Status: Back in action.
Achilles
6 June 2012
Théo’s mouth was dry and his limbs were going weak. The world seemed treacherous, unsteady, blurred at the edges, and for a few moments he felt like he was about to tumble down the steps of Montmartre. It seemed a good idea to sit down. He took a deep breath of the thick, sticky air, closed his eyes and tried to imagine his hand on the wheel, his feet steady on the pedal. But they were all shaking, and he knew they wouldn’t stop shaking. His exam would start in less than three hours, and he had thought that walking up here would be a good idea, the sight of the city sprawling under him in the sun a cosy, calming sight. He was wrong. The sun was too bright in his eyes, painting the edges of the storm clouds that were piling heavily over the horizon an ominous copper. Paris seemed foreign, almost menacing now, and Théo’s heart ached for Dublin, for Chicago, for places he’d never been. Stress knotted his stomach together tightly, and he was in dire need of a cigarette; halfway up here, he had realized he had forgotten his pack at home. He would have to ask a stranger.
He looked around himself with quiet determination, suddenly blind to the dead architecture. People were scattered around him on the stairs, in ones and twos, immersed in quiet conversations, books or their phones. There was a couple exchanging lazy kisses, a girl with pink hair, possibly an art student, bobbing her head to the music in her headphones, a pair of twins dressed in matching outfits not talking to each other, a twenty-something in a bright white shirt, immersed in a weathered paperback. Smoke was rising from behind the book, and a moment later the boy raised his hand to his mouth. With sudden determination and a slightly pained sigh, Théo stood up, walked over and sat down again, not quite right beside him but almost. The boy ignored him, squinting against the light reflecting from the pages of his book.
“Hey,” Théo said tentatively. He saw the boy’s hand stop in the midst of turning the page. He decided to go right ahead. “Could I please have a cigarette? I forgot mine. I’ll pay you.”
The elegant young man raised his eyes at him - very blue, very dark - and then looked him over.
“Why are you nervous?” he finally asked, slowly, as if this took a great effort. Théo followed the boy’s glance down to his own feet, tapping nervously against the warm, white stone of the stairs.
“Oh,” he said. “I have my driving test in a couple of hours. I hate driving. I came up here to calm down a little, but it’s not really working, and I left my cigarettes at home and...”
The boy interrupted him with a laugh and handed him his open pack. Théo lit up with relish.
“It’s okay. I have a job interview today, but nothing seems to make me feel better.”
“What are you interviewing for?”
The boy named a daily newspaper Théo had never heard about. “It’s literally my last resort,” he explained. “I’ve spent my last three weeks interviewing at museums and magazines and whatnot, and sitting up here reading. It’s awful. I should’ve just stayed in college.”
Their eyes met again, and the boy seemed terrified at himself for sharing too much. For the first time in long, long hours, Théo felt like laughing.
“Hey, listen!” he started on a whim, excitement slowly trickling into the space left behind by his anxiety that had unexpectedly departed. “How about you have a drink with me tonight if you get the job. I’ll be out with my friends whether I pass or not. Either way, I’ll buy you a beer. For the cigarette.”
His new acquaintance smiled at him, looking something halfway between skeptical and amused.
“And how am I gonna find you?”
“May I,” Théo said, and not waiting for an answer grabbed the book - Dickens, he noted with mild indignation - out of the boy’s hand. “Do you have a pen or...”
“It’s a library book,” the other protested weakly, but reached in his breast pocket and handed him a short pencil anyway. Théo scribbled three words - the name of the bar - and an address onto the first page of the book, right above the library stamp. He handed back the book, now with little flecks of ash scattered between the pages.
“My name is Théo,” he added as if it was somehow an explanation. The boy studied the address for a moment, then looked up and smiled at him, and it was impossible to tell if it was sincere or ironic.
“Nice talking to you, Théo,” he said, stood up, and walked away.
He looked around himself with quiet determination, suddenly blind to the dead architecture. People were scattered around him on the stairs, in ones and twos, immersed in quiet conversations, books or their phones. There was a couple exchanging lazy kisses, a girl with pink hair, possibly an art student, bobbing her head to the music in her headphones, a pair of twins dressed in matching outfits not talking to each other, a twenty-something in a bright white shirt, immersed in a weathered paperback. Smoke was rising from behind the book, and a moment later the boy raised his hand to his mouth. With sudden determination and a slightly pained sigh, Théo stood up, walked over and sat down again, not quite right beside him but almost. The boy ignored him, squinting against the light reflecting from the pages of his book.
“Hey,” Théo said tentatively. He saw the boy’s hand stop in the midst of turning the page. He decided to go right ahead. “Could I please have a cigarette? I forgot mine. I’ll pay you.”
The elegant young man raised his eyes at him - very blue, very dark - and then looked him over.
“Why are you nervous?” he finally asked, slowly, as if this took a great effort. Théo followed the boy’s glance down to his own feet, tapping nervously against the warm, white stone of the stairs.
“Oh,” he said. “I have my driving test in a couple of hours. I hate driving. I came up here to calm down a little, but it’s not really working, and I left my cigarettes at home and...”
The boy interrupted him with a laugh and handed him his open pack. Théo lit up with relish.
“It’s okay. I have a job interview today, but nothing seems to make me feel better.”
“What are you interviewing for?”
The boy named a daily newspaper Théo had never heard about. “It’s literally my last resort,” he explained. “I’ve spent my last three weeks interviewing at museums and magazines and whatnot, and sitting up here reading. It’s awful. I should’ve just stayed in college.”
Their eyes met again, and the boy seemed terrified at himself for sharing too much. For the first time in long, long hours, Théo felt like laughing.
“Hey, listen!” he started on a whim, excitement slowly trickling into the space left behind by his anxiety that had unexpectedly departed. “How about you have a drink with me tonight if you get the job. I’ll be out with my friends whether I pass or not. Either way, I’ll buy you a beer. For the cigarette.”
His new acquaintance smiled at him, looking something halfway between skeptical and amused.
“And how am I gonna find you?”
“May I,” Théo said, and not waiting for an answer grabbed the book - Dickens, he noted with mild indignation - out of the boy’s hand. “Do you have a pen or...”
“It’s a library book,” the other protested weakly, but reached in his breast pocket and handed him a short pencil anyway. Théo scribbled three words - the name of the bar - and an address onto the first page of the book, right above the library stamp. He handed back the book, now with little flecks of ash scattered between the pages.
“My name is Théo,” he added as if it was somehow an explanation. The boy studied the address for a moment, then looked up and smiled at him, and it was impossible to tell if it was sincere or ironic.
“Nice talking to you, Théo,” he said, stood up, and walked away.
