“Actually it’s kind of the beginning of the night. It’s just one o’clock. People are still out on the streets. And, besides, Paris is the safest—”
“—city on earth.” Georgia finished my sentence. “Papy’s favorite saying. He should get a job with the board of tourism. Okay. Why not? I won’t sleep anytime soon either.”
We tiptoed to the front hall and, with a quiet click, eased the door open and shut behind us. Once down in the vestibule, we paused to slip on our shoes and then walked out into the night.
A full moon was hanging over Paris, painting the streets with a silver glow. Without a word, Georgia and I headed toward the river. It had been the center of all our activities since we began coming here as children, and our feet knew the way.
At the river’s edge, we went down the stone steps to the walkway that stretches miles through Paris along the water and set off east over the rough cobblestones. The massive squatting presence of the Louvre Museum was just visible on the opposite bank.
No one else was in sight, either down on the quay or up at street level. The city was silent except for the lapping of the waves and the sound of the occasional car. We walked a few minutes without speaking before Georgia stopped abruptly and grabbed my arm.
“Look,” she whispered, pointing toward the Carrousel Bridge crossing high over our walkway some fifty feet ahead. A girl who looked to be about our age balanced on the wide stone handrail, leaning perilously over the water. “Oh my God, she’s going to jump!” breathed Georgia.
My mind raced as I gauged the distance. “The bridge isn’t high enough for her to kill herself.”
“It depends what’s under the water—how deep it is. She’s near the edge,” Georgia responded.
We were too far away to see the girl’s expression, but her arms were wrapped around her stomach as she looked down into the cold, dark waves.
Our focus quickly shifted to the tunnel under the bridge. Even during the day it was creepy. Street people slept under it when the weather was cold. I had never actually seen anyone in it as I speed-walked through its putrid dampness to the sunlight on the other side. But the old soiled mattresses and dividers made out of cardboard boxes made it clear that, for a few unfortunate souls, the tunnel was a prime spot of Paris real estate. And now, from its otherworldly darkness came sounds of a scuffle.
There was a movement from the top of the bridge. The girl still stood motionless on the rail, but now a man approached her. He walked slowly, carefully, as if not to alarm her. When he got a stone’s throw away he stretched out an arm, offering the girl his hand. I could hear a low voice—he was trying to talk her down.
The girl whipped around to look at him, and the man held up his other hand, stretching both arms toward her, entreating her to back away from the edge. She shook her head. He took another step toward her. She wrapped her arms tighter across her torso and jumped.
It wasn’t really a jump. It was more of a fall. As if she was offering her body up as a sacrifice to gravity and letting it do what it would with her. She arced forward, her head hitting the water seconds later.
I felt something tug my arm and realized that Georgia and I were clutching each other as we watched the horrific scene. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” Georgia chanted rhythmically under her breath.
A motion at the top of the bridge drew my eyes up from the water’s moonlit surface, where I had been watching for any trace of the girl. The man who had been trying to coax her down was now standing on the edge of the bridge, his widespread arms transforming his body into the shape of a cross as he threw himself powerfully forward. Time seemed to stop as he hovered in midair like a giant bird of prey between the bridge and the black surface of the water.
And in that split second, a streetlight by the water’s edge flashed across his face. Recognition jolted through me. It was the boy from the Café Sainte-Lucie.
What in the world was he doing here, trying to talk a teenage girl out of a suicide attempt? Did he know her? Or was he just a passerby who decided to get involved?
His body sliced cleanly through the surface of the water and disappeared from view.
A shout erupted from underneath the bridge, and crouching silhouettes appeared in the murky blackness of the tunnel. “What the—!” Georgia exclaimed. She was interrupted by a flash of light and a sharp clanging of metal as two figures began to emerge from the darkness. Swords. They were sword fighting.
Georgia and I seemed to remember at the same moment that we had legs, and began sprinting back toward the stairway we had come from. Before we could reach it, a man’s form materialized from the darkness. I didn’t have time to scream before he caught me by the shoulders to stop me from mowing him down. Georgia froze in her tracks.