Read Online The Paris Key by Juliet Blackwell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Juliet Blackwell
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me and the things around me alter my love.ââ
âWhat does that mean?â asked Angela.
âThat he loves her, and that his love for her changes everything.â
But Angela wasnât so sure. She thought maybe it meant that his love was ephemeral, hard to pin down. That the things around his love changed his love.
And as for Simone de Beauvoir, Angela knew there were feminist lessons in de Beauvoirâs prose, but what most spoke to her was the sense of longing, the never-quite-fulfilled yearning of a couple destined to spend their lives together, while never actually marrying, never living together, never making the ultimate commitment.
Angela hadnât known how to put her feelings into words, and she wasnât ready to voice it to Jim, but there was something seductive about the challenge to love a man beyond all reason, to take everything her man could dish out. Not outright abuse, of course, nothing like that. Just like Lady Day singing, âHush now, donât explainâ and Janis Joplin, begging her guy to âtake another little piece of my heart. . . . Iâm going to show you . . . that a woman can be tough.â And Simone de Beauvoir, the woman who was described as the mother of the feminist movement, stating that her greatest achievement in life had been her relationship to Jean-Paul Sartre, the philandering philosopher who received so much more public acclaim than she in life, when she was arguably the more revolutionary thinker.
Angela had wanted, back then, to give herself to Jim in this way. Heart and soul. Rationality be damned.
But Jim was won over easily, expecting her only to be a partner and helpmate as they returned to the land, started a family, ate organic vegetables, savored the simple pleasures. Even in this he is not overly demanding; she escapes from time to time to sleep on a friendâs couch on OâFarrell Street in San Francisco, just to get away. Jim is patient. He is steady. He is a good man.
She is very lucky. Everyone says so.
The weariness is heavy within her, dragging her down. She is exhausted. She went to bed before dinner last night and didnât get up until eleven today, but still she is fatigued.
Très fatiguée
is a French term that seems particularly apt not only to her body, but to her soul as well.
Perhaps it is oxygen deprivation. If a person stops breathing, eventually she must stop living, right? Or would pieces of her start to die off first, small bits not integral to life?
She turns this idea over in her mind as she walks.
The small toe would probably be first to go. Perhaps earlobes, hair, the fingernails, which had become virtually useless with the advance of civilization and the decline in the need for claws. Or perhaps it would be invisible parts inside oneâs body: the appendix, or tissue-thin linings, or tiny glistening organs one never even realized one possessed. Or maybe it would be parts of the brain or soul . . . her sense of humor, for example.
Angela crosses the bridge and finds herself on the Ãle-de-France, passing by the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. A swollen line of tourists waits to climb to the top to visit the gargoyles, while herds of visitors surge into the open entrance of the sanctuary itself. The tourists are red-faced and grumbling, cameras hanging around their necks, plastic bags bulging with tchotchkes purchased out of boredom or habit from the ubiquitous souvenir shops: mini gargoyles, music boxes that play âLa Vie en Rose,â tea towels and refrigerator magnets and T-shirts that proclaim a love for Paris, proof of oneâs international credentials upon returning to Spokane and Midland and Columbus.
Angela keeps her head down and pretends not to speak English, feeling embarrassed by the prosperous, well-fed Americans. The strong U.S. dollar brings them flocking to Europe, clogging medieval streets as they arrive in their air-conditioned tourist
âWhat does that mean?â asked Angela.
âThat he loves her, and that his love for her changes everything.â
But Angela wasnât so sure. She thought maybe it meant that his love was ephemeral, hard to pin down. That the things around his love changed his love.
And as for Simone de Beauvoir, Angela knew there were feminist lessons in de Beauvoirâs prose, but what most spoke to her was the sense of longing, the never-quite-fulfilled yearning of a couple destined to spend their lives together, while never actually marrying, never living together, never making the ultimate commitment.
Angela hadnât known how to put her feelings into words, and she wasnât ready to voice it to Jim, but there was something seductive about the challenge to love a man beyond all reason, to take everything her man could dish out. Not outright abuse, of course, nothing like that. Just like Lady Day singing, âHush now, donât explainâ and Janis Joplin, begging her guy to âtake another little piece of my heart. . . . Iâm going to show you . . . that a woman can be tough.â And Simone de Beauvoir, the woman who was described as the mother of the feminist movement, stating that her greatest achievement in life had been her relationship to Jean-Paul Sartre, the philandering philosopher who received so much more public acclaim than she in life, when she was arguably the more revolutionary thinker.
Angela had wanted, back then, to give herself to Jim in this way. Heart and soul. Rationality be damned.
But Jim was won over easily, expecting her only to be a partner and helpmate as they returned to the land, started a family, ate organic vegetables, savored the simple pleasures. Even in this he is not overly demanding; she escapes from time to time to sleep on a friendâs couch on OâFarrell Street in San Francisco, just to get away. Jim is patient. He is steady. He is a good man.
She is very lucky. Everyone says so.
The weariness is heavy within her, dragging her down. She is exhausted. She went to bed before dinner last night and didnât get up until eleven today, but still she is fatigued.
Très fatiguée
is a French term that seems particularly apt not only to her body, but to her soul as well.
Perhaps it is oxygen deprivation. If a person stops breathing, eventually she must stop living, right? Or would pieces of her start to die off first, small bits not integral to life?
She turns this idea over in her mind as she walks.
The small toe would probably be first to go. Perhaps earlobes, hair, the fingernails, which had become virtually useless with the advance of civilization and the decline in the need for claws. Or perhaps it would be invisible parts inside oneâs body: the appendix, or tissue-thin linings, or tiny glistening organs one never even realized one possessed. Or maybe it would be parts of the brain or soul . . . her sense of humor, for example.
Angela crosses the bridge and finds herself on the Ãle-de-France, passing by the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. A swollen line of tourists waits to climb to the top to visit the gargoyles, while herds of visitors surge into the open entrance of the sanctuary itself. The tourists are red-faced and grumbling, cameras hanging around their necks, plastic bags bulging with tchotchkes purchased out of boredom or habit from the ubiquitous souvenir shops: mini gargoyles, music boxes that play âLa Vie en Rose,â tea towels and refrigerator magnets and T-shirts that proclaim a love for Paris, proof of oneâs international credentials upon returning to Spokane and Midland and Columbus.
Angela keeps her head down and pretends not to speak English, feeling embarrassed by the prosperous, well-fed Americans. The strong U.S. dollar brings them flocking to Europe, clogging medieval streets as they arrive in their air-conditioned tourist
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