Chapter 7
It was a cold November evening as she jogged through the Jardin des Tuileries, but early enough that the winos, drug addicts, drug pushers, and prostitutes hadn’t yet reclaimed it. Although the city’s authorities had been promising to clean up the park, they had other things on their minds as continuing budget cuts slashed the number of cops they had on hand to keep the place completely safe and clean.
Amanda didn’t mind. It was far more beautiful than some of the parks near her home in London. And though tourist season was pretty much over, Paris was already putting up Christmas lights – flooding the park with a cacophony of blue and white sparkling lights.
Arnaud hadn’t liked it and had suggested that she jog elsewhere, but she refused. It was close to where she lived and she actually knew some of the park’s regulars by name. Even some of the cops who vanished a little past sun down would wave at her as she did her laps, giving her a sense of security.
Joggers also joined her, sometimes, not put off by the language barrier that came up between them. They weren’t there for conversation, after all. The evening was otherwise perfect.
With most of the tourist hordes gone and the rest either shopping or clubbing, she had the park mostly to herself. She could let her body run on automatic while her mind went into the silent, almost Zen-like calm that was her sanctuary. Not for her the boring practice of sitting meditation. She had to move!
A man jogged past her at full speed and a part of her wondered if he was training for a race, or something. Giving herself a mental shrug, she got off the Terasse du Bord de L’eau path and cut across the grass to make a beeline toward the carousel at Q Park. She almost didn’t make it.
Strong hands grabbed her from behind and tried to drag her to... she had no idea where. Her self-defense training kicked in – she screamed her head off, hoping to attract attention. It made no difference to whoever it was that gripped her arms from behind.
Amanda slammed her foot down and was rewarded by a high pitched scream. She shot her elbow back, but was disappointed that she failed to make contact. She spun to face her attacker who was backing off while favoring their right foot.
Amanda stepped forward and angled herself for a back kick, hoping to kick the person’s stomach. She missed. Slamming her raised foot down, she whirled to deliver a roundhouse kick to the head. She missed again. But she did manage a whack at the other person’s shoulder.
The figure rolled to the ground from the blow, making it hard to make out details. In the dim light, Amanda could make out blue jeans and a red parka, the hood of which covered the person’s head and obscured their face.
Amanda turned the left side of her body toward the attacker with her arms held out and her hands clenched into fists. She put most of her weight on her right foot with both of her legs bent. She had assumed the back stance, ready to kick and or punch, as needed.
The figure grunted and scrambled away on all fours toward the tree line before managing to get up and hobble away. Amanda had dreamed of this moment for years – doing a Bruce Lee or a Jackie Chan to demonstrate her superior martial arts skills. Granted, she was only a yellow belt, but her teachers had always praised her for her excellent form.
And that’s why she resorted to the famous leg-and-butt technique. Screaming hysterically, she ran like the wind toward the carousel to put as much distance as she could from her attacker. She made a spectacular and noisy sight as she flew at the small crowd of people milling about the site.
Fortunately, there were still cops about in this part of the Tuileries.
*****
Savitri sighed as she put the cup of steaming chai on the kitchen counter. “I think it’s whoever’s been sending you the flowers.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Amanda huffed. “They warned me about that park and I happened to be a statistic, is all. Fortunately, I’m a living, and relatively unharmed, statistic. Was bound to happen sooner or later.” She took a tentative sip of her drink. “Mmm! Just what the doctor ordered.”
“I’m being perfectly serious, Mandy!”
“Well, so am I, Sav. It’s nothing. Thank goodness I can take care of myself, hey? I knew those karate lessons would pay off, some day.”
“But what if it’s worse, next time? What if that psycho had a knife? Or a gun? I seriously think you should have told the cops about the flowers.”
“Since when is it a crime to send flowers?”
“Since when do people send flowers for weeks without a note or something?” Savitri crossed her arms and walked over to her kitchen window. “What if it’s Arnaud?”
Amanda spluttered.
Savitri looked annoyed. “No, seriously. Those people are used to getting their way. What if this is his way of punishing you for dumping him. Do you ever think of that?”
“Nope. That’s ridiculous. He’s probably porking someone new. Doubt he’d even recognize me if he saw me on the street. Upstairs and downstairs, and all.”
“Yeah. Those upstairs types aren’t used to people saying no to them. And some take it very personally. I’m not saying he attacked you personally. But what’s it to someone like him to hire someone, eh? We downstairs people are nothing to the likes of them.”
Amanda tuned her friend out, refusing to believe it. “Arnaud isn’t like that.”
“How do you know, girl!?”
“I just do,” she replied shaking her head.
“For your sake, I certainly hope so. More chai?”
“Yes, please.”
“Here you go. Hang on while I fix up your bed, luv. No, don’t get up. You finish that cup.”
*****
Guilllaume wasn’t sure he heard right. He was listening to police radio chatter on his contraband radio scanner since doing so was illegal. Nevertheless, he had one since it was a more reliable way of gauging traffic than what the radio stations put out. Plus he used to be a cop who still had friends on the beat and he liked to keep in touch. Picking up his phone, he called one of them. “What’s this about some British woman who was attacked at the Tuileries?”
“What about it?” said the gruff woman on the other end.
Guillaume shook his head. “Can you tell me more?”
“You shouldn’t be listening to our chatter, you know.”
“Listen! Are you going to fill me in or quote the law? How many scrapes have I gotten you out of, eh?”
The woman let out an exasperated sigh. “Look, Guillaume, I’m not Google. Could you tell me more so I can ask around?”
“It was just on the radio! Some British woman with red hair and green eyes, about five-seven, was attacked at the Tuileries. Just now!”
“Perhaps. I didn’t catch that one. If you say so, then that’s all I know, too.”
“Don’t you have a name?”
“Not yet. Why? Sleeping around behind Marie? Again?” She winced at the stream of expletives that came over her phone. “Alright, alright, calm down, man. I was just joking, sheesh! Why do you want to know?”
“Just see if you can get her name! She fits the description of someone I know. And no! I’m not sleeping around behind my wife’s back. That was ages ago!”
“If you say so. Look, I have to go. I’ll let you know more when I do, alright? Bye.”
Guillaume leaned back in his seat and hoped against hope it wasn’t who he thought it was. The bird had been steadily flying south in the last couple of weeks, and everyone was on edge. At this rate, even Marie was no longer immune to the bird’s temper tantrums. Nor, for that matter, was he. It was unbearable and it had to stop.
“Please, god,” he pleaded. “Let it be someone else or there’s no hope for the rest of us. Let it be some lowlife druggie, preferably a Protestant or Muslim who...”
“Home!” Arnaud ordered as he barged into the car before even slamming the door behind him.
“Oui, monsieur,” Guillaume replied meekly, still praying as he pulled out of the curb and into the street. With five more years to go on their mortgage, he and Marie needed their jobs. And in this economy and with their ages... Guillaume vowed to pass by the church on his way home to light more candles to the Blessed Virgin.
*****
Arnaud sighed as his car pulled up beside the apartment building. “Home,” these last few weeks wasn’t his house in the 16th arrondissement. It was now in the 8th with a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower. Not that he had moved to see more of it. He had done it in order to see Sophie less. It made him feel guilty, but he could no longer function with her around.
She was getting worse, despite his best efforts and those of the best doctors. And with Amanda no longer around, he just couldn’t take it anymore. He cringed at the memory of that evening, forgetting about the prudish attitudes of those Brits. But despite his best efforts to call and visit, well... she was acting like Sophie, and he’d had more than enough of that.
Fortunately, she had whoever it was sending her all those flowers, so he wished her luck. He punched his seat. The mere thought of her with another man set his teeth on edge, but there was nothing he could do about it.
He tapped the window separating his side from the driver’s section to say “goodnight,” before stepping out. As he got onto the sidewalk, however, Guillaume rolled down his driver’s seat.
“Eh, Mr. du Lac?”
“What is it?”
“Eh, I know it’s not my place, but, well...”
“Guillaume! It’s been a long day and I’m very tired. Spit it out!”
The man took a deep breath. “Monsieur. It’s Mme. Sorensen. She... she was attacked at the Tuileries. About half an hour ago. But she’s fine now, the police say. She left the station and...”
“Where is she now?”
“The police say she left...” Guillaume shrugged, wishing he was better with words like his wife.
“The 2nd arrondissement. Now!”
“Oui, monsieur!”
Arnaud’s heart was pumping as he tried to call Amanda’s cellphone, but all he kept getting was a busy signal. She’d probably blocked his number, so he tried Guillaume’s phone, but that only sent him through to her answering machine.
“Aargh!” He pounded the seat in rage.
At her building, he buzzed her number, but nothing. So he pressed all the buttons, hoping someone would let him in, but no such luck. Walking to the corner, he saw that the lights of her apartment weren’t on.
“Can I help you, monsieur?” said Mme. Dimanche as she leaned out of her first floor window.
“Madame. Do you know an Amanda Sorensen?” Arnaud pleaded.
“Why yes. She’s my tenant. Who are you?”
“I’m... I’m a friend, madame. I heard she... is she in? Can you let me in, please?”
“Oh no, monsieur. I can’t possibly do that. She went out with a friend. Do you have her number?”
Arnaud wanted to shout and kick something, but kept his cool. “I’m worried about my friend, madame. Could you let me know when she gets back?”
The old woman smiled. “You mean could I spy on her for you?”
“I don’t need to know details. Please, she had an... an accident a while ago and I’m worried. I could give you my cellphone number. All I want to know is that she’s alright. Could you do that for me, madame...?”
“It’s Antoinette,” Mme. Dimanche smiled shyly.
Arnaud felt weak with relief. He took out his card and waved it at the woman. “My name’s Arnaud. I’ll just stick it here in the door, alright, mada... eh Antoinette? I’m not asking you to tell me when she gets back or anything like that. Just let me know if she’s fine. Can you do that for me, please, ma... Antoinette?” He flashed her his best charming smile.
Mme. Dimanche heaved a sigh at the thought of young love. “We’ll see, monsieur. We’ll see.”
But Arnaud could tell from her blush that he had made an ally. “You’re wonderful, Antoinette!” He blew a kiss at her. “I owe you. Bye!”
Arnaud’s limo hadn’t moved more than twenty yards before hands took the calling card slipped beneath the building’s main entrance.