Vadim In Paris
One month later
Tonight, it’s just her and me.
Sitting on a velvet banquette in a fancy restaurant on the Champs-élysées, Alma looks stunning in a little, red dress that’s giving me all kinds of ideas.
I can’t stop looking at her. With my ripped jeans, I’m not as classy as she is, but I’m wearing the white, button-down shirt she had the good sense to pick out for me.
And anyway, this girl—who is way too good for me—just whispered that, even if I were dressed in a trash bag, I’d be the best-looking guy in Paris.
She’s a good liar, this little pixie.
She orders for me. I can’t decide what I want, and anyway, I can barely understand a single word on the menu. We share our two dishes; everything is incredibly tasty, but it’s unbelievable how small the portions are. Even a five-year-old would go hungry here. More Parisian pretentiousness, I guess.
I take up the role of difficult customer and ask if I can have more scallops, because three doesn’t feed anyone, especially at that price.
They politely refuse, so I ask to see the manager, just like that, for the fun of it.
The annoyed waiter finally brings me an extra plate of sides.
I don’t leave a single crumb. To prove a point.
Alma isn’t embarrassed. She gives me an amused smile as she plays with her glass. That red dress is driving me crazy, but what drives me even crazier is her expression. Playful. Mischievous. And maybe a little… in love.
The waiter brings us the next course and takes off just as quickly as he appeared.
“You’re not exactly making friends,” Alma comments, laughing.
“Who? Robert?”
I make up a name for him. Then a whole life.
“Me and Robert, we’re like this.” I lace two fingers together. “He’s an art student, so he’s kind of like us.”
“Vadim, in France, nobody his age is called Robert.”
“Okay, wait, I’ll ask him his name!”
“No, it’s fine, you’ve already traumatized him! Leave him alone. We’ll say his name is Robert.”
“You’re no fun. So Robert works as a waiter to pay for his studies.
His parents are loaded, though. But they think being an artist isn’t a real job.
‘No, no, no, Robert, it’s finance or nothing!
If you want to become some kind of bohemian, Mommy and Daddy won’t write any more checks!
’ So, he starts looking for a part-time job, and since the only places he knows are the luxury restaurants where his folks go, he ends up here, dressed like a penguin with a…
What’s it called? His sort of superhero cape thing? ”
“A tailcoat,” giggles Alma, starting to enjoy this game.
“That’s it! And as soon as his shift is over, poor Robert zips off to Montmartre on his scooter to draw caricatures of tourists.
He hates it, but at least he gets to improve his drawing skills.
And he gets to make people ugly too, give them big noses, double chins, make them cross-eyed.
There’s also the fact that the people he sketches are always happy.
Not like his parents, who are constantly in a bad mood—”
“Vadim?” Alma interrupts me.
“What?”
“Do you hate my parents? You always describe families as if they were your worst nightmare.”
“No, I like your sister. She’s cool. And your mom is…”
Her green eyes pierce right through me.
“What she’s done for me means a lot. She’s made me feel right at home.
She’s given me a chance, and that’s rare.
And she hasn’t even tried to change me. I kinda hate all mothers, because it hurts me that other people have one and I don’t…
And I would have really liked to know mine.
But I don’t hate Marie Lancaster. Are you happy with that? ”
“Hmm… No, keep going.”
When she smiles at me like that, I can’t refuse her anything.
“I actually prefer her daughter. I don’t know if you know her…”
She laughs softly, a little embarrassed. Or moved.
“She owns a ridiculous pom-pom hat, is cold all the time, and always wants to go shopping… but she could make you love anything. Crappy movies, crowded stores, restaurants where there’s nothing to eat, nights where you fall asleep alone waiting for someone to come wake you up.
But even if no one does, you’re still happy to get up in the morning. ”
“Je t’aime, Vadim Arcadi.”
Alma had been listening to me without saying a word, with a smile on her lips that grew wider and wider, her eyes shining…
and then she said that. Told me she loved me.
She always says it when you least expect it, and it always has the same effect on me.
But this time it was even better, because she said it in French.