THE CHINESE GUY

BY CHANTAL PELLETIER
Ménilmontant

Translated by Nicole Ball

It’s the last thing Luc said to me on his way out: “Don’t be stupid, Sonia, take your pills.” I nodded. I should have started my medication again but I thought I was stable and I was sick of gulping down all that shit every day. Outside, along our windows, the first hyacinths were cutting through the soil in their ceramic pots. We went out in the courtyard and I felt a surge of affection for the two cherry trees that were dying in front of the concierge’s apartment and for the grass blades pushing their chlorophyll between the lopsided cobblestones. Even the faded look of the façades, I liked.

“Don’t worry,” I said.

He hugged me, or more exactly, I hugged him. That’s how we were, us two. An inverted couple. I was taller, heavier. Luc had nothing athletic about him, and I had been a swimming champ as a teenager. Eighteen years later, I still had biceps, shoulders, and thighs to show for it. I think this is what Luc had liked: the masculine side of me. But that day, everything was over. Luc was leaving to face another opponent. We kissed on the cheek.

I watched him go. I knew I wouldn’t take the time to get used to someone else again. Too much work, no more patience. As for Luc, he had started a new slalom without even bothering to train for it. So between the two of us, I was the one who smiled the most. Luc knew that by leaving he was doing a bigger favor for me than for himself. Which didn’t prevent him from feeling guilty. That almost pained me.

He stepped outside the courtyard gate. I pictured him climbing into the overloaded van. He was probably feeling remorseful at that moment: He hated material problems. The inconvenience of moving was going to destabilize him for a long time.

I went back to my Greek salad dressing; I added some lemon and a pinch of ground oregano. I tasted it. Not bad. I entered the recipe, list of ingredients, and all the numbered steps into the computer. I named that banal escarole-tomato-feta-black olives salad Greek Summer Salad. As with everything else, a new title is enough to make an old recipe sound fresh.

Looking out the window, I saw that the cobblestones in the courtyard were less dark, the day brighter than during the previous weeks. Spring was on its way. I felt a kind of exhilaration, suddenly convinced that freedom and spring could be a beautiful wedding celebration if I wanted.

I had not decided to call Jérôme. I’m fine, thanks!Despite what Luc says, I’m polite, especially with my clients, and Jérôme happened to be my main one: I created most of the recipes for his magazine, Foodgourmet. Swamped as usual, more than usual even, he was negotiating the sale of a Chinese edition of his magazine to a publishing conglomerate in Shanghai, and given that he was capable of selling his soul cut up in little pieces to decorate key chains, he was going berserk. One billion three hundred million potential clients. Even a thousandth of that godsend would have been a fortune.

I knew right away he was asking for a favor. It took me longer to understand what kind: For the last three days, he had been playing guide to a Chinese man. Devotedly, and for a good reason: He was the cousin of the guy he was dealing with in Shanghai! But now, honestly, it’s too much. Could youpossibly take charge of this burden until 9 p.m. tonight in Orlywhen the cumbersome character flies off to Milan?He gave me one of his I’ll make it up to you, the future of the company is atstake,or, I’m so overwhelmed by work, I’ll pay you the equivalentof three recipes, you can’t say no. I said no,I couldn’t say no.

Besides, taking a Chinese tourist around the capital wasn’t worse than tinkering with recipes from photographs: If you used your imagination this could pass as a tomato, that as a Béarnaise sauce, and the whole thing as a slice of calf’s head. Because that was exactly what my job had become: I looked at totally lame pictures of totally lame dishes and concocted plausible recipes from them. To tell the truth, you ended up losing your appetite, even me, and I do love to eat.

Without this new turn of events, I would have e-mailed him my autopsy of a salad and stayed home; so I printed my page without any qualms, all excited to go out and look spring straight in the eye.

I saw him right away as I was stepping into the offices of Food-gourmet.What a shock! My Chinese guy stood out against a lovely light and the greenery cascading down the slopes of the Parc de Belleville. In the background, misty Paris bowed down before such beauty, golden skin and turned-up lips, a true piece of China to which amber tea would have given the color of brown sugar. This is when I knew I should have taken my pills. I was losing it. And yet I wasn’t really attracted to Asian men. Too smooth, not sexy at all. There was a kind of eunuch quality about them, I thought, although I had never checked the facts. I probably associated them with the servants in the imperial court of China, castrated so His Highness wouldn’t have rivals under his roof. In short, I had no use for Chinese men. No, it was hoodlums who gave me my thrill: hairy hunks who fill out their shirtsleeves, display shoulders broad enough for two, thick arms and large, rugged hands, surly men who wheedle you into the underbrush with their tenor voices … But on that day, all of my prejudices evaporated. I would have needed heavy medication to restore my judgment which had quickly gone down the drain.

All melted, my legs like cotton, my heart sunk between my thighs and raging as if inside a nest of red ants, I had a hard time resisting the temptation to jump on him and eat him up alive, and yet I hadn’t raped anyone in years.

This fellow smelled of strawberries, the kind you find in woods, not in supermarkets; it activated my saliva like crazy, a sign that I hadn’t completely lost my appetite. His perfect lips flashed me an irresistible smile. The scoundrel wasn’t scared: He had no idea of the risks he was running.

Jérôme came to the poor guy’s rescue by grabbing my arm and whispering that he would reimburse all my expenses. I couldn’t care less; I couldn’t take my eyes off him. As soon as he stood up, I noticed the son of a bitch was terrifically built, not too thin but not paunchy either, strong, straight, good thighs and a nice piece of equipment that showed through his black, flowing pants. He even had shoulders and pecs under his dark blue jacket, and in his golden face, his big eyes were shining under eyelids that seemed painted with a brush. That creaseless curve was incredible! I had never seen such a thing!

He spoke a kind of kitchen English; I did too of course, so that was lucky. He was obviously pleased to stop posing as a piece of pottery in the lobby of Foodgourmet. I was eager to leave. I gave my Greek salad to Jérôme and grabbed the Chinese man. All he was carrying was a small bag; he traveled light, a real plus.

I made him walk across the park, just to show him that Paris had good green lungs and that the most beautiful city in the world had something else to show off besides the Eiffel Tower and the Sacré-Coeur. Very nice!It was indeed very nice. A group of Asian people were doing tai chi between forsythias in full bloom. They must have looked familiar to him. I explained that we were to leave his bag at my place first. What did he feel like doing after that? As you like. He shouldn’t have said that but he had no way of knowing.

Eleven a.m. I had six or seven hours to get him in a stew. Whatever the recipe. I was ready to settle for something quick, cooked al dente. There, in the quiet of the park, I decided not to rush things, not to break anything. Nice and slow. Like a normal, regular woman.

At the intersection of rue des Pyrénées and rue de Mé-nilmontant, Paris was shamelessly exposing her underwear up to her Eiffel Tower garters; we let the lights turn green twice, the better to enjoy the strip tease. I was thinking of poor Luc, who was hurting his back as he unloaded his van. He really had no luck. I wouldn’t have bet a dime on their happiness as a couple.

On the way down rue de Ménilmontant, my Chinese man was looking all around him, at the Arab grocery and butcher stores, at the bazaars. Wonderful!I realized that I shouldn’t be counting on having poetic exchanges with him. A real advantage. He was nodding and smiling so much he seemed to be laughing all the time, with his plump mouth stretched out over China teeth militarily aligned. I felt pity for Luc—he was missing such an exciting show.

Near my place, the boarded-up buildings and the construction sites didn’t exactly make for an attractive landscape, but apparently he didn’t care. As soon as we passed through the gate into my paved courtyard, everything, the shrubbery, the flowerpots, was suddenly more pleasant. He thought it was so cute!

When he took off his jacket in the living room, I gave in. His wild strawberry scent was unbearable. He agreed to a cup of coffee so I made two small, very strong espressos and I crushed five of my most potent pills inside his cup. He was sitting on the couch, sipping his coffee without flinching. He didn’t last very long. After a Very good, it’s such a nice place,he fell asleep. Milan had gone down the tubes by then. I closed the shutters, took off my dress, and delicately stripped the product of its various cases so I could taste it. A pure delight.

When I got back from shopping at the Chinese supermarket on rue de Belleville, he was still asleep, naked on the couch, his hands and feet tied up, his big body well sheathed in his totally smooth, amber China skin. With just that small accident of imperfect, slightly wrinkled flesh: his penis; a bit darker, with a smallish hard-on between his thighs. He was a good boy. He’d been abused for at least two hours but that hadn’t prevented him from having nice dreams. I was really lucky.

I put away my groceries, had a bite, and went back to work. Munching on his earlobe, I could again verify that not only did he smell of wild strawberries, he also had their taste. I was sorry I had damaged him, though; his perfect lips were puffy and were turning blue; I felt upset. For fifteen minutes I gave him a hard time that left purple marks on his neck and a big scratch on his left cheek. He was grunting in his heavy sleep, his asshole looked sullen around a small, ugly rip. The guy was not used to good things. I washed him with a baby wipe and put some ointment on it. I wanted him to last for a while. In that respect, I’m like any woman, I get attached fast.

At 4:00 a.m., exhausted, I rolled him over onto the wheelchair we had bought from the widower upstairs after the death of his crippled wife, when Luc had a badly broken leg. China was heavy but I managed to lay him down on the guest room bed. I had bitten his left breast so hard it had left a big bruise in the shape of a half moon. I did have good teeth.

I straightened the blanket on my little darling who was blissfully asleep; it almost felt like milk was rising inside my breasts, but I managed to get ahold of myself. I locked him up and collapsed on my bed.

Before taking a well-deserved rest, I remembered that it’s never a good idea to fall in love with guys who are not your type; it always ends up badly and knocks you out for a long time. Luc, with his tiny build and sparrow voice, had been an exception to my professed fascination for hunks—an exception that had brought me bad luck.

I slept until 9 and had a dream about Luc in his wheelchair.

An image which in fact represented the last stage of our love rivalry. A few weeks of recovery and I had been subjected to the whole spiel: lies, scenes. From one physical therapy session to the next, Luc had fallen in love with his physical therapist, and after that I seemed to him like a half-measure at best. He was wrong. My Chinese man, if he ever woke up, could testify to my energy to perform; I could do a beautiful job.

At 10, the breakfast tray was ready but he wasn’t. He had trouble opening his eyes; they had completely shrunk in his swollen face, which was kind of yellow now. How old was he? Slightly younger than me. Thirty-two, thirty-three. But supposedly, Chinese people don’t look their age. Maybe he was a fraud.

I slipped a basin under the blanket and grabbed his penis:

“Pee?” I asked, in case he didn’t understand.

I heard the gurgle and a wave went through my hand. Not bad. I shook his little hose before removing the basin. I think this made him feel good.

I lifted his head, brought the glass of water to his lips. He tasted it first, thought about it; he didn’t trust me. I honestly couldn’t resent him for that; he finally drank half of it but turned down the coffee. I could understand that. I pushed the croissant into his mouth and he ate all of it. Good: I had stuffed the carefully crushed drugs inside the dough.

He regained his spirits briefly and started to scream. I couldn’t care less, no one would hear him; the widower upstairs had been in the hospital for the last three months, and the only window in the bedroom looked out onto a blind courtyard. Faced with my unruffled calm, he stopped and looked at the ceiling.

“I feel sick,” he said in a blank voice.

“You’ll be better soon,” I replied with a shrug.

To tell the truth, if he kept on popping all the pills instead of me, chance was he wouldn’t.

He closed his eyes. Not a fighter. Quite a fatalist. It’s supposed to be an Oriental thing. Back in China, he was used to being mistreated perhaps. He was really calm for someone being held in confinement, I thought.

When I pulled the blanket off him and brandished the whip, he looked at me with an imploring expression, but pity is a feeling I loathe. And please, no bullshit: His dick was half stiff, and that never lies. He must have understood; he turned slightly to present his ass, or rather to protect his more fragile parts. His buns were a lot more fleshy than Luc’s, who loved to be spanked, something I never refused him in fifteen years, something he couldn’t complain about. The jerk should never have left, we had our little ways together, and that’s not easy to lose all of a sudden, especially for someone unstable like I am, and when spring is on its way.

It’s true, we were still very much in love, Luc and I. It was not like before, of course. Aside from the well-polished rituals we had established to relieve ourselves, we both kept twisting and turning to avoid any unnecessary contact with each other. Lips sealed in reaction to hurtful words, legs disentangled after sleep had unfortunately intertwined them, but we were used to it and that counts. So much dodging for some peace; marital art is a martial art, an art we had completely mastered: black belt, fourth dan. Okay even for KOs; we would crash painlessly on the tatami. The Chinese man hadn’t exactly agreed to the situation so he was in pain. It’s all in the head, I say! I thought he might be a bachelor and knew little about women. I hear they lack women in China.

When I had my fill of it, I felt very relaxed; I let him sleep and went to take a shower. Maybe I could keep my Chinese guy for a long time in that state—weeks, months, years even. Paris was a lot better than Milan, after all. All I had to do was feed him right and not mess him up too much. I could set up a TV and DVD player in his room to keep him entertained and then, little by little, he would learn French. That would at least be something positive.

I put on clean clothes. It was beautiful out; I watered my plants. I was happy that Luc let me live here. Our place was becoming myplace, for years to come; that’s what he had said and that was nice, he didn’t have to. We had bought that first-floor apartment together fifteen years ago for peanuts with a loan from the bank, and we had fixed it up ourselves, quite nicely. All I needed to do was pay the mortgage every month. Nothing to worry about, I had the means, I couldn’t complain.

That’s when I fell upon my man’s backpack. As light as he was. I found his passport. In Chinese, obviously. One hundred dollar bills. A good-sized stack. It would be for our honeymoon. My honey bun had everything thought out.

All perked up, I sat down in front of the computer to play with the keyboard a little. I had a message from Jérôme: Attachedare three recipes to return to me before this evening, baby. Was everything okay yesterday? How was he?

Great guy,I answered. You’ll have them back very soon.

I clicked on the pictures. The first one was easy. A vegetable casserole. String beans, peas, carrots. I already had the recipe stored in my files. All I had to do was print it out. Same for the chocolate cake. The third one wasn’t so simple. I finally settled for veal shanks with mixed vegetables. I wrote down the recipe card from memory; I was used to it. I sent everything via e-mail by mid-afternoon. Jérôme would be pleased.

I made myself a cup of coffee and finished some leftover lasagna. I even treated myself to a little serving of raspberry sherbet. The veal shank stew had obviously whetted my appetite. I thought it would be a good idea to cook such a typical French dish for my little sweetheart. He’d like that.

So I went to rue de Belleville, near the Jourdain metro station, to the best butcher in the arrondissement.* I bought organic potatoes, carrots, turnips, and string beans, then I got a great cheese assortment at a cheese store that takes quality very seriously. My backpack was totally full when I walked back down rue de Belleville; I made a stop at a Chinese grocery—it wasn’t very hard to find as they’re all over the neighborhood—to get three cans of Tsingtao beer and some candied ginger.

When I came back home, not a stir. I got busy in the kitchen, humming away while I cooked. I may be a little rough sometimes but I have to admit that there’s nothing more satisfying in life than concocting fancy meals for a sleeping man. In fact, it felt as if we had already reached the pearly gates, my Chinese man and I. And that Luc who wanted me to take my pills! He was really screwed in the head!

I hadn’t had so much fun cooking in a long time. Everything was coming back to me: the exhilaration of the movements, the elation that smells and flavors give you. I had lots of fun cutting the vegetables into identical little cubes. I was using a ceramic knife Luc had brought back from Japan for me. Light as a feather and sharp as a razor blade. Asia sure was showering me with presents!

While the meat and vegetables were cooking, I stirred up a mixture of chocolate, butter, and ground almonds which I poured on the pieces of candied ginger scattered on tin foil, and I put the concoction in the fridge. Ginger is an aphrodisiac, it’s a well known fact; same for the sage I had stuck inside the meat. The evening was promising.

I set the table with special care as if for a picture. The tablecloth, the matching napkins, my best set of plates and glasses … I had even bought two bunches of daffodils, the first of the season. I trimmed two candles with my Japanese blade and stuck them into the candle holder Luc’s mother had given us. The effect was fantastic, a true promotional ad for Foodgourmet.I was already missing my big teddy bear; quick, quick, I gave myself a vague facelift in the bathroom and went to see him …

Lying there on his bed, my loverboy was still a little sleepy, two narrow slits where his eyes were; as soon as he saw the Japanese knife, he opened them as wide as dessert plates. No reason to get upset, though, as the object was not much bigger than a steak knife, but impressive because it was very pointed, a real hole puncher. To show him I didn’t mean to hurt him, I sat down by the side of the bed, and scraped my knee with the tip of the ceramic blade, at the hem of my checkered skirt. Beads of blood formed right away; very carefully, I traced a thin red line, a C, meaning Chinese, since I didn’t know his first name. The result was very delicate but failed to reassure him. I tapped my heart to show I had feelings for him. He didn’t seem to believe me, so I even came up with I love you. He must have thought I was out of my mind.

But with one thing and another, my veal was running the risk of sticking to the bottom of the pot. I clapped my hands, Come on, let’s get moving, let’s go. He stood up, staggering; I pushed him under the shower, he didn’t respond. He was taking things the right way, the Asian way that is. Zen is Japanese, but they say that the Nippons stole everything from their neighbors of the Middle Kingdom. So Zen has to be Chinese.

I washed him with an almond milk shower gel that smelled very very nice. I was having a terrific time. It’s absolutely true: When a man’s hands are tied up, his penis becomes more important. He was being very sweet about letting me take care of him and we actually got along rather well. The poor man needed to acquire some experience: What one learns is always beneficial.

I dried him up with a bath towel that had been well heated on the electric towel rack. I dabbed all his little wounds with Q-tips soaked in hydrogen peroxide, smeared some ointment wherever it was needed, rubbed arnica on several bruises. I slipped one of my silk bathrobes onto him and combed his hair. He seemed happy. I was in seventh heaven.

When he saw the nicely set table, he was taken aback; he was probably sick of sleeping. I could read fear in his black eyes hidden under his slanted eyelids. The way experience can make an inexperienced man mature is absolutely spectacular!

I shook my hands frantically, like a mute, so he would understand once and for all that things were over, definitely over: The script was different now. Sleeping finished, now eating.

“It’s very good food, you’ll see! Wonderful French food!”

I went to the fridge to take out the hors-d’oeuvre plates: two slices of duck foiegras from the Gers, along with toast and a slab of fig jam on the side. I removed from his plate one of the slices of toast, spread the smooth paste on it, added a little bit of jam, and took a bite to show him there was nothing to be afraid of. When I brought the slice of bread to his lips, he gulped it down. On and on like that through the whole meal. But I allowed myself pauses so I could get some nourishment too; generosity has its limits after all.

He was going like Mmm, very good, great.And honestly, the veal was a complete success; I had slightly spiced it so my darling would feel more at home and it turned out to be a brilliant idea. I pushed forkfuls of meat and vegetables into his mouth. We had found a satisfying rhythm. He was as handsome as when we had first met, his wild strawberry smell lingering on despite the aromas of the meal and the almond-milk scent of the shower gel. My cute little soldier had a strong personality he hadn’t clearly revealed yet. But Luc was wrong: I could be patient.

My man had absolutely gorgeous hands and arms. I hadn’t seen such perfection up close since Eric, the young swimming champion in the 200-meter freestyle I had abused in the locker room. I had gotten into all kinds of trouble because of that, including being fired from the Swimming Federation and one year of scandalous chemical straightjacket. They talk about human rights for men, but what about the rights of women? No one gives a shit about them.

He accepted coffee without me dipping my lips into it first. Trust had been restored. It just goes to show, it doesn’t take much. Then we settled on the couch with small glasses of brandy. He let me do the job. At times, I even seemed to catch a flash of wonder in his weary eyes. A great cook makesa great lover: I knew the proverb and I was able to verify how surprisingly true it was.

At 3 a.m., having had my fill, I took him back to his room, certain he would sleep: I had fixed his second glass of brandy with three pills.

As I was going to bed, I thought I recognized the same feeling of ecstasy I’d had with Luc at the beginning of our relationship. Spring had come. I had no doubt about us being able to form a happy couple. Such a thing does exist, whatever they may say; pushing your luck a bit is all it takes.

The next day, I washed and checked my e-mail. No news from Milan. I felt reassured; it’s always when everything is going smoothly that the worst happens. I know that well.

I fixed breakfast. When I went into the bedroom, he was asleep. I didn’t want to bother him; I just stayed there and watched my little angel without a peep, without pulling the blanket off the bed, an inch away from being the submissive woman, lost in admiration before her man and scared to death at the idea of disturbing his sleep. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer and my hand shot out. Maybe I wasn’t completely stabilized yet.

When he woke up, I was holding his penis firmly in my right hand, with the tip of it in front of my mouth like a mike, and I was singing, Stranger in the night, I’m so excited …

He gave me a funny look. Okay, I don’t sing very well, it’s true. I put an end to my recital and gave him his breakfast.

In the bathroom, I filled the tub with water warmed up just right and added a Chanel N?5 bath gel. A pure delight! I sat him up on the edge of the bathtub, what with his feet tied up and all … Then splash!I was wondering if I would join him right away when the doorbell rang. Bummer!

After the first moment of panic, I decided I wouldn’t open the door.

And then: “Sonia, it’s Luc, open up, I know you’re there!”

Locking and bolting the door had been a good idea. I had to, our home was his home after all.

“What the hell are you doing?” he yelled as he came in.

And who says I’mnot polite? Not even Hello, thank you, nothing. The poor guy wasn’t doing so great, actually. He sat down on the couch; there was this scent of wild strawberries and I was wondering when he would notice, but he didn’t care; besides, I had already forgotten: Luc has no sense of smell!

“It’s all over with Georges!”

What? Over with the macho physical therapist who gave him such beautiful bruises? I had never believed in their story, actually. A massage that turns into marriage, that can’t work. So what that I knew it for both of us—it didn’t help!

“Any way we look at it, Luc, we can’t make it work. We’re too different,” I said in a soft woman-victim tone of voice that went with my white blouse …

“I’m coming back, Sonia, I’m moving back tomorrow …”

“Oh! That won’t be possible!”

“We have no other choice, Sonia. This is my home.”

“It’s too late!”

“And why’s that?”

“There’s someone else in my life!”

He looked at me like Keep talking, don’t even think I’m gonnabelieve you. What chutzpah these guys have! They always think that girls are incapable of managing without them. That girls are only good for whining and for begging them to come back home. Boy, did he have the wrong scenario!

“Stop that nonsense, Sonia. You took your pills, right? I think you’re weird.”

That was pretty incredible! The guy I had was more handsome, younger, fresher. He had traveled thousands of miles to jump into my arms. He was now relaxing in my bathtub, fragrant with Chanel N?5, and the guy who’d just been dumped was putting on macho airs and acting as if he had recently killed the wooly mammoth to save his tribe! The jerk had spoiled my babe’s bath! There are limits, after all, limits I cross with gusto, and when I scream, it gets pretty loud.

“Get the hell out of here, you schmuck! I have someone else in my life now, so fuck you, asshole!”

I was starting to turn red. He remembered what that meant so he left, slamming the door behind him.

I remained in the middle of the living room for a good while, just to calm down; even when you are stabilized, sometimes certain people are good at making you fly off the handle. Leaving me for a physical therapist? You had to be really dumb.

Being dumped for a man and not for a woman wasn’t actually as tough, but … I failed to see the connection! What with one thing and another, I was getting all mixed up. Too many things were happening to me in too little time. I had reached the point where I needed a pill. That was smart! Luckily, there was no risk of an overdose as I had only one pill left in my last bottle. The Chinese man had eaten all of them.

As soon as I opened the bathroom door, I was struck by the absence of the wild strawberry scent. Chanel N?5 had punch, true, but still, I was scared. And rightly so: The foam was all alone in the tub, with no Chinese head sticking out. I saw red. Gone? No, he was all slumped in there, white in the red water. My poor baby! I grabbed his head; the stupid idiot was looking up at the top of his head. I pulled him up some more: The handle of the ceramic knife was sticking out of his stomach which was pouring red into the Chanel N?5 … Some people sure know how to annoy you! Why go through so much trouble just to die when it’s the one thing nobody can escape from? Because really, he did go through a lot of trouble to find that fucking knife and put it through his stomach without swallowing it first. I thought this hara-kiri stuff was Japanese but as it turned out, even that was Chinese!

I was disappointed. To put his honor above my delicious dishes, really! You had to be mentally defective! It didn’t make sense. You can’t leave such a dangerous thing lying within the reach of children. Even I wouldn’t have left the knife just anywhere! I saw myself in retrospect cutting my knee and then … then, I totally lost it.

But stay cool! The present was complicated enough, this wasn’t the time to get caught in the past; I had to think of the future. My ex would be showing up the next day with a full van. Great! He was going to like the Chinese guy all right. I hesitated. Should I let them do their dirty business together and go on a honeymoon all by myself? I had the money. I could go far away. To Shanghai even. They lacked women there. Okay then, I was on my way! On the other hand, I wasn’t

*Paris is divided into twenty arrondissements, which serve to delineate municipal administrative districts within the city. Th e arrondissements are further subdivided into four administrative quarters, each of which with its own police station. sure I was really stabilized, so big trips were not particularly recommended in my case. I felt I was turning red: Worries always make my cheeks glow. I found the prescription in the drawer of the nightstand. Luc was right. I had to start taking my meds again.

It was still nice out. One of the cherry trees thought it was young again and was brandishing its first flower. It’s only normal to have your sap rising a little in the spring! You’ll get treated for a little while and that’ll be that! But I had to admit once and for all that Chinese guys were exactly my type.

Before going to the drugstore, I ran into the kitchen and swallo ed the last pill. The guy sure had done a great job.