I extract myself from Jean-Luc and turn back to the river. He’s right: a boat — long and sleek, with tinted windows — is slowly docking, the fog lifting from it. On the dock is a harassed-looking twenty-something guy in a black shirt and pants, with a clipboard, welcoming a few people who are waiting to get on. The boat looks even swankier than I expected.
We head over and join the small group boarding. I notice one of them — a short, squat guy with severe sideburns and a very haughty face — kind of pause when he sees me, his eyes going right to my orange sneakers. Why? Just because he is dressed to the nines just for a tour. In fact, his whole group looks like they’re going for dinner at a five-star restaurant.
But this is Paris, the world capital of fashion …
When it’s our turn to speak to Monsieur Clipboard — whose shirt is also fancy, except for the hummingbird on it — I start to dig out my tickets from my bag, but he just waves us on — I guess, to save some time. Part of me thinks I totally wasted twenty-two euros. A bigger part of me is like, Yeah, sure, Serena — like you’d ever have the nerve to con your way onto a tour boat.
“Let’s find a spot with a good view,” I tell Jean-Luc.
“A good view of what?” he asks, gesturing at the interior of the boat. He’s got a point — whereas the boats docked near the ticket booth had bench seats lining the windows, this one just has an empty floor, with a few small tables by the walls. The space is a lake of black and chrome. Certainly stylish but definitely not seasonal. Inside the doorway is an actual bar, and the speakers in the corners are playing jazz so smooth that I almost want to cough at the smoke I’m imagining filling the room.
“Maybe I got tickets to the party boat and didn’t notice?” I say.
Jean-Luc just laughs as we walk in. We hand our coats and bags off to another guy wearing a hummingbird shirt and sit down at a table. I can’t tell if it’s the tinted windows or just the fog or the weird lights in here — but the view of Paris is not exactly stunning. It feels more like I’m viewing it through polluted water.
Beside me, Jean-Luc shifts as he reaches into his pocket for his vibrating cell phone. From the way he stares at the screen (and the “+1” telephone code), I gather that “Paul Thayer” is his dad.
Jean-Luc rejects the call. Sees me looking at him. Shrugs. “Just my father, probably calling to ask if I have an answer.”
“An answer to what?”
He puts his phone back in his jeans pocket. “He’s inviting me to stay with him in the summer.”
“That’s nice of him.” From Jean-Luc’s grimace, I assume this was the wrong thing for me to say. But before I can follow up, a French voice startles me.
“Madame, Monsieur?” Yet another guy in a hummingbird shirt is looming over us, holding a tray of what looks like champagne.
I start to raise a hand in refusal, then remember — this is Europe, so I’m of legal drinking age. I take a flute, then look to Jean-Luc. “Is this how it’s done in Paris? Champagne for showing up?”
He shrugs back as he takes his own glass. “A special treat for Christmas?”
Of course the tour company would want to make the most of the festive season. Pretty cool that the drinks are free — I just wish I could see the sights of Paris a little better, but maybe the lights in here will go down once we set off?
I start to take a sip, but the boat lurches away from the dock, and I miss my mouth. I reach into my pocket for a tissue, laughing at myself. “Classy,” I tell Jean-Luc.
But he’s not listening to me. He’s eavesdropping on the well-dressed couple standing near us. As the jazz song slowly fades, I catch a snippet of French. I don’t understand a word, but the tone is definitely flirtatious.
I nudge Jean-Luc. “You know, it’s not nice to listen in on a private conversation.”
His eyebrows knit together, almost like he’s unable to understand them — which, of course, can’t be right.
“No, it’s not that,” he says. “I’m just surprised that I’m hearing only French people.” He leans back on the bench, his eyes sweeping the room, which lightly dips and rises with the swells of the Seine. “Where are all the Americans in baseball caps?”
Now that he’s mentioned it, I start to wonder, too. At first, I just have a mild feeling something’s off — but then a guy in a sharp suit walks by and gives us a kind of stink eye, and my gut starts to churn a little bit. It can’t just be my orange sneakers — something is way off here.
“Um, are you sure this is actually a tour boat?”
Jean-Luc doesn’t get a chance to answer, because a pinstriped arm appears out of nowhere and a perfectly manicured hand lifts him by the elbow to his feet. The rest of the man appears like he’s being drawn rapidly by an invisible artist. He’s a heavy guy, whose flushed cheeks tell me that he’s gone to town on the free bubbly. He starts talking in rapid French. It sounds like he’s asking a question, and Jean-Luc is … nodding? It’s hard to tell. He looks hesitant for a second, before he relaxes and begins to speak freely. The only word I make out is “Américaine,” and that might only be because he points at me when he says it.
Mr. Pinstripe turns to me and extends his hand, as a saxophone cover of a famous song, the title of which escapes me, starts up. His hand is clammy and gross, and his face is very serious as he practically bellows over the music: “Allô!”
“Hi!” I shout back, shooting a look at Jean-Luc in the hope that his expression might explain what’s going on here. His eyes tell me that, whatever is going on, it’s bad …
Mr. Pinstripe hollers again and leaves us, gesturing to the bar in the center of the room and spreading his hands as if to say, “Everything’s free.”
Now Jean-Luc takes my hand and guides me to the bar. I’m painfully self-conscious of the clamminess I caught from Mr. Pinstripe, but Jean-Luc doesn’t seem to care. He finishes his champagne, then signals an order to the bartender. He looks left and right, as if making sure we won’t be overheard.
When he confirms we’re in the clear, he leans in so close his lips brush the top of my ear. It’s the kind of thing I would usually find a little gross. “I have good news and bad news,” he says. “Which would you like to hear first?”
He leans back so I have to lean forward and shout into his ear. This conversation better be short, otherwise there’s a good chance we’ll both leave this boat deaf! “Does anyone ever ask for the good news first? Give me the bad.”
“The bad news is that this is not a tour boat. It is a boat hired out by some company called Colibri. That is French for ‘hummingbird.’” Aha. “This is their Christmas soirée.”
I put my face in my hands. “Oh, God, that’s what that big guy came over for? Is he going to throw us overboard for gate-crashing?”
When I look back up at him, he is grinning and blushing. “Well, this is the thing … Apparently, I look like someone they have just hired to start in the new year. An accountant named Louis. So … we have gotten away with it. For now.”
The bartender — a tall, pale woman with her hair pulled back into a topknot so tight that I worry it might pull the skin off her face — comes over with a couple more flutes of champagne. Jean-Luc thanks her.
“It is not all bad,” he says, raising a glass in a toast. “Louis from Accounting drinks for free.”
“And who do they think I am?”
He pauses, mid-sip. From the way he’s blushing again, I get the feeling I’m not going to like the answer. “Ah, well, I was thinking quickly, and I figured that maybe Louis would have a — how you say? — plus one. So I tell him … that you are my girlfriend from America.”
Well, I don’t know what to say to that.
Then something else — something a bit more relevant — hits me. “Hey … where exactly is this boat going?”
He just shrugs at me. “It will probably travel along the Seine for a while, then turn around and come back.”
“What about the Romance Tour?” This time, when I shout in his ear, I might be trying to give him a bit of an earache. Just a little.
Jean-Luc pats the air in a calm down sort of gesture. “If we try to get off now, we will have to get them to stop the boat and turn back. We will be ruining their whole party. I don’t see what other choice we have. We’re not getting off unless there’s some kind of emergency. I don’t suppose you have any heart condition?”
“I feel like I’m getting one,” I tell him.
He doesn’t say anything. He just slides the other flute toward me, raising his eyebrows. “Hey, we’re here … might as well try to enjoy it, huh?”
I pick up the champagne glass and look away. Of course he doesn’t think it’s a big deal to be crashing a party in Paris — people who live here tend not to have one-day itineraries burning holes in their coat pockets.
Then the smooth jazz explodes into “Get Lucky” by Daft Punk, and a roar goes up from the Hummingbird crew. I don’t know if it’s because they really like the song or because the elevator music has gone away. Even though my mind is furious about yet another diversion, my body (well, my head and my shoulders) totally sells me out. This song challenges anyone not to dance.
“You like this song?”
I dodge the question by throwing back my champagne. I look away from Jean-Luc again — not to hide my embarrassment, but because chugging the champagne just made me erupt into a huge sneeze. When I turn back to Jean-Luc, he is standing very formally, offering me a handshake. A handshake? No: he’s asking me to dance.
I let him lead me onto the dance floor — which is jam-packed with French office types — thinking, Jean-Luc is right, there’s really not much that we can do about our current situation. I bet Mom and Dad hit a few stumbling blocks on their honeymoon, right? They would also want me to have some fun. And I do love this song …
*
When the waiter passes by with a tray of champagne, I turn him down because I’m still in the middle of trying (failing) to do the cha-cha. We’ve been here about an hour, and I’ve just finished my third drink. If I have a fourth, I might not remember the awesome time I’m surprised I’m having at a floating office party with a crowd of French strangers.
When the song comes to a close, I look around for Jean-Luc. He’s standing on a chair — taking photos of the party. He’s got a big grin on his face, and it makes me happy to see this.
Then I wonder why the music hasn’t come back on.
Everyone falls silent and looks toward the far corner of the room. A spotlight — there’s a spotlight? How did I ever mistake this for a tour boat? — falls on a small raised stage, where Mr. Pinstripe has a microphone. He says a few things in French and gets a cheer. He says something else in French and gets a boo. A big, huge laugh for the next thing in French, and my champagne buzz is starting to fade. I start looking for the waiter. Actually, a fourth drink sounds like an excellent idea now …
“… Louis!”
Uh-oh. I don’t need to speak French to know who Mr. Pinstripe is talking to. The spotlight almost blinds me as it searches for Jean-Luc — still standing on a chair and unable to escape the attention of his “colleagues,” who start chanting: “Lou-is! Lou-is! Lou-is!”
Jean-Luc clambers down from the chair, looking like he wants to crawl into the nearest hole or just dive overboard. I weave my way through a few bodies to get to him.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Apparently, Louis is a good singer,” he whispers to me. “With a voice like Johnny Hallyday.”
“Who?” I ask, but Jean-Luc just waves his hand, like, Forget it. I can see his sweaty forehead glistening under the spotlight. It literally follows him wherever he moves. “Louis’s colleagues at the Bordeaux branch ‘always talk about his amazing voice …’”
That’s when the horrible truth hits me. “They’re asking you to sing?”
“Unfortunately.” He looks past me, then left and then right.
“Can you sing?” I ask.
“Absolutely not,” he says, suddenly pasting on a smile and nodding at someone.
“What do we do?” I ask.
“Abandon ship?”
But even as we’re whispering back and forth, the crowd is pushing us toward the stage. Either he fesses up to not being Louis from Accounting, or he gets up on stage and prays his voice sounds like Johnny Hallyday — whoever that is.
The way the crowd parts for “Louis” as he makes his way to the stage would be really impressive if Jean-Luc’s shoulders weren’t slumped like he’s on his way to the electric chair. He smiles at Mr. Pinstripe, nods, takes the microphone from him and mumbles something in French. I see him gesture to his throat and assume he’s trying to con them with a story about being under the weather. Pretty smart, although all his “colleagues” groan in disappointment.
I catch Jean-Luc’s eye and give him a sly thumbs-up, like, Good thinking. He’s totally got this.
He smiles, then goes back to chatting up the crowd. Blah-blah-French-blah-blah, “d’Amérique …”
Huh … That sure sounded like “America.” What is he —
“Serena!”
He points, and the spotlight comes for me, too. Now he’s gesturing me up to the stage, and the French people are applauding like I’ve just won an award, and my legs are walking me over there, and I’m accepting the microphone he’s handing to me, even though my head is screaming: What the hell is going on!?
I place my hand over the microphone and ask Jean-Luc exactly that.
“I said I am not feeling well,” he mumbles, “and that I need my American girlfriend to duet with me. Do you know ‘O Holy Night’?”
“Sort of. In English,” I hiss.
“It’s okay — no one expects you to be bilingual.”
I turn my back to the crowd so no one can see just how much I’m freaking out. “‘O Holy Night,’ though? Seriously?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Well …” I glance back over my shoulder, at the very sophisticated French office crowd. “It’s kind of impossible to sing.”
The smile he gives me looks like it’s about twenty percent humor and eighty percent absolute terror. “With our combined talents, does it matter?”
Then he signals to the DJ to start, and the music kicks in, and I take a deep breath. I guess I’m going for it. Today has already been a disaster. What’s the worst that can happen now?
*
The worst that could happen is that my average singing and Jean-Luc’s apparently abysmal Johnny Hallyday impression get us chucked overboard. (That doesn’t happen.)
The second worst thing that could happen is that the French people revolt, pelting us with canapés and champagne, while we wait for the boat to dock so that we can be kicked off. (That doesn’t happen, either.)
What actually happens is probably the third worst thing. Jean-Luc sings, and he sounds … well, not terrible, but not great — and I’m guessing nothing like Johnny Hallyday — and everyone realizes that he’s not Louis from Accounting, new in from Bordeaux. Our duet is greeted with a stony silence — which, I’ve got to be honest, bums me out, because I felt like I wasn’t all that bad! It’s been years since I have been on a stage, and this was a lot better than the time I sang “Defying Gravity” with my friend Ariana, in our high school senior year. (The less said about that …) There’s something joyful about singing — even if you’re not a great singer, it still feels good to be “loud.”
But now Mr. Pinstripe is pulling Jean-Luc aside to have a conversation with him. I look down at the floor so that I don’t make eye contact with anyone, and then Mr. Pinstripe storms off, his face tomato-red, and I assume he’s going to talk with the captain about the stowaways. A few minutes after that, the boat suddenly lurches to the right, like it’s docking.
Jean-Luc and I retreat into the corner as half the partygoers continue glaring at us. The other half turns away and tries to forget all about us. I look at Jean-Luc, who’s looking at his shoes.
The waiter appears with our coats and bags, and the boat is slowing down, and I’m in a bit of a pickle because, after all that champagne, I kind of really need to pee, but I’m too embarrassed to speak up and ask where the bathroom is.
Finally, the boat stops, and Mr. Pinstripe says something sharp. I don’t need to speak French to know that he’s asking (ordering) us to get the hell off his boat! I follow Jean-Luc to the exit, searching for the French word for “sorry,” but all I can think to say is, “Pardon, pardon, pardon.” Mr. Pinstripe actually blocks my way and points to the microphone that I forgot I was still holding. Oh, right. Somehow, handing it back to him is the worst part of this whole humiliation.
About a minute later, I’m back on the street, shrugging on my parka, hooking my cross-body bag over my shoulder, and it’s only after I’ve done it that I realize it might be odd for me to take Jean-Luc’s arm and press myself to him for warmth. But it’s late December in Paris, and I’m pretty sure even the average penguin would be like, “Are you kidding me with this?”
I let him go when he comes to a dead stop. Guess he’s not keen on an almost-stranger overstepping boundaries.
Then I see that his expression isn’t uncomfortable. His eyes are darting all over the place, and his jaw is a little clenched.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him. “I mean, besides the obvious.” He gives the one answer I absolutely do not want to hear right now.
“I have no idea where we are.”