-This is a work of fiction based on characters created by Monkey Punch (Kazuhiko Kato). It is drama/angst. Rated K+ on general principle. Jigen is © Monkey Punch, and is used without permission. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-
-The events in this story happen between The Importance of Catching Earnest and Tokyo Rose. This was a personal challenge: less than twenty words of dialogue; the rest of the story, descriptive text.-
The City of Light
by Elisabeth Henry
La Vie en Chocolat was open five days a week, from Tuesday to Saturday. It was tucked away in the elegant Galerie Vivienne, nestled between an upscale dress shop and a quaint paperie. Whenever the door to La Vie opened, the scent of chocolate wafted out into the passage. The smell was particularly strong this afternoon. Alexis Finch had been moulding truffles all morning.
"I'm just stepping out to post a package, Geni," she said, holding the door open for a young couple as they entered. The girl shivered, and Alexis felt a twinge of sympathy. When she was working with chocolate, the shop was always a few degrees too cold for comfort.
"D'ac." Geneviève Boucher flashed Alexis a wave of her hand, and went over to the couple, smiling warmly at them. Alexis was glad that she'd hired Geneviève last winter. She was friendly, personable, kind - what her husband's mother called 'sympa'. High praise from one's in-laws. When the elder Madame Boucher had recommended Geneviève for the shop, Alexis had jumped at the chance.
Alexis closed the glass-front door carefully and headed through the lavishly-decorated Galerie towards the Rue des Petits Champs. Her first stop would be the bank. Wrapping her black woollen duster more tightly around her, she picked up the pace, her boots clacking on the mosaic floor. It had been a long time since she'd paid any attention the intricate patterns, or indeed, any other element of the gallery's décor. It had been a long time since she'd set up shop in Paris.
Stepping out onto the street was a bit of a shock. In the covered shopping galleria, weather was a non-issue; Alexis hadn't realised that the city was so cold today. She was glad she'd worn wool trousers instead of a light skirt. The sky was grey, heavy clouds threatening rain. She lifted her nose and sniffed the air. Smelled like rain, but she hadn't thought to bring an umbrella. She'd have to hurry.
It was a short walk to the bank, along streets that were surprisingly busy for a weekday afternoon. Alexis had recently approached La Banque de France for a small loan, and she was only a thousand Euros away from paying it off. Business had been especially good over the Christmas holidays, and with the press of a few buttons, the loan was no longer an issue. Alexis felt strangely free. She whistled to herself as she left the huge, echoing lobby of the bank. Several people glanced at her, and one young man chuckled. Alexis stopped whistling and gave an embarrassed cough. She was very nearly tone-deaf, and she knew it.
With a bit of money in her pocket, she headed along the narrow Rue Coquilliere to a small shop that sold sundries. Alexis had promised her sister that she'd send her some Parisian magazines. Rebecca had been studying at Oxford since September - although perhaps 'studying' was too strong a word - and one of her classmates was helping her brush up on her French. A rather attractive classmate, from the sound of it. Rebecca's letters came to the shop about once a month; Alexis always wrote back to her younger sister, and always included some sort of trinket or bauble. Once, she'd even sent truffles. That had gained her some favour.
The shop was stuffy and damp, as though it were already raining. Alexis picked up the March issue of Numéro, and flipped through latest copy of Muze. Her sister would definitely enjoy this one: it covered news, fashion, and the arts. Rebecca liked to think of herself as worldly, and Alexis didn't mind helping her expand her horizons. There were three remaining copies of the March issue of Phosphore, and Alexis grabbed one of those, too. Heading to the counter to pay, she passed a selection of men's periodicals. Numéro Homme had a handsome cover model this month. Stifling a laugh, Alexis picked up a copy and added to her pile. Rebecca would get a giggle out of it, if she wasn't too busy making sheep eyes at her French tutor.
The clerk behind the counter wore a distinctive smell: whisky and cigarettes. Alexis' mind reeled as she placed the stack of magazines on the counter and haltingly asked for a pack of Gauloises Blond. She'd read somewhere that certain scents could stimulate memory. This was one of them, although she hadn't been intimate with it in several months. She suddenly remembered the touch of a rough beard on her cheek. Tucking a strand of short black hair behind one ear, Alexis quickly pushed the thought away. She wouldn't think about him. Not now.
Hurrying back into the street, Alexis headed to the main post office on Rue du Louvre. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week; if you needed to send a parcel, this was the place to go. It was celebrated as the only European post office open 365 days a year. Well and good, but Alexis rarely had the need to use its services. She received a great deal of mail, but the only person to whom she ever wrote was her sister.
The only person? No; there was a pile of unsent letters in her flat, but she had no idea where to send them. He didn't have an address, and she wasn't even sure that he'd want to hear from her.
A flash of lightning preceeded Alexis into the bureau de postes. Seconds later, thunder rolled over the city. The storm was getting close. She hoped she'd make it back to the shop before the rain started. The inside of the post office seemed unnaturally bright in comparison to the darkening afternoon sky. Alexis quickly slipped the stack of magazines into a Postexport packet and scribbled Rebecca's Oxford address on the outside. Thankfully, the queue was short, and it wasn't long before Alexis was on her way again.
She looked both ways before jay-walking diagonally across the intersection at Rue Etienne Marcel. It was a common enough thing for locals to do. Timing was crucial, however. Jay-walking in Paris was like taking an afternoon swim in the Florida Everglades, or going for a midnight stroll - barefoot - through the Sahara. Still, alligators and scorpions couldn't compete with Paris drivers.
There was another bright flash across the sky, and a thunderous boom almost immediately after. Alexis hurried back towards the Galerie. She would be there shortly; with a bit of luck, she would miss the worst of the storm. It would probably only be drizzling by the time she closed up shop for the night.
Again, Alexis wondered at how busy the street was, especially for a weekday, and especially for mid-March. It was obvious from their voices that the majority of the people on the street were visitors to Paris. Alexis caught the sound of English, Italian, American, German, and something that sounded distinctly Oriental. Japanese, perhaps? Mandarin? She glanced at a group of Asian tourists, crowding together under an awning. They were all wearing cameras and pointing upwards. A fork of lightning tore its way through the clouds, and they gasped and murmured to each other.
La Place des Victoires was crowded, too. It was a popular spot for photos, but the storm had come on suddenly, and there were at least three tour groups who were about to get caught in it. There were 'ooos' and 'aaahs' from the tourists as dark clouds rolled across the sky and thunder shook the city. There was another flash. The tourists squealed in terror and delight. And in that single, bright moment, Alexis saw him.
He was standing apart from the tour groups, smoking a cigarette and leaning on the iron fence surrounding the twelve-metre high statue of Louis XIV. His hat was pulled down over his eyes, and his back was turned towards her slightly, but Alexis would have sworn on her life that it was him. The beard. The slouch. The expensive Italian suit. She moved forward, hurrying towards the square, her heart pounding. She had not realised how much she'd missed him until this moment.
In her rush, she bumped into a balding businessman, their shoulders slamming together, hard enough to rattle her teeth. She blushed and turned to him.
"'Scusez," she said, smiling weakly.
He frowned, adjusted his wire-frame glasses, and mumbled a reply. "Ça ira." He waved her away and ducked his head, obviously in a hurry to escape the impending downpour.
Alexis breathed a sigh of relief - Parisians could be appallingly rude if provoked - and turned back towards the square, ready to run, to catch up to the man in the black fedora.
He was gone.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she stumbled mindlessly towards the spot where she'd seen him last, her eyes scanning the square, searching. Locals and tourists alike pushed past her, rushing for cover as the first fat raindrops started to fall, but she ignored them. Her world had narrowed to this one spot. Alexis looked down at the ten or twelve cigarette butts, crushed against the pavement. But that didn't mean anything; nearly everyone in Paris smoked, didn't they?
She stood helplessly beside the statue of the Sun King as the sky opened above her and the full force of the storm hit the streets of Paris. Soaked and bewildered, Alexis could do nothing but look helplessly around the square as her tears mixed with the driving rain. Seven months ago in London, he'd walked out of her life without saying a word. Was Jigen really here in Paris, or was it merely that her mind was giving her what she wanted so badly: a chance to see him again?
Would she ever be able to forget him? And did she really want to?