"Should we call the police?"
"Mais non. The police will do nothing. A quarrel of lovers. In France we do not do this, call the police."
"But they broke in..."
"They are gone now," she said, whispering in his ear. He felt her breath. "There is only us, now. Only us, Jonathan." Her dark body slid down his chest.
It was after midnight when he was finally dressed and standing at the window, looking out at Notre Dame. The streets were still crowded.
"Why will you not stay?" she said, pouting prettily. "I want you to stay. Don't you want to please me?"
"I'm sorry," he said. "I have to go. I don't feel very well."
"I will make you feel better."
He shook his head. In truth, he really did not feel well. He was experiencing waves of dizziness, and his legs felt oddly weak. His hands were trembling as he gripped the balcony.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "I have to leave."
"All right, then I will drive you."
Her car, he knew, was parked on the other side of the Seine. It seemed far to walk. But he just nodded numbly. "All right," he said.
She was in no rush. They strolled arm in arm, like lovers, along the embankment. They passed the houseboat restaurants tied up to the side, brightly lit, still busy with guests. Above them, on the other side of the river, rose Notre Dame, brilliantly lit. For a while, this slow walk, with her head on his shoulder, the soft words she spoke to him, made him feel better.
But soon he stumbled, feeling a kind of clumsy weakness coursing through his body. His mouth was very dry. His jaw felt stiff. It was difficult to speak.
She did not seem to notice. They had moved past the bright lights now, under one of the bridges, and he stumbled again. This time he fell on the stone embankment.
"My darling," she said, worried and solicitous, and helped him to his feet.
He said, "I think...I think..."
"Darling, are you all right?" She helped him to a bench, away from the river. "Here, just sit here for a moment. You will feel better in a moment."
But he did not feel better. He tried to protest, but he could not speak. In horror he realized he could not even shake his head. Something was very wrong. His whole body was growing weak, swiftly and astonishingly weak, and he tried to push up from the bench, but he could not move his limbs, he could not move his head. He looked at her, sitting beside him.
"Jonathan, what is wrong? Do you need a doctor?"
Yes, I need a doctor, he thought.
"Jonathan, this is not right..."
His chest was heavy. He was having trouble breathing. He looked away, staring straight ahead. He thought in horror:I am paralyzed.
"Jonathan?"
He tried to look at her. But now he could not even move his eyes. He could only look straight forward. His breathing was shallow.
"Jonathan?"
I need a doctor.
"Jonathan, can you look at me? Can you? No? You cannot turn your head?"
Somehow, her voice did not sound concerned. She sounded detached, clinical. Perhaps his hearing was affected. There was a rushing sound in his ears. It was harder and harder to breathe.
"All right, Jonathan, let's get you away from here."
She ducked her head under his arm and with surprising strength got him to his feet. His body was loose and floppy, sagging around her. He could not control where he looked. He heard the clicking of footsteps approaching and thought,Thank God. He heard a man's voice say in French, "Mademoiselle, do you need help?"
"Thank you, but no," she said. "Just too much to drink."
"Are you sure?"
"He does this all the time."
"Yes?"
"I can manage."
"Ah. Then I wish youbonne nuit. "
"Bonne nuit,"she said.
She continued on her way, carrying him. The footsteps became fainter. Then she paused, turned to look in all directions. And now...she was moving him toward the river.
"You are heavier than I thought," she said, in a conversational tone.
He felt a deep and profound terror. He was completely paralyzed. He could do nothing. His own feet were scraping over the stone.
Toward the river.
"I am sorry," she said, and she dropped him into the water.
It was a short fall, and a stunning sense of cold. He plunged beneath the surface, surrounded by bubbles and green, then black. He could not move, even in the water. He could not believe this was happening to him, he could not believe that he was dying this way.
Then slowly, he felt his body rise. Green water again, and then he broke the surface, on his back, turning slowly.
He could see the bridge, and the black sky, and Marisa, standing on the embankment. She lit a cigarette and stared at him. She had one hand on her hip, one leg thrust forward, a model's pose. She exhaled, smoke rising in the night.