Disclaimer – I do not own the characters, etc. I am only borrowing them from Janet. This is not for profit, just for kicks.
Rach's Plum-a-Month: One for the Money – BabeCakes'R'Us, Sept. 2011
Internal Mechanisms (or des Mécanismes Internes)
By PinPin
We had a 28 hour layover in Paris, because Tank bought the tickets and had a thing for art. He'd told me on more than one occasion that ever since a class trip he'd taken in high school – which he described as 'life-changing' – he'd always wanted to go back to France.
Of course, he hadn't mentioned his planned delay to the rest of us until we were called for boarding and he guiltily felt the need to warn us to sleep on the plane while we could. It might be our last chance for a while, since we didn't have much cash, luggage, or even hotel rooms. But then again we'd never had a problem finding hospitality or beds when we visited foreign cities, especially if we wore our Class A's. Parisian women in particular could be very casually and generously accommodating.
Several years earlier I'd had a different experience in Paris than Tank. I remembered dirty, narrow streets and tiny, elbow bruising living quarters packed in one on top of another. I remembered peeling paint and posters, showering in hard water, and the sound of sticky cement under foot while waiting for trains. So I wasn't thrilled about this stop-over. When I thought of Paris, I didn't recall the aroma of fresh baked baguettes, but rather the odorous decay of old coffee grounds in dumpsters.
Bobby and Lester didn't even wait long enough to leave the airport before zeroing in on a pair of flight attendants and telling Tank and I that they'd meet us the next day at the flight gate.
After a ride into the city, I walked as far as the Musée d'Orsay with Tank and then went my own way. I would spend the day doing what I always made my first task when I went abroad, looking for gifts to send home to my mother and sisters, to my daughter and all of her cousins.
Making my way along the Palais Royal, I browsed in several specialty shops, not finding much of interest, when mayhem broke out somewhere nearby. I heard the commotion on the corner before I saw it. A boutique was tucked closely among its neighbors, overflowing with activity. The printed window announced, Boîtes à Musique, and glittered with delicate, antique music boxes. Inside there was a young boy moving from display to display, flipping lids open and winding as many as possible, filling the small shop with so much sound there was barely room for patrons. The air pulsed with a tinny cacophony, only the rare harmonious note sounding out between the thousands of others clashing together.
When the child's mother began her scolding and forced him out of the door, I stepped inside, the last of the noise slowly quieting down. In the rear of the shop, beneath a bright orange sign that proclaimed, Offre de la Semaine: Sandro de l'Amérique, le Gitan, was a glass shelf with three rows of small, wooden boxes. I smiled. My mother was a huge Sandro fan. I'd heard his music all through my childhood. If my life had been the Wonder Years, Sandro's La Vida Sigue Igual would have been the theme.
Looking closer at the selection, I smiled again. First, a deep cherry wood box was labeled, Dame de Mon Cœur. That one would be for my mother. The second was painted a delicate cream and read, Quand Tu es Avec Lui… Il Suffit de Penser à Moi Votre. My elation at the discovery of the boxes withered as it reminded me of Stephanie. It was night in Trenton and she was most likely in bed with Morelli at that very moment. I wondered, does she think about me when she's with him? Il suffit de penser à moi, Babe?
Finally, on the end of the shelf was a tiny, box that shined with black lacquer. It was small enough to fit in the palm of my hand and when I turned it over I read the script on the bottom, Deux Solitaires. I knew the song. Dos Solitarios.
A hollow, numbing pull in my chest wanted to reach out to someone or something, but found nothing there to hold.
Un piano, un acordeón y un contrabajo
y ganas de sentarnos a charlar...
el clima es ideal, pues por lo bajo,
podremos nuestra historia comentar...
In the most visited city in the world, moving amongst lively fellow travelers and awash in thoughts of friends and family, I felt a heavy loneliness. It seemed to bleed out of the old buildings around me and slither its way through fabric, muscle, bone.
Dos solitarios que en este mundo,
cansados de la búsqueda de amar,
detienen un instante, confiesan su amargura
y buscan esquivar la realidad
I quickly made my purchases and struck out into the city in a new direction, not stopping for anything until I reached Parc Monceau. On a shady bench near the statue of Pailleron, I sat down and pulled my newest treasure from my pocket. Listening to its tune chime and repeat, I rested alone and let the world move past me unseen.
Dos solitarios, somos mi amiga
no creas encontrar en mi el amor
refugia tu desdicha y cuéntame tus penas
ahoga en esta noche tu dolor
While I was lost in my cloud of self-pity, a woman had sat down near me unnoticed. Her chestnut hair grazed her shoulders and swayed in a gentle breeze. She sat forward with her jean clad legs crossed and an elbow resting on her knee, the elegant curve of her profile comfortably confident. She was beautiful.
In her left hand, she held an electronic book while her right hand disappeared into a gift bag of fine chocolates that was sitting on the bench between us. I watched her eat one and sigh contentedly, lost in some cloud of her own. She appeared not to notice me either, until I slipped my box back into my pocket, the movement catching her attention. She looked up, mid-bite of a candy, scanned my uniform, and caught me watching the way she licked her lips.
Ven, la magia ya comienza,
ven, vivamos la ilusión
ven, la noche nos acerca...
ves? se duerme ya el dolor
ven, la noche tiene prisa...
ves? el mundo es de los dos
ven, intenta una sonrisa
ven, pensemos que es amor...
Glancing down at the already half empty bag, she blushed prettily and confessed, "they're one of my guilty pleasures. Every time I come to Paris I have to have some. I could eat these all day." Her subtle English accent made her words melodic, the true life version of the voice that actors can only ever attempt to imitate.
She held out the bag with a shy smile, offering me a piece of her own treasure and the opportunity to confirm that she wore no rings on her fingers. "Save me from myself?" she asked in polite invitation to take one of the sweet morsels.
Se apagan ya las luces y colores,
la orquesta se ha marchado del lugar
despiertan otra vez viejos dolores
el mundo ya otra vez se echó a rodar...
There was no one around to see if I surrendered to the grinding ache inside and let my weakness win. She and I would be the only witnesses to the private knowledge that I was the antihero for a day.
I returned her smile and gratefully accepted one of her chocolates.
Ves? La magia terminó,
Ves? La noche ya me oyó,
Adiós Amiga, Adiós...
The next morning, I was gone before she woke. But I would always remember her when I'd think of Paris or hear the plucking tune from within my dark boîtes à musique.
(word count: 1,134 - excluding lyrics)
** A/N: This was my very first songfic. It was written as a one-shot for the Y!BabeCakes'R'Us Plum-a-Month prompt. Thank you for reading! **
(This story refers to an actual music box boutique on Rue de Beaujolais at Palais Royal.)
* Sandro – sandrodeluniverso dot com, I love the song 'Dos Solitarios.' You can hear all of Sandro's music at his website.