I Love You Ten Million Times Over

Chapter 1“Paris is so drab in the winter.” Margaux, my office assistant, just looked at me. “You say that every January. Maybe you should look for a posting on Guadeloupe. I am sure the climate in the Caribbean would be much more to your liking.” “There is no French Immigration Office on Guadeloupe. You know that. To have this kind of position I have I must live in Paris. It’s the capital of France, remember?” “Yes, of course I do. So I don’t spend time complaining about the climate because I know I also have to live in Paris to have this job.” “You know, if you weren’t my best friend…” “I know, I know. You would have fired me a long time ago. If I had a couple of euros for every time you have told me that, I would retire and then I would be the one moving to St. Marie.” “You know, your attitude…” “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before. Let’s move on.” “Well, you must admit, it would be nice to take a vacation somewhere a little warmer and sunnier. What do you say?” “Sounds good to me. What do you have in mind?” “Well, we went to Mykonos last year.” “Yes, and I still remember you stumbling home in your stilettoes on the cobblestone streets after we went out drinking that night.” “And we went to Morocco last year.” “Yes, and the guys were hot there, weren’t they? You went nuts.” “Yeah, well, those Arab guys can be very hot. You know my weakness for them.” “Oh, just Arab men? How about Greeks, Italians, Turks, Swedes…” “Oh, shut up. So I like sex.” “Not exactly breaking news.” I just shook my head. “So, anyway, where are we going this winter?” I asked her. “I don’t know. I’ve heard Miami is nice.” “Nice and expensive. Long flight, and the hotels not cheap. And I’m not too sure about some of the gun violence in the US right now.” “Well, if you want warm, maybe we should go to the southern hemisphere. It’s summer there now.” “I know,” I said. “Let’s go to Spain. We wouldn’t even have to fly. We could just take the train.” “Where in Spain? Madrid isn’t really that warm right now.” “No, but it sure is sunnier. How about Malaga?” “Malaga?” “Yeah, on the south coast. It’s not too far from Gibraltar. Beautiful city. Lots of culture. Picasso Museum. Great architecture. Lots of little streets with…” “Great shopping? I’m in. When are we going?” “We can get away for a couple of weeks in February. After we finish all these statistical reports due at the end of January.” “Is that your way of telling me we need to get back to work?” “That’s right. For now, it’s just work, work, work.” Ah yes, the January reports, due every year reporting the number of immigrant applications to France. My department’s job is to review the applications, giving final sign-off on a yes or no. Sometimes I have to reverse a decision made by a lower official, as everything just doesn’t add up properly. Other times, I have to be the heavy making the difficult call when an applicant or his family is denied, even though they no longer have a home to go back to. It’s all part of the job. Some of my co-workers say that I have a heart of stone. I don’t think it’s true. But someone has to make the difficult decisions. If an individual or a family don’t have the language skills in French to live in this country, that’s a problem. I once had a Syrian family apply for asylum, their home and their town had been destroyed, and the only person in the family who spoke French was their eight-year-old daughter. She tried to translate what I was saying to her parents, but how can an eight-year-old adequately explain all the legal ramifications on an asylum request? They had no sponsor, no one to help them, nowhere to live. It just wasn’t going to work. Even though I knew they had nothing to go back to in Syria, their home had been destroyed, as well as their town, and they would just end up in another refugee camp, I had to deny their application. In this case, I recommended that they try Canada, and that they find a mosque there to sponsor them, hoping that would be just enough to tip the balance for them in that country. It happens sometimes, but not often. So I am not heartless. But I have to follow the rules as they exist in my job. “Wow, these application figures are really up this year,” said Margaux. “And so are the denials,” I replied. “The world is a tough place right now. France is doing all it can, but it can’t take many more, not this year anyway. There are other countries that could—one North American country comes to mind, and it’s not Canada—but I think we are nearing our limit.” We continued to work that afternoon, a Friday, with the hope of finishing up with all these reports in a week or so. If we finished the reports a few days early, it might mean we could extend our vacation by a few days. On a cold and cloudy afternoon in January, the thought of a few extra days in sunny Spain can be a powerful motivator. “Where do you want to go for dinner before we go the opera tonight?” Margaux asked me as we finished up for the day. “Probably our usual, the one right across the street from the indoor mall. That way we’ll have only a short walk to the opera house, rather than having to get on the subway. It seems to me that most of the subway stations in Paris smell of urine, and that can be all the more disgusting after a meal.” “Offensive to your high-class sensibilities?” laughed Margaux. “You don’t have to be high-class to dislike the smell of urine. It’s disgusting. I wish they would clean the stations once in a while, not to mention chasing out the homeless.” “And send them where?” “I don’t care! Just get them to stop pissing in the subway stations!” I don’t remember what we had for dinner that evening, but I do remember our conversations. Margaux asked me why I didn’t search for a man when we were at the opera. We had season tickets, so we were there a number of times in the course of a year. “How many young guys do you see there?” I asked. “Well, not many. That’s probably because the season ticket holders tend to be wealthy. And not many young men have made their fortune yet.” “And don’t tend to like opera.” “You’re right. Not to mention, many of the men at the opera are opera queens.” I laughed at that remark. “Yeah, that wouldn’t work for me, would it? The right plumbing, but they’re not interested in a woman.” “Perhaps you could take one home for the night and change him.” “Hah! And how would I do that? Stick his finger in a wall socket and shock him?” “Perhaps you could use your feminine whiles on him. You can be quite persuasive with the younger guys.” “Honey, I’m not wasting my feminine whiles on a man who just wants d**k. And are you calling me a cougar?” “Well, you do seem to like younger guys.” “So what if I do? I’m an attractive woman of thirty-five, and I look younger than that. Why would I want to be around an older guy who’s like an old Greek urn—he can’t stay upright. The fact that he’s got money isn’t enough for me.” “Okay then, so you’re not going to meet a guy at the opera. But maybe you should keep the possibility open. The bassoon player in the orchestra is kind of cute.” “You mean the tall bearded one? No, not my type.” “But you have to have big hands to play the bassoon. It’s a big instrument. You know what they say: big hands, big…” “Oh, just stop. It’s time to go if we’re going to get to our seats before the lights dim.” We walked quickly to the Opera House. “This building always takes my breath away when we come here after dark,” I said to Margaux. “The sheer opulence of it is overwhelming.” “Well, it was built during the 1870s at the time Napoleon III was completely doing over central Paris, with the wide boulevards we know today. Being just down the street from the Louvre, it was meant to be an eye-catcher.” And it certainly is. The gargoyles, the marble columns, the gilded statues, the grand staircase, the chandelier, the stage that can hold 450 people—there isn’t another venue quite like it. Like many other Parisians, I eschew the new opera house built in the 1980s and prefer to come here. We quickly walked up the grand staircase to our balcony seats overlooking the orchestra pit. We barely had time to glance at our programs before the lights dimmed and the overture started. As always, the first act of Carmen was intense and amazing. I smiled when I remembered that, at the opera’s premiere in the 1800s, fathers covered the eyes of their daughters and escorted them out of the theatre when the cigarette girls emerge from the factory and begin flirting with the soldiers. Today we think nothing of it. The curtain rained down on the first act and Margaux and I went down the staircase for a glass of wine during the intermission. “So did you take another look at the bassoon player?” Margaux asked me. “Forget it. I’m not coming on to the bassoon player…” “Pardon, I see you two ladies have empty wine glasses. Can I buy you each a glass of this marvelous merlot that I am drinking?” A good looking, middle-aged man interrupted us. Very good looking. Dressed in a very expensive Italian suit. Hair graying just slightly at the temples, just enough to give him a very distinguished look. Clean-shaven, going against the current trend of beard or stubble. A ring with a very large stone on one hand. And no wedding ring on the other. “I think we would like that very much,” I answered, not waiting for Margaux to respond before I did. I looked him directly in the eye, clearly indicating my interest in more than wine. He returned from the bar and handed us each a full glass. “It’s a very smooth, sensual wine,” he smiled, returning the look that I had given him just a few moments earlier, clearly indicating his interest. “I find it just the thing for the intermission of this very intense and erotic opera.” He smiled, looking directly into my eyes again. “Yes, it is as very sensual opera, isn’t it?” I smiled back. “Few others are its match.” “Oui, you are right, I can only think of a very few. So tell me, do you ladies come to the opera often?” I ignored the lameness of the remark that so closely resembled the bar line “Come here often?” I just smiled back and replied, “Yes, we have season tickets.” “Really? Now how is it possible that I have missed noticing two radiantly beautiful women in all the times I have been here?” I laughed. He was beginning to put it on a little thick, but I must admit that I truly didn’t mind. “Perhaps we did not attend on the same night, or…” and here I smiled, starting my process of reeling him in, “perhaps, just perhaps, that gorgeous chandelier above us outshone us that evening.” He laughed, a deep hearty laugh. He had actually enjoyed the joke. “Yes, yes, that must indeed be the reason. It is the only possible explanation.” The lights dimmed briefly, indicating that it was time to return to our seats. “I see we are out of time for now,” he smiled, and then added, “Would you ladies meet me here after the opera so that we might go somewhere and continue our conversation? I would hate to think that I would have to wait until the next opera for that pleasure.” “We’ll be here,” I smiled. Yes, we wouldn’t want you to wait that long for your pleasure. “A little old for you, isn’t he?” Margaux remarked as we returned to our seats. “Forty, maybe forty-five.” “And wealthy, apparently.” “You know I don’t care about that. No man will ever control me with his money, or any other way for that matter. But he could be fun for a little while. He certainly is sexy.” “I agree. First dibs after you’re done with him.” The opera continued to its inevitable, tragic conclusion. But I wasn’t concentrating on the opera. I was thinking about the good-looking man in the Italian suit. And what he would look like out of it.