The Marble Arch

It wasn't anything special, it's just a river. Hell, Montana has a river that runs through it. Why are we still talking about this damn river when I could be looking at Notre Dame? I could barely keep myself still, as the instructor pointed at the Seine River, waving her arms frantically as if performing a mating dance. It was a failure of dance because as far as I could tell none of the sixty-nine kids standing around her were listening. Paris was dirty, and the Metro was horrendous to try and board all the time with this many people in our group; with maybe eight seconds to board and half of France trying to get on as well. If our bright orange backpacks didn't scream tourist, the traveling in such large numbers and screaming "'Merica" had to give it away. The French were not very friendly, nor were they all that stylish. I was expecting so much more from the "City of Lights" and yet I was not very happy, or filled with light. I love puns as much as the next person but that was terrible, still, I snickered to myself.

"We will have an hour to roam around this courtyard around the Louvre, but you must be back after one hour passes," the high pitched lady had screeched, her arms still performing a sacrificial ritual around her head.

I dashed off in the direction of the Notre Dame, following mediocre signs labeled for people who might know a lick of French. Not a single word of English hanging about, as if the city had signed an agreement with tour guides guaranteeing the guides business simply by not allowing the English a way to navigate the city without a guide. I was certainly lost at this point and came to a small caravan making fresh, piping hot crepes. Mmmm, crepes in Paris. That wasn't a bad idea. And Nutella. Okay, you had me at crepes. So I enjoyed myself one of these treats as I sighed in resignation to the fact I would have to find my way back to the group without seeing the Notre Dame this time. There was peace in just accepting your fate. Only I believe fate has a funny way of doing things, and sometimes you are just where fate wants you for whatever reason.

"Bonjour," said a voice, my head snapped up, and damn was this a face worth looking at.

"Bonjour, ca va?" hello, how are you?

"Ca va bien, et tu?" I am well, and you?

"Bien, merci coup." good, thank you.

That was the extent of my french from the little app I had played for about a month leading to the trip, useless. I could say many other things that would not help in this situation. Thank you Duolingo, I know how to talk about black cats being rich but I cannot flirt with this French boy. I realized I was still in my head, talking to myself like always, as this French boy was staring at me expectantly. Only then did I realize he had asked me something again. I hadn't heard it so I just said-

"Le chat noir?" the black cat?

The boy threw his head back in amusement, laughing louder than commercials during a quiet movie, "you are definitely an American," was all he said, in English, in deep man-voice English.

I was so astonished that I just glared at him. He was so easy on the eyes...I really had no idea how long I sat there looking at him in his military uniform. There was something about the uniform that was off, I knew it was French because of the insignia, but it didn't look like the same uniform I had seen the soldiers at the airport wearing. Not that I looked at the soldiers very long, they had AK-47s and I did not want to piss them off. He finally spoke again, "I couldn't help but notice that you seemed lonely, and this is Paris so I couldn't just let you be alone. May I accompany you to anywhere in particular? I promise I will only speak English to you."

He made a cross over his heart and held out his hand to me. I still had yet to say anything and simply took his hand, and we continued to stroll away down the street. My mind was racing, was this happening? I am holding hands with a boy....a French boy, down the streets of Paris. Hell, I am in the "City of Love" and I am holding hands with a boy, a French boy. What if he leads me back to his house and he kidnapped me? Oh dear god, my parents would be so mad, not surprised but definitely angry. I finally decided to say something, " So do you like to help girls out a lot?" Wow, good question, way to go girl.

"I normally just like to help people in general, and I'm definitely okay with helping a damsel in distress, such as yourself," he offered with a wink.

I got defensive, "Alright buddy, I was not in distress, I was simply enjoying a crepe on a bench in Paris. Tell me that doesn't sound cool."

"It is a story you should tell at parties for sure," he retorted, "let me show you something that is actually worth talking about."

We were still holding hands at this point walking through a crowd, as the crowd thickened the boy never once let go of my hand. On occasion, he would look at me and smile, a brilliant full-toothed smile, but never missing a beat in his rhythmic step. I couldn't help but be dazed and completely confused by this boy, this damn French boy. Surely he had better things to do with his time than help some American girl around this tourist town. He abruptly stopped and I basically ran into him, still holding his hand. "Here we are," he said quite proudly. We were in front of Notre Dame. I looked up, and it was beautiful, and I was captivated by how proudly it stood the test of time and the skyline. The gargoyles were hideous, but they did their job. All I could think about was the bell ringer and how lonely a life he had in solitude up in the bell tower. I was unaware that I had been staring so long at the building when I realized I could feel some eyes on me, I turned and the piercing gold-green eyes were looking straight at me, for how long I was unsure. All I knew was they were looking at me.

"It's beautiful," was all I could muster, as I turned away from him.

"I know, and the cathedral is pretty astounding too," he smirked. I just looked at him with a did-you-just say that face. He was really attractive, with a chiseled jawline, and dark grey-black hair. There was something about him that seemed all too familiar, and yet completely unreal. I felt as if his presence was something I didn't quite understand, yet I didn't question it. I was here holding his hand for a reason, I accepted it, and there was a certain peace in that sort of surrender.

"Do you think the bell ringer liked living alone and only ever interacting with bells?" I finally spoke aloud. I was curious to hear what he had to say.

"I think he escaped a fate that we are forced to endure. He was in solitude and never experienced rejection, death, loss, or heard a single lie uttered to him. I think he was luckier than any of us will ever be." He whispered angrily. I was completely taken aback by his response, he seemed like such a caring boy, wanting to help people and even taking time to walk around with me. I knew something bigger than what I could understand was at play inside of him, and an American girl, on holiday, wasn't going to help his demons. "I think he was lonely for sure, but he surely never escaped any of those things. He was rejected at birth for being a monster. He felt the sting of humans unacceptance way before any of us would ever feel it." I pointed out.

"Well, considering the hunchback of Notre Dame is just a figure of dear Victor's imagination, it doesn't make much of a difference. Quasimoto is someone I am jealous of, his ignorance of the world is something I wish I could have." At that statement, we stood in silence. I grieved for this boy holding my hand, he was hurt and there was nothing I could do. He eventually let go of my hand and walked to sit down on a bench and put his face in his hands. I walked over and stood before him, realizing the reason his body was trembling was that he was crying. I sat down next to him and just held his hand. He was now my soldier in distress, and now he needed me. Fate knew what she was doing. We sat there for quite a bit of time before he said anything, " I am so sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I don't really mean what I say, at least I hope I'm not that bitter," he was still sobbing, "life is this gift that people take for granted, but I see it for what it really is. It is a game, to see who is strongest and who can survive the longest, only one has won yet. Because everyone dies." I didn't let go of his hand, and I realized what was happening. It all clicked somehow. I remember I had also felt this way, right after my dad had died. The weird uniform, the anger to the world, it all made sense in my mind. I remember doing some research before coming to this dirty town, and I had a plan. I stood up and offered my hand to him. He took it and we walked along the Champs-Élysées. I had no idea what was going on in his head, except that if I could somehow make him feel better I would. We walked and I finally stopped at the Arc de Triomphe. When he looked up he just stopped and dropped my hand. He fell to his knees at the grave of the unknown soldier, but he didn't cry. I got on my knees next to him. His eyes were closed and his hands rested on the ground in front of him.

"I don't know who you lost in the war, and I know it is hard to understand why things happen the way they do. But you can't let the world's horror stop you, but you can stop the horrors of the world. You wear this uniform in honor of the one you lost, and now go act on that honor. You have a lot to give the world okay, buddy? You don't have to be bitter anymore, the universe is indifferent to this bitterness" I choked out this speech, through tears because the realization hit me so hard. I had no idea how I figured out the uniform was not his or that it was from a previous life but I knew I meant every word I said to this boy. I had known him for maybe one hour tops, and here I was crying with him over the tomb of the unknown soldier. We sat in silence once again, and he just turned to me, still not saying a word, and gave me a kiss on the cheek, "Merci" and with that, he was gone. I sat on the ground near the tomb for a while longer and stared at the eternal flame that burnt since JFK's visit to Paris years earlier. The tomb was an honorary grave built for all the unknown people killed during the World War by Nazis, that would never have an official grave and instead were to be forgotten. The tomb stood for them so they may not be forgotten. I stood up and slowly began my way back to my travel group at the Louvre, they were going to be pissed I was late. But I had my reason and I do not regret it.

I never asked the name of the boy, nor did I know any way to contact him again. He helped me when I was alone in Paris, and I hope to the stars, I helped him when he was lost. But he would always be my unknown soldier.