Somewhere close to Gare Montparnasse, that hulking train station juxtaposed among contemporary skyscrapers, they entered a featureless flat-front apartment building. Denis Zaitsev greeted them in the ground floor lobby. He spoke rapid-fire Russian to Mikhail.
“He talks as fast as you,” Joanne said, placing a hand on Mikhail’s forearm.
“No,” he said. “Joanne, I tell him all about you.”
Denis turned to her, his straight, blonde hair brushing the rims of his glasses. He pushed them up and in perfect English said, “You just came in from New York, right? I lived many years in the States. Mikhail has been waiting for you. Come this way, to the elevator. I’ll see you upstairs in a minute.”
Seconds later, they stepped out of the elevator. Joanne thought that the apartment resembled any of the thousands of anonymous, high-rise apartments in New York, but she kept the observation to herself. After Mikhail’s apartment, she expected some kind of artist’s glorious atelier. People were standing, sitting on sofas, smoking.
Mikhail took her elbow. “Joanne, this is Nikolai. He is my first friend in Paris.”
She shook his hand and looked into a pair of crystal blue eyes that stared straight through her.
“Kolya. I am Kolya.” He pointed at his own chest.
“Kolya?”
“It is a nickname,” Mikhail interjected. “Kolya, he is a painter.”
“You pardon one minute?” Kolya managed in broken English. He walked across the room toward another guest on the terrace.
Mikhail turned to Joanne, “Come. We get drinks.” They eased sideways into the kitchen.
“His eyes,” Joanne said to Mikhail. “Kolya’s eyes.”
“Yes. Yes. Here. Wine. Yes?”
Joanne took and raised the glass.
“Wait,” Mikhail said. “Look into my eyes, and we toast. If we do not look into the eyes, we have seven years of bad sex.”
“Well. That means I only have four more to go.”
“Joanne. What?”
“Nothing.” She held the glass and looked into his eyes.
“Cheers.” They drank down in unison.
He refilled both. A slim attractive woman came up behind Mikhail and when he turned, they kissed on both cheeks, saying something in French.
“This is Valerie Alvignac. She is wonderful friend.”
“Nice to meet you,” Joanne said. Another of Mikhail’s superlative friends, she thought. More than a friend, probably. Valerie’s eyes were a soft hazel, expressive. A light brown bob framed her delicate features. She was lovely. And exactly what Joanne imagined a French woman ought to look like.
“I am sorry,” Valerie said. “My English is not so good.”
“Nor my French.”
Mikhail cut a chunk out of a wheel of brie. He handed a slice to Joanne as he wolfed down the rest.
“No!” Valerie turned to Mikhail and took the knife from his hand. "No, no, no, no. No."
She sounded indignant, and spoke rapid sentences as she showed him how to cut a slice of brie. Joanne turned to Mikhail to catch his eye.
“What’s going on?”
“I cut the cheese the wrong way.”
Joanne laughed. Valerie looked at them both, her expression full of disdain.
“Pah,” she said.
“Mikhail, you know what cut the cheese means in English, right? Cut the cheese means to pass gas. To, well…to fart.”
“No! Yes!” He switched to French and told Valerie, whose eyes narrowed. Drawing her close, he said something else that only Valerie could hear, and then they continued in hushed, serious tones.
Joanne took the cue and turned away. Before she could wonder whether she'd been snubbed, she saw that a bottle was tilted, ready to refill her glass. Her eyes followed the hand holding the bottle up the arm to its owner.
“Here, have more. I’ll get it. Hold your glass. Steady.”
“Are you American?” Joanne asked, looking at dark-rimmed glasses like her own. He wrinkled his nose to push them up, instead of using his hands, one of which was holding the bottle, the other, her glass. It was the gesture of a nerd, a dork, she thought. She often adjusted her own glasses the exact same way.
“Yep.” He set the bottle down, then extended his hand. “I’m Rainer. I hear you’re Joanne. Kolya told me, out on the terrace.”
He pointed over his shoulder. She took his hand, a warm bear paw.
“Kolya says you’re staying with Mikhail.”
She smiled. “Yes. We’re old friends. He’s been begging me to visit. So I caved and came over.”
“From New York?” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “Want one?”
“No. No thank you. I don’t. And yes, New York. By way of Colorado.” That sounded weird, she thought. “I can’t believe I was in Colorado, earlier today…or yesterday. Everything is a blur right now.” She was thinking out loud.
“You live in Colorado?”
“No. I mean, well, I did until this week. I’m going back to New York. That’s home. Once I fly back anyway. In a few days. Where’re you from?”
She sipped her wine, and scanned him quickly, years of experience checking men, sensing the nonverbal cues, measuring her own first responses. Did she feel any heat? His brown hair was curly, slightly unruly, tipped with blonde, like a surfer’s. He had slightly attenuated limbs, and a lanky, relaxed way of moving.
“Houston.”
“You’re kidding,” she said. Crap, she thought, that sounded harsh. It was a knee-jerk reaction. He didn’t have a southern or Texas drawl.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t say that.” She paused. “I was in Houston once, a rock concert. I remember, yeah, I almost got a tattoo. Except that I hate needles. And the thought of something permanently stenciled on my ass.”
He laughed.
“What’re you doing in Paris?” She asked.
“Come on out onto the terrace,” he responded, pointing to the open air. “I live here.”
She followed him. She looked out toward the river. It was still raining. “You live here?”
“Not in this apartment, but here. Over ten years now.” He lit another cigarette.
“How does someone from Houston, Texas, wind up living in Paris?”
“I came over to work in sports marketing, event planning. Originally. After college.” He paused, exhaling smoke. “What about you?”
She shook her head. “Up until a few weeks ago, I ran a media company. In the sciences.” She took a deep breath.
“Are you a scientist?”
“No,” she laughed. “No, Dr. Kildare. I’m not a scientist, but I play one on television.”
He laughed again. She continued, “But the company was sold. And I’m out.”
“So that sucks.”
“Yes.” She drank more wine. “Until it doesn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll find out more when I return home. My buy-out package. It’s more than I can think of or talk about right now.” She paused, “I hope you don’t mind.”
“No. Sure,” he looked down, flicked away the ash. Deep dimples marked his cheeks when he smiled, although she noted a tinge of sadness, or maybe wariness.
“Joanne!”
They both turned and looked back into the apartment. Mikhail was waving to Joanne, motioning for her to come back in. Valerie was still by his side. Kolya came out onto the terrace, and asked Rainer for a cigarette. Rainer turned to him and they spoke in French.
“Would you excuse, me?” Joanne asked. Your name, it’s Rainer, right?” She pointed inside. “Mikhail is calling.”
“Right. It is. But wait,” he said.
“Joanne!” Mikhail yelled again.
“Sorry,” she rolled her eyes. “I have to go.” Joanne stepped back in from the terrace toward Mikhail.
“Joanne. The other party. We go. We must go now. I see you at the door. You get the helmets?”
She nodded then gathered the helmets, jackets, and her handbag from behind the sofa, glancing back toward the terrace, where Rainer and Kolya were talking and smoking. She caught Rainer’s eye, mouthed the words, “I’m leaving,” pointing toward the door.
She turned and threaded her way back to Mikhail. She looked over her shoulder and saw Rainer making his way toward them.
“One second, Mikhail. One second.” He was pulling her toward the open door.
Rainer was almost in front of her.
“Rainer, I…stay in touch?” she pawed through her handbag. “Oh, shit.”
Her face turned hot and went scarlet. Somehow, she pulled out her card, along with a condom, and handed both to him. Trojan Shared Sensation.
