how long it had been since she had allowed herself to remember her past. She felt unsettled, as if she didn’t know who she was—the open, vulnerable woman from so long ago or the woman she was now, overscheduled, tense, and leading a conventional life she had not been fully aware she’d chosen. She took a bath to awaken fully. When she stepped out, she put on the hotel’s white terry cloth robe and went back into her room to unpack. She smelled smoke and parted the curtains of the window. A fire was ablaze in the apartment building across from the hotel. She stood by the window watching the flames destroy the building. Glass shattered as the windows caved in. The smell was suffocating. She picked up the bedside phone and called the hotel desk. The concierge reassured her that they were aware of the situation and the fire appeared contained. The sound of fire trucks bled through the street, soon joined by police sirens.
The smoke wound into the French windows and she closed them, drew the curtains, and then she heard a voice inside her.
I’m glad it burned. I never liked that playhouse. Now I can see through our yards to your house without it blocking the view, l like knowing you’re in the house in front of me, Eleanor. Sometimes I can’t fall asleep until I see the light in your window go off
. The disconcerting memory ran through her mind again.
With some people it was better to leave well enough alone. She wished her mother had not given Stephen’s mother the name of her hotel. She hoped he wouldn’t call her. She vaguely remembered their last encounter, before she’d gotten married, when she had gone to visit him in Colorado. But she didn’t want to think about it. It hadn’t ended well, that much she remembered. She had not thought of him for years. And she didn’t want to. Soon she would have to emerge from her room and greet the other guests in the hotel lobby and she had to prepare herself. There were many steps to climb from her solitude of the last twenty-four hours.
He won’t call anyway
, she thought. She put mascara on her lashes and combed her hair. Outside, the fire engines had departed. The air still smelled of something burning. Across the street the Paris light shadowed the beige bricks and soot-covered shutters of the burned facade. A spark from the debris danced in the air and extinguished itself on her windowsill.
PART II
May 4, 2002
My first morning in Paris is like being inside a dream. Everything is drenched in history; the streets are of a bright and cheerful narrowness, as if concealing something clandestine and private. Everywhere are children, parks, gardens, museums, palaces, and a grand cathedral. I imagine I’m in a novel in which some inevitable knowledge will be bestowed and that I, the heroine of the novel, have not yet fully comprehended it. I am keeping a notebook so that I will not forget anything. So that I will understand the nuances and not push away their meaning. I want to look at things closely. To see paintings and record what I recognize in them. I feel so alive.
As I walk the narrow streets and the long width of the avenues, every storefront entices me with its artistry: In the chemist’s shop the bottles are arranged neatly and spaciously on glass shelves. The houndstooth combs and brushes and barrettes all of the finest quality. Each clothing shop has its own particular style and distinction, so unlike the shops in New York, where every shelf is crammed with the same merchandise. Everything is beautiful—the architecture of the buildings; the narrow, cobbled streets; the open markets; the painters and artists sketching along the banks of the Seine. The light.
This morning I took a walk in the Luxembourg Gardens. Even the wind carried with it a scent of the linden trees and lavender from the Parisian gardens. I watched the carousel and thought of the boys. I love all the small things, the shutters and terraces, the flower boxes in the windows, and then the
The smoke wound into the French windows and she closed them, drew the curtains, and then she heard a voice inside her.
I’m glad it burned. I never liked that playhouse. Now I can see through our yards to your house without it blocking the view, l like knowing you’re in the house in front of me, Eleanor. Sometimes I can’t fall asleep until I see the light in your window go off
. The disconcerting memory ran through her mind again.
With some people it was better to leave well enough alone. She wished her mother had not given Stephen’s mother the name of her hotel. She hoped he wouldn’t call her. She vaguely remembered their last encounter, before she’d gotten married, when she had gone to visit him in Colorado. But she didn’t want to think about it. It hadn’t ended well, that much she remembered. She had not thought of him for years. And she didn’t want to. Soon she would have to emerge from her room and greet the other guests in the hotel lobby and she had to prepare herself. There were many steps to climb from her solitude of the last twenty-four hours.
He won’t call anyway
, she thought. She put mascara on her lashes and combed her hair. Outside, the fire engines had departed. The air still smelled of something burning. Across the street the Paris light shadowed the beige bricks and soot-covered shutters of the burned facade. A spark from the debris danced in the air and extinguished itself on her windowsill.
PART II
May 4, 2002
My first morning in Paris is like being inside a dream. Everything is drenched in history; the streets are of a bright and cheerful narrowness, as if concealing something clandestine and private. Everywhere are children, parks, gardens, museums, palaces, and a grand cathedral. I imagine I’m in a novel in which some inevitable knowledge will be bestowed and that I, the heroine of the novel, have not yet fully comprehended it. I am keeping a notebook so that I will not forget anything. So that I will understand the nuances and not push away their meaning. I want to look at things closely. To see paintings and record what I recognize in them. I feel so alive.
As I walk the narrow streets and the long width of the avenues, every storefront entices me with its artistry: In the chemist’s shop the bottles are arranged neatly and spaciously on glass shelves. The houndstooth combs and brushes and barrettes all of the finest quality. Each clothing shop has its own particular style and distinction, so unlike the shops in New York, where every shelf is crammed with the same merchandise. Everything is beautiful—the architecture of the buildings; the narrow, cobbled streets; the open markets; the painters and artists sketching along the banks of the Seine. The light.
This morning I took a walk in the Luxembourg Gardens. Even the wind carried with it a scent of the linden trees and lavender from the Parisian gardens. I watched the carousel and thought of the boys. I love all the small things, the shutters and terraces, the flower boxes in the windows, and then the
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