Read Online Hidden in Paris by Corine Gantz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Corine Gantz
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The room smelled of detergent and vomit from last night’s misery. Althea was cold to her core despite the sweaters and blankets. She was stiff on her bed, reading the same words over and over. She licked her chapped lips for the fiftieth time. Her lips were getting worse, but she had stopped using lip balm because of its fat content. She had been so bad last night.
She read the small ad again, six little black lines of text, and shook her head to chase it away. She’d read that ad a dozen times already, trying to dismiss it, yet her gaze kept drifting back to it, until she was forced to stop long enough to feel “it.” The silly words in that small ad were like a promise of
something
. Reading the paper became increasingly difficult. Any reading required racking effort, but this morning, she was cold, and there was a picture of a lagoon somewhere in the Pacific Ocean on the first page of the travel section. The title of the article, “Alone in the Sun. Go and Discover Your Inner Fish,” floated in lagoon waters. In the heart of a seemingly endless winter, photographs of the heavenly island seemed nonsensical. Warmth and beauty and a shallow translucent sea accessible to no one. For Althea, realizing that going there would have been anybody’s dream was a blow, because she was incapable of such a dream. The picture had no impact on her, the words had no meaning. Go? She had no strength. Discover? She had no curiosity. Alone? She cared for no one. In the sun? She had no interest whatsoever. Tropical Paradise held no promise of well-being to her.
But again, her weary eyes drifted away from the lagoon pictures and towards the small print ad buried amongst many.
Start over in Paris! Lovely rooms in a beautiful private home. Nurturing environment. Children welcome. Affordable. Meals included. Best area of Paris. English spoken. Call
*****
Althea couldn’t peel her eyes from the bold letters. “
Start over in Paris
.” What did it mean? Whatever it meant, it spoke to a desire she didn’t know she had, and lately, the faintest desire was like an oasis. Every word in that ad was a little caress that stirred up an incomprehensible longing.
She had studied French for many years. Also Spanish, German, Latin, and Italian. Althea had a peculiar gift for languages. That and drawing, her two useless talents. She’d had some indistinct plans of going to France, years ago, but as usual, more realistic and sensible plans had been carried through. Althea wasn’t going anywhere. Her mom needed her. As far back as Althea could remember, her mom had repeated, “Had it not been for Althea, I would have killed myself long ago.” Althea tossed the newspaper into the trash. But now something was happening, in spite of herself. Something extraordinary. The small, soft wing of a desire fluttered in her heart.
She authorized herself breakfast. Two liters of very black tea, unsweetened. Two apples cut in quarters. She would eat, slowly, methodically, over an hour while watching the Food Channel. She’d go back to the trash long after breakfast and forage for the cores and eat them, and this would leave her overwhelmed with shame and panic. But when the cooking show ended, instead of cleaning up after breakfast, she observed her fingers dial for the operator to find out what time it was in Paris. She went to the trashcan, and instead of the apple core, she retrieved the travel section of the paper. She dialed the number and sat on the corner of her table, with the receiver nudged between her ear and her shoulder while her arms were crossed over her chest in an attempt to protect herself from unknown enemies. There were a dozen rings, and the space between the rings became eternities. Althea was going to hang up and suddenly a woman’s voice, so close.
“Allo?”
“Hello? Do...do you speak...English?” Althea asked.
“I sure do. Don’t mind the heavy breathing. I was all the way upstairs and had to run down to get the
The room smelled of detergent and vomit from last night’s misery. Althea was cold to her core despite the sweaters and blankets. She was stiff on her bed, reading the same words over and over. She licked her chapped lips for the fiftieth time. Her lips were getting worse, but she had stopped using lip balm because of its fat content. She had been so bad last night.
She read the small ad again, six little black lines of text, and shook her head to chase it away. She’d read that ad a dozen times already, trying to dismiss it, yet her gaze kept drifting back to it, until she was forced to stop long enough to feel “it.” The silly words in that small ad were like a promise of
something
. Reading the paper became increasingly difficult. Any reading required racking effort, but this morning, she was cold, and there was a picture of a lagoon somewhere in the Pacific Ocean on the first page of the travel section. The title of the article, “Alone in the Sun. Go and Discover Your Inner Fish,” floated in lagoon waters. In the heart of a seemingly endless winter, photographs of the heavenly island seemed nonsensical. Warmth and beauty and a shallow translucent sea accessible to no one. For Althea, realizing that going there would have been anybody’s dream was a blow, because she was incapable of such a dream. The picture had no impact on her, the words had no meaning. Go? She had no strength. Discover? She had no curiosity. Alone? She cared for no one. In the sun? She had no interest whatsoever. Tropical Paradise held no promise of well-being to her.
But again, her weary eyes drifted away from the lagoon pictures and towards the small print ad buried amongst many.
Start over in Paris! Lovely rooms in a beautiful private home. Nurturing environment. Children welcome. Affordable. Meals included. Best area of Paris. English spoken. Call
*****
Althea couldn’t peel her eyes from the bold letters. “
Start over in Paris
.” What did it mean? Whatever it meant, it spoke to a desire she didn’t know she had, and lately, the faintest desire was like an oasis. Every word in that ad was a little caress that stirred up an incomprehensible longing.
She had studied French for many years. Also Spanish, German, Latin, and Italian. Althea had a peculiar gift for languages. That and drawing, her two useless talents. She’d had some indistinct plans of going to France, years ago, but as usual, more realistic and sensible plans had been carried through. Althea wasn’t going anywhere. Her mom needed her. As far back as Althea could remember, her mom had repeated, “Had it not been for Althea, I would have killed myself long ago.” Althea tossed the newspaper into the trash. But now something was happening, in spite of herself. Something extraordinary. The small, soft wing of a desire fluttered in her heart.
She authorized herself breakfast. Two liters of very black tea, unsweetened. Two apples cut in quarters. She would eat, slowly, methodically, over an hour while watching the Food Channel. She’d go back to the trash long after breakfast and forage for the cores and eat them, and this would leave her overwhelmed with shame and panic. But when the cooking show ended, instead of cleaning up after breakfast, she observed her fingers dial for the operator to find out what time it was in Paris. She went to the trashcan, and instead of the apple core, she retrieved the travel section of the paper. She dialed the number and sat on the corner of her table, with the receiver nudged between her ear and her shoulder while her arms were crossed over her chest in an attempt to protect herself from unknown enemies. There were a dozen rings, and the space between the rings became eternities. Althea was going to hang up and suddenly a woman’s voice, so close.
“Allo?”
“Hello? Do...do you speak...English?” Althea asked.
“I sure do. Don’t mind the heavy breathing. I was all the way upstairs and had to run down to get the
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