Paul Perilli

Short Fiction

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In Boston he buys a one-way ticket on Air France to Paris. After that he locates the hotel on Rue Flatters Anne and he stayed in twice. In 1993 and 1998, he knows from the record of their travels he kept in tabbed folders by year. A family run walkup; he isn’t sure how they found it. A frantic search for a place in their price range? However it was, it was funky and romantic. In the years since The Flatters Hotel became part of their personal lore.

It turns out their room’s available too. Their room, as if they and only they had stayed in it. Number 20. On the fourth floor. With a balcony with ornate black iron chairs and table that looks out over the courtyard. A pleasant setting to have a glass of wine and review the day’s events before calling it a night. Or to read the books they brought along when they were back there before dinner. He didn’t forget Down and Out in London and Paris was his choice that first time. Was Anne reading Marguerite Duras? 

From Charles de Gaulle airport he rides the RER to the Gare du Nord. From there he takes the Metro to the Les Gobelins Metro stop and pulls his luggage to Rue Flatters. He knows enough French to get by at the front desk without using English. 

“J’ai réservé la chambre vingt,” he says. 

In the door, the room, he sees, is just enough space for the bed, two side tables, and a small sitting area. The bathroom was tiny as ever. When he flushes the toilet, the pipes bang and there’s a loud gurgling hiss as the tank refills. Knowing they didn’t think it was an issue makes him smile. Not yet married, their second year together, a lot could be ignored. The dust in the room. The tabby cat prowling the halls. The lack of a lift to take them up the floors. 

The next morning, he walks to Rue Pascal then to Le Café Saint-Médard. When the weather was good, Anne and he sat at an outdoor table eating breakfast and sharing the International Herald Tribune. Always a café noisette and croissant to start followed by a café. Enough java to get them moving on to the sites and museums. This morning, he keeps to tradition even if the International Herald Tribune is no longer. Just his phone, which he uses to scroll through news that seems to belong to a time and place he was a part of long ago. 

After an hour, he leaves the café and walks along Rue Mouffetard where the outdoor market is in full swing. The stalls of fruits, vegetables, and flowers are examined by customers before selection. Further on he loses himself in the side streets. He doesn’t feel the urge to be a tourist with a laser focus to see as much as he can. He prefers to drift along. To let his imagination slip back in time. To hold on to those feelings of being with Anne in her favorite city. She was the reason they kept going back to it. Seven trips in all; he knew that too from the records he kept.

He wanders for an hour in a kind of stupor. He takes in little of what he passes along the way. In the Luxembourg Gardens, he sits on a bench across from the Medici Fountain. He reaches into his bag and comes up empty handed. He left his book back in the room. The Belly of Paris. It occurred to him a week ago he should bring a book along. Anne and he did that to every country they traveled to: Mexico, Portugal, Argentina. Wherever. He felt lucky to find a copy in his local bookshop. No way he wanted to read it on his phone or tablet. He didn’t do that. More than a hundred pages into it, Florent’s descriptions of Paris’s people and the Les Halles market keep him riveted to the story. 

From there he goes to the Musée d’Orsay. Inside the former railway station his mood picks up. The grandeur of the space itself is uplifting. The soaring ceilings and huge windows relax him. He moves through the galleries of paintings as if awoken from a deep sleep. He stops a while to stare at Andre Derain’s “Pont de Charing Cross.” London of long ago painted in flat tones and distorted images. The Fauvists attracted him at the time he was painting and considered being one before dropping it for other pursuits. The transition from realism to abstraction created an art that appealed to him. He moves from Derain to Vlaminck. Then to Matisse and Bonnard. The longer he’s there the more he comes out of himself. The more alive he feels. He thinks he might take up painting again. 

The next two days he does more of the same. Mornings he goes to Le Café Saint-Médard. After that he wanders around Pigalle, Belleville, Ile de la Cité and Ile Saint-Louis. He goes to the Pompidou Center. Nice as it would be to stroll around, he avoids Pere-Lachaise. He browses the bookstores he comes upon but doesn’t buy anything. Midafternoon he eats a Croque Monsieur or Jambon-Beurre. On a whim he walks all the way to Montparnasse to eat dinner at the le Dôme Café. He splurges on an octopus salad with herbs, scallops with a truffle vinaigrette, and two types of cheeses for dessert. He lingers at his table drinking wine until he’s tipsy. He spends a few moments pondering Florent saying one can conquer the world with the right sauce. After the meal he just had, he thinks Florent had come to a profound truth. It’s a long walk back to The Flatters Hotel but he’s in no rush to get anywhere. 

The next morning, he checks out. He rolls his bag back to the Les Gobelins Metro station and rides the train to Gare du Nord. From there he takes the Chunnel to London. It’s a passage Anne and he made. He doesn’t know the city well. He’s not sure if he wants to become intimate with it, or with anything for that matter. Pulling his bag, he comes to a hotel not far from St. Pancreas Station. It’s not the prettiest location. A tad shady in fact. As for the hundred pound a night room, it’s not much. Institutional white and gray. A narrow shower stall with a folding door. A single chair and small table. 

“The definition of basic,” is how he describes it to himself. 

He leaves his bag on the bed and heads to the street. He strolls around the city center. He feels like a vagabond. Without ties or a home. A man no longer on solid footing. He’s felt that way for ten months. 

Without realizing that was where he was headed, he ends up at Charing Cross. There’s a café on a corner and he stops for a cup. It’s not as good as Paris coffee though better than he expected. Before he leaves, he checks Google maps. He sees he’s close to 10 Downing Street and that’s where he heads. When he gets there, he finds the street it’s on is locked down. Soldiers in riot gear with giant rifles protect it. He considers taking in the nearby Churchill War Rooms but decides he’s not in the mood to focus on WWII artifacts. Instead, he crosses Westminster Bridge, crosses Blackfriars Bridge and heads to his hotel. When he gets there, he grabs The Belly of Paris and heads out. 

Not much longer after that he’s on a stool at the oak bar of The Full Shilling with several others. Couples and small groups sit at the tables. A proper British pub, he thinks. With low lighting, old-time beer-related paraphernalia in a glass case, framed photos of London street scenes on the walls. 

The bartender greets him with the offer of a paper menu he accepts even if he’s not hungry. 

“What can I do you for?” he’s asked. 

“The pale ale,” he says. 

The bartender approves of his fine choice, takes an imperial pint glass off the shelf and sets it under a tap.  

He pushes the menu aside and takes out The Belly of Paris. He flips to the page he earmarked and picks up the story with Florent attending a secret meeting with his friend Gavard and others to plot the overthrow of the Empire. While he’s involved with that his pint is served with a foamy head he sucks at before taking a full, satisfying gulp and then another. He leaves it alone as his mind flips between Florent’s basement meeting and his and Anne’s 2008 trip to London. Four nights they stayed at a place in East London he’d found online. He’s about to make an imaginative leap there when the women sitting to his right wonder in strong British accents where he’s from in the States. 

Surprised by the question, he hesitates before saying, “Boston.” 

“We could tell,” the one closest to him says. 

He studies her for a moment. Her oval shaped face, translucent glass frames, short brown hair streaked with light touches, white shirt and grayish slacks. In The Full Shilling for a post work pop, he assumes. 

“Can’t hide that,” he says. 

“You on a visit?” she says. 

“In a way,” he says. Then adds, “Why am I here?” 

“You’re here to get away from there,” she says.

“I’m guessing you’re doing some of that too,” he says.

“That we are,” the one next to her says. “We tend to do it a lot.”

He goes on to say he came from Paris. He went there for personal reasons. Something he had to settle. Until he did, he had time to spare. He wanted to see London again. So here he is, with his book and beer. He’s going back to Paris in a couple of days. He’s not sure how many.

“Nice to go where you want when you want,” the one closest to him says. 

“It’s not all it appears to be,” he says. 

“Not much is,” she says. 

They introduce themselves. The one closest to him is May. The one next to her is Diana. They talk about London. What they do there; work in the London City Development Office. Where they live. Croydon and Slough. By the time that’s established he’s finished his pint. He’s not sure if he should get another. He lets the glass sit empty until his new friends up and order a second round of mixed drinks, so he does the same. 

“When in London do what the Londoners do,” he says and gets a laugh. 

The back and forth continues on various topics until it runs its course. He looks down at his book. The women share some chatter then it’s time to get to their trains. They’re on their feet, preparing to go. 

“If you’re in again you might even see us,” May says. 

“It’s likely. I’m here another few. So yeah.”

For a moment he wonders what he would do if he saw them again. The conversation was over far as he could tell. Nevertheless, late the next afternoon he’s back at The Full Shilling’s bar when May comes in alone and, same as yesterday, sits so there’s an empty stool between them. They smile at each other.

“How are you?” she says. 

He tries to figure out her age. Mid-forties, he concludes. In the ballpark should it come to that, though he stifles the thought before it blooms. 

“Doing just fine,” he says. “Back for one before dinner. Or more than one.”

May laughs. “That happens,” she says. 

She orders a gin and tonic.

“How was your day?” he says. 

They pick up the discussion where they left it twenty-four hours ago. Talk about how their day went and what they did. Then they move on to London attractions and previous travel experiences. They stay clear of anything personal. She doesn’t ask him about his business in Paris. He doesn’t ask her what’s at the end of the train ride she’s going to take when she’s done with her drink. There’s no reason to get into any of that. 

They’ve both been to Turkey and Morrocco. To many of the countries in Europe, of course. They order another drink. This time he buys the round. He thinks it’s appropriate since he’s a guest in her fine country. 

“Now you’re being diplomatic,” May says, and they laugh. 

By the end of the drink, they recognize the obvious. It’s time to move on to the next thing. They leave together. Outside they go in the same direction, May to St. Pancreas Station. He to his hotel. Since he’s the first stop on the way he smiles at her. 

“Was nice to have someone to talk to,” he says.

“Same for me,” she says. She looks up at the hotel’s façade. He wonders what she thinks of it? Whatever it is doesn’t appear to matter. “We can continue the conversation. No rule stating it has to end here.” She stares into his eyes. 

Caught off guard, he searches for a response. All of a sudden, it’s an awkward situation. Was he giving off those vibes? If he was, he wasn’t aware of it. He’s conflicted, yet a response is necessary. 

“I’m sorry, I have to be up early to get back to Paris,” he says. 

“I understand, no worries,” she says, and that was that. 

“It was nice meeting you.”

“Same here. Good luck in Paris with your matter.”

Two afternoons later he’s back in The Flatters Hotel. Room 20. After his London hotel experience, it feels like home. 

He walks the streets for the next three days filled with memories. He takes in a few museums including an entire afternoon in the Louvre. One morning in Le Café Saint-Médard he finishes The Belly of Paris. He decides he wants to read more Zola and buys an English language translation of Germinal at a bookstall along the Seine. One night he goes to the bistrot on Rue Mouffetard Anne and he ate in on their last trip in 2018. He orders onion soup and beef bourguignon. Drinks two glasses of Bordeaux. When it’s time for dessert, he tries the creme brûlée, a favorite of Anne’s. He wasn’t a fan of the stuff but he wants to take it in. It’s not as bad as he expects, though he leaves half in the ramekin. In private he tells Anne he sees the attraction to its sweet and tangy flavor, but he still prefers ice cream. 

After that he goes to The Flatters Hotel. Online, he reserves a standard one-way ticket to Biarritz on the TGV. He books a hotel near the beach. He has no recollection where the room Anne and he stayed in was located. Away from the water, was all he remembers. Cheap, for certain. Anyway, it’s not important. They went there that first time. They had packed in a lot. They wanted to be near water and Biarritz was a popular French resort. They didn’t bring their bathing suits for nothing. 

In the morning, he goes to Gare Montparnasse. Four hours later he’s on the platform in Biarritz. Out the main entrance to the street, the sky is clean and bright. In his hotel he changes into his bathing suit, puts on his sandals and sunglasses, grabs a towel and heads to the beach. 

Mid-afternoon on the hot day, the sunbathers were out en force. He starts toward the Hôtel Du Palais Biarritz. Once the summer villa for Napoleon III’s wife, it captured their imaginations while they were there. They didn’t dare enter it. Not even for a drink. They knew prices were beyond their means. Admiring the imposing stone and stucco structure from afar was all they could do. 

He sets his towel on the sand and sits on it. He keeps his t-shirt on. He reads Germinal. Around him, families and topless bathers sprawl on blankets and under umbrellas. That was the first time Anne went topless on a beach. It was freedom, she told him. People back home were stuffy about exposed women’s breasts. 

“Tight asses,” he believes were the words she used. 

He stays an hour. That’s it. He’s reached his tolerance level for beaches. The idea of the beach was better than the experience of spending a lot of time on it; Anne and he had agreed on that. They would travel hundreds, even thousands of miles to go to one to spend a few hours over several days on it.

The next morning. Sunday, he’s out of the hotel by ten. At the train station he buys a ticket to Saint-Jean-de-Luz. Anne and he had read about the charming Basque fishing village twelve miles to the south. A short trip by train, it was sure to be a nice afternoon getaway. 

They drifted through the streets and had a café noisette and a snack. After that they walked along Promenade Jacques Thibaud, stopping here and there to stare at the ocean and sunbathers, the fishing boats unloading their catch. To take in the magnificence of a brilliant afternoon. At the end of the promenade, they turned around. By then it was three o’clock. They were hungry. They went back into town to look for a place to eat. Approaching a restaurant, they saw people sitting at the outdoor tables eating seafood served over ice on giant silver platters. Some were double and tripled stacked. 

“What is that called?” he said. 

“It’s called a lot of fresh seafood,” Anne said. 

They wanted some. Had to have. Inside the door they spoke to a waiter.

Pointing at the trays on the tables, Anne said, “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” 

“Plateau de fruits de mer,” the waiter said. 

All the outside seats were occupied. They were led to a small table next to the open windows. The waiter came back with the menu. Checking it out, their enthusiasm waned when they saw the prices. The plateau they wanted was almost a full day’s budget. Two levels tall, it had crabs, clams, oysters, prawns, langoustines, scallops, and mussels. Bread and butter, lemons, and a sauce with vinegar and minced shallot came with it. They were down to their last few traveler’s checks and the francs they had with them. Enough to cover one more night in Biarritz then one in Paris before they flew back to Boston.

They talked about other entrees until Anne said, “Don’t think about the price. We’re here. Now. We’ll make it work.”

That would cut it close. They figured to the franc how much they had left. If they ate in their room in Paris. If they skipped lunch tomorrow. If they bought the cheapest bottle of wine. It was possible. There they were in Saint-Jean-de-Luz with the decision in front of them. 

“Plateau de fruits de mer pour une personne,” he answers the waiter’s question.

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Paul Perilli’s recent fiction appears in Overland, Fairlight Books, Unlikely Stories, and many others. His recent nonfiction appears in Thema, Otoliths, Bridge Eight Press, and others. His novelette “The Luckier I Get” is forthcoming in Aethlon. A novel excerpt “Another Day in Paradise” is forthcoming in The Write Launch.

Photo Credit: Amanda Yskamp is a writer and a collagist. Her artwork has appeared in such magazines as Black Rabbit, Riddled with Arrows, and Stoneboat. She is the poetry editor and frequent cover designer for WordRunner e-chapbooks. She lives on the 10-year flood plain of the Russian River, teaching writing from her online classroom and serving as a librarian at the local elementary school.