Contingency

by Susan Weber

Les Patios du Marais is like no other lodging I have ever encountered. Several buildings circumscribe a densely planted courtyard. I weave through the lushness, catching up with a young woman from reception. Her high heels click, my roller bag bumps across the cobblestones. A stooped man with a garden hose sprays the vegetation.

We pass through a gate and spiral up three flights of stairs. At a narrow landing we enter the leftmost door. This brings us to a tiny vestibule with two more doors. Her lacquered fingers brush the keypad on our right. I enter my passcode, the latch clicks, and she turns to examine me.

“This is your room.” She points to the small plate by the door. As I study the glyphs, she tells me more. The letters and numbers indicate the building, floor, and which side of a tiny vestibule each apartment occupies. “Do you think you will remember how we did this?” she says, concern in her elegant features.

I think she figures me for a doddering fool. But maybe not. People might get confused by all these twists and turns.“Third floor, left door, right door, passcode, in,” I say. She smiles and takes her leave.

A studio apartment in the heart of Paris sounds romantic. This one really is. Charming details of the compact space complement the whole. It’s my tasteful, cheerful home for the next three nights. Leafy vines frame the open window. I look out at tiled roofs and chimney stacks. Pigeons coo soft as summer breeze.

Before I shower, I make sure the apartment door is locked—the solo traveler’s discretion. Much refreshed, I descend to the courtyard. The gardener smoking at a small wood table reaches up to press the button on the wall. The door swings open to the street.

The tourist shops that line Rue d’Arcole say I must be close. People point skyward, murmuring what they know. High above the chain link fence and caution tape Notre Dame slumbers, a beached whale her grieving friends are not allowed to touch. If we could only hear a sigh, the merest heartbeat rising from the barnacled hide. I pull the reverence of a thousand tongues around me as I go.

Further on, music draws me to it. The bridge is filled with listeners surrounding the upright piano, the player absorbed in his masterpiece. Yellow vested agitators licking ice cream melt into the mesmerized crowd.

My lost legs take me to the grocery store and then to a bakery closing for the night. Croissants I’m not allowed to pay for join the baguette in a brown paper bag. In the wine store, the man at the register seems to know I’m alone here. Possibly I’ve just blurted out my situation, I don’t know. There’s so much to see, I say. You notice more on your own, he says. That’s all there is to do. That, and confide in perfect strangers I imagine.

In my room I spread the Paris map beside my simple meal. Bread, cheese, wine, and citrus salad. I’m too tired to think about tomorrow, but the pattern of the streets relaxes me. I’ve always been a friend of paper maps. At long last I sink into the too big bed and start to drift.

The door handle jiggles. Surely I’ve dreamt it, surely. Another jiggle gets me up. I call through the door. “Hello. What do you want?”

“It is GD3D, yes?” He has a plaintive voice, a French accent. I hear his confusion but I’m not about to open the door.

“This is my room,” I say. Could he be the previous tenant? What if they forgot to change the passcode?

“I left my things in there. Do you see them?” Again, a doleful plea.

I tell him only my things are here. He should talk to the management about his things. My voice is strangely tranquil; the rest of me is gale force winds. After a pause, the man says he’ll talk to them. All is still.

What if he comes back? What will I do? I try to google the Parisian version of 911 but my brain’s not giving me the search words. Should I have a weapon? A baseball bat comes to mind. Not helpful. I text kind friends I raised my kids with. They think he probably got mixed up about his room. Did he seem dangerous? He was either very tired or half drunk but what if he isn’t tired or drunk just devious? Can I call reception? No, it’s closed at night. Maybe email them? I do this. No response. My friends say how brave I am to travel alone and how they wish they were here with me now.

I’m not the least bit brave. I’m scared. Lonely. Stupid for ever coming here. Never going to do this again. I’m so tired. Waiting for the rattle at my door. Too tired to text. Lids heavy. Too tired to think. Breath slow. Too tired… to… too tired.


Photo Susan Weber CC BY-SA 4.0