Paris Pickpocket
Looking at Paris in this light, Darren suddenly understood the lure and the reason he had taken on this assignment. Plus, it was always good to get away, especially after the last episode, which still constricted his heart.
Darren shifted the hood from his forehead to get a better view. Ahead, the deserted streets and iconic Haussmann buildings seemed to weep with joy, clad in a summer rain shower's solitude. He focused his camera lens; he couldn't let the moment pass and snapped a series of complicated photographs of balconies holding out their aprons and capturing God's tears' silver droplets.
"So, I'm not the only one." Giselle smiled at the man whom she'd been tailing for a week. Americans made easy targets, especially those who traveled alone, and men, well what could she say, they fell like timber with one small word. Easy pickings.
The voice of the woman next to him startled him. When he turned to face her, his surprise was complete. Since arriving, he had seen her several times, appearing and vanishing into the crowd.
"You American?" Darren asked, longing for conversation. The city might spark romance in others, but his heart didn't speak that sort of language, yet. Although he enjoyed solitude, he also enjoyed a meaningful conversation and drinking alone, regardless of how quaint the bistro, was just that, lonely.
"No. I'm French. Born just there." Giselle pointed toward the line of Juliet balconies draped with baskets blossoming in a profusion of flowers, strung down the entire block in a repeating pattern. She had never set foot in any of those buildings. Giselle enjoyed living out of harm's way on the less grand side streets. But she knew Paris like the back of her swift hand.
While the gathering rainwater puddled at her feet, she hoisted the umbrella higher to make room for him, and with a smile, she invited him to join her under the canopy.
"Your English is perfect." Darren was eager to talk. It was the one thing he couldn't forgive the French, their reluctance to engage in conversation. At the hotel, the staff was polite enough, but it ended there. He'd traveled to much warmer, welcoming cities despite language difficulties. The French could learn a thing from Latin Americans.
"My father was an American. He insisted."
Giselle had the simple lie down pat. Yes, it was true. Her father was American, at least that was the story her mother had told her. Even once he knew of her existence, her father had never taught her a damn thing.
"Was he a soldier during the war?" Darren had done the math--yes, many legendary soldiers planted their seeds in foreign soil. It was the spoils of war.
She nodded, and Darren ducked beneath the umbrella imprinted with Monet's lilies. She introduced herself as Giselle. American men loved exotic names; it helped to complete their fantasy. And they didn't need to know her real--plain name. She grasped his elbow when he offered to balance the umbrella between them. She squeezed and smiled up at him. He needed to understand one thing about himself, and Giselle wasn't about to deny him. Cavalier is what they all wanted to be until it came time to pay up.
Of course, Darren had been warned about French women's enticing draw, and although he had initially scoffed at the idea, it was proving to be true. American women might have it in spades with their equal rights movement, expensive hairdos, manufactured nails, breasts, and whatnots, but these women were pure, confident in being women. It seemed, from watching them for a week, they also understood men so much better for it. Giselle exuded elegance, and the scent of subtle roses invaded his blood. He felt the gentle pressure of her hand on his arm, and that for the moment, the avenue ahead belonged to them alone. He wondered if he should brave asking her out to lunch. Maybe something more intimate later. Her ring finger was bare. He could see that clearly enough on the fingers splayed on his sleeve.
Stealing sideways glances, which wasn't hard as he was taller by a foot, he enjoyed the view. He gauged her to be at least forty. A young and elegant forty, and she possessed that signature French woman allure he had read about: grace.
"Business or leisure?" She asked, gripping his arm tighter. Darren allowed himself to be led along the wide sidewalk. Here and there, locals and tourists ducked in and out of doorways. But most people had wisely decided to wait out the deluge. Lucky for her. She had also learned something integral about American men. They had a passion for inflating their own ego. She didn't mind feeding their insatiable appetite and had a recipe for just about any specimen. Smiling at them just melted their protective shell.
"A bit of both. I work for an American magazine. Came to see what the fuss was about."
"Impressive. Might I have heard of it? Must be so glamorous to jet set all across the world." She brought her right hand across and swiftly replaced it for her left arm. Giselle nodded. As if he was the first time to make the admission about her city, although she had heard it a thousand times. How arrogant? She smiled wider. There wasn't a grain of doubt in her mind--Paris was worth the fuss.
They walked arm in arm for a block. Squeezing his elbow from time to time, Giselle ran away on the running commentary about the street. "Monet had a mistress up there, de Gaulle was born just there." She gestured with her free hand. "And I think Madonna bought a flat in this building." She pointed to the lavish front door. Giselle was the unofficial history ledger on the street--all of it a lie.
The rain was slowing to a misty whisper, the puddles stopped shivering in circles. Just as suddenly as their interlude started, Giselle brought them to a standstill at the corner.
"This is my stop. Enjoy your visit. It's been a pleasure." This was always the most challenging part of the sequence. She had to keep them off guard and know just when to make her move. She couldn't afford for them to take it beyond the short saunter down the street. Giselle let go of his arm, reached for her umbrella, and smiled. She could feel his eyes on her back, watching as she sauntered the few strides it took to reach the corner. She waved just as she turned out of sight, all the while holding her breath. Once around the corner, she squared her shoulders and picked up the pace. Without glancing backward, she took the first side alley and vanished among the cobbles, the locals who made these narrow warrens their home. She was already late, and mama would be worried. Deep inside the false pocket of her long trench coat, she felt for her reward. Its heart pounded through the smooth leather. This would take care of the bills, the cost of keeping him alive for another month.
Darren felt elated and dumbstruck. He'd been too slow in asking her to lunch, and it just didn't seem right to holler after her. That would be in poor taste. But the intimate interlude had made his day; he could feel himself grinning. Giselle had abandoned him right in front of a bistro, and the aroma of freshly percolated coffee beckoned his appetite. He entered the bistro, full of patrons waiting out the rain, and ordered un café Américain and a sumptuous pastry. He deserved to indulge.
Darren patted himself down at the cash register, shoved his hand deep inside the pockets of his trousers, the four pockets in his windbreaker. In a flash, his mind did a run-through: he had gone to the bank, withdrew the daily maximum, and put his wallet in his right hand, inside pocket. He had kept his camera strapped around his neck for safekeeping, and then he had stepped out on the street, saw the incredible opportunity, and took snapshots. And then Giselle intruded.
Another sharp image stabbed him. This is what he had done to his ex-wife. He had done just what Giselle had done to him. His hand flew to smack his forehead--a sucker born every minute. He'd been robbed.
