Griffin

The way a travel book tells it, the River Seine is 485 miles long, thirty-one feet deep on average, and is spanned by thirty-seven bridges in France’s capital city.

Boring.

Facts can be so terribly dull.

If I were writing a travel book, I’d surely add other details.

For instance, the river is also a home to occasional sewage overflows, it’s a resting spot for love locks from the Pont Des Arts tossed in the river when angry lovers split, and it’s a fairly popular watery disposal site for dead bodies, since about fifty-five of those buggers were dredged up in the Seine as recently as ten years ago.

Just picture that the next time someone suggests a dinner boat cruise down the Seine.

Yes, if I were a tour guide, I’d spend too much time noodling on little details with my tourists, like when were the bodies tossed into the water and how long had they been earthworm meat before being given the heave-ho to their wet graves. As for the love locks, I’d ponder how many clever little bits and bobs could have been made with the damn discarded metal in the first place. Picture frames, necklaces, and the like . . . I have to imagine an entire industry could be born from the declarations of love that weigh down one of the city’s bridges.

But perhaps that’s why I’m not a tour guide. I find the odd facts and curiosities of a city much more interesting than monuments and guideposts.

As I ride my bike along the Left Bank, the sun rises above the horizon of the city I’ve lately come to call my home. I near one of the bouquinistes I see most mornings. His name is Julien, and he looks the part of a seller of antiquarian books and postcards from his stand alongside the river. He sports a mustache and a beret, and he often wears a striped shirt. I asked him once if he even liked the beret. “No,” he’d said, curling his lip in disdain. “It is horrible. But I sell more postcards when I wear it.” Then he gave a typical French shrug.

“Bet you sell even more when you’re in stripes.”

A wicked grin had appeared on his face. “I do.”

“Bonjour, Julien,” I call out when I’m a few feet away.

“Why do you wear that stupid helmet?” he asks gruffly. “You look ridiculous. You’re the only one who wears a helmet.”

“I like what’s inside it,” I say with a smile as I pass him.

He huffs but waves a quick good-bye.

I slow at the light at the bridge and pedal off when it turns green. I raise my face to the blue sky and smile.

It’s one of those days when I feel a little lighter, a little springier, with a mood to match the weather. Paris in the springtime is capricious, but today the sun is shining, and as I ride past groups of tourists streaming toward Notre Dame, a burst of wistfulness courses through me. It’s a shame, in a way, that I’ll soon be saying good-bye, since this city has been good to me. We’ve had a steady run—the cafés and the bookshops, the hunts up cobbled streets, and the escapades in the evenings with pretty women.

I cut across the next intersection and turn onto the sidewalk of Rue LaGrange. I veer to the right, avoiding a mother holding her toddler’s hand. The mother shoots me a coarse look. She probably thinks I’m a tourist. That if I were a true Frenchman, I’d ride in the street, sans helmet, and a scarf looped around my neck no matter the weather. I simply smile in return, because nothing is going to get me down today.

When I reach the florist shop, I slow to a stop, lock up my bike, then unscrew the seat. You can’t be too safe, especially in a city rife with not only pickpockets, but thieves who will do nearly anything to nick a bike. Except ride away with their crotch perched on a metal pole.

I say hello to the florist then head inside the Capstone Language Institute next door, taking the stairs to the fifth floor, whistling a happy tune as I go, bike seat in hand. Today isn’t just payday. It’s cha-ching day. It’s rain-euros-on-me-for-a-job-well-done day.

This is the day I’ve been waiting for.

When I push open the door to our offices, I cross paths with my friend Christian, who shakes his blond head, bemused at something. Christian is a top translator at the same company I work for. He knows French and all the Scandinavian languages, even though he was raised in England from a young age.

I take a wild guess at the source of his amusement. “Jean-Paul is on a roll this morning?”

“My ears will never recover from the tale he just told.”

I cringe. The fellow who runs the place and doles out the assignments is prone to TMI. Jean-Paul has never met a tawdry tale he wouldn’t tell. “Just smile and nod, right?”

“I did my best, I swear,” Christian says. “But I might need to find a way to erase the last five minutes from my memory. Something about a house of ill repute, three women, a bustier, and red heels. I’m not sure if the heels were worn or drunk from—”

I hold up my hands. “Stop right there, mate. That’s all I need to know, thank you very much.”

“You should be thanking me. I had to take that bullet today.”

I clap him on the shoulder. “I’ll always be grateful for your sacrifice. Did you snag a new assignment?”

He smiles impishly. “I’m booked for the week. A crew of brokers in from Copenhagen. It’s a pretty penny since they’re paying for my specialty.”

“Nice one,” I say, since Christian’s a former finance whiz. “See you in the . . .”

I stop myself, since if all goes as planned, I might not be here next week to see him at all.

He laughs and raises his chin. “See you on the flip side,” he says, since that’s his favorite American expression. He claps me on the back. “It’s been good. Let’s get a beer before you go?”

“Count on it.”

Turning down the hall, I square my shoulders and knock on the open door to Jean-Paul’s office. Even his randy stories won’t derail my mood today. I can barely contain my grin. Today is bonus day, and the bonus I’ve been promised for my last job is big enough for me to tackle a most important item from a most important list.

“Come in.”

I push on the door. “Good morning, Jean-Paul. How are you this fine Monday?”

“Fantastic.” He rises, taking off his glasses and gesturing to his chair. “I had the most amazing weekend.”

And he’s already off and running.

“Amazing weekends are the best kind,” I say, since I suppose I can endure a randy story given the bonus that’s coming my way.

I take the chair as Jean-Paul drags a hand through his thick mess of gray hair. His eyes twinkle with the naughtiness of a teenager.

I brace myself as he launches into the details of a weekend that revolve around a rope, a corset, and his fourth wife, which means I’m getting a whole new tale from the one he told Christian. “But enough about me,” Jean-Paul says, once he concludes by informing me that the rope burns on his wife’s wrists were completely visible when she served their neighbors Sunday night dinner. “How did you feel the job with the Wentsworth Group went?”

Thank hell for the segue. “Great. The client seemed happy. The marketing executives were quite satisfied. All went well, I’d say.” My recent gig was the most plum of plum assignments—one company for a few months, working with a key executive, handling all marketing material translations from French to English. Now, let’s show me the money, in the form of that absolutely delicious bonus for a job well done.

“All did go well. Funny, that’s how I felt about my first marriage, too,” Jean-Paul says, a faraway look filling his eyes. “She was the prettiest.” He sighs dreamily.

“Okay.”

“Absolutely the best of the bunch.”

“Right. Someone always comes out on top, eh?”

“Which brings me to the bonus,” he says, his voice turning heavy, leaden.

It doesn’t take a translator to know what that sound signifies. Hell, Google Translate could get that right.

“Yes, the bonus,” I say, rubbing my palms together, my pitch rising like I can rearrange fate with a chipper demeanor. But then, this wouldn’t be the first time I tried to wish away circumstances with a bloody fucking grin.

Didn’t have much luck then, either.

“The good news is we have so many more jobs.”

I can practically feel the bonus slipping through my fingers right this second.

“And the bad news is they’ll be a week late with the bonus?” I offer, always playing the optimist. Been there, done that, have the T-shirt.

Jean-Paul rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “Griffin, it’s like I say about my first wife and me. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out between a couple, but they still love each other.”

“I don’t think that’s a saying about first wives.”

“What I’m saying is the client loved you, but it turns out, no fault of yours, that the marketing campaign was total crap. And the company doesn’t have the money to pay the bonus since the campaign was canceled.”

My shoulders sag. “They can’t pay the bonus?”

Screw optimism. Just screw it, like a bike frame without a seat screws the sitter.

“It seems it is not on the map.”

I fall into English. “I really wish you were taking the piss right now.”

He blinks. “I’m not urinating.”

“Sorry. I meant I wish you were pulling my leg,” I say, using the phrase he’d be more familiar with since he learned English in American schools.

“Ah, I only wish I were pulling your leg. Yanking your chains. Taking your pisses.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s just taking the piss. Not mine. I assure you.”

He flashes a smile, and it’s probably the grin he used on his first, second, and third wives, because it almost tricks me into thinking everything’s going to be fine. “Language is a funny thing, isn’t it?” he says, chuckling as if this is the most delightful conversation in all the land. “In any case, Wentsworth said you were stellar. Most marvelous translator they’ve had. But you know how it goes. C’est la vie.”

“Win some, lose some,” I add.

He snaps his fingers. “Your idioms are spot on, Griffin. That’s why you’ll always be in demand. As I’ve said, you and Annalise are some of the best when it comes to nuance.”

“Yes,” I agree, since my pregnant colleague is quite sharp, too. But a lot of good that grasp on idioms is now that the money is sailing away in the spring breeze.

Along with the dream it was earmarked for. I planned to use that bonus to line the pockets of an airline, pay a registration fee, and run twenty-six miles, then spend some time exploring Indonesia, the first place I ever marked on a map with a thumbtack.

It was meant to serve a certain someone’s wishes.

“But don’t fret,” says the man who was supposed to become my former boss today but is now still my current boss. “We have new assignments coming in all the time. You’re one of my top translators for all those crazy Americans who realize French is just a teeny bit harder than they thought.”

I should laugh. Really, I should. Because that’s the truest thing he’s ever uttered.

And yet, I can’t hear him over the sound of my dream trip circling the toilet.