THREE
PARASITOSIS
“Rhaow watched Manaha as she plunged in the river, the life-giving water washing away the mud to reveal her full curves. Manaha’s breasts were pale and round, like the eggs of those-who-have-wings. His stick of joy ached with the need to shoot a child in her.’”
—Andrea Cherie, Speared by the Caveman: A Prehistoric Romance
Not even the hell that was Parisian traffic the day before Christmas Eve could have ruined this trip. But Lord, did it try. That girl with her shopping bags full of presents was lucky that March was a ruthless killer and a considerate road user, otherwise she might have finished that phone call under our wheels. With tightly set lips, he dodged Sushi Shop scooters and suicidal cyclists alike, along a ribbon of stone buildings and dead trees brought back to life by a multitude of string lights.
My forehead resting against the window, I drank in the sights around me, the shops inside which late shoppers hurried, the red and gold lights reflected on the glistening sidewalks, the threatening clouds above our heads . . . A light drizzle pattered outside as we followed the Seine all the way to Esplanade des Invalides. I thought of the first time I’d been there with March almost a year and a half ago, in a car too, but as his prisoner. I didn’t trust him yet, back then. Because I had no idea who he truly was, everything that bound us. And now it felt so strange to be in that same place again, kind of like traveling back in time . . . I looked away from the Invalides’s long grass parterres, to gaze at him. He didn’t really notice: some douchenozzle in a Jaguar with a diplomatic plate that had been tailgating us for a while now cut him off, and he hit the brakes with a huff of aggravation.
“I’m sorry,” March said. “We’re almost there.”
“It’s okay.” I peeked outside to see that the black Jaguar had unfortunately picked the wrong line to be a dick and was now stuck behind a garbage truck. “Here, let me fix this for you,” I offered. I lowered my window and double flipped the driver as we drove past him, making sure to perform a slow, circular motion with my hands for extra damage.
“Biscuit . . .” March chided, his lips quirking nonetheless.
I raised my window back up with a firm nod. “Justice has been served.”
He shook his head with a chuckle as the Eiffel tower came in sight, standing majestically at the end of Rue Saint-Dominique, half-shrouded in a pearly fog. We drove past clothing shops and bakeries whose colorful windows only acted as an excruciating reminder that I was expected to eat yogurt and soup today, until he took a turn right and stopped in front of a modern white building I recognized . . .
March turned off the engine and undid his seat belt but made no move to leave the car. Instead, he turned to face me and cupped my cheek tenderly, bringing my head closer to his. It reminded me of another kiss, long ago, one that didn’t happen because a bum sprawled himself on our car’s hood, and March nearly shot him until he realized the threat was fairly manageable.
But this kiss happened. He brushed his lips to mine, teasingly at first, pecking my Cupid’s bow, before my mouth parted to ask for more. I tasted the familiar blend of coffee and mints on his tongue, losing myself in the moment. His lips tugged, warred with mine, and I clung to him, digging my fingers in his coat. March’s breath grew ragged as his mouth trailed down to my chin and even lower, to nip at my neck. I kissed his hair, massaged his scalp with incoherent mewls of encouragement. It was so rare for him to let loose like that, and God, I didn’t want him to regain control; I needed the high, that little spark of magic between us. One of my hands ventured between us, to his thigh, then higher, to show him just how welcome he was to bang me savagely in the car, between Ilan and Kalahari’s building and a laundromat.
And he made me hope. Scratch that, he made me dream. Dammit, when he ground against my palm instead of removing my hand, and I felt his own hands sneak under my coat to grab my butt and pull me to him, I glimpsed my very first chance ever to behave like a lewd, irresponsible girl. And I said—gasped—“Yes!” repeatedly, but he . . . well, he sighed my name and pulled away.
I sat there like an idiot, shaking, breathless, a sheen of sweat beading on my forehead. “What was that for?” And more importantly, why the hell did you have to stop?
At least March appeared ruffled by our impromptu make out session too—a small consolation. He readjusted his clothes and pressed a chaste kiss to my hair, lingering a second to smell it. “I needed a little something to tide me over until I have you entirely to myself.”
For a second there, I almost wanted to suggest we race back to the apartment and spend the rest of the day in bed instead of paying social calls like civilized human beings. I wanted to live the life of a bonobo. But I also wanted to see Kalahari and Ilan again, see the faces, hear the voices I thought I’d never remember. Then, in a few hours, my dad would land in Roissy, exhausted, worried sick, and it still wouldn’t be the time for March and me to eat leaves naked—or engage in any kind of furious genital rubbing for that matter. I leaned into his touch, enjoying the heady rush of hormones lingering in my veins. “How you torment me, Mr. November . . .”
He ducked his head to conceal a grin. “As you do me, Miss Chaptal.”
After a quick check in the mirror to make sure I didn’t look—too much—like the profligate strumpet I longed to become, I followed March outside and into the building. I recognized the granite tiling, the no-smoking signs in the elevator Ilan probably purposefully ignored, and on the seventh and last floor, the single set of black doors at the end of a long hallway. They were already ajar, a discreet reminder that there was no need to ring or call: nothing escaped Ilan’s former-spy eye. I felt suddenly nervous, out of place, as if the fourteen months since my last visit were a lifetime and maybe everything would be different.
To my relief, Ilan looked the same as I remembered when he opened the doors: a giant whose features were etched with deep lines, as if time, experience, and loss had raked his skin over and over until it became bronze leather. His sweatshirt and cargo pants were wrinkled and covered with crusty white stains, and I thought his green eyes seemed perhaps more tired than in my memories, but they came alive the moment he saw me. A warm grin split his face, and before I could say a word, he pulled me into a crushing hug. “Good to see you,” he said, his voice gravelly from years—decades—of smoking. He didn’t smell of cigarettes today though, I noted, as he let go of me to pat March’s shoulder with a chuckle. “And here’s the living legend.”
I sent March a questioning look that he eluded with an uneasy smile.
“Where’s Kalahari?” I asked, taking in the familiar gray designer furniture and pristine walls. Something had changed here that I couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was a little messier than I remembered, with all those paper towels and meds on the coffee table.
“I’m here,” a feminine voice called from down the hall leading to the bedrooms. A door opened, and when she appeared before us, there it was, that subtle change. A tiny parasite clung to her oversize jean shirt, drooling on the fabric. And she looked as beautiful as ever, but at the same time . . . really washed up. The same black as the creature’s, her own curls had been hastily tied into a loose bun. Her yoga pants bore the same suspicious stains as Ilan’s clothes did, and I had never seen her without any makeup or her mile-high heels.
But she radiated happiness as she walked to us. Keeping the baby—because it was one—firmly latched to her chest with a practiced hand, she extended the other to caress March’s cheek in that tender, almost sensual, way I had misinterpreted the first time I had witnessed her do that. But it was a different kind of love, and I now felt it too as her fingers glided away from him to stroke my face much in the same way. Her touch was tentative at first, her fingertips quivering as if she couldn’t believe it was me. I inhaled deeply her flowery perfume, mingled with the clean scent of baby soap, and took her hand in mine when I saw that her almond-shaped eyes were glistening.
She sniffed, swallowed, and eventually asked, “Alors, vous le trouvez comment?” So, what do you think of him?
Our full attention returned to the (small) elephant in the room, with his blue onesie and his tawny skin that was a perfect blend of Kalahari’s ebony skin and her husband’s Mediterranean tan. His face looked kind of bunched, like he was pissed that we were interrupting him in his drooling and doing nothing.
My mouth worked in vain for a second, until I turned to March. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I figured you’d enjoy the surprise,” he replied, his voice unexpectedly shy. He too seemed awed and kind of intimidated by the mysterious creature.
“What’s his name?” I inquired, poking one of the baby’s feet gingerly—and retrieving my hand just as fast when it curled in response.
“Samuel. Well, Sam for short.”
“He’s . . . full of hair, and fingers,” I noted, inspecting him. Sensing a compliment was needed, I added, “He’s a very nice baby. How old is he?”
Kalahari giggled. “Not even two months old. I wanted to call you after I was sure, but you were at the Poseidon . . .” Her voice trailed off, a fleeting sadness shadowing her features.
“I know,” I murmured. “But what matters is that I’m here now.”
“Do you want to hold him?”
I froze. Did I? Apparently, yes, since Kalahari placed Sam in my arms almost as soon. I held on to that light, limp little body for dear life—what if he squirmed and I dropped him? But he wasn’t doing much, content to stare up at me in fascination with his big, dark eyes. His brow crinkled in visible effort, and his tongue darted a few times before a renewed stream of bubbly drool started trickling down his chin, then my sweater.
“He loves doing that,” Ilan commented soberly.
March winced.
Kalahari clasped her hands. “So, who’s hungry?”
I gave her a pitiful look. “Do you have any yogurt?”
•••
Draped in my dignity, I ate the “farandole” of potato purée on my plate—with a little fowl breast, yay—while the rest of them devoured the whole juicy beast after some foie gras on toasted brioche, because it was goddamn Christmas. After they were done, Ilan went to fetch a Tupperware he kept on the terrace and opened it to reveal the nastiest, smelliest Reblochon you could possibly imagine. They had fresh baguette to go with it, and I watched him and Kalahari eat half of it with appreciative moans. Pure agony. At least, March wouldn’t touch that with a foot-long pole, so he kept me company while Kalahari helped herself to a second slice of cheese and told me how much she had missed that particular delight during her pregnancy.
I could easily empathize . . .
When she winked at March and asked, “Guess what’s for dessert?” I broke.
As she placed a creamy, luscious fraisier on the table, I balled my fists and announced, “I don’t care if this kills me. I’ll leave this world without regrets.”
March’s eyebrows pinched. “I’d rather you postpone dying, if you don’t mind. That being said, I don’t think fraisier will kill you—it might, however, give you a stomachache.”
I held out my plate to Kalahari. “Valhalla, I’m coming.”
She served me a slice as big as March’s with a snorting giggle. I could feel his eyes on me, watching for any sign of discomfort as I gobbled down each exquisite bite. My stomach did hurt a little after I was done, and I felt kinda queasy, but I acted cool and didn’t say anything: I didn’t want to vindicate him. His own plate was cleaned with deadly efficiency, and he helped himself to a second slice as soon as he was done. I secretly took it as a challenge, but I had to admit to myself that I wasn’t up for it. At least, for now . . .
March scraped the last trace of vanilla mousse from his plate and rewarded Kalahari with a beatific smile that matched Ilan’s. “Thank you. It was perfect.”
“Consider it an early Christmas present,” she replied, before tilting her head at me. “Do you want me to do something about your hair?”
My hand flew to my bald spot reflexively. “Oh, you mean . . . Yeah, I tried to comb it over so it wouldn’t show too much.”
But it couldn’t possibly escape the eagle eye of a woman who ruled over not one but two Parisian beauty salons—and sold her own product line. She tsked me. “That’s the kind of stuff you can’t hide, so you need to embrace it.”
I stared at her in confusion.
“You need an undercut.”
March and Ilan listened in silence, obviously trying to display the appropriate amount of polite interest as I asked, “What’s that?”
She rose from the table. “I’ll show you. Even Cara Delevingne has one.”
That’s the precise moment a series of hiccupy sobs burst from the baby monitor sitting on the kitchen island. Kalahari sighed. “I’d been hoping he’d sleep a little longer.”
I offered her a compassionate wince. “He doesn’t sleep much?”
“I swear he must have been trained by the Mossad . . .” Ilan groaned, running a hand across his face.
Kalahari left the kitchen and returned moments later with her little parasite firmly stuck to her chest again, except this time her shirt was open and a tiny hand rested possessively on her breast. We all followed her to the living room, where she settled between Ilan’s legs on the daybed to feed the ravenous beast. Curled against March on the couch, I watched them with a mixture of tenderness and curiosity. Back in New York, most of my friends were too young—or too immature—to have kids, and I myself was an only child, so I can’t say I had been given the opportunity to study that many babies in my short life. Kalahari would sometimes grimace and shift to a more comfortable position as little Sam chewed on her nipple mercilessly . . . but she looked happy, oddly serene even though her beautiful apartment was littered with crumpled paper towels—that March had insisted on picking up for her—and she probably hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in two months.
I looked down at my lap, where March’s hand held mine, stroking it absently. His expression was soft, relaxed as he watched Kalahari and Ilan, but let none of his thoughts through. Did he find kids scary too? Especially miniature Mossad agents trained in sleep-deprivation techniques? He had a few years on me—almost a decade, in fact—and it sometimes crossed my mind that we were in different places in life. Would he, someday . . . maybe when we’re older? When we ran out of ways to risk our lives? As I pondered this, his lips brushed my temple and pressed a kiss there, like a silent reassurance that we had a life ahead of us to make our own choices and mistakes.
But I wanted to at least cage dive with great white sharks and go on one of those real haunted house tours before I’d consider taking on the ultimate challenge of child-rearing.
Meanwhile, a satisfied burp marked the end of the ritual feeding. Sam rested on his father’s shoulder, his eyes half-closed as Ilan patted his back to elicit a second burp. That one geysered out Michael Bay style: behind me, March stiffened as Sam regurgitated a trickle of milk and drool on the cloth Ilan had placed on his shoulder for this very reason. Of course, his sweatshirt got stained anyway, because babies aim.
Kalahari sat up to take her little demon back while Ilan wiped his shoulder. He sent a look March’s way and mumbled, “Faut s’y faire.” Gotta get used to it.
She got up from the daybed and wiggled her brow at me. “Ready for your haircut?”
I rose from the couch with a firm nod. “Okay, I’m in.”
She nuzzled Sam’s curly hair fondly. “Tu vas rester avec tonton March pendant que Maman joue à la coiffeuse. Oh oui, on va bien s’amuser avec March!” You’re gonna stay with uncle March while mommy plays hairdresser. Oh yes, you’re gonna have fun with March!
The interested party paled. “Kalahari, I’m afraid I’m not qualified, and can’t possibly provide the level of fun you—”
She cut him off with a laugh. “Come on, don’t be shy!”
I had almost forgotten this detail: she could be ruthless, especially with March, whose bullshit and intimidation tactics had no effect on her. She all but shoved Sam into his arms, forcing him to catch the projectile with lightning reflexes. He held his “nephew” at arm’s length for a couple of seconds, before gingerly bringing him to his chest. And he looked . . . panicked. I couldn’t remember having ever seen March so stiff and awkward, as if he feared that the merest movement would somehow break the baby and trigger a series of catastrophic events until sirens blared in the distance. That, or he worried that the next burp might geyser all over his shirt. His usually unflappable poker face bordered on a cringe as the tiny creature started to squirm, possibly reaching for his nose. Said nose quivered, and its owner lowered his head cautiously to sniff the baby’s lower half.
March sniffed again, this time more insistently, and so did Ilan, who stepped closer. March eventually attempted to hand the child back to his mother. “Kalahari, I believe he . . .”
She dodged him to latch onto my arm instead. “I’m thinking we can turn that bald patch into a hair tattoo; you’re gonna love this.”
“I . . . uh . . . what?” I looked back and forth between her and March, whose distress appeared to be increasing by the second. “Well maybe, before that, we could—”
“Come. Let’s go to the bathroom for that.”
“For what?”
“For your haircut.”
“Chérie . . .” Ilan pleaded in his turn.
But it was too late; she was already dragging me toward the set of double doors leading to her bedroom and, from there, the bathroom. The doors closed behind us, leaving March and Ilan stranded in the living room with a baby in need of a new diaper.
I blinked at her while she rummaged through a massive closet to retrieve a large red vanity case from one of the shelves. “Are you sure we shouldn’t help . . . with the diaper?”
She shrugged. “It’ll do them good. I’m on diaper duty 99 percent of the time. This, right now, is my 1 percent, and believe me, I’m going to enjoy it. To the fullest.”
Meanwhile, I registered a faint knock at the door, followed by March’s strained voice. “Kalahari, this child needs your urgent attention.”
She rolled her eyes and shouted, “Cry me a river, bad boy. The diapers are in the changing table, with the baby wipes.” Then for Ilan, she added. “Epates-moi!” Amaze me!
Through the door, I recognized the culprit’s much deeper voice as he told March, “Ok, pas de panique. Tiens-le-moi pendant que je vais chercher ma boite à outils.” Ok, keep cool. Hold him for me while I go get my toolbox.
My eyes went wide, and I whirled around to face Kalahari. “Are you sure he knows what he’s doing?”
“More or less. It often gets incredibly complicated when Ilan is the one changing Sam: first he needs a pair of latex gloves, then the diaper won’t open so he needs to cut it, then the tape on the new diaper won’t stick so he needs duct tape.” She shrugged with a tender smile. “He always manages eventually.”
“Okay . . .” This child wouldn’t survive winter.
She pulled out trimmers from her vanity case and grinned. “Ready?”
And I wouldn’t either.