I force myself to leave the station, letting my memory guide me again. I turn. I turn again. I turn once more. Over the train tracks and into the industrial neighborhood. And then, there it is. It’s kind of shocking, after all that searching online, how easy it is to find. I wonder if this one wasn’t listed on Google, or if it was and maybe my French was so mangled that no one understood me.
Or maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe I was perfectly understood and Céline and the Giant simply don’t work here anymore. A year is a long time. A lot can change!
When I open the door and see a younger-looking man with hair in a ponytail behind the bar, I almost cry out in disappointment. Where is the Giant? What if he’s not here? What if she’s not here?
“Excusez moi, je cherche Céline ou un barman qui vient du Sénégal.”
He says nothing. Doesn’t even respond. He just continues washing glasses in soapy water.
Did I speak? Was it in French? I try again: I add a s’il vous plaît this time. He gives me a quick look, pulls out his phone, texts something, and then goes back to dishes.
Con, I mutter in French, another of Nathaniel’s teachings. I shove open the door, adrenaline pushing through me. I’m so angry at that jerk behind the counter who wouldn’t even answer me, at myself, for coming all this way for nothing.
“You came back!”
And I look up. And it’s him.
“I knew you would come back.” The Giant takes my hand and kisses me on each cheek, just like the last time. “For the suitcase, non?”
I’m speechless. So I just nod. Then I throw my arms around him. Because I’m so happy to see him again. I tell him so.
“As am I. And so happy I save your suitcase. Céline insist to take it away, but I say no, she will come back to Paris and want her things.”
I find my voice. “Wait, how’d you know I was here? I mean, today?”
“Marco just text me an American girl was looking for me. I knew it had to be you. Come.”
I follow him back inside the club, where this Marco is now mopping the floor and refusing to look at me. I have a hard time looking at him after calling him an asshole in French.
“Je suis très désolée,” I apologize as I shuffle past him.
“He’s Latvian. His French is new, so he’s timid to speak,” Yves says. “He is the cleaner. Come downstairs, that is where your suitcase is.” I glance at Marco and think of Dee, and Shakespeare, and remind myself that things are rarely what they appear. I hope he didn’t understand my French curses, either. I apologize again. The Giant beckons downstairs to the storeroom. In a corner, behind a stack of boxes, is my suitcase.
Everything is as I left it. The Ziploc with the list. The souvenirs. My travel diary with the bag of blank postcards inside. I half expect it all be covered in a layer of dust. I finger the diary. The souvenirs from last year’s trip. They’re not the memories that matter, the ones that lasted.
“It is very nice suitcase,” the Giant says.
“You want it?” I ask. I don’t want to lug it around with me. I can ship the souvenirs home. The suitcase is just extra baggage.
“Oh, no, no, no. It is for you.”
“I can’t take it. I’ll take the important things, but I can’t carry all this with me.”
He looks at me seriously. “But I save it for you.”
“The saving is the best part, but I really don’t need it anymore.”
He smiles, the whites of his teeth gleaming. “I am going to Roché Estair in the spring, to celebrate my brother’s graduation.”
I fish out the important things—my diary, my favorite T-shirt, earrings I’ve missed—and put them in my bag. I put all the souvenirs, the unwritten postcards in a cardboard box to ship home. “You take this to Roché Estair for the graduation,” I tell him. “It would make me happy.”
He nods solemnly. “You did not come back for your suitcase.”
I shake my head. “Have you seen him?” I ask.
He looks at me for a long moment. He nods again. “One time. The day after I meet you.”
“Do you know where I might find him?”
He strokes the goatee on his chin and looks at me with a sympathy I could really do without. After a long moment, he says, “Maybe you should better speak with Céline.”
And the way he says it, it implies all the things I already know. That Willem and Céline have a history. That I might’ve been right to doubt him all along. But if the Giant knows any of that, he’s not saying. “She is off today, but sometimes she comes to the shows at night. Androgynie is playing, and she is very good friends with them. I will see if she is coming and let you know. Then you can find out what you need. You can call me later, and I will let you know if she will be here.”
“Okay.” I pull out my Paris phone, and we exchange numbers. “You never told me your name, by the way?”
He laughs at that. “No, I didn’t. I am Modou Mjodi. And I never learned your name. I looked on the suitcase but there was nothing.”
“I know. My name is Allyson, but Céline will know me as Lulu.”
He looks perplexed. “Which is correct?”
“I’m beginning to think they both are.”
He shrugs a little, takes my hand, kisses my cheeks twice, and then he bids me adieu.
_ _ _
It’s only lunchtime when I leave Modou, and with no idea when I will see Céline, I feel oddly relieved, like I’ve been given a reprieve. I hadn’t really planned on being a tourist in Paris, but I decide to do it. I brave the Metro and get off in the Marais quarter and go to one of the cafés along the beautiful Place des Vosges, where I order a salad and a citron pressé, adding plenty of sugar this time. I sit there for hours, waiting for the waiter to kick me out, but he leaves me alone until I ask for my check. At a patisserie, I get a ridiculously expensive macaron—this one a pale tangerine, like the last whispers of a sunset. I eat it and walk, in and out of the narrow streets, through a lively Jewish section, full of Orthodox men with black hats and stylish skinny suits. I snap a few pictures for my mom and text them to her and tell her to forward them to Grandma, who’ll get a kick out of it. Then I wander around looking at the boutiques, gazing at clothing I can barely afford to touch. When the salesladies ask me in French if I need help, I answer in French that I am just browsing.
I buy some postcards and go back to Place des Vosges and sit down in the park inside the square. Amid the mothers playing with their babies and the old men reading their newspapers, puffing away on cigarettes, I write them out. I have a lot to send. One to my parents, one to my grandmother, one to Dee, one to Kali, one to Jenn, one to Café Finlay, one to Carol. And then, at the last minute, I decide to write one to Melanie too.
It’s kind of a perfect day. I feel totally relaxed, and though I’m undoubtedly a tourist, I also feel like a Parisian. I’m almost relieved that I haven’t heard from Modou. Kelly sends me a text about meeting up for dinner, and I’m getting ready to make my way back to the hostel when my phone chirps. It’s from Modou. Céline will be at the club after ten o’clock.
I feel like the mellow relaxing vibe of the afternoon disappears behind a storm cloud. It’s only seven. I have several hours to kill, and I could go meet the Oz gang for dinner, but I’m too nervous. So, I walk the city in my nervousness. I get to the club at nine thirty and stand outside, the heavy bass thump of live music making my heart pound. She’s probably already there, but it feels like being early is some kind of faux pas. So I linger outside, watching the stylishly edgy Parisians with razored haircuts and angular clothes filter into the club. I look down at myself: khaki skirt, black T-shirt, leather flip-flops. Why didn’t I dress for battle?