You can get pills for that

The route seemed so simple;

No.2, Pigalle to Porte Dauphin,

get off at Charles de Gaulle Ecole,

No.6 from Charles de Gaulle Ecole to Nation,

get out at Bir Hakeim.

Not for the first time, she cursed her handwriting. Normally she only used a pen to note down imaginary scenarios that went nowhere and didn’t make sense. A bit like this trip.

 

She’d had a couple of glasses of wine when she’d booked it with the 500 quid left over from the sale of land they’d split. She couldn’t leave it sitting there.

 

She ran upstairs to tell Vi. An ecstatic announcement followed on Vi’s profile. She stood there, looking at it on her iPad in the kitchen. Creepy enough to follow your children but somehow the moment felt strangely sealed with a Facebook update.

 

She was relying on her daughter to record the trip from a Social Network point of view; she imagined the Instagram postcards Vi might post to her international followers: “Mum, laughing at one of her own jokes in the Tuileries Gardens”, “It’s the Mona Lisa!”, “I can’t believe Paris is so beautiful!”

 

Vi developed the fever a few days before they were due to travel. The doctor did a quick test and confirmed it was glandular. He suggested she Google it for more details. The web said it could last for years and crop up here and there but it didn’t sound as serious as she’d remembered from ‘seventies schooldays.  Vi was still keen to go. Perhaps it would help them to “fit in” to be ill, she joked, like all the famous artists.

 

The train journey was a blur of green and brown. She’d been nervous about the tunnel but realised that they’d been through it before she could access the fear she’d prepared earlier. All she could think about was Vi’s increasing nausea from the anti-biotics the doctor had given them.

 

“You can get pills for the sickness.”

 

Mum said, as she’d seen them off, promising to keep an eye on Alex as she ushered them out. His latest medication was keeping him calm but that didn’t stop her worrying.

 

The street near the Gare du Nord was lined with shops mainly selling leather it seemed. As they walked up towards Montmartre heavy jackets turned into shiny, brightly coloured dresses hung on old-fashioned mannequins. She looked up at the signs; “Darling”, “Fancy”. Were the dresses for bridesmaids? Were these wedding shops? As they contemplated the dirty concrete underpass that cut right in front of them on the path up ahead, she tried to imagine feeling enthusiastic about any kind of celebration. So far Paris was looking like London with the contrast turned up. She had started to think in Instagram. Poor Vi was too ill to even glance at her iPod.

 

“It’s the end of August, the Parisians will all be back”, everyone had said.

 

As they reached the shabby side street and the boarded up shops which surrounded the hotel, it looked as if they were still away.

 

She helped Vi up the stairs to their tiny room. The late August air was chilly but Vi was a furnace. The first thing they saw was a huge fan, on a pedestal by the long windows. It would be useful. She’d spotted a chemist at the end of the road but it was 6.30pm on a Monday evening and by the time she’d Googled “anti-nausea pills” then translated them into French with Babelfish then practiced asking for them a few times,  Vi felt a bit better.

 

“Let’s go for a walk.”

 

They bid goodbye to the shy receptionist. Their street may have been shuttered but the next street along reminded her of Great Yarmouth in the height of summer. They joined the crowd as it bustled towards the Sacre Coeur – flanked by shops selling mugs and t-shirts.

 

As they gazed upwards, a peddlar grabbed her wrist and began to weave a bracelet.  She managed to pull her hand away but it was too late for Vi, whose bracelet was half-done by the time she realised they’d have to pay. They couldn’t afford the 10 euros the man demanded. She offered two and walked away quickly. No-one seemed to be eating in the bistros they passed. She glanced into the windows and caught herself; a worried, middle-aged woman with no money dragging her pale daughter around. They needed to eat.

 

They sat in the window of the dark, French equivalent of a Beefeater.  When she was little, dad would take them to London for the day and they’d always end up in a Beefeater. She missed him.  She missed being little. The waiter had seated them under a heater. It was making her dizzy.  There she was, old enough to have lost her father yet too embarrassed to ask if they could change tables.

 

The coq au vin was lovely.

 

They were sharing a small double bed. The first night brought major sweats and feverish talking in Vi’s sleep.

 

“It’s my body and I’ll do what I want”

 

It sounded like an argument.

 

She remembered listening as Vi had argued with Alex after her recent 16^th and enjoying the normality of it.

 

One evening, when things were bad, she’d put on a film and forced them to sit and watch it. Alex was agitated, constantly questioning the motives of the characters and complaining about the brightness of the screen. As she and Vi became increasingly irritated, he’d jumped up and stormed out into the snow. Exhausted with it all, she’d phoned the helpline they’d given her.

 

“Is he a danger to himself or others?”

 

“He’s gone out without his gloves and it’s snowing.” She’d half-sobbed, knowing deep down that he would probably just run to the tree he’d been climbing on the common then come back. They hadn’t really known what they were dealing with then.

 

By morning Vi had cooled right down. As she watched her lying there in her damp sheets she couldn’t help wondering what Vi had done to her body, whether she wanted it or not.

 

Scooters honked and revved outside on the street; friendly sounds. She decided to risk leaving her. The Chemist was open and the pharmacist understood her request for “anti-emetiques” straight away.  

 

The last time she had been in Paris she was heavily pregnant with Alex. She and her husband had sat down next to a young couple in a Bistro and the man was about to light up.  She’d only just given up herself but it was an opportunity to use the phrase she’d memorised; “je suis une femme enceinte” (I am pregnant). Even though the phrase was blunt, a conversation had been struck up. Hadn’t they even exchanged phone numbers? How confident she’d been then – newly married, still so excited.

 

The pharmacist didn’t look like he wanted to be friends as he handed over the pills, pointing at his tongue to indicate that the pills would dissolve in the mouth, then standing over his young assistant, sternly showing her how to use the till.

 

Vi sat up.

 

“Take these. They melt. They’ll stop the sickness. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do today.”

 

The anti-emetiques finally did the trick. Vi ran to the loo to throw up at last and felt better for it.

 

They decided to try for the Eiffel tower.

 

No.2, Pigalle to Porte Dauphin, get off Arc de Triomphe, walk to the Eiffel tower.

 

She’d seen the name and couldn’t resist. Paris was a small city – they’d easily make their way back wouldn’t they?  They stared up at it in the sunshine, surrounded by tourists again. She looked around. She’d imagined the Eiffel Tower to be so huge that it would be visible from wherever they were – like a giant Transformer robot. But it wasn’t.

 

They ducked into a quiet side road towards the Seine.  They passed car after expensive car, parked up for the day. This must be where the bankers lived. It didn’t take them long to reach the river and there it was; Vi’s first picture.

 

“Mum looking relieved with the sun in her eyes.”

 

People were queueing for various ways of clambering up the tower; lifts, escalators, steps, all needing a different sort of ticket. They even had tickets which superceded all the other tickets and allowed you to jump the queues. There was quite a large queue for those.  

 

They sat down on the lawn in a pretty park nearby.

 

A girl came up with a clipboard with a petition for an orphanage. But signing the petition meant she had to give a donation. The girl became angry when she said she had no money to give. Similar girls approached others on the grass. She realised they weren’t going to be left alone.

 

They returned to the route. They needed to find the metro stop they’d missed before. The Arabic sounding one.

 

Walk to Bir Hakeim.

 

She found herself comparing everything to London – this bit’s like Westminster and this bit’s a bit like Piccadilly. Vi had never lived in London, but she found herself at it again.

 

“This bit’s a bit like Edgeware Road. I used to get the number 36 up to Kilburn and look at all the Lebanese restaurants. “

 

It was an open air part of the Metro. As they stood on the platform she was reminded of student days, walking home hungover or strung out from a night on sulphate.

 

She looked over at Vi who was contemplating a set of peeling posters. How similar she looked to her younger self; all clubbed out. She walked over and gave her a hug. 

 

“I’m sorry I keep talking about London.”

 

 Vi shrugged.  

 

She’d called Alex’s father the night of the snow. By the time he’d arrived Alex had returned. His hands bright red as he stood in front of the mirror, exhilarated, staring at himself in the mirror, searching again for something. They’d hugged him and hugged each other.

 

She couldn’t remember where Vi had been when Alex came back. In the confusion and panic and relief of that night; had Vi been in the room, sitting there, watching them?   

 

Bir Hakeim to Notre Dame.

 

It had been a rash decision. There didn’t seem to be anyone there at the station. On the map it looked like Ile de la Cite was almost covered by the cathedral itself. She realised it wasn’t to scale.

 

It turned out to be across the river, the cathedral. They must have walked in a circle around the whole island before they spotted it at last.

 

They rested for a while on a grandstand that faced the entrance. A man talked intensely to a small group of students beside them. She briefly wondered if it was a sermon. Visitors were being steered into the dark entrance. They were both tired now. Maybe she could absorb some of Vi’s illness and cure her in this spiritual place? It was getting chilly.

 

It turned out he’d been seeing things for a while; Alex. Lights, angry expressions, all fleeting and flashing across the faces of strangers in the street. And hearing things too. Voices. Poor, lovely Alex. But things were getting better. His new medication was keeping him calm. Had Vi been upstairs that night?

 

“What happened on your birthday Vi?”

 

“Nothing, nothing mum. Why? Everything’s OK. Don’t worry.”

 

On the last morning the streets around them revealed themselves at last. Bookshops, vintage, special teas and even a carousel they must have walked past several times. She sat watching Parisians walking to school and work as Vi used her pen to write a postcard on a bench nearby.

 

Vi had a follower from California. She had promised to send him something he could touch.

 

“Vi, writing in Paris”. 

 

Her first picture. She’d need help posting it to the right people but they had the journey home for that.