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John walked across the Seine the following morning. He felt bereft. The losses of fortune, family, and those he had thought of as friends had stripped him of all that used to tell him he was a success. The mirrors he had worked so hard to set up around him—the 15,000-euro Rolex, the sprawling mahogany desk, the view from Montparnasse Tower, the tall, elegant Cassandra—had toppled backward and splintered into shards. He was staring at the black void beyond the mirrors, as black as the void within him.
He stopped to gaze at the river, winding through the city, flowing away to the English Channel. He had seen on maps of the city that the Seine flowed through Paris—which was shaped in a circle, like a face—in a downward arc, resembling a frowning mouth. In winter, when the days were excruciatingly short and the sun blocked by thick clouds, Parisians had downturned mouths. In the summer, the city was glorious, bathed in light for long days, and even the glum Parisians were happier.
He used to go to Barcelona in January to get sun, to rub shoulders with the ever-hopeful, ebullient Spanish. Unfortunately, he could no longer afford to go to Spain for a fix of sunshine in winter. The river of life seemed to have taken everything from him.
His heart was sending its ache throughout his body. All he’d ever worked for was success. And just as his father had predicted years ago on the Brooklyn Bridge, he was a failure.
A pigeon nearly grazed him as it flew by, interrupting his thoughts. Rats with wings, they called them in New York City, he thought. In the French countryside, people roasted them with mushrooms, cognac, and a strip of bacon over the breast.
He fell back into his thoughts about his problems, like a tongue seeking a sore spot on the gums. What was success, anyway?
As he had been dressing for success that morning, he had decided not to put his father’s cufflinks on. Instead of reminding him not to imitate his father, the links now seemed to be urging him to imitate his father’s choice and stop fighting. As he had tossed them back into the box of whatnot on top of his dresser, he had contemplated throwing them into the Seine. Not happily, the way he and Cassandra had tossed the wedding padlock key, in a long, luxurious arc, but thrown down fiercely, whipped straight to the depths, in an attempt to break free of a load that was pulling him down.
He wrenched his eyes off the choppy water and moved on. He’d attack his book of contacts again, even though it felt useless.
As he walked down Rue de Rivoli, he gazed at the French striding to their jobs. The tourists were barely out of bed yet, he figured. These folks he saw on the street all had the same attitude: a reserve, an inwardness, a deep focus on their own thoughts, a somberness, maybe even glumness. John wished for the energy, the excitement of the people in New York City. He wished for the nonconformity he would see there: a man dressed hat to shoes in Irish green, and not on St. Patrick’s Day. Or a woman in red and purple. With a huge gold lamé handbag dangling from royal-blue gloved hands. He longed to be someplace with people full of fertile weirdness, someplace with excitement about what one can achieve with one’s life. Not this French conformity to the status quo.
Yet Paris was so elegant, so Paris. He thought, I must really be an expat. Even when I’m back in New York I long for Paris. In fact, whichever city I’m in, I’m homesick for the other one. I have no idea where home is.
When he arrived at his tiny office, Anjali was waiting outside. He unlocked the door and proceeded to his desk. He noticed for the first time that a spot on his wicker Paris-flea-market screen was unraveling. Obviously, all client meetings would have to be held at Tour d’Argent. He couldn’t afford it. How was he going to pull this off?
Something would happen. He was a good guy. He would get a break.
Anjali peered around the screen.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“A letter in la poste this morning. You must set up an appointment immediately. With the IRS.”
