Published Spring 2006
 
Frequent Losers
Eric had warned Greta not to take the Métro through Châtelet.
He reminded her that pickpockets stream in from the housing projects
outside Paris and converge on that most-traveled station, fanning
out and working in pairs. Greta was distraught because he had just
dumped her, and she wasn't paying attention. Once on the train,
she wrapped herself around a pole and wept openly, hiccupping and
snuffling, as she looked at an advertisement on the wall, a beach
scene with happy couples in bathing suits, framed by prices for
getaways to Corsica, Ibiza, and Tunisia. As she fumbled in her coat
pocket for a tissue, she felt a bump to her left, turned, and saw
the receding back of a woman sheathed in a bulky coat, but thought
nothing of it until she reached for her wallet and realized that
it was missing. Money, passport, credit card, all gone.
She climbed the stairs at St. Michel and tottered on the sidewalk,
buffeted by people rushing to work in the gray, sooty morning. Stumbling
across the street to the quai of the Seine, she leaned against a
stone parapet and looked down at brown, oily water. On the greasy
cobblestones below, a homeless man lay asleep, passed out, or dead.
Greta shivered, swiped at her face, and her hand came away streaked
with grimy tears. How had she ended up abandoned in this cold, dirty
city where she didn't speak the language? Her friends were all in
college, where she'd still be if she hadn't dropped out to travel
with Eric. Why did he do this to her?
Greta looked at the island beyond the bridge where she could just
make out Notre Dame through a scrim of haze. A scaffolding covered
the facade as if the building, left without support, would crumble.
But nothing in Paris had met her expectations since she and Eric
arrived a week ago. The days had been drearily short, and the sun
had never managed to burn through the pollution that hung like smoke
in a crowded café. There was a constant drizzle, and she had developed
a raw cough. Nowhere had she seen the postcard images of monuments
she had studied before leaving. She had visions of her and Eric
taking romantic walks along the Seine, stopping to kiss passionately
whenever the mood struck them. Maybe Eric would admit he loved her
over a bottle of champagne at a bistro or it could happen in bed
one sleepy morning.
"You don't go to Paris in winter for the sights, Greta," Eric
had said when she tried to wake him up so that they could explore
the city. He had taken to sleeping until late afternoon, and they
would emerge only as the sun was setting, going out to jazz clubs
in neighborhoods where the signs were written more often in Arabic
than in French, places so far away from tourist attractions that
she wondered if they were in Paris at all. She had clung to Eric's
side, often drifting off to sleep on his shoulder, as he smoked
Gauloises and spoke to men with nicotine-stained teeth in loud French,
punctuated by wild gesticulations. She was bored by jazz, she hated
all the smoke, and she was tired of waking up hung-over. Why couldn't
they see some museums for a change? Or go at least see the Eiffel
Tower, which she hadn't laid eyes on yet?
So there was tension between them. He left dirty clothes and cigarette
butts all over their hotel room, and she resented cleaning up after
him. Somebody had to keep things neat though. He called her a tight
ass, but she wasn't. She barely recognized Eric anymore. He was
so distant and irritable; she couldn't figure out what he was thinking.
But now, how was she going to survive without him? What about food?
A place to sleep?
* * *
College was not what she had expected either. Although she had
been the best and most organized student at her high school, head
of everything, ambitious and accomplished, in college she soon found
herself lapped by smarter, more confident students. For the first
time in her life, she received B's and C's even though she was working
harder than ever. Her parents had been so hopeful and proud, but
she didn't have the heart to tell them she was a failure. All that
wasted money. Then first semester of her sophomore year, she met
Eric, a senior, and they fell in love and he said she was smart
and she believed him and so she settled into the cozy role of being
his girlfriend, which involved cooking, making love, and reading
what he brought home for her to digest— Lacan and Walter Benjamin— so she felt like she was learning even if she wasn't going to
classes all that often. Although she had every intention of catching
up, it became clear that it was too late for that semester. Eric
was graduating in December and wanted her to go to Europe with him,
so it seemed a good plan. She figured she could go back later, there
or wherever Eric ended up. She hadn't told her parents she was dropping
out and now it was too late. She continued to email them, and they
didn't even know she was out of the country. The lie was so huge
that there was no way to admit it. She would have to tell them soon
though so that they could get their money back for second semester. Greta reached into her shoulder bag for her Paris street guide
to find the American Embassy. Fluorescent post-it tabs peeked out
of the margins, noting places she had hoped to visit. She traced
a line on the page, from the place where she was standing to a spot
on the opposite bank of the river. Looking over the turrets of the
Louvre, she calculated that it was about a mile and a half away.
She started walking.
Eric had blind-sided her this morning by breaking up with her
and taking off on his own. She woke up and found him stuffing clothes
into a duffel bag. He saw her, sat down, and said, "I'm sorry. This
is not working out." The veins of his forearms stood out when he
pushed up the sleeves of his sweater.
Her mouth cottony, she sat up. "What?"
"You can't claim we're getting along."
She dragged herself into a sitting position as the words washed
over her. "What are you doing?"
"Leaving."
"Were you even going to tell me?"
"I thought it would be better than having a scene." She stared
at a chicken pox scar on his forehead which folded in half when
he frowned.
"But I thought we were doing so well." Her breath caught in her
throat, and she whispered, "I love you."
"What does that mean?"
"Please don't go!"
He frowned and shrugged. "I wanted to avoid this."
"What am I going to do?"
"You'll be fine." He tucked a wad of Euros into her hand. "You
can get home with this." Her face burned, but she made no effort
to push the money away. The smell of toothpaste barely covered his
morning cigarette.
"We made love last night?"
"It was great, but I've gotta book." He reached over to stroke
her arm. She batted it away.
"Fuck you, Eric," she said. Then she began to weep again.
"See what I mean?" He hoisted his bag onto his shoulder. Opening
the door, he said, "Take care of yourself," but she had thrown herself
on the bed and covered her head with a pillow. She lay there, weeping,
willing herself into a coma. When she couldn't sleep, she got out
of their shared bed, then bathed with the hand showerhead, shivering
under the trickle of water. Then she dressed, flattened out the
Euros, counted and aligned them, slipping them into pockets of her
wallet. Her nose was stuffed from crying and her head hurt. She
grabbed a fresh packet of tissues and staggered out the door and
onto the street.
If Eric hadn't left her, she would have paid closer attention
in the Métro. Now what was she going to do for money? She couldn't
wire her parents. They'd force her to come home to Michigan and
rot and they'd harangue her about lies and respect and morality
and about how she had thrown her chances away. She'd rather beg
on the streets of Paris than do that, but she dreaded the thought
of all those germy hands dropping filthy coins into her cup. Maybe
the Embassy could help her get home.
Threading her way west toward the Embassy, she clung to the sidewalk
nearest the river, but after a car barreled past, slashing her feet
with foul-smelling water, she veered into a blackened alley and
staggered toward a sliver of light. When the street opened up, she
discovered the crowded wooden stands of a market.
Overpowering smells assaulted her – pungent wedges of Roquefort
with varicose veins of blue and Brie that smelled like old shoes.
The wave of sea odor from the fish stand forced its way into her
sinuses, while the sight and smell of oysters, glistening and snotty,
made her gag. Even so, her stomach was wrenched by hunger. How could
she be so repulsed, yet at the same time, starving?
The street bustled with people carrying string bags, pushing their
way toward the counters. She eyed each stand, looking in vain for
free samples, tormented by the smells of bread and pastries. Determined
matrons barked their orders to the merchants. The fish monger, a
cigarette clamped between his teeth, plunged his raw, gnarled hands
into ice chips to retrieve two filets. Greta only had a handful
of Euro cents, tinny as play money, and knew that she'd need what
little she had for passport photos. Eric had handled all the money,
so she didn't even know what the prices meant.
On the curb, Greta saw a Gypsy woman with two children, one a
baby, its head hidden in the folds of her coat, nursing. Her free
hand formed a bowl, jutting out toward Greta aggressively. The woman's
dirty feet spilled out of sandals; a young girl lay by her side,
staring straight ahead, playing with some pebbles in the wet street.
An apple rolled off a pyramid fruit display into the street, and
Greta snatched it before the girl could, then ducked between two
stands, wiped it on her coat, and gnawed at it breathlessly.
Hoping for more stray food, she felt herself drawn along by the
flow of people on the narrow street. At boulevard St. Germain, trucks
and cars belched fetid exhaust; commuters on mopeds wove between
the choked lines of vehicles. The boutiques along the boulevard
displayed designer clothes, the sleeves and hems of dresses stretched
and skewered by pins. A chic-looking woman in a suit was waiting
for her dog to add more globs of crap to the already littered sidewalk.
She shot Greta a piercing look, as if it were Greta who stank, then
took off at a fast clip, dragging her dog behind. Greta stepped
carefully around the pile, feeling soiled.
Arriving at the river again, Greta walked onto the Pont de la
Concorde, then doubled over from a coughing fit, took long, wheezy
breaths before straightening up. She shivered, her hair whipping
around her head, a mask of mist covering her face. In front of her
stood the obelisk, a huge Ferris wheel, fountains, and beyond them,
the American Embassy, a sandstone block behind an iron fence. Cars
and buses raced around the square, six deep. She froze, terrified
to cross, but screwed up her courage to follow a middle-aged French
man who wove among cars and buses so that they emerged at the curb
safely. She wanted to thank him, a kind stranger, but he strode
off, unaware of her.
Arriving at the Embassy, she was dismayed to find a long line
snaking around the corner, but when she approached, she saw that
they were foreigners awaiting American visas. As a citizen, Greta
was allowed to go to the head of the line, and only because she
had a Xerox of her passport, creased and damp, tucked in the toe
of her shoe, a trick she'd learned when she was a girl so that she'd
never lose her identity. Holding that one remaining proof of who
she was, she passed the others and made her way to the security
check. The guards motioned her toward the metal detector, but when
she walked through it, the buzzer sounded. She froze, backed up,
walked through the frame, and the alarm sounded again. "I already
emptied my pockets," she said to the guard, dabbing at her nose
with a tissue and fishing around for a stray Euro cent. The guard
motioned for her to look again. No money, just sodden tissues. She
had spent her last change on the new passport photos. She wondered
how she was going to eat and how she'd survive and willed herself
not to burst into tears again right here.
Finally, she unearthed a foil Hollywood Gum wrapper from the linty
folds of her pockets and held it up to the guard, who frowned and
took it from her with a sniff of disdain. This time, she passed
the barrier without a sound, retrieved her shoulder bag from the
bin, and proceeded through the courtyard of the Embassy, taking
deep breaths to keep from tumbling into total panic.
Up the steps, she followed the arrows to the passport office on
the second floor. Her fingers curled around the cardboard housing
the new photos in which her eyes looked damp and shadowed. A stray
wisp of hair stuck up forelornly. Her hair, the corners of her mouth
– everything appeared to be unraveling at the edges, as if she were
made of some cloth that was about to disintegrate. Would she fall
apart and blow away, never to be heard from again?
At the top of the stairs, she entered the passport office, where
a uniformed guard gave her a paper to sign. He looked at her Xerox
copy, frowned, and asked her to raise her hand and swear to her
true identity. She told the man, "I've lost everything. What am
I going to do?"
"Just go to the next room," he said, grabbing her sheet and shoving
a form at her. She headed toward the line of people before a windowed
counter.
Greta stood behind a man who turned and stared at her fixedly.
She stiffened under his gaze and ducked her head. He was olive-skinned,
early middle-aged, with black hair and large, asymmetrical eyes.
Dressed in maroon pants and a tan jacket, he smelled like a mixture
of sea water and spices. As he rocked from one foot to the other,
his legs seemed to be of uneven length. He studied her for a moment
and, in an accented, but correct, English asked, "How did you lose
yours?"
She paused, then shrugged. "Pickpockets."
"Dropped mine. I don't know where." How could he have an American
passport? He patted his pockets, as if a final check would uncover
the lost item. "This is highly inconvenient for me." He was looking
intently at her legs.
Please, no, leave me alone, she thought, and looked behind her
for what? She didn't know. A young couple stood with a squirmy toddler,
who was struggling to free himself from his mother's grip while
shrieking, "Non!" The parents' conversation shifted back and forth
between French and English, and they didn't seem bothered by his
cries. Greta was tempted to shush him.
"I hope you know who your Congressmen are," the man in front of
her said, leaning so close she could smell his coffee breath.
She blushed. "Why?"
"They'll ask you a lot of questions to see if they can trip you
up and prove that you're not a real American." The warmth of his
breath covered her face.
"Like what?" she said, her hand over her mouth.
"Politicians and TV characters and sports figures. That kind of
thing." He moved closer, and she backed up until she felt a sharp
jab at kidney level. She turned and glared at the toddler and his
hard, blocky shoes.
"They once asked me whether I preferred crunchy or smooth."
"That's ridiculous." Although the room was hot and stuffy, she
held her coat closed to cover her legs. "I'm sure I won't have any
problem with the questions."
"I just wanted to advise you of the protocol."
"I gather," she said, making eye contact so that he'd be distracted
from her body, "that you've been through this before?"
"Yes, I lose things."
"Well, I don't usually."
She could tell that the man wanted to talk more, but she busied
herself by looking in her shoulder bag, and he turned around. In
the bag, she found the beaded necklace that Eric had bought her,
and sadness hit her like a chilling wave. Tears welled up and she
swallowed them back.
The man looked at her again and asked, "Are you hungry?" He handed
her a tissue-wrapped bar of something white with brown spots.
"No, thank you," she said, even though she felt faint with hunger.
"It's quite good." He mimicked eating. "Very tasty."
It looked like modeling clay. She shook her head and then, when
he urged her, she took the bar, planning to hide it in her coat
pocket.
"Take a bite."
She obliged him with the tiniest bite. It tasted sweet and crumbly
at first, but the small pieces stuck to her teeth. She pried them
off with her forefinger and said, "Thanks. Mm." She shuddered to
think how long it had been in his pocket and longed to brush her
teeth.
When he was called to the window Greta spat into a tissue and
put the rest of the candy into her purse. She listened as he gave
an account of losing his passport, something about realizing this
morning as he was packing to leave that it was gone. It was urgent
that he get a new one. The Embassy employee asked him identity questions.
Name: Bashar Oumy, born in Syria, a naturalized American citizen,
however he couldn't remember the year he had been sworn in. At that,
the employee looked at him suspiciously and said, "You know, Mr.
Oumy, this is the second passport you have lost in three months.
That is not a good pattern."
"I know. I realize that this is not good at all. I am so sorry."
He shifted from one leg to the other. Greta wondered how they were
going to treat her. Would they refuse to believe her? Or throw her
out on the street? At least she was a real citizen. "And if you
were to lose your passport again, we'd have to classify you as a
frequent loser." Why was he wasting time on this guy? she thought.
Get going!
"I may have just misplaced it. Probably at my flat."
"But you can't be sure, and that's why you're here, and it's why
we have to be so strict. I don't have to tell you that for a naturalized
citizen, an Arab, particularly in this climate, this is not a good
situation. You have an honest face, but we have to be careful."
He squared his shoulders. "Are you implying that I'm a terrorist?"
"No, of course not."
Mr. Oumy looked angry, started to say something, stopped himself,
then finally said, "What do I need to do to get my passport? I need
to leave France soon. I cannot wait much longer."
Greta wished he would just get the message and leave. What was
he expecting anyway, the loser?
"We'll see what we can do," the Embassy employee said. "In the
meantime, you'll have to wait and come back tomorrow."
Mr. Oumy spun on his heel and muttered something in Arabic. Relieved
to see him leave, Greta stepped up to the window where she spilled
out her story, gulping back her panic. The man clucked sympathetically,
then asked her questions about which schools she had attended. She
answered another one about the three branches of government, and
he rubber-stamped her request. "When will I get it?" she asked.
"Come back tomorrow. Our computers are down."
"Tomorrow? But what am I going to do about money?"
"You can wire home. There's a Western Union two blocks from here."
He smiled and then turned his attention to the couple with the child.
Greta couldn't move; her feet were lead weights, her mind a blur.
Afraid she might faint, she fumbled for a seat, but to her dismay,
she saw Mr. Oumy beckoning her over to the only free chair in the
room, next to him. As her head swirled, she plopped down and took
a few deep breaths to steady herself. How was she going to get home
without money?
"I cannot believe I am having such troubles with this passport,"
Mr. Oumy said. "This is an outrage. I would like to lodge a complaint."
She glared at him but forced herself to say, "It'll work out,
don't you think?"
"Oh, I'm sure they'll do all they can to make it hard for me."
"They don't just hand passports out to anyone. At least you haven't
lost all your money. I'm broke."
"This is terrible. What are you going to do?"
"Wire my parents, although I don't want to tell them." Despite
herself, she started to cry again.
"Oh, do not cry. You will prevail. This is not a terrible tragedy.
I'm sure you'll arrive home safely. It is no biggie, right?"
She coughed and blew her nose. "Well, it feels pretty big to me."
"Let me introduce myself." He stood and bowed slightly. "I am
Bashar Oumy. Here, I have my identification card." He pulled out
a dog-eared card with a dark photo of him scowling at the camera.
Bashar Oumy, birth date: March 11, 1971. Younger than she thought.
It gave a Paris address.
"Why have you been living here?"
"Business at first. Now I need to leave. Paris is no place to
live right now. People betray you." He spat out these words. "There
is no sense of honor anymore."
"Yes, honor is a lost virtue." Eric came to mind with a pang of
bitterness and she gulped back a sob. The honorable thing would
have been to stick with her. At least until they got home. Then
maybe they could have made it work.
Although there was virtually nothing there, Greta busied herself
by looking in her purse. The man leaned over, and she flinched.
"Sorry," he said. "I'm just curious. You didn't tell me your name.
Please."
She considered giving him a fake name in case he was a stalker.
But she said, "Greta." She closed her bag and crossed her hands
over it.
"Ah, Greta." He smiled. "Where are you from?"
"Michigan."
"From Michigan, huh? I once had a problem at the border between
Detroit and Canada. They searched me just to detain me needlessly."
He fiddled with his keys, turning them over in his hand. The jingle
of keys irritated her, and she wished he'd leave so she could plan
her next move. Her stomach growled, and she kneaded it to halt the
sound.
"Come now, Greta from Michigan. You have to eat. I'll show you
a place where you can eat cheaply and well."
"That's okay. I'll manage." She struggled to keep her voice from
quavering.
"And how will you manage without money?"
"I don't know." At that moment, the hopelessness of her situation
nailed her to the seat, making her utterly unable to act or think
for herself.
"You will be my guest." She shook her head. "I insist."
Before she could refuse, she found herself following Bashar down
the stairs of the Embassy and out onto the street. The line still
stretched long, and as they passed by, the people stared at the
two of them together.
Despite a limp, Bashar walked fast, and she had trouble keeping
up with him. His thin, erect frame sliced through the oncoming pedestrians.
His dress – zip jacket and polyester pants – had made him look older
than he was. Every once in a while, he turned around and smiled.
"It's not far." They walked along the rue de Rivoli to the Palais
Royal where dozen of rollerbladers whipped around the square. "Every
Friday night they are 10,000 strong." She looked at the young man
in a stocking cap and baggy jeans, who was executing a tricky backwards
turn and wished she had the nerve to cruise Paris like this, one
in a crowd of strangers traveling together. As she and Bashar descended
into the Métro, she looked longingly at the Louvre across the street,
which she wouldn't have a chance to see before going home.
Entering the Métro again made her anxious, but she accepted a
ticket and trailed Bashar as he sped down the corridor. He jumped
on the train and waved for her to follow. The doors sighed shut.
Standing in the crowded car, she hugged herself, avoided touching
anyone, and willed the ride to end. Bashar made no eye contact with
her, even when they changed trains, until they arrived at the Belleville
stop, and he nodded toward the door. She barely squeezed through
the people before the door closed. On the wall of the car, someone
had written the word ENCULÉ next to a crude drawing of a penis.
A coating of grit covered the back of Greta's throat, which she
tried but couldn't clear.
Outside on the median strip, they zigzagged through a Middle-Eastern
market selling tooled leather goods, jewelry, and scarves. The odor
of roasting nuts singed the air. For a moment, she lost sight of
Bashar as two men closed in on her from both sides. A hand snaked
up her front and squeezed her breast before she could bat it away.
Panicked, she struck out in all directions, unable to scream, but
she managed to claw her way to a clearing. The men parted, and she
stood, breath coming in ragged wheezes, as her body buzzed with
adrenaline. Looking up, she saw Bashar out on the sidewalk, talking
to a man. He waved for her to follow and she did, on shaky legs,
her head down, watching his feet as he turned onto a deserted, residential
street. They entered a tiny café with lettering written backwards
on the window to be read from the inside. A man in a white apron
was sweeping the floor. He greeted Bashar in Arabic and they shook
hands as he glanced at Greta, then looked back at Bashar and smiled.
Warm smells wafted in from the kitchen. Greta's legs wobbled beneath
her, and she sank into the first seat she found. Bashar gestured
to another table near the back, and she dragged herself over to
it. Her head was swimming and she wondered how she was going to
get out of there. Three Arab men wearing blue coveralls sat at a
corner table, smoking and eating. The café owner approached the
table, and Bashar said something in Arabic, and the man wrote on
his pad. "But I don't have any money," Greta insisted. "I can't
pay you back." He stopped her with an upraised palm. When a plate
of lamb and rice arrived, she fell upon it gratefully, although
she waved off wine. "Just water, thanks." She needed to keep her
wits about her.
"Are you a teetotaler?" he asked.
"No, I just don't drink that much before dinner." She eyed the
drink he had poured for himself.
"You know. Muslims do drink sometimes. It's a myth that they don't."
He took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered her
one. When she refused, he lit up. "You have been through something
very trying. You must calm down." He got a bottle and two glasses
from the bar, then poured something light green into them. She sniffed
at it, the herbal smell weaving up into her brain like eucalyptus.
"Okay, but just a tiny bit, I guess." He clinked glasses with her,
and she sipped. The liqueur burned her lips, mouth, and throat,
but it also warmed her.
"Whoa, what is this?"
"Chartreuse. Made by monks. Those Christians know their spirits."
"It tastes like a pine tree," she said and put it on the table.
"I suppose so." He laughed. "You don't like it?"
"It's a bit strong." She turned around and looked at the entrance.
The door was open. There were no other women in the café. Above
the bar, a huge landscape of a Middle Eastern village with olive
trees dominated the room. The paint was darkened by years of smoke,
and it took a moment to distinguish a tiny figure peeking through
the branches of a tree as if imprisoned in the painting, and Greta
was almost certain she saw an eye blink. She shuddered.
"How about some wine instead?" Bashar asked.
"Okay."
The waiter appeared with a glass of red wine, and she took a big
sip. She sat back and began to relax a bit.
"So what are you doing alone in Paris?" Bashar asked, leaning
back in his chair, stubbing out his cigarette. "It's dangerous for
a woman to travel alone. You American women take too many chances."
"I was with someone." She took another sip and closed her eyes,
wondering if Eric were eating lunch in Paris or if he had left town
already.
"Oh, a friend?"
"Sort of. My boyfriend." She shrugged and shook her head ruefully.
"But we broke up."
"Well then, that's what you get for living in sin," he said, then
lit another cigarette and took a drink of his wine.
The word "sin" hit her like a slap. It was the kind of thing her
father might say. Greta's skin on her scalp tightened. She looked
around and realized she had no sense where she was or any sense
of what he expected from her.
"I don't have to answer to you for my actions," she said.
"Are you ashamed of what you've done? To sleep with a man before
marriage? In my country, women are pure before marriage."
Greta flushed. "It's not your business what I do in my own life."
"But here you are with me, and where is your man?"
"He had to leave." Eric's absence felt like phantom pain from
a missing limb.
"If you were my woman, I wouldn't abandon you. I'd make sure of
that."
"It wasn't like that." But of course it was.
"You Americans. You want your independence, but then when something
goes wrong, you make excuses and you want to be taken care of. You
don't take responsibility for your actions."
"I didn't ask you to take care of me. You insisted."
"And you put up a real struggle." He had a strange look, between
a smile and a sneer.
"I think I should go." She started to rise to her feet, but he
motioned her down.
"No, I'm not through. You Americans. Spoiled like J-Lo and Britney.
Women kissing on stage. Women throwing away husbands like garbage.
Women shaking their sinful bodies on stage with almost no clothes
on. They are whores."
Her ears buzzed.. "I need to go." She stood up, but her legs nearly
buckled.
"Now where are you going to go with no money?"
"I don't know," she said weakly, leaning on the table for balance.
"Sit." He took a sip of his wine. "Listen. I'm sorry. I have the
opinions of my country."
"Why did you become an American if you don't like us?" she asked.
He smiled tightly. "Oh, I like what I can get from America. I
like the money. I like the freedom. I don't like the looseness.
That's all."
She hated how he made her feel, cheap and dirty. It wasn't like
that. She was a good person. Wasn't she?
"Please excuse me, Greta, for my beliefs. It is the way we are
taught."
Marshaling her efforts not to cry, she refused to look at him.
"I must excuse myself for a minute." He stood up and adjusted
his shirt in his pants. Then he bowed slightly, a courtly gesture
which confused her, given his vehemence. Pushing aside the tiny
table, he inched out from behind it and walked toward the toilettes
in the back. His limp was now pronounced. As he passed the men at
the back table, they looked at her, said something, and laughed.
Greta's face burned. Men were so vile. She couldn't trust them.
She downed the rest of her wine, which burned her throat as she
swallowed. Then she pushed the table away from her. On the floor,
she spotted a wallet, which she stooped to pick up, feeling its
heft in her hand. It was still warm from Bashar's pocket and was
thick, brimming with Euro notes. She put it in her lap, opened it
and drew out a pile of bills, making sure to leave a few for Bashar.
Then she dropped the wallet on his chair, grabbed her coat and wove
her way through the tables and out onto the street. After the dark
restaurant, the sun hurt her eyes and she shielded them with her
hand. The alcohol and heavy meal made her senses spin, but she put
her head down, hugged her coat around her, and trudged back up the
street to look for the Métro sign.
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