French Lessons

back with you.”

He took a deep breath.

“You think I’m nuts, right?”

“No. I think you’re very smart.”

“Really? Cool. I’ve been thinking about this and I didn’t really know if I could explain it or anything. And then if I could, like, who would I tell.”

“Me.”

“Yeah. You get it, huh? That’s really cool.”

His smile was huge and he sat on the edge of his seat, his legs jangly, his fingers tapping on his knees.

“And the school thing?” Josie asked, though she already knew everything he was about to say.

“I could go to acting school. I could apply to UCLA Drama School and USC and the Tisch program at NYU, and I got all the catalogs and I read them before I go to sleep at night and then I can’t sleep, I’m so jazzed about this stuff. You should read what they say. I mean, it’s all about the stuff you talked about when we started the play. About searching within to find what you can bring to the part. About learning your character like you’re learning to breathe in a brand-new way.”

He stood up and walked to one of the photos on the wall.

“This is cool. This is really great. You took these?”

“Yeah. Last summer.”

“You’re great. You’re like the best teacher here.”

He swung around and looked at her and then dropped back into the chair.

“You gotta talk to my dad.”

“I don’t think so, Brady.”

“Yeah. You’d be so good at it. He’d listen to you. He’s not listening to me.”

“It’s not my job.”

“All you gotta do is tell him that I’m good enough. I’m good enough, right?”

She looked at him and saw that he was terrified in that moment, that he had no idea if he was good enough.

“You’re good enough, Brady,” she said.

He shot up out of his chair again. “So you gotta talk to him. Tell him that. Tell him lots of smart kids go to drama school.”

“I don’t know, Brady,” Josie said. “It’s not such a bad idea. What your dad wants. You can study acting later.”

“But it’s all I care about!” he shouted. “Don’t you get it? I thought you’d get it. I thought you’d help me out here.”

“I’ll talk to him,” she said quietly.

“Soon,” he said. “We’re flying down to look at schools next weekend. He’s like all fired up about this. Father-son bonding time. He was never around and now he’s my best fucking friend.”

• • •

Nico and Josie start to climb. The stairs of the tower wind around the inside of one of the legs, the Pilier Est. Josie feels like she’s in the belly of a giant erector set. It is hard work-Josie is glad that the stairs only go to the second level-after that, they have to take the elevator like everyone else. They’re alone in this maze of steel. At one point a young boy sprints past them, as if shot from a cannon below. Suddenly Josie feels old. How can that kid dash up these stairs? Wasn’t she young and fit about three weeks ago?

Josie catches glimpses of the city through the ironwork of the tower’s leg, a peek of the meandering River Seine on one side, the grassy stretch of the Champ de Mars on the other. She has no fear of heights; she is not the little girl in her story. She has lost her mother, but she sure as hell doesn’t expect to find her waiting at the top of the tower. Her father, though, might just be waiting for her, perched in the window of her childhood house, the chandelier lit above him, staring out into the street. He is waiting for Josie to come home. Maybe she’ll bring a nice young man with her, a boyfriend. That’s all he wants.

This is ridiculous, Josie thinks. Nico has invented some kind of therapy for her, some way for her to exorcize her grief while exercising her legs. Fine. At least they’ve stopped talking. At least he’s stopped staring at her like a hungry puppy.

At least she’s still wearing her sneakers and not some ridiculous pair of stiletto heels.

Nico is a few steps ahead of her, climbing steadily. Next she’ll find out he’s an Olympic athlete in his spare time. Odd, she thinks. She knows nothing about him. Why is he a tutor? Is that a career choice or something to do while writing poems? She used to be someone who was curious about people. She’d collect life stories from strangers on planes and buses. Now she talks to no one. And finally, here she is, spending a day with someone, and she’s learned so little about him. He loves another French tutor. He hid in the root cellar as a child. He has a child in Morocco. Who is he? Has he really fallen for her or is this his charming way to teach a foolish American girl? And why the hell is she following him to the top of the tower?

She tries to quiet the sound of her own ragged breath. It’s been too long since she hiked in the hills or biked out into the country. Since Simon. She’s lost her ability to breathe since Simon.

“What will we do in Paris once we’ve bought your new shoes?” Simon had asked.

She was the pro, the French speaker. He had traveled to Paris on business once or twice but knew nothing of the city. Had he been to the Eiffel Tower? Probably not. And, of course, now she’d never know.

“We’ll do the same thing we do here,” she had told him.

“Wrong,” Simon said, smiling. “We’ll drag our sorry asses out of bed and see the city. I want to walk every street of the city with you on my arm.”

It was going to be their first trip together, their first chance to go to sleep together and wake up together for six straight days.

“One more floor,” Nico calls out like a personal trainer urging her on to seventy-three more push-ups. Now the sky takes up more space, the river snakes longer and narrower, and the houses become rooftops, blending into one another.

Josie sees that the skies are darkening, and a cold breeze passes through. She can feel the wind on her neck and she remembers her haircut. She lifts her hand and runs it through her hair. He’ll never see it, she thinks.

“It’s not working,” she calls out to Nico.

“What’s not working?”

“Isn’t this your cure? Shouldn’t I be feeling better already?”

“Keep climbing,” he calls back.

Josie feels perspiration in the small of her back. She rolls her tank top up and wipes the sweat away. Then her hand snakes around to her belly, and she holds it there. It’s flat, it’s taut, it feels the same way it’s always felt. But she’s pregnant, she knows it. She had gone off the pill and Simon had started to use condoms. Did they ever forget?

The day in the rowboat. They weren’t thinking of condoms; they were thinking about the depth of the lake, the iciness of the water, the rockiness of the boat. They were risking his marriage, her job, his relationship with his son, her relationship with her father.

They never thought about the other risk they took.

Simon’s gone, Brady’s gone. She holds her hands over her belly and climbs the stairs.

“I have never been to the top of the tower,” Nico calls back.

“Are you afraid?” Josie asks.

“Of heights? No. Of love. Perhaps.”

“Is this about love?”

“Every French man and woman either loves the tower or hates the tower. You can’t ignore it. It’s here, blocking our view or gracing our view, every day. It doesn’t matter where you are. The tower is always there.”

“Do you love it or hate it?”

“Today I will decide,” Nico says.