Allison Parr - Running Back

“Me? Model? No. No. I’m an archaeologist.”

Apparently that wasn’t as cool as modeling, because his nose crinkled slightly. He craned his head to see me from different sides, and then nodded. “You are tall enough.”

Well, excellent.

The man nodded, then turned to Mike. His gaze lingered on the red hair. “This is your boyfriend.”

“Yes. This is Mike O’Connor. He plays football—American football—in New York.”

“Ahh...” The man’s expression made his thoughts on American football very clear.

“We didn’t mean to bother you—we just thought we’d stop by—we were in the area—”

“Come. I will do your eyes.”

“No.” I would have backed away if I didn’t have a two-hundred pound weight holding my arm. “That’s okay. I just wanted to see where she lived.”

“Yes, I know. I will show you and tell you about her as I do your eyes.” He walked away, not waiting to see if we’d follow. “I met her when she first arrived. She was underfed, and underdressed, and she cried every night because she was lonely and didn’t speak French. She used to sing in Russian before she fell asleep.” His voice trailed off as he rounded a corner.

I couldn’t help it. I ran after him. “When did she learn French?”

“Mmm. I taught her. That’s why I came here, you know? Not because of my art. Ah, no, that is why I came here, but not why the agency took me. They took me because I speak Hungarian and Russian and they needed someone to help the new girls. And I wasn’t much older than them.”

“So what was she like? When she first came?”

“Like everyone. Here.” He led us up a cement staircase and into a hall. He narrowed his eyes at Mike. “Men are not allowed here.”

I grabbed Mike’s arm, not intending to let him go. Mike slid me a smile. “And yet here we are.”

The man let out a puff of air, his cheeks inflating and deflating in exasperation. “Only because you are with Mademoiselle Bocharov.”

“It’s Sullivan,” I corrected.

His nose crinkled again, and I half expected him to say something along the lines of “how plebian.” How bougie? Instead, he walked us to the end of the hall. “This is the kitchen. Each girl has a small fridge.” He gestured at a wall filled with what looked like cubbies, and opened one to reveal a one by one foot space packed with milk and fruit.

The rest of the room was pretty spartan, with just one small table by the windows. Two hot plates. One microwave. No toaster, no oven. “And they eat here?”

“Mostly they eat downstairs. But they can keep snacks here.”

He led us across the hall, and opened the door to a common room. Two couches sat on beige colored carpeting, and a bookcase filled with worn paperbacks stood against the far wall. Closer to us, a flat screen TV played a British show to the three girls in the room. They looked up briefly when we entered.

Our guide waved. “The common room.”

The smallness and gray walls would have been depressing, except that out of the corner of the window, you could just see part of the Eiffel Tower rising into the sky.

How surreal.

For the first time, I actually tried to picture Mom here. Here, in this room, which looked like it hadn’t changed since the eighties. Sitting on those flat cushions of the brown tweed couch, staring at the screen, or out the windows, at the rooftops and wires and the metal structure rising above all of it.

What did she want out of life when she was here? How did she think her life was going to end up?

Mike tugged on my hand, and I realized the man was off again, down the hall with unexpectedly fleet feet, until he reached the end of the hall. He rapped on a door. “ C’est Carl .”

The door opened, and a tall, skinny girl stood before us, with prominent cheekbones and a long, thin blade of a nose. She’d bound her hair up in a sleek bun, like a ballerina. “ Quoi? ”

“ C’est la fille de Madame Bocharov. ” To me, he said, “This was your mother’s room.”

I could hardly believe he remembered her actual room, but I still found myself looking past the teenager to the tiny, boxy space. Clothes were draped over chairs and the two twin beds, black stretchy things with sparkles and oversized sweaters that confused me.

On the opposite wall, the window looked out toward another building. A tree waved its leaves at us. Above the beds, photos and posters formed colorful wallpaper.

It wasn’t depressing, exactly. It was just... I couldn’t help looking back at the girl. She watched me with narrowed eyes. They weren’t like Anna’s, who must have a year or two on this girl. Anna’s eyes were angry sometimes and young at others. This girl just looked watchful. “I didn’t know she had children.” Her accent was thick and strange.

“Just me.”

“You have her email? Her agent’s?”

Fourteen or fifteen and trying to network.

Carl scowled. “Don’t bother Mademoiselle Bocharov.”

“It’s okay.” I swallowed and smiled at the girl. “Where are you from?”

“Ukraine.”

“And how long have you been here?”

“One year.”

“And do you like it?”

Her gaze flickered to Carl. “I love it. I have a good job, good friends. I live in the best city in the world. Though I would like to go to New York.”

I had no idea if I believed her. She sounded sincere. Maybe she was. Maybe my mother had been, when she recalled her memories here. I’d always thought my mom couldn’t have been old enough at fourteen to know what she wanted.

But maybe I was just being judgmental?

Mike jumped into the silence with a smile. “Everyone in New York wants to come to Paris.”

The girl darted a glance at him from under her long, spiky lashes, and then she smiled. For the first time she looked like a teenager, shy and cheeky. “Then they will all have to like me, because I have already lived here and can tell them all the best places.”

Mike laughed. I tried to, but didn’t get more than a dry huff. “What do you want to do when you grow up?”

Her eyes brightened. “I want to be like Tamara. I want to be the most beautiful model in the world, and to wear all the best designers and to marry a prince.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say. Anxiety and confusion and weirdness muddled around in my belly.

Carl coughed for attention, and then nodded to the girl and started on his way. Like a dazed child, I also nodded and followed him off, Mike beside me as we headed for the elevator.

“Mlle. Bocharov!” The girl’s young voice piped down the hall. “Can I have your email?”

Carl turned and barked down the hall, “Leave the mademoiselle alone!”

She ducked her head. I swallowed, trying to decide whether to say anything, and then the elevator arrived and Carl ushered us inside.

Back on the first floor, he led us deeper into the building, and I followed, lost in my own mind’s maze, until I realized we were standing in an airy space, with mirrors and tools and sprays. It smelled like hair and product and I stopped without telling my feet.

Carl went toward one of the stations but I remained in my door. Mike ran his hand up my arm. “You okay?”

I shook my head. “Remember when I said your mom must feel like she was in a fairytale, meeting all those people and seeing places she’s only heard stories of? It’s the same for me here. I feel like I fell into one of my mother’s stories. Like I’m not in reality anymore.” I reached up my palms to frame his face. “Except for you. You are the one real, true thing here.”

Mike regarded me seriously. “I wanted you to come here because it helped me so much when you made me face my own mother. But we don’t have to stay.”