Free Fallen Eden by Nicole Williams Page A

eighteen by twenty square foot studio with a mouse hole for a bathroom in the red light district of Paris could go for as much as one of those zippy little Cessna’s I dodged on a daily basis. Given what I paid, one would have expected they’d found the sole mansion on the Rue St. Denis, but as the cobwebs and cracked window in my apartment’s one and only room proved, my living quarters were a wrecking ball’s dream.
    Being Immortal, I could have saved myself the Clorox and money and moved from street-bench to street-bench, not having to worry about inclement weather or hooligans. I pitied the person who put an unwanted hand on me, not knowing if I’d kill them with the same ease as I had the last one.
    Here was the thing though, roaming in a foreign land, alone and feeling exiled made me feel more animal than human at times. Having nowhere to call my own other than the park or bench I rested my head on would have sent me into the world of barbarianism.
    So that’s why I couldn’t lose my apartment—dilapidated in the extreme, its existence threatened by a strong windstorm. It was the last fiber weaving me into the world of warm-blooded beings. And maybe I felt such an affinity for it because, just like me, the apartment was trying to make it, one day at a time.
    However, all nostalgia aside, I was going to lose it if I didn’t find a way to scrounge up some money. Soon.
    The door of the café chimed, announcing my arrival. I’d only taken a year and a half of French, but it was enough so I could make out the sign in the window that loosely translated to, Help Wanted .
    “Bonjour,” the woman behind the counter called out, continuing to layer chocolate-dipped biscotti into the display case.
    “Bonjour,” I greeted back, trying to sound cheery, hoping it would bode well when she discovered I wasn’t a paying customer but a job applicant. I didn’t even have one euro to buy a shortbread cookie. “Je m’appelle Bryn,” I began, approaching the woman.
    She looked up at me, a note of impatience in her expression. My brain shut down, losing purchase of the phrase I’d memorized weeks back when I’d first gone hunting for a job. I attempted to reboot it, but it sputtered short and shut down again. “Je . . . need,” I stuttered, cursing myself for throwing in an English word. “Je—Je voudrais . . .” I tried again, sounding like I had a stuttering problem. The impatience on her face grew pronounced, so I pointed at the sign in the front window and blurted out, “I’m here about the job.”
    “It’s been filled,” she said in a rich French accent. I’d once heard you could tell someone was lying to you if they didn’t look you in the eyes. This woman’s were roaming in every direction save for mine. “Can I help you with anything else?” she asked, using her mocha colored eyes to give meaning to her question.
    Even though I would never need a morsel of sustenance for the rest of my days, my stomach growled when I viewed the rows of éclairs, tarts, and croissants the woman was eyeing. “No,” I replied, turning to leave, sniffing the air in hopes I could get my fix this way. “Merci beaucoup.”
    Out on the cobblestone walkway in front of the café, I stood there, not knowing which way to go. I couldn’t retreat back to my apartment; the first of the month had been two days ago and I’d found the second note slipped under my door this morning from my landlord. Like the first, it was written in French and although I couldn’t read it word for word, the meaning between them left nothing unsaid. Pay or leave had been the jist, minus the Cher Bryn and si vous plait that had been penned in yesterday’s slightly more courteous letter.
    I had to find a job, but I doubted if my future attempts would wager any other result than the past thirty. The reasons for rejecting my employment had been as inventive as the entry to the Louvre. No work visa, couldn’t hire a foreign employee, you must be