Free Plum Blossoms in Paris by Sarah Hina Page A

vein is quickening.
    I look at him and grin violently. “Do you promise never to tell me your last name?”
    “What do we need of names? Besides,” he says into my ear, “I would rather call you
mon petit chou
.” He brings my wrist to his mouth and presses his lips to my blood.
    It is hard to argue with the French. No matter what they say, it sounds inspired. I had no idea what he called me, except that it was “my little” something. Which, as I’ve put forth, has got tobe a good thing. We start walking, arms twined like licorice, and feet floating. And so we pirouette and jeté, like the eponymous character in
An American in Paris
might, toward our unknown destination, the early morning’s prescriptive caution outmatched by a lovely momentum.
    That night, after consulting the French-English dictionary in my hotel room, I discovered that
chou
means “cabbage.”
    Mon dieu!
I mean, really. Think of what he’d call me if he didn’t like me.

Chapter

8
    W e start with the sights of Paris, because we are visual creatures, bamboozled by color and form, the rapturous anesthetics of the lesser senses. While we cannot escape biology, Mathieu argues, we are not hostage to its showier inclinations, which, I imagine, was the pointed joke of his earlier appearance. I also assume from his tone that we will not venture anywhere near the Moulin Rouge. He informs me, as we stroll down the Rue des Écoles toward Luxembourg Gardens, that he has not planned this day out, that he has no expectations for it. It is his intention to embrace a series of fortunate accidents and respond to them; this to that, to this again. We will walk with the wind at our backs.
    I check his profile—the satisfied smile, the confident jut of his chin—and know that it’s a crock. He has everything planned. For it is also human nature to want to impress someone you like, and especially in your hometown. As a tour guide, I have no doubt, Mathieu knows what the perfect Parisian day will entail. I frown, twisted by the wretchedly novel idea that I am not the first to experience it with him. I raise my chin and iron out my sweaterto shake off the sooty shards of cynicism. I don’t want to make a room in my heart for suspicion. Not this early. My heart is full.
    We flounder, if not uncomfortably, for conversation, too occupied with glancing at one another from these come-to-me corners of our eyes. I make a happy cocktail of my self-restraint as I watch desire build in his eyes like a wave chasing the break. We are disgustingly pleased with ourselves. If we notice other people, it is only to feel sorry for them.
    April in Paris has come late this year.
    “So tell me why you are here.”
    “Right now? With you?”
    “No, in Paris. What is it that you are running from?” It is asked lightly, but with a probing undercurrent.
    I clear my throat. “You caught me. I’m running from the law.”
    Isn’t that the standard movie-line answer?
    Smiling, he accepts my hedge. “I see. What did you do back in Ohio?” He pronounces “Ohio” the way we sang it in a grade school song: with a raised emphasis on the “hi,” like the state is peopled by Walmart greeters. “Theft? Murder? Campaigning for John Kerry?”
    Funny. I cover my mouth and turn with confessional solemnity. “Worse. I slipped at a restaurant and called ‘Freedom fries’ French fries. Then I washed them down with a glass of merlot. All in front of my grandpa’s buddies from the local chapter of the A.F.A.R.T.—you heard of them?” I think rapidly. “Americans For the Abstract Reinvention of Tyranny? Yeah, they’re small now, but they’re planning an Orwellian takeover as soon as one of them figures out how to work a computer.”
    Mathieu laughs, saying, “Yet it
was
an unforgivable offense, particularly toward the French.”
    “You’re not a fan of French—oops, I mean ‘Freedom’—fries?”
    “Mmm. Nor merlot.”
    “And American jingoism?” I add lightly.
    Mathieu