Page 80 of The Sky in Summer
The eight hour difference would mean it is about three in the afternoon in Montana. She’s home most likely, to greet David and Tyler. She said there isn’t too much more time left to have that pleasure, so she tries to do it as much as her schedule allows. They are lucky to have her as their mother. I know what effect a great one can have on your life.
I look at the screen. A few of the usual players are there. My father, Aargon, Scarlett, Sam. Each day someone in the family checks my state of being. Skimming the messages, I know they deserve a closer look. But I don’t have it in me tonight. They check in without expecting a response necessarily. They know how busy it’s been since I arrived. The one name I search for is not there. The one I would have responded to immediately. Shit.
Maybe she is thinking about this the same way I have. What use is it to text back and forth? It would only make things harder to handle. And to what end? I am here, she is half a world away. It would be like picking a scab over and over. Healing would eventually be impossible.
The world love creates surprised me in its power to change my perception into something greater. Losing it is equally destructive. It takes everything away.
The days grow longer without her general joyfulness. I got used to being around it. If she were here, we would take long walks along the Seine. In winter, I would buy her toasted chestnuts in a little bag and we’d eat them on a park bench in front of Notre Dame. It would be wonderful. A perfect dream come true.
But as much as I imagine our adventures in Paris, it is another story that pushes it aside. Montana.
Fuck me. I’m going to bed.
Three weeks, five hundred and four hours, thirty thousand two hundred forty minutes. Eternity. Lately I have found being distracted is my best bet. Work takes up the bulk of time, especially since I have jumped wholeheartedly into the new job.
Mid-afternoon walks in the parks make room for appreciation. I am in Paris after all. The beauty of the city seems to have the ability to soothe the beast that stalks me. Even if it is only for an hour a day.
Jardin des Plantes is in the 5th arrondissement and the most beautiful of the botanical gardens. Hard to believe it was planted in sixteen twenty-six. It isn’t just the foliage and flowers. There are glass houses each with specific themes. Evolution, geology, mineralogy. Those are the ones I have scoped out so far. But I’m just starting. By next year I should have completed the tour. Maybe by then things will look brighter.
Today I skipped the botany gallerie for something more meaningful. As I was leaving the park, I accessed my UberX app. Good timing. There he is. I’m heading for another Parisian landmark. That is how the Lyons think of it anyway. The car pulls up and I get in. He has the location on the screen.
“Bonjour,” I say.
“Bonjour.”
“Etes-vous Americain?”
“Oui.”
We take off in silence, which works great for me. Don’t know exactly how he picked up I’m American. There must be a vibe I am not aware of. I don’t act like a typical tourist, no way. The minutes pass without me being aware. When you are living inside your head time becomes a different marker.
When he turns onto a narrow street in a timeworn part of town my radar picks up. We pass an old pharmacy, and a couple of alleyways between buildings.
So, this is the neighborhood where Gaston Lyon had his studio. It makes perfect sense. He sprang from modest beginnings. But he was able to live his dream from a young age. He was, is, and always will be an artist. It looks like you would still find starving artists working on their craft here. We pull over.
The driver runs my card and sends me off with a wave of a hand. As I stand on the corner, he passes headed for the next pickup. The car coughs, then continues. It is kind of exciting to be here, where all the magic happened. I check the numbers on the buildings as people pass me by. No one knows just how meaningful this place is.
There it is. The multi-leveled old building gives me a start when I realize it is the one. Immediately my eyes look up at the second floor. Just like they said, a tall window faces the street. And right in front, sits the bench my mother spoke about. There is a table and two chairs outside the café right next door. I don’t think that was here.
Moving toward the bench, a poignancy settles in me. I sit down and run my hand over the old wood and iron. I bet this is the very one she sat on, looking up at the bare-chested lion. I take a picture of the window and send it to the both of them.
We have heard the stories over the years. The building was over a hundred years old in nineteen sixty-nine. How it was difficult to see through the weathered pane, and how Dad use to preen in the mirror hanging in the studio. A shirtless sculptor who liked incense, looking down at the beautiful American hippie sitting on the bench looking up at him.
What they wore and what was said still lives in their minds. Once in a while private jokes about her suede fringed vest and his overalls pops up in conversation. Or a peace sign is exchanged and a chuckle. I suppose they will always see each other that way. Young, sexy, and living in a great time for both youth and sex. Must have been so cool.
It’s awesome having been raised by parents in love with each other. The bar is set high, but a man can really believe in its existence. Most people want it to be true but have never seen proof. I have. I see it now.
The smell of strong coffee and fresh baked goods reaches my nose. I turn to discover the tiny boulangerie a few shops away. That can’t be the same one that stood then, but maybe it is in the same spot, ten owners later. I snap a shot and then head there.
“Bonjour! Comment alley-vous?”
“Bonjour. Je suis bon.”
“American?”
Damn this is getting annoying. I thought my French was pretty good.
“Yes. But I live here.”
