Hidden in Paris

Chapter 5


At the bank, she signed her name, Althea Hoyt. The Bank of America teller handed her the handwritten piece of paper. There was the number: exactly $50,000 in her savings. She had just withdrawn the $351.23 to make that number cleaner. Althea was drawn to evenness, and she was going to actually spend $351.23 on something for herself. She put the bills and coins in her wallet and said thank you to the teller, aware of his stare.

Saving all this money had been challenging. She was single but had quite a few expenses: the rent for the apartment, apples, tea, cable, and telephone. She was low maintenance, always had been. She had sold her car and put the cash, insurance, and gas savings for the month into the savings account. Now she walked everywhere, saving money and, especially now that it was winter, burning calories with every step. Althea was not saving for any reason in particular. Saving was the goal, and now she had met that goal. Her savings were not affecting anybody else. She was alone and was leaner that way. Unattached. Detached. Light. Invisible. She wasn’t hurting anyone, bothering anyone.

Outside the bank, the frigid wind dragged trash and muddy leaves in circles on the pavement. She sat on a bench, took off her leather gloves slowly, and observed her long white fingers for a moment. The usually busy downtown was empty. Passersby walking against the wind and wrapping themselves in their winter coats came and disappeared. She rubbed her face with her icy hands trying to feel something.

She had reached her goal. She had fifty thousand dollars in the bank and just over three hundred fifty dollars to spend on herself. She didn’t know what to do next. What did people do with fifty thousand dollars or three hundred and fifty? She needed nothing, and desired not a material thing.

She lifted her emaciated body off the bench and began walking against the wind. Why walk? To go where? The problem was that at this point, she didn’t want immaterial things either. Not love, or happiness, or a family. All she wanted was to be thin and that cost nothing. She had no want for anything money could buy or for anything money couldn’t buy. She didn’t exactly want to die. She already felt dead.



Before Mark came back from work, and while Simon and Lia were watching cartoons—Goodness gracious how many cartoons were those children watching? Hours each day?—Lola called their friend Lou Driver, who happened to be their attorney. Lou was one of the best, most ruthless lawyers in L.A. Lou, as Mark said, was the best. She tried to control the shiver in her voice when his secretary interrupted a meeting to let her speak to him.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt you Lou, it’s just that I don’t know what to do anymore. Mark mentioned divorce this morning again. I’m wondering, I mean, what are my rights?”

Lou laughed reassuringly. “Your rights? Oh Lola, honey, there is absolutely no need to be so dramatic.”

“But I--”

“Take a breath sweetie. Mark is a reactive kind of guy, that’s all. He’s brilliant otherwise. Brilliant. And I know for a fact that he needs you far more than he shows. I’ve known him for twenty years. He is crazy about you.”

She hesitated. How much could she reveal without betraying Mark? “He has those ups and downs,” she tried to say.

Lou interrupted. “Every couple has ups and downs. You’re the only woman for him and you know this.”

“But he gets so angry, and for no good reason sometimes. And every time he tells me that if I’m not happy, I should divorce him.”

“He’s under a lot of pressure, that’s all. I’ve known that bullheaded husband of yours long enough to assure you that he doesn’t mean a word of it. And I personally won’t pay any attention to this divorce scenario until Mark himself calls me.”

When Lola hung up the phone, it was clear in her mind whose side Lou would be on in case of a divorce. And Lou was “the best.”

Dread almost brought her to her knees. She stood at the kitchen counter, feeling numb, numbing herself for Mark’s return. She turned the pages of the Los Angeles Times. The travel section. Maybe that’s what they needed: a beautiful vacation! Maybe they could bring the nanny. Hawaii, Tahiti, Paris... Three small lines of text lost in an ocean of cruises and Club Med photographs caught her eye.

Start over in Paris! Lovely rooms in a beautiful private home. Nurturing environment. Children welcome. Affordable. Meals included. Best area of Paris. English spoken. Call ****

She heard the sound of Mark’s Hummer coming up the driveway. She threw the newspaper in the recycling bin and rushed to the window to watch Mark come out of the garage. Her heart went wild in her chest when she saw the bouquet. She was forgiven! But by the time he had turned the doorknob, barely a minute later, her mouth was dry and her head pounding.

Mark walked in the front door, dumped his jacket and briefcase into Serena’s hands, and handed Lola the bouquet. He was handsome and tall even compared to Lola, who was five-eleven. He gave her his most dazzling smile and asked, “So, did you finally get a grip on your responsibilities?” He was being humorous. Lola stared at him. Her body stiffened further as Mark hugged her and grabbed her butt amorously. “Oh, you can’t still be mad about this morning?” He said.

“Is the, the, the...divorce cancelled?” she stuttered.

“Baby, what divorce? I’m the one who overreacts around here, remember? Such a silly girl!” He gave her a gentle tap on the forehead. “You know I’d be a condemned man without you. I’m under a lot of pressure,” he said, and he walked away calling, “Could a hardworking man get something to eat?”

A lot of pressure. Lou’s exact words. Were the flowers Lou’s idea? In the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator. Her breath was shallow. She pulled a plastic container out of the fridge, placed it on the counter. For a long moment, she stared at the lid in her hand. She finally set it down, walked towards the recycling bin, took the travel section out, folded it, and hid it in one of the kitchen drawers. By the time dinner was made, she was essentially gone. Thousands of miles away.



From the sofa, Jared scanned the room for a discreet way out through the wall of bodies undulating to the music. Beautiful Parisian men and women were crammed around tiny tables or lounging as if swallowed by the red velvet sofas that looked like gigantic mouths.

He had come here with the intention of persuading a girl to come home and have sex with him, but it was taking too long. The girls wanted to stay until closing, be flirted with, have a couple lines of coke but he had run out of momentum. At this point, he wanted to get the hell out, immediately and alone. He extricated himself from the red sofa and two girls plunged in the warm spot where his body had been. The sofa-mouth became a knot of bare arms, sexy legs, drunken giggles, and hands that hung on to him and tried, like a playful octopus, to draw him back in.

He labored his way through the crowd. The weather report had mentioned snow. When he finally reached the front glass door of the wine bar, he rubbed a finger on the condensation and peeked into the street through the small clearing he had created. No snow. He found his coat beneath three others on a hook near the door and put it on. He searched his pocket unsuccessfully for his scarf. Had the scarf been lost, he would no longer be accountable for it. But the raggedy orange scarf made by his mother when he was twelve was not the kind of object he could deliberately leave behind. He searched the floor, the hangers, and in the process found his hat. No snow and, now, no scarf. At the other end of the wine bar, he spotted the scarf around the neck of a girl whose name he had forgotten. He had felt shackled to her for part of the evening, but then she had moved on to someone more responsive.

Seething and bundled up like an astronaut, Jared made his way towards her. “Au revoir, beauté,” he said as he slowly unraveled the scarf from her neck and gave her a soft kiss on the neck. She arched her back like a panther, turned, and clutched his arm. “Jared, où vas tu?”

Jared took her in his arms so she’d let go, and she went soft. “I’ll be back,” he lied.

“I’ll wait right here,” she breathed.

At last, Jared opened the glass door and the frigid air rescued him. He screwed his hat on and walked away in long strides, drinking up the icy night air. The street was lively at this late hour, still early by Parisian standards. The smell of the restaurants he passed reminded him he was starving. Greek, Vietnamese, Italian, he didn’t need to look up to know their ethnicity. He stopped at a Greek hole-in-the-wall and ordered a lamb sandwich. The man cut slivers of meat from a hanging roast of lamb and let them fall onto the baguette. He paid and ate the steaming sandwich as he walked briskly. He walked for half an hour until he reached rue de Cambronne, deserted from traffic and free of store lights at this time of night. He noticed the pounding of his own heart, watched the little clouds coming out of his mouth with every breath. He stopped in front of the building where he lived; its eighteenth-century Parisian architecture, both classic and ornate. Jared inserted the old-fashioned key in the keyhole and pushed open the wide wooden door. The familiar scent of the building’s staircase, hundreds of years of wax and patina combined with soup, home-cooked meals, the scent of centuries, welcomed him. Five flights of stairs, and he was home.

He let himself into his apartment and turned on the light of a bare light bulb. As he walked into the room, he stripped off most of his clothes—his coat, his hat, his scarf, followed by his sweater and T-shirt—and let them drop to the floor. Jared ignored the scarce furniture and the books, boxes, and trash scattered around the room. He took off socks and shoes and threw them wherever they would land.

He stood in front of a table thick with grunge, food residue, and paint stains, and stared at the tubes of paint on the table. After a while, he opened a few, dropped dollops of oil paint into a plastic plate, and blinked at the canvas, the largest he could afford, one meter by one and a half meters, but still, it was too small. He opened the turpentine bottle and rummaged through a shoebox for a decent brush. There must have been well over fifty unusable brushes in the box. All coated with dried paint. Ruined. Jared painted until five in the morning. When he could hardly stand, he cleaned off his hands with turpentine and a dirty cloth. He then searched the floor for his coat, wrapped it around his body, and let himself fall on the couch. He sat and stared at his work until it became blurry, and then he fell asleep sitting up. The brushes sat in paint in the plastic plate.



The room smelled of detergent and vomit from last night’s misery. Althea was cold to her core despite the sweaters and blankets. She was stiff on her bed, reading the same words over and over. She licked her chapped lips for the fiftieth time. Her lips were getting worse, but she had stopped using lip balm because of its fat content. She had been so bad last night.

She read the small ad again, six little black lines of text, and shook her head to chase it away. She’d read that ad a dozen times already, trying to dismiss it, yet her gaze kept drifting back to it, until she was forced to stop long enough to feel “it.” The silly words in that small ad were like a promise of something. Reading the paper became increasingly difficult. Any reading required racking effort, but this morning, she was cold, and there was a picture of a lagoon somewhere in the Pacific Ocean on the first page of the travel section. The title of the article, “Alone in the Sun. Go and Discover Your Inner Fish,” floated in lagoon waters. In the heart of a seemingly endless winter, photographs of the heavenly island seemed nonsensical. Warmth and beauty and a shallow translucent sea accessible to no one. For Althea, realizing that going there would have been anybody’s dream was a blow, because she was incapable of such a dream. The picture had no impact on her, the words had no meaning. Go? She had no strength. Discover? She had no curiosity. Alone? She cared for no one. In the sun? She had no interest whatsoever. Tropical Paradise held no promise of well-being to her.

But again, her weary eyes drifted away from the lagoon pictures and towards the small print ad buried amongst many.

Start over in Paris! Lovely rooms in a beautiful private home. Nurturing environment. Children welcome. Affordable. Meals included. Best area of Paris. English spoken. Call *****

Althea couldn’t peel her eyes from the bold letters. “Start over in Paris.” What did it mean? Whatever it meant, it spoke to a desire she didn’t know she had, and lately, the faintest desire was like an oasis. Every word in that ad was a little caress that stirred up an incomprehensible longing.

She had studied French for many years. Also Spanish, German, Latin, and Italian. Althea had a peculiar gift for languages. That and drawing, her two useless talents. She’d had some indistinct plans of going to France, years ago, but as usual, more realistic and sensible plans had been carried through. Althea wasn’t going anywhere. Her mom needed her. As far back as Althea could remember, her mom had repeated, “Had it not been for Althea, I would have killed myself long ago.” Althea tossed the newspaper into the trash. But now something was happening, in spite of herself. Something extraordinary. The small, soft wing of a desire fluttered in her heart.

She authorized herself breakfast. Two liters of very black tea, unsweetened. Two apples cut in quarters. She would eat, slowly, methodically, over an hour while watching the Food Channel. She’d go back to the trash long after breakfast and forage for the cores and eat them, and this would leave her overwhelmed with shame and panic. But when the cooking show ended, instead of cleaning up after breakfast, she observed her fingers dial for the operator to find out what time it was in Paris. She went to the trashcan, and instead of the apple core, she retrieved the travel section of the paper. She dialed the number and sat on the corner of her table, with the receiver nudged between her ear and her shoulder while her arms were crossed over her chest in an attempt to protect herself from unknown enemies. There were a dozen rings, and the space between the rings became eternities. Althea was going to hang up and suddenly a woman’s voice, so close.

“Allo?”

“Hello? Do...do you speak...English?” Althea asked.

“I sure do. Don’t mind the heavy breathing. I was all the way upstairs and had to run down to get the phone. Tripped over the damn rug! Who’s this?”

“I’m sorry you had to run...fall,” Althea stammered.

“Nah, I like to live dangerously. What’s your name?”

“Althea Hoyt.” Althea waited for a second. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you kidding? Anything to bail out of my kid’s homework! What do you want to know, Althea?”

Althea. That was her name. Why did it sound different in this woman’s mouth?

“Well,” Althea asked, improvising, “is this a bed-andbreakfast? How much do you charge? Do you still have a room? Is month-to-month okay? Is it furnished? I am...I’m thinking of taking a...sort of...sabbatical.”