Lena waves her hand at a taxi when she reaches the short queue. There was a time when panic, fear of the unknown, would have stiffened her arms and legs, held her tongue in place. Nice is familiar and comfortable. This is the gift, she knows, both Harmon and Cheryl have given her: new perspective on her dream and understanding of the power of doing this alone. That she could leave them and continue on her own makes her understand how far she's come.
The cab driver asks where she is from. He digs America. New York is groovy and he has heard that all the women in California are beautiful. He points to a small U.S. flag pasted on the inside of his sun visor where a mirror should be. His heavily accented conversation is full of slang. ”Radical.” The driver makes it sound like three separate words. Rah. Dee. Call. ”I must be slick with the flag, ya know. Many French people don't like zuh U.S. these days.”
He adjusts the rearview mirror so that she can see his smiling eyes and tells her she is a beautiful, s.e.xy American black. ”I could make pa.s.sionate love with you.” He says, even as his wedding band gleams in the lights, that he would be more than happy to show her the wonderful clubs in Nice that play the wonderful American jazz.
”Not interested. Just take me straight to the Hotel de la Mer. Now.”
”Be careful, madame, these steps are a bit awkward. You must take them one step at a time.” The bellman lugs Lena's bag up a short flight of stairs. John Henry used to say that: take one step at a time.
Funny, she thinks, her father would come into her thoughts now as time beats its rhythm against her shoulder. Two days to Tina. Sat.u.r.day mornings she loved to watch John Henry lather menthol foam over his chin and cheeks. Like a trumpet-less Dizzy Gillespie, her father puffed his cheeks, dragged his metal razor across his smooth skin, and took his time answering Lena's questions. John Henry would smile. ”One step at a time, baby girl. One step at a time.”
The hotel room is as big as the first one she shared with Cheryl. Lena splurged on accommodations, and while the room is by no means the four- or five-star s.p.a.ce she would have if Randall-or Harmon, as he'd proved in Paris-had been around, it is just what she hoped for. Cozy.
Lena reaches for the phone while she calculates the six-hour time difference. Bobbie answers after four rings, her voice alert.
”Bobbie, somewhere outside my hotel the sun hasn't set, the Mediterranean is a color you can't imagine, and there are palm trees swaying over pebbled beaches.” A sliding-gla.s.s door opens onto a small porch and the rocky side of a vine-covered hill. There isn't a view, but in the morning there will be light and possibly the distant crash of waves. She plops onto the middle of the queen-sized bed, tests the firm mattress with her hand, and settles against the four fluffy pillows at the head of the bed.
”I don't need poetry at this time of the morning. Why the h.e.l.l haven't I heard from you in two weeks? Don't tell me you got laid.”
”Did that and more.” Lena holds the phone away from her ear to keep Bobbie's scream from harming her eardrum and describes the last two weeks. She cannot believe them herself.
”Accept it as the gift it is. Fate.”
”Harmon said that, too.”
”And how about Randall? You still thinking of him? I know you are.”
Lena recounts Randall's visit to Paris, the dinner, and his provocative invitation. Bobbie screams into Lena's ear again, when she tells him she kept the expensive bracelet he bought for her. Without bothering to control her glee, her satisfaction, Lena describes what his face must have looked like-or better yet, the shade of red it must have turned when he read her message.
”I'm learning not to let anyone divert me from my course.”
”I could have told you that.”
”I couldn't have done it without Tina. I couldn't have done it without you. I hope, one day, to do the same for you.”
”Must be the guilt for all those years I beat up on you.” Bobbie's laugh is loud on the other end of the phone. In the background, a woman's voice, Lulu's voice, asks Bobbie who is on the phone.
”Is that Lulu?”
”Surprise! I'm in California. Been here over a week. Don't ask. Don't lecture. She had a doctor's appointment.” Bobbie mumbles into the phone, but Lena is unable to understand what her sister is saying. Bobbie's voice resumes its normal tone. ”Pa.s.s me that sponge.”
”What are you doing? What time is it there?”
”Perfect timing. We're cleaning the bathroom.”
”What!” Lena shouts.
”I'm standing in the tub, was.h.i.+ng it down. I'm practically naked, and I don't have time to talk because Lulu has a list of things for me to do.”
”That's not true, Bobbie,” Lulu shouts. ”I don't have a list. Besides, your sister doesn't clean as well as you, Lena!”
”I'll call you later,” Bobbie says. Lena loves her sister and is glad that for once she is around to take on some of the more tedious tasks in their mother's life.
”You okay?”
”I can think of better things to do.”
”Does Lulu need anything? And why are are you practically naked?” Lena asks. The idea of her sister standing in her underwear in their mother's tub has just hit her. Bobbie hated undressing in front of anyone when she was young. you practically naked?” Lena asks. The idea of her sister standing in her underwear in their mother's tub has just hit her. Bobbie hated undressing in front of anyone when she was young.
”Because the tub is dirty dirty, Lena. The shower stall is dirty dirty, the tile is dirty dirty,” Bobbie snaps.
”It's not that bad,” Lulu shouts again.
”Because,” Bobbie continues, ”I don't want to get my clothes wet. Because Lulu has a hard time bending over to clean the tub.”
”I just wanted to say a quick hi before I grab a bite to eat.”
”Hi,” Bobbie snaps. ”Just call me when you find Tina.”
”Definitely. But I have something else I've got to do first.”
Chez Gerard, a restaurant the clerk at the front desk recommended, is not far from the hotel. The weather report predicted the rain typical for this early in October. Yet, this evening the air is dry, the wind brisk, and the streets bustle with motorcycles, cars, and people.
Lena heads for the bar and waits for one of the two men behind it to take her order. The bartender is friendly, fluent in English, and, she thinks, barely twenty-one.
”A kir royale, s'il vous plait. With a lime twist.” She asks his name, and he tells her: Armand. The restaurant is crowded. Three couples sit snuggled close at the bar. A woman reading a magazine sits alone two stools over from Lena. The overhead fixtures cast glowing cones of light over every stool.
”I am studying to be a teacher of the English language,” he says, pa.s.sing Lena a bowl of green olives. Armand leans onto the counter and flashes a smile. His biceps are taut, and she can see through his long-sleeved s.h.i.+rt that they are bigger than her neck. Lena laughs. This man is barely older than Kendrick.
”I'm so thankful to hear English,” says the woman two stools over. Her accent is distinctly British. ”Armand is the only reason I come here.” The woman points to Armand and t.i.tters delicately into her cupped palm. ”He keeps an eye on me, makes sure I don't get ha.s.sled. I secretly l.u.s.t for him.”
”Looking is all I can handle right now,” Lena says. The two fall into easy conversation, first about the magazine the woman, Margery, reads, then about her life. She is fluent in French and is writing a torrid novel in that language about her ex-husband, his lousy att.i.tude, and his new home in the English countryside. She came to Nice to escape him and the gossip that surrounded their divorce and the homely woman he chose to replace her. Lena m.u.f.fles a laugh with her hand-as sweet as she is, some might call Margery homely, too.
”And what, may I ask, brings you to this part of France?” Margery grins. ”Or to this bar. You're really quite lovely. All alone are you?”
”Alone. By choice.” She holds her hand up. The American gesture is foreign to Margery. Lena explains its meaning and shows Margery all the different ways to slap high five: high to low, low to high, and more. ”I'm not a good writer,” Lena explains. Pictures would be her way of telling her ex-husband's story. Pictures that showed the shock on his face when he understood that she would not be returning the expensive bracelet he bought for her. Pictures of him cursing as he read her last text message.
”Join us,” Lena says to a tall, imposing man eyeing the stool between her and Margery. His suit is crumpled, his receding hairline uneven. He orders in French with a German accent. Once Armand places his food in front of him, he slices his plate-sized pizza into bite-sized chunks. ”Allow me to buy the both of you another drink.”