From Paris, with Angst

“I haaate Paris right now.” I fumbled through my toiletries bag for something to help my hurting brain…I was definitely thirty, my punishment for such indulgences: wine, bread, cheese, dessert, more wine. It was a trip I’d planned with my grandmother, but I’d go alone years after her passing. Here I was on our trip, painfully hungover, with a man I only knew by his nickname.

"Séb." I met him at a festival at Montmartre. I couldn't help myself. He had the look of a sure thing, and I needed to be handled. So, I let it happen.

I brought him a pill and some water.

“Ah, merci.”

We spent the morning bringing each other back to life. It felt like I was living a sultry romance novel, and I liked it. Growing up, my adventures were only in my head and something felt…powerful…to finally live them out.

He kissed my shoulder, “I can get for us espresso. You want a pastry?” His English was better than my French and I found it intoxicating. I found him intoxicating: his solid frame, wide grin, dark hair and lashes making a vignette surrounding his piercing gaze. Like I mentioned, he had the look of a sure thing. Sexy, in a dangerous way, and I was up for dangerous...So I thought.

A few shoulder shrugs perfectly set his leather jacket onto his broad shoulders, he kissed me ravenously and slipped out the door. I’d given him the key to let himself in. (True to pattern, I was already giving too much away.)

I ran the hot water in the shower a while, letting last night’s toxins surface onto my skin. I needed a moment to repair. Stepping under the running water, I quivered in the after shock of our love making. I let myself laugh a moment, feeling so free, scandalous, empowered. I liked who I was allowing myself to be. I took my time with myself, in the new skin I'd found.

Expecting to impress him, I emerged from my self-care moment like Botticelli’s Birth Of Venus. Naked and wet, I was let down. He wasn't back yet. My thoughts took off: Maybe the cafe was busy. Maybe he had to make a phone call. Maybe he’s getting me flowers…Okay, stop, now you're spinning. I snapped out of it. "Ah, well…" I dried off and put on a robe. He’d be back soon.

Two hours passed and I was in hysterics: He’s got my key…THAT ASSHOLE…How will I fix this?…What if he’s a psycho? What if he’s been hit by a car?…What if BOTH are true? As the avalanche of dread came crashing down, I got fully dressed and prepared myself to call the police. Thoughts still spinning: What if the key is what he wanted? What if I slept with a thief? Or….worse?

It didn’t feel safe to be there, so I started packing my bags. I resolved to contact the police and the rental company and let them deal with it, say my purse was stolen. Then, I heard his steps. Oddly, his boots made two different sounds, I’d noticed earlier as he walked across the wooden floors. I could hear that he was running. He better be, I thought, that asshole.

It hardly seemed like he unlocked the door before he was darting towards me. Not in any state of logic, I began to fuss, “Hey!…what t——.” He grabbed me and covered my mouth, whispering, “Don’t make a sound. Sit. Sit down and don't make a sound.”

In that moment, I regretted everything. I came to Paris for art, adventure…for sex; and now I was going to die. All I could think was this trip of a lifetime would end mine. I obeyed him and sat down. Trusting him was my only option; he wasn’t too forceful with me, he did not hurt me…yet. However, he was clearly hurt. His jeans had a blood trail that came from underneath his jacket, his hands were dirtied with red. We locked eyes. His focus never left me. I was so confused by his numbed stare. Was he my protector or my murderer? My heart beating inside my head, I felt the adrenaline dumping into my veins. The longest moment of my life passed, then, more footsteps, running from the stairwell, stopping at each level and coming closer to our floor. Terrified is not the word. After hearing the steps leave, we remained in the silence. He winced in pain, more fresh blood on his jeans. He whispered again, “Sit down and don't make a sound.” He silently made his way to the door, drawing a pistol from the inside of his jacket. After pressing his ear to the door a while, he made an exit. I couldn’t feel my limbs. I was completely frozen in fear.

Returning from scoping the scene, he unveiled his wound. There was much more blood by now. He made a phone call in the bedroom, shutting the door so I wouldn't hear. When he came out, he said to me, “No questions. I cannot speak to you about this. There is a doctor coming. You will let him in. Take the gun when you go downstairs.”

“Wha-,” I began to shakily interject.

“No questions,” he repeated. “You have to help me. You cannot contact anyone. If you do…Do not make me say it" He undressed and lay on the bed, gathering the sheets to add pressure to his wound. "You understand me, yes?”

I nodded and pealed myself from the floor, taking refuge in the bathroom to weep, muffling my face with a towel. I regretted everything. Parading as some confident temptress, who was I pretending to be?

When the doctor arrived, I did as he told me. Taking the gun, my elbows would barely straighten from my nervousness. I’d never held a gun before, hated them. A mother and child passed me on the stairs and I contorted into a corner, hands behind me. I let him in, and without a glance my way, he ran up to Séb’s aid. He stayed into the night, the three of us, no one speaking. I just stared out the window into the courtyard, wishing to reverse life.

This doctor, who looked nothing like the type, finally emerged from the bedroom, told me to monitor Séb and that he’d be back in the morning. He went on to confirm that I understood the extreme exclusivity of the situation and that my own life depended upon my secrecy.

Séb lied motionless from sleeping pills. Dying for answers, I took his jacket to peruse its contents: mints, three sets of keys, a utility knife, his wallet containing five I.D.s with different names, one being "Sébastien." Lastly, there was a Moleskine soft cover journal, a little black book. Thumbing through, it was loaded with content: names, profiles, photos, loose papers, train tickets, schedules. Organized crime I assumed…Then, I got to the back.

Me.

A photo from when I arrived in Paris.

I tore through the pages again. There were dates, destinations, brackets that read, 'placement code.' Some had 'NA, breached information, allied, detained.' I frantically flipped through the book several more times looking for a pattern. We were all American. We were all fit, late twenties to mid thirties. We were all traveling through Paris. And, we were all solo travelers, there was something lonely about us. A myriad of panic sprinted through my mind: Was I in the first phase of human trafficking? Was Séb a serial killer? Was I a brainwashing experiment for their cultish crime circle?…What do all these cryptic dates mean? Who are these people and how did they find meee?!

After hiding the book, I took the gun and settled in the bedroom’s corner chair and waited. I entertained my escape in my mind, the peaceful method, no police. I’d tell him to just let me go, and I wouldn’t shoot. I knew if I left, I’d be killed. So, I sat in the chair, waiting to negotiate my life.

I nodded off a few times in the war between exhaustion and adrenaline. Around 5 o’clock, Séb stirred and asked for water. I brought it to him and conjured up all my theatrics to pretend to be concerned for him.

“Did you find it?,” he asked me.

“Find what?”

“We don't have time to do this back and forth. Did you find it?”

“Yes, I found it…What can I do for you to let me go?”

“What makes you so sure you want to be let go?”

“I don't want to be a part of what you do, and I don’t want to die yet.”

“You don't have to.”

I was maddened by the riddles; “HOW DO YOU KNOW ME!?”

“We have known you…for a long time. We know your family, your humble beginnings. We know you were a good student. You studied art...but, none of that worked out. We know you are swimming up the stream for a long time now. You work yourself always so hard. Different jobs. Moving a lot. We know you. But, now, I really know you. I know you are ready for something different. More...A better life than you can give yourself.”

The next hour was a back and forth of questions and answers. It was eerie, how much he already knew about me. He said I’d been chosen by algorithms based on my records, traceable life moments, interests, online activity; being watched nearly all my life. I’d been chosen to merge into their movement of organized crime for the greater good. It was drug trafficking and money laundering with a twist. Masquerading as a trade company, they took cuts for themselves and their families, then gave to people affected by war and civil unrest. It was intricate. They built schools and hospitals, settled debts. They directly helped victims of senseless destruction. It was the most unfathomable opportunity of my life, and he knew it.

“What are the terms? It is dangerous, right?”

“Yes. In the beginning. Right now...If you want to live, and your escape plan is nothing better than running away from this apartment, you must join and commit five years to the movement. In this time, you have no contact with your previous circle. However, we do arrange for them to receive your allotted financial benefits. You help them, but you cannot communicate with them. After these five years, the terms change.”

“Can I say goodbye to anyone?”

“No.”

“You keep calling it a movement. Is there a name?”

“No. We remain untraceable. We do not exist among the world, only among each other.”

“Look, you risked your life going for pastries, seems an unfair-”

“THE WORLD IS UNFAIR. It is also unfair that you are given this opportunity out of many others who would take it and you hesitate…To show you your new reality…Today, twenty thousand U.S. dollars, who will you send it to?”

My entire life leading to this moment played like a movie trailer in my mind…“My mother.” I didn't fully trust what was happening, but if I could help my mom, at least some good would come of it.

He grinned and waved his hand humorously, as if it wasn't all too serious. “Consider it done. I keep that much in the heel of my boot.”

Twenty grand….done. Just like that. It took me years to save for Paris. I couldn't process any of it, having a romance to thinking I'd die to casually discussing the uprooting of my existence. Seeing my face in that little black book, I thought it was a death sentence. Now, I knew it to be the opposite.

Growing up, my adventures were only in my head. In that moment, I regretted nothing.