Actually he wasn’t fat at all—just big, with a barrel chest and broad shoulders.
“Well, you can’t look that much like him,” I said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have stabbed you with those keys.”
“Well, unless he’s really difficult to work for,” said Laurent, downing his coffee. “Ah. That’s better. Am I dry?”
His curly hair stuck up in all directions and he had a lot of dark stubble on his chin.
“Do you have any big meetings tomorrow?” I said.
“That bad, huh?” he said. “Hmm.”
“So why did Sami want to introduce us?” I said.
“Oh, Sami likes to think he knows everyone.” Laurent thought about this and qualified the statement. “Okay, he does know everyone. He thought it was funny, you turning up.”
“Why?”
“Well…because.”
“What?”
“Because he knows my dad and I…we don’t get on that well.”
It was hard to imagine anyone not getting on with the avuncular Thierry.
“Oh no! Why not?”
Laurent held up his hands. “Just father-son stuff…nothing, really.”
“He seems pretty happy to me,” I said.
Laurent looked quite fiery. “Really? That is why he weighs six hundred pounds maybe? This is what a happy man looks like?”
I looked nervous. “Well, your mother seems to keep him in line.”
“That’s not my mother.”
I figured I’d probably said enough for one night, as Laurent finished his coffee up. He looked up at me, his smile back, his shortness forgotten.
“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t think I make a very good first impression.”
“Apart from the attempted mugging and the terrible parent issues,” I said, “you’re doing totally fine. Do you want me to pay for the coffee too?”
He looked a little shocked till he saw I was joking.
“No,” he said. “Are you any good? At chocolate, I mean. Not violence.”
I shrugged. “My old boss said I had a nose, whatever that is. But your father does things very differently. I’m going to try my best.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Maybe I should poach you.”
“Good luck with that,” I said, smiling. Suddenly I felt exhausted. “I…I owe someone a favor,” I said. “To stay. And do what I’m doing.”
I looked around onto the street, still thronged with night people.
“Even if coming to Paris is a bit…”
“Un peu trop?” said Laurent quietly, in French. A little too much?
“It’s been a long day.”
“Come on then,” he said. “I came to take you home. I will.”
I followed him out onto the street, wondering where his car was. But it wasn’t a car. Tucked up just under a railway bridge, about three hundred feet away, was a beautiful shiny little powder blue Vespa.
“Only way in town,” he said, when he saw me look at it.
“It’s cool,” I said.
“It’s essential,” he said, even though he looked too big for it. He unlocked the seat and handed me a pale blue helmet that matched the bike, putting on a vintage black one with large old-fashioned goggles of his own.
“What is this, the girl’s helmet?” I joked, before realizing it smelled partly of hairspray. Well, of course, he must have a girlfriend. Probably tons. I felt a little odd putting it on.
“You’ve been on a scooter before?” he asked.
“Oh no, I haven’t,” I said, the helmet halfway up my head. “Is it just like a bike?”
“No,” he said, scratching his head. “No, it really isn’t. Uhm. Just. Okay, move when I move, okay? Like, if I lean over…”
“Lean the other way, for balance,” I said promptly.
“Uh-oh,” said Laurent.
“No?”
“The opposite. When I lean, you lean.”
“Won’t we fall over?”
“Probably,” said Laurent. “How bouncy are you?”
- - -
Riding through the Parisian dark, clutching a large man on a tiny bike (with a man bag over his shoulder—all French men had them, I noticed; they seemed to make perfect sense), I tried to follow his lead as to when to lean (it got easier after the first few times). It was hard to predict though, as he never signaled and often didn’t wait for lights to change, simply plowing straight ahead. The first few times, I buried my face in his soft leather jacket. After that, finding myself still alive, I attempted to trust him and began to take some notice of my surroundings.
We roared down the Champs-Élysées, its broad pavements and tall white buildings glowing in the moonlight, and the buildings, tall and stately, glowing in the lights. The cars honked, and every time we turned slightly toward the left, I would see it there, following us like the moon: the great, unmistakable form of the zigzagging Eiffel Tower, lit up with spotlights like a VIP, which of course, she is. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, standing there so brazenly, nothing tall around her that could lessen her impact.
“What are you doing?” growled the voice on the front of the bike as I twisted my body to get a better look.
“Sightseeing,” I said back, half my answer lost in the wind rushing past us.
“Well, stop it. Follow me.”
And he grabbed my right knee quite forcibly and tugged it more tightly around his waist. I clung on tighter and let the sights of Paris come to me as they would; a church here, its square belfry askew; the great shop windows of the stores glinting in the streetlights; the occasional snatches of west African rap from passing cars; once, on a street corner, a couple slow dancing to music only they could hear. A crescent moon, a gentle scent of perfume and flowers as we passed the Place des Vosges, the air fresh but not cold against my skin, Laurent in front still traveling at what seemed to me terrifying speeds, the old street lamps flashing past us.
Suddenly, even though I didn’t know where I was or what I was doing, not really, and quite possibly with the help of two martinis, I felt amazing. Nobody, nobody in the world, apart from Laurent, who didn’t count as I didn’t know him—nobody knew where I was, or what I was doing, or what I was up to. I didn’t know what lay ahead, I didn’t know what I was going to do with the rest of my life, whether I was going to succeed or fail, meet someone or stay single, travel or go home.