Page 48 of Heathens
We opt to walk from the Les Halles station along the Seine to Notre Dame. It's close to midnight, and like every other night, the city is still teeming with people. Throngs of teenagers pass us, cigarettes dangling out of their mouths if they're French, and purses slung over their shoulders if they're tourists. The artists along the Seine are still there, grouped every hundred feet or so, in no rush to pack up and go home. Cars zoom by on the street—taxis mostly. The scent of falafel—a favorite for people just getting out of the bar—wafts through the air, as does Nutella-smeared crepes. It's cooled down since earlier, and as Salem and I talk about anything and everything, I realize... this is the life I want.
Paris, with him by my side, for the rest of my life.
That familiar sadness fills me again, knowing it’s not something he wants.
Knowing that I could never compete with God.
Knowing that ... I could never be enough.
It stings. More than I’d like to admit.
When we walk up to the old cathedral, I tilt my head up and look at the towers; all lit up for the city. And then I think, how many souls have stood in this very spot and looked up at the magnificent cathedral? How many feet have touched this place? How many hearts has Notre Dame affected? If one word etched into the wall inspired an entire book, undoubtedly millions of others have been inspired by its otherworldly beauty and unconventional magnificence. The stone gargoyles atop the towers look out into the city.
I wonder what they would say if they could talk.
“Want to see the best view of Paris?” Salem asks, murmuring something to the guard in French. He lets us through the front gates, and another guard tips his hat to Salem, letting us pass through the front door and into the church.
“Always.”
He smiles and takes my hand, leading me down a hallway to our right. And then we climb. I have to stop about a hundred steps in. I need to sit down a few minutes later, my thighs revolting.
“Don’t look through the windows yet. Wait until we get to the top.”
I don’t explain that I’m just concentrating on not dying from the ascent. “Okay.”
A hundred steps later and I’m sweating. My legs are burning, and I’m breathing heavily.
“Almost there,” Salem says, panting just as hard as me. His eyes are shining with excitement. I know he’s lying. I know we’re not almost there, but I hold my tongue, because he’s trying to be encouraging.
I count over a hundred more steps, round and round, and by the time it levels out, I want to collapse.
“Salem,” I say, barely able to speak.
“Just look,” he says, pulling me onto a patio and allowing my lungs no time to recover.
I gasp, my chest rising and falling as I try to gulp the air like water. A bird's eye view of Paris, indeed. I've never been up here, nor the Eiffel tower. Never seen the city from this height in the almost three years I've been living here. It is monumental—so spread out, spanning further than my eyes can see—that it almost hurts to look. The Seine snakes through the city, the large monuments close to it. I sometimes forget that cities formed around rivers, and not the other way around. I glimpse the famous snail grid—the homogenous, gothic structures, the Edwardian buildings, the gardens, the brasseries all lit up with bulb lights. I see it all. The city, summed up in one glance. The green roofs. The arched bridges. The narrow, winding streets that disappear into the distance.
“I love this city because you can see the evidence of so many centuries,“ Salem mumbles from beside me. I didn't even realize I was leaning against the wall until I look down onto the city. It's like the energy pulled me as close to the edge as I could go, without me even realizing it. Normally I'm terrified of heights, but tonight, I'm not. “Victor Hugo once said that the city renews itself every fifty years. As if each generation makes their mark upon it, one era on top of the last one, like the sediment in the earth. I'd give anything to see a one-thousand year time-lapse of this place.“
“Wow. Can you imagine what kinds of things it'd capture?“ I look out across the city again. “The Eiffel Tower is sparkling,“ I say, pointing toward the glittering structure to our right, a few kilometers away. The air is crackling with sound up here. Accordions, voices, sirens. The shrill calls of swallows flying through the darkening sky. Even three-hundred feet up, the orchestra that is Paris lulls me into a peaceful contentedness.
I feel Salem come up behind me, placing both hands against the railing on either side of me.
“Do you feel it?” he whispers into my ear.
“What?” I ask, goosebumps erupting along my arms as a warm breeze flutters along my skin.
“God.” His words zap me, and I close my eyes, waiting for divine intervention. I feel—something. An energy I can’t quite form words around, like attempting to bottle a smell or trying to grip a ball that’s too big. Just when I think I know what he means, it slips away. He continues. “I feel God every day. Before, it happened sporadically, but now... I feel this all the time around you,” he murmurs. “When I’m with you, it doesn’t feel wrong. It doesn’t feel blasphemous. It feels like God’s doing, Lily.” The sound of my name on his lips makes me lean back into him. He plants a chaste kiss on my cheek. “You make me want to give it all up.”
I turn around in his arms so that I’m facing him. “I don’t want you to give it all up. I want you to be happy.”
“You make me happy,” he replies, nipping my lips with his and pulling my waist into him. Blood rushes through my head as he continues. “You make me really fucking happy.”
“But—”
He places a hand over my lips. “Don’t.” His eyes search mine. The way he’s looking at me, like I’m something he wants to worship, like he wants to kneel to me and only me... I stop moving completely. I stop breathing.
I stopbeing.
