Paris has not met your expectations. Not even a little bit. And apparently even the most cosmopolitan of Parisians isn’t immune to wallowing in existential ennui.
Or: You’re disappointed by everything and so is Vincent Karm.
None of this was in your bingo card when you landed in Paris weeks ago. A job with a prestigious magazine known world-wide for its fingers on the pulse of French culture and lifestyle: check. Catching up with a college roommate and exploring the rest of your twenties in a new country: check. Cute cat: check.
And then the additions got weirder.
Your job being a cover for chasing some myth alluded to by two French lovers, both of whom were well-known within philosophical literature? Nope.
And your boss clearly having a thing for you and barely hiding his bias throughout the hiring process, no matter how sweet and seemingly objective? Predictable but not expected. It should have been, you realized, it wasn’t exactly the first occurrence in your field.
Said assignment earning you threatening phone calls and a visit to the puppeteer himself? You were shocked he didn’t meet you at the airport.
Kat’s nonsense about trying to take one of her potential lovers away might as well have been the free space. A given. She did it in college to every roommate or suitemate she had. Why would she have changed? No wonder she jumped at the chance to offer you her spare bedroom; she probably cycled through roommates at the same pace she did her weekly laundry.
All you’d done was offer Tristan a cup of coffee after dinner. You made a pot in an attempt to push through a few extra hours of reading and research; you weren’t about to be rude. The nature of handing someone a mug often involved accidental finger brushing.
You thought nothing of it.
Kat wouldn’t shut up about it after Tristan left this morning and you were almost late because of her.
The only saving graces were that you arrived while Louise was distracted and you managed to turn in one of the small, “fake” assignments Raphael gave to you. Going home felt like too much trouble when the office began clearing out but you didn’t necessarily want to be around your colleagues.
You should, though. To blend in. To adjust to the culture. Your French was passable but rusty.
Besides, it was a good chance for a change of pace.
You plastered on a smile and called for someone to wait up after you shut down your computer.
A few drinks and a light dinner was how you ended up agreeing to hop to another bar. And then another.
Not so different from America. A few things tasted better, certainly, purely due to the ingredients themselves or the care put into the dish or concoction. But this was reminiscent of your first few weeks in your first position; with sprawling urbanity and the world at your feet, everything felt possible.
Your last stop was a swanky place that, in your alcohol-clouded mind, was exactly what you imagined the front of a sex club might look like. Booths of black leather, crushed midnight blue velvet lining the walls, gleaming black tiles that shimmered in the dim lighting. It felt out of place compared to all of the places you’d been so far, which had been full of history and rich character, beloved by all immediate locals. Here, you swore you were transported somewhere else entirely and the expensive entry fee should have been a clue.
Were they hazing you, you wondered. Testing how gullible you were?
Surely not.
Your group picked a corner booth towards the back, ordered drinks and snacks, and settled in, calling it a last hurrah. One check of your phone told you Kat was still pissed at you (she couldn’t even be assed to reply to your update about being home late) and that you’d be suffering at the office tomorrow based on the time. Fine. It wasn’t like you were anywhere near a breakthrough for Raphael anyway.
You nursed your last drink, a light rosè, and your eyes began to wander as your thoughts strayed from the conversation around you.
It truly wasn’t all that different from anywhere else, was it? Paris had its glitz and glamour, its history and its character, and France as a whole felt different than America; but it still had its ebbs and flows, its dirt and unkind people, its gentrification and worst of all, its demand for conformity to a standard some could not meet without shedding themselves of who they were.
Your passable French still bore an American accent and you were still adjusting to the culture shock of a slower existence. People mocked you for it but you never took it to heart. If that was your experience, what of others? Those who spoke neither French nor English, who sought a better life elsewhere because to stay meant death otherwise?
You swallowed the somber thoughts with a large last swig of your wine and your eyes caught on the second level of the bar.
No.
Life was occasionally comedic but that was just downright cruel now.
You’d know that crown of dark hair and angular face anywhere.
The last remnants of your coworkers were settling their tabs and you waved off their silent questioning expressions. You were fine to catch a cab, you told them, but you wanted to sober up a little first.
Two of them exchanged glances, perhaps wondering if that was best. You were further out from your neighborhood than it seemed, they said, and maybe it was best if they made sure you got back safe.
“Raphael would be pissed if he found out we left you like this,” one admitted, the glassiness in their eyes wearing off. “We should go.”
A hand patted their shoulder out of nowhere and your stomach lurched at the familiar voice of its owner.
“Raphael’s investment will be well-tended to,” the interloper said. “I’ll get her home in one piece.”
Vincent appeared sober enough and it was clear from your coworkers faces they knew who he was. Was there some sort of training all City of Love employees went through, some sort of black list of individuals to keep tabs on?
“Thank you, monsieur, but we should really—“
“I’ll be fine,” you chimed in. “I’ll text you both when I’m home, okay?”
He wanted something. Alarm bells went off in your head but you were curious, perhaps too much so. Despite his terrible sense of decor (the painting of a pug and a banana haunted your dreams) and his aura as nothing more than a knock off Bond villain, you couldn’t help but wonder how a man like that continued to chase a rival who had so little in comparison. Vincent and Raphael were opposite ends of a spectrum and they hated each other viciously to the point that it seemed personal.
Another thing not so different from home.
Fleeting paranoia bubbled in your gut before you let out a small giggle.
Your coworkers hesitated a final time and paused at the bartender on the way out, no doubt asking for you to be babysat. It took everything in you not to roll your eyes as you reached for the pitcher of water and poured some into your empty wine glass, determined to keep a headache at bay.
“You don’t seem the type to drink publicly or alone, Vincent Karm,” you dared as he sat at the opposite side of the booth.
Anyone else might have reached up to undo their tie but Vincent merely straightened his. It was already perfectly centered, though. Did he always have that scar on his knuckles?
“Not all negotiations occur in boardrooms, mademoiselle.”
You shrugged and made an expression, but said nothing. He wasn’t wrong. After all, he’d given you offers in his office and at Opera Garnier.
“If I may, you seem a tinge…disappointed,” Vincent settled back into the booth, leaning causally as if the string holding his spine straight finally snapped. “You would fit right in with the tourists who crowd La dame de fer.”
He was the last person you wanted to admit your numbness to. The alcohol of the evening amplified your anxieties and then threw ice on them, leaving you indifferent to everything thus far. Kat’s nonsense, the office politics, even the project you were hired for…
“I should be intrigued by all of this. The riddles, mysteries older than the city itself, the culture…the adventure of it all, it’s…”
You shook your head as your fingers idled around your wine glass.
“Overshadowed by the mundanity of it all. My roommate hasn’t changed since college, accusing me of overstepping with her boyfriend. My boss instantly seems infatuated with me and continues to hype up my investigative skills as he sends me on a wild goose chase. There’s a dastardly handsome man with too much money and power behind what I’m digging into. I wake up in a different place but…”
“The circumstances are the same,” Vincent finished, giving you a pointed look.
“Yeah.” The word fell out of your mouth like a deflated balloon.
“Perhaps you need a new profession, madmoiselle.”
“I’ll never accept your offer.”
“How will you change your perspective, and therefore your circumstances, if you continue to constantly stay on one side of the fence?”
“I don’t believe in the phrase, ‘the grass is always greener’.”
“So you would rather stagnate?”
“That’s not what this conversation is about.”
“Isn’t it?”
You glared as Vincent put his glass to his lips and finished the rest of his drink. The haze was beginning to wear off and you began to see that his eyes were ever so slightly glassy despite his rigidity. You wondered how many glasses had preceded the one he swirled, icy orb clinking against the crystal.
“If something isn’t what you thought it would be, then you need to examine it from a different angle. Take a different approach. Surely you would have learned as such by graduate school,” Vincent sniped. “What use is there in keeping a perspective or a method that does not provide results?”
Spoken like a true businessman, you thought.
“Says the man who preys on those who come to Paris with dreams of lights, luxury, glamor. You manipulate and entrap those who suffer from culture shock, using their work and passion for your own benefit.”
“Not unique to Paris, I’m afraid. I know quite a few New York financial firms that do the same at a quicker pace.”
Your lip curled in disgust and Vincent chuckled. It was deeper, a little more candid than the one you’d heard previously. A look at the man behind the mask.
Yet it didn’t quite feel like an honor.
“Tangents aside,” Vincent placed his glass down. “You were the last person I expected to be hit with such psychological drivel.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I’ll just have to keep my mind busy so I don’t have time to think about it,” you said sharply. “Easier that way.”
A song you roughly understood, some old pop song about disenchantment, played softly in the silence that fell. You swore you heard a low humming to the harmony but couldn’t be certain.
The man across the table assessed you with a gaze one used when looking at priceless jewels at auction. You caught the briefest twitch of his mouth before Vincent reached into his jacket, pulled out a bill far too big for your tab, and stood up. Smoothing out his sleeves, his gaze rested elsewhere until he was finished, ever strategically dramatic. “I hope it won’t impact your performance when you inevitably lead me to the Essence.”
He held out a hand, and fool that you were, you took it.
“By then, perhaps you’ll find that disenchantment can be just as much a driving force.”
Vincent bid you good evening with a kiss to your knuckles and a look that pinned you to the booth again.
You waited until you knew he was gone before you headed back to your apartment, willing yourself not to unlock your phone and dial the unlisted number in your call history.
