Shots Fired (17 page)

“Students this time,” Lyle said, “just students. The big stuff won't happen till later this summer, when all the North Africans in the suburbs get going.”

A small phalanx of boys bull-rushed several policemen, stopping just short of confronting them.

“Why don't the cops bust their heads?”

“They don't do that here,” Lyle said, shrugging with his palms up. “They're
tolerant
. At least that's what they call it.”

Two males broke from the demonstration and got past the police, headed straight toward Lyle and Jimmy. The Lakotas
stood their ground, although Jimmy felt himself start to pucker up as the boys approached.

“Solidarité! Solidarité!”
the scruffier of the two boys said, grasping Jimmy's hands in his, thrusting his face into Jimmy's face, shaking his hands as if they were long-lost friends.
“Unité!”

“Solidarité,”
Lyle said, mangling the word, stepping forward and raising his clenched fist high. “We are rebels!”

“Rebels!” the scruffy boy shouted back, letting go of Jimmy, raising his own fist. Then turning to the demonstrators to show off his two new friends, shouting
“Solidarité!”
which pleased them all, eliciting cheers so loud even a few of the policemen looked over their shoulders to see what had caused it.

“Ni glasses toki ye he?”
(Where are my glasses?) Jimmy said stoically in Lakota, words he recalled clearly from Aunt Alice.
“Ni
TV Guide
toki ya he?”
(Where is my
TV Guide
?)

Both boys turned to Jimmy with reverence, as if they'd heard wisdom from an oracle.

Jimmy said in Lakota,
“Tunkasina nite oyuzune ciya!” 
(Grandfather hurt his hip!)

The boys nodded solemnly and raised their fists.

Jimmy and Lyle stood on the corner with their fists raised also, shouting “Rebels!” until the boys rejoined the demonstrators, who flowed into the gardens surrounded by accommodating policemen. When they were gone, Lyle looked over, said, “That was fucking brilliant, Jimmy. Did you see how they looked at you?”

“Like they would follow me anywhere,” Jimmy said.

“You're gonna be all right,” Lyle said, clapping Jimmy on the shoulder and checking his wristwatch. “We're late,” he said.

As they crossed the street, Jimmy asked, “What was that all about?”

“The one thing I've learned over here,” Lyle said, “is it doesn't matter what it's about as long as we cheer them on and say we're rebels just like them. It's all about being a rebel. Every-fucking-body here is a rebel. And it doesn't hurt to be Indian—that gives us street cred.”

Jimmy laughed, mainly out of relief, still proud of his Lakota phrases.

Three of the female demonstrators had not crossed the street into the Tuileries, but stood on the opposite corner, giggling, shooting long looks at them. Jimmy thought they were attractive, and nudged Lyle.

“I see 'em,” Lyle said. “We can do better.”

They left the disappointed girls on the corner. Jimmy tried hard not to look back.

“This place . . .” he said.

“Yeah,” Lyle said.

•   •   •

THE AMERICAN EMBASSY
on Rue Boissy d'Anglas was a fortress, Jimmy thought, with concrete barriers keeping both pedestrians and motorists away as well as a tall wrought iron fence topped with gold-painted spear tips. Inside the fence, in the
foliage, U.S. Marines in desert camo stood under wall-mounted cameras and held M16s and didn't smile.

“That's not it,” Lyle said, leading Jimmy on. “We're going to the Talleyrand around the corner.” Which was also behind concrete barriers and rimmed with marines and cameras.

“We got this place after the war,” Lyle whispered to Jimmy as they stood in a line where a marine checked invitations and IDs. “The Germans used it. There's still Nazi shit in the basement, like those guys just walked out.”

“How do you know that?”

Lyle smiled. “A nice lady took me down there once. We did it on a desk. It was weird, though, because I remember looking up and seeing this calendar in German that was turned to June 1944.”

“You're kidding.”

“I am not. It takes a while for history to grow here.”

“That makes no sense, Lyle.”

“Stick around and you'll see what kind of sense it makes,” Lyle assured Jimmy.

They went individually through a massive cage-like turnstile, then a metal detector, then a hand search and document check. The older marine handed Lyle's passport back to him, said, “Good seeing you again, Lyle. I see you brought along fresh meat this time.”

“My cousin Jimmy,” Lyle said, nodding.

The marine looked Jimmy over, assessing him, made Jimmy feel naked.

“What would you do if the ambassador stopped inviting you to these things for local color?”

“Go home, probably.”

“I wish those dollies liked marines the way they like Indians.”

“Ha!” Lyle said. “No chance of that.”

•   •   •

THE RECEPTION
was in a high-ceilinged room dominated by hanging crystal chandeliers that glowed with gold, syrupy light. Massive windows framed the Eiffel Tower, its girders flashing with lights signaling the top of the hour. The Place de la Concorde was across the street, the Avenue des Champs-Elysées to the northwest, headlights streaming through and around the Arc de Triomphe. Jimmy had never in his life been in a space so intricate, ornate, or intimidating. The crowd was well dressed, speaking French, plucking glasses of champagne from trays carried by men and women wearing black and white. Jimmy stood with Lyle in the very back of the room, watching, acting serious and regal the way Lyle had instructed.

Jimmy began to reach for a glass from a passing waiter but Lyle stopped him. “Indians look stupid drinking champagne,” Lyle hissed. “It ruins the effect. Ask for a beer or something.”

Jimmy shot a look at Lyle, but withdrew his hand.

The American ambassador, who introduced himself in English and French as Bob Westgate, former congressman from San Diego, welcomed everyone and introduced tourism
representatives from the states of Idaho, Wyoming, South Dakota, and Montana, the reason the reception was held.

“Tourism people,” Lyle said softly, not looking over at Jimmy. “There's a parade of 'em that come over here, one after the other. Ambassador Bob hosts them and invites French travel industry people and government types. It makes for real good picking.”

Jimmy didn't need to be told because he couldn't take his eyes off a tall dark-haired woman with pale skin, flashing green eyes, and dark red lipstick. She was sipping a glass of champagne and talking with a curvy redhead in a shimmering black cocktail dress, the white orbs of her breasts straining against the tight fabric. The redhead gestured toward Lyle, said something in French, and both women nodded and smiled knowingly.

“Gabrielle le Peletier,” Lyle said. “She's mine.”

“Which one is she?”

“Redhead.”

“Who is the other?”

“I've never seen her before. You want her?”

Jesus yes,
he thought. “It can't be as easy as that.”

“You'll see,” Lyle said.

“Do we go over and introduce ourselves? Grunt at them?”

“Naw, we just wait. They'll come to us.”

“You're kidding.”

“If they don't, some other babes will. Just remember who you are.”

Jimmy snorted. “Who am I?”

“Don't start that,” Lyle said, an edge in his voice.

•   •   •

W
HILE SPEECHES
were given to bored applause—the white Americans seemed so eager to please and out of place among these sophisticates, who knew how to dress, knew how to cut their hair, knew how to stand, knew they were the best-looking fish in the aquarium, Jimmy thought—his eyes left the tall woman only to check out what was going on outside. The student demonstrators they'd encountered earlier were still in the Tuileries Garden, and the crowd had tripled in size. So had the number of riot police. Police on horseback now circled the perimeter of demonstrators but kept their distance. Every few minutes, there was a surge in the crowd toward a cordon of police, and Jimmy could see the police retreat for a moment in their lines, shields glinting in the streetlights, then slowly push the demonstrators back.

He realized he seemed to be the only person in the room focusing on what was going on outside.

“I would think,” Jimmy said, “they would be at the windows watching. I mean, there's a riot right out there in front of us. Don't they care?”

Lyle shook his head, but didn't look at Jimmy, said, “They pretend they can't see it.”

“Why?”

“You'd have to ask them. It's like if they don't see what's going on, it isn't really happening.”

Then Lyle turned, his face dark with anger. “Are you gonna
keep asking questions and wasting our time, or are you gonna give some French woman a ride? Make up your fucking mind, because you're cramping my style, Jimmy.”

“Sorry, Lyle.”

“Get ready,” Lyle said, “the reception is winding down. Meaning it's showtime.”

•   •   •

“
D
ON'T TALK,”
she said in English, placing her elegant fingers to his lips.

They were in a third-floor apartment four blocks from the Talleyrand. She'd led him there by the hand. The doorman nodded to her with respectful recognition and stepped aside to let them in. She inserted a key into the lock on the door and opened it but didn't turn on a light. He hesitated on the threshold for a moment until she had said,
“Entrez vous.”

He wore nothing but the quill breastplate she insisted he keep on. In the muted blue light from the bedroom window, her skin was so white it was translucent. She was lithe and long-limbed, her legs toned by walking, he supposed. He could see the blue veins beneath her skin on her small pert breasts and abdomen. Before they went to bed, she inspected him, running her hands over his shoulders, belly, buttocks, thighs, giving his biceps a little squeeze as if checking out the freshness of a baguette.

The contrast between his light brown skin and her paleness struck him when they were pressed together, reminded him of
mayonnaise on rye bread. Her skin looked like it had never seen the sun. She was the whitest woman he'd ever been with. She didn't want to play, kiss, or caress. She wanted to be taken, and responded with encouraging mewls the more aggressively and selfishly he performed. He pretended he was in control.

Her name was Sophie Duxín, and when he exploded inside her the first time she took a sharp, sweet intake of breath.

At four in the morning she stood at the window, a naked silhouette against the sheer curtains, said, “You must go now,” without turning to look at him in the bed.

He was ready, but confused. “Is everything okay?”

She turned, smiled; he could see the whiteness of her teeth. “Everything is okay. Three times, that is very good.” She patted her belly as she said it.

He was sore. “This apartment . . .”

“My husband owns it. He owns lots of flats.”

“And he doesn't mind?”

“He doesn't know.”

Jimmy felt hungover, although he hadn't drunk anything. He wished he had something now, though.

“But—”

“Don't talk,” she said again, crossing the floor to him, again pressing her fingertips to his lips.

“We have an understanding,” she said, looking away. “Actually, we do not.” It took him a moment to understand she was referring to her husband.

She watched him dress with cool, appraising eyes. As he
pulled on his beaded jacket, he said, “What does he do, your husband?”

“He's a businessman and politician,” she said, sighing. “He is very well known. He works in the government. But we won't talk about him again.”

“Okay,” he said, wanting to know more but not wanting to risk her anger.

“I will see you in three weeks,” she said, rubbing her flat belly. “By then I will know. I'll contact you.”

He didn't ask,
Know what?

She was done with him and he was exhausted and felt oddly hollow. He wanted to leave, but he also wanted to ask:

Where is he, your husband?

What would he think of what we just did?

What would he think of me?

Do you have other children?

Where do you live?

When will I see you again?

Why an Indian? Why an Indian child? Why me?

But she said, “Don't talk.”

•   •   •

I
N MID-
A
PRIL
there were hints of spring, and several days of cloudless but pure sunshine that seemed to fill Jimmy up like red meat. He'd not realized how the endless gray days had beaten him down until the sun came out. He was sitting on
a bench in a small park near their apartment building, reading a note from Sophie in the sun, when Lyle joined him wearing sunglasses.

“That from her?” Lyle asked.

“She wants to see me again,” Jimmy said, charmed by the way she'd written the note in English, not her language, the way she'd drawn out the block letters. He wondered who had helped her.

Lyle shook his head, lit a cigarette, blew out the smoke in a long stream. “You're doing this wrong, Jim. The point isn't to get all monogamous. The point is to spread your love around, baby.” He said it with a flourish. “You understand what I'm saying?” Lyle asked.

Jimmy grunted.

“This town's filled with French women who want to have little Jimmys, little children of nature. Why deny them?”