Page 36, “The Persuasion”
A loud knock on my door woke me from a strange dream. The teenager who’d made the cryptic comments in the café was sitting on the bed, giving advice about Tonin. I told her I’d seen her dress before, or perhaps a version of it, a tightly corseted garnet number with a long full skirt, the sort women wore in the 19th-century, but that I couldn’t remember where. She pointed to her hair, as if I should remember that too, said that she always wore it pulled back in a twist of tight set curls, and asked me if I’d like to take the sprig of dark-cherry heliotrope stuck behind her ear.
“Mademoiselle!” The proprietor called, pounding again on the door. “Mademoiselle, il y a un jeune homme vous attendant en bas.”
I grabbed my notebook to scribble down the dream—and realized that the only jeune homme who could possibly be downstairs was the one whose scent was still on my hand.
I pawed through my suitcase for the black lace bra and panties mon ami had bought me when we were last in Paris (so there), pulled my snug red-and-blue-striped jersey dress over my head, zipped up my black boots, squeezed a glob of toothpaste onto my finger and swiped it across my teeth, swooshed some water around my mouth and spit it out in the blue-porcelain washbasin, ran my fingers through my tangle of curls, and, about to close the door behind me, pushed it open again, darted back in, dug into my suitcase once more, this time for the plastic clam shell case and tube of spermicide, stuffed them in my satchel, whipped through the door, and zipped down the stairs, slowing my steps on the final flight.
In the pool of sunlight in the small lobby stood Tonin in a black blazer and turtleneck, jeans, and worn leather boots; in his hand, a bouquet of dark-cherry heliotrope. I flushed.
“Á tu, Marie-Jeanne.” He bowed, extending the flowers, as an old woman in a vintage crimson dress, what my mother would have called a frock, walked through the hotel door clapping.
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