Thierry took me to the airport to catch my flight home. “I wonder if you will come back,” he said. It had been a struggle, but I was determined that I would make it in Paris. Moving back home would be a failure. He gave me a Christmas present—a bottle of Yves Saint Laurent perfume called “Paris,” perhaps to make sure I kept my word.
I returned in January as classes resumed to prepare for the final exams at the end of the month. Bedis and I studied together, but we were nowhere near the same level. I was still failing nearly every dictée and was at serious risk of failing the class. It was a poignant time for me, too, as Bedis would be returning to Istanbul after the exams. I could not imagine what I would do without her.
One Saturday night after studying, we decided to go out in my new neighborhood—the popular yet seedy Les Halles area, with its many bars, restaurants, and peep shows. Esra joined us. We settled on one of the typical Americana restaurants that were trendy at the time, featuring portraits of James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Elvis, and, oddly, the Beatles. The menu consisted of the standard “American” dinner—hamburgers, fries, chips and salsa, milkshakes, and Budweiser beer. The waitress brought us to a booth decorated with fake American university emblems. We ordered appetizers and drinks.
A few minutes later, she showed up again with two guys. They were both cute. One was a tall, fit Frenchman with tousled brown hair. The other was shorter and Dutch, with short, dark hair. They both wore button-down shirts without ties, wool pants, and brown leather shoes, as if they had come straight from the office. They had both just been transferred to Paris to work at a British bank.
This is how I met Hiram and Floris. Many years later, I learned that they had tipped the waitress to seat them at our booth.
They were funny and flirtatious. We all laughed and drank until late and exchanged contact information to meet up again someday. Outside the restaurant, we waved down a cab for Bedis and Esra. Then Hiram and Floris offered to walk me back to Rue de Palestro on the other side of Les Halles. Each slipped an arm through mine, and we started skipping down Rue St. Denis as I sang “Follow the Yellow Brick Road.”
“Wait! Stop!” I shouted suddenly. “We need to stop here.”
Still arm in arm, we were standing in front of the mysterious velvet curtains that hid the entrance to a peepshow. I had never encountered such a thing in my life before moving to Paris, and I’d been walking past them for weeks, trying to catch a glimpse inside. I didn’t have the guts to go in alone, but here I was, armed with two escorts.
“Let’s go,” declared Floris, as he pulled back the curtains.
I suppose I was expecting exotic dancers or at least a nude cabaret show, but instead it was a brightly lit room surrounded by shelves with stacks and stacks of videos.
“But where’s the peep show?” I asked, not hiding my disappointment.
“Come over here,” one of them said, pointing. There on the wall were several darkened windows. Through the smoked glass, I could faintly make out the figure of a portly woman, unclothed and lounging on an overstuffed chair, her legs spread wide.
“You have to pay them to turn on the lights,” the boys explained.
I darted back onto the street. Hiram and Floris ran out behind me, laughing. It began to rain, so instead of continuing down Rue St. Denis, we took the street escalator down into the underground parking area of Les Halles and continued walking toward Rue de Palestro.
As we walked, I could hear their voices echoing in the cavernous room. They began to shove each other lightly.
“No, I called it first. I take her.”
“No, you didn’t—I did.”
“But remember, you got the Swedish girl…”
They were fighting. Over me.
They didn’t even notice that I was no longer following them. I turned around, went back to the escalator, and walked home to my apartment on my own.