Fleur looked at me with devilish eyes; devilishly blue and British. I've always loved English girls. "You know," she said, "the whole thing with black cats, it's not true. They're not bad luck or anything like that. Not if you just see one. If it crosses your path, maybe. But just seeing one? No, that's actually good luck."
I smile. "Is it now?"
"Well, there's different beliefs on the matter, all kinds. Some believe that if a black cat crosses your path left to right it's actually a good omen, that only if it crosses right to left it's a bad omen. Or wait. It might be the other way around-"
"You sure know a lot about black cats."
"I love black cats."
"More than other cats?"
"Black cats are the best cats. They're beautiful. They've just got this stigma about them. It's a shame."
"Maybe it's part of the beauty."
"They just get a bad wrap is all. But they're not bad, I don't believe that."
"I guess they are whatever you want to believe them to be. Make no mistake though, they're certainly that." Olivia looks at me as I speak, cocking her head. "Anything's only as true as you believe it to be. And the exact opposite can be equally true to me, if that's what I believe. It's just a matter of belief darling," and I put out my cigarette.
*****
Whoa, hold on. Where am I? We're not there yet. Let's back up here.
*****
I had a layover in Moscow, two hours. Now I know that sounds a little out of the way to get to Paris from LA trust me, I know. When you look at a flat map, it sounds stupid, I know. I'm not an idiot. Why fly all the way over and up to Moscow just to get to Paris? Well for one, it costs about five-hundred dollars less. For two--and this is important--when I followed the flight path between movies on the plane (I watched Sicario and that god-awful Batman Vs. Superman), I realized something: this world is not a flat map. We live on a sphere, a globe really. There's an infinite curve to it's surface, and this can be complicating to some. Things aren't always straightforward on a curved surface. There's a third axis in play. That can fuck with belief systems.
It's actually quite a quick flight, LAX to Moscow. About the same as it is to Iceland, ten hours, although you probably wouldn't believe it looking at a flat map. Look at a globe, and you'll see what I mean. You don't always have to go half-way around the world to get from LA to Paris. Sometimes you can just go over the top. It's tricky though, it fucks with you right by the north pole. You cross a lot of time zones in a very short distance up there. Like I said, it fucks with you; makes you think crazy things.
Before the flight, I was planning to kill myself somewhere in Europe, not sure where. Maybe Spain, I thought. Maybe jump off a pretty bridge in a land I'd never seen before in the south. I'd found a little less than a dozen of them, pretty bridges, and I slowly started culling the herd in the terminal by a combination of height and how pretty the surrounds were. I certainly didn't want a mediocre last curtain.
Yeah sure, maybe everything was ash in my life at that point, and I was just going through the paces, and I had no will to live, and the whole world felt like a yolk on my shoulders, but for Christ's sake I still had my dignity. If I was going to turn out the lights you better believe I was going to be looking at something beautiful.
I should warn you: this isn't going to be a pick-me-up.
*****
This Paris. This feels like some star-crossed love affair, like I'm Gregory Peck and she's Audrey Hepburn. I'd watched Roman Holiday with Claire, right there in the middle of everything falling apart, before she'd broken my heart, but maybe not before I'd broken hers. Such a wretched time to be watching a love story true, but it was something to hold on to. Love stories can be miracle workers sometimes. Sometimes, not always. And usually with those individuals unlike myself who aren't absolutely miserable timing-wise.
I remember this. Waiting for a girl I've never met on a Paris street in the 14th. I've done this before. I'm seasoned. Still, the building code doesn't work so I have to wait outside until a lovely Japanese girl who doesn't speak much English arrives and lets me in. Still, I have no idea where her room is. My phone's on airplane mode, it always is when I travel, and I don't have any wifi connection. I do have Elena's phone number though, written down right next to her address. Lot a good it does me. I haven't seen an operating pay-phone in years. Lucky for me, the Japanese girl who doesn't speak much English walks through the lobby again eventually, this time on her way out. On her way out at 12:30 in the morning. It's Paris after all.
I say, "Excusez-moi, je peux utiliser votre telephone? S'il vous plait?" I hope that works, and I smile. A smile usually helps more than my butchered French. She looks me up and down for a moment, she sees my desperation, and wholesomely obliges.
Elena picks up on the second ring, "Oui?"
"Elena! It's Brian!" I say.
"Brian! Yes, are you here?"
"I'm downstairs. I didn't know what room was yours."
"Oh, no! I hope you weren't waiting to long. I'll come down."
"No, not long at all." I smile again at the Japanese girl who doesn't speak much English. I give her back her phone, "Merci beaucoup."
[stop]
All the while I'm following Miss Elena, I'm thinking about, hm, she's probably fucking that other guy right now. Right this moment, in his Audi coupe somewhere in LA. And this girl I've never met is leading me to her flat to sleep; a small studio it turns out, a box with a bed, a bathroom, a terraced window and a kitchen and a table.
I haven't had proper sex in months, maybe since Claire.
