Martyr Hill

According to French lore, St. Denis, the Bishop of Paris was beheaded on Montmartre (the hill of martyrs) in 270 A.D. Picking up his own head, the beheaded St. Denis is said to have preached a sermon for two miles before he fell.

I had been propositioned seven times before noon. This one’s name was Geneviève. As my hand grazed her graceful leg punctuated with stubble, I was reminded that Montmartre never disappoints those with low expectations. Mozart’s Requiem floated out of the window of the above appartement. Geneviève began tapping her foot as if it were Hendrix and not the most beautiful mass ever written. Disgusted, I put my pants back on and left.

The overly bohemian and artistic atmosphere of the 19^th and 20^th century hadn’t yet become obsolete. Painters and peddlers lined the streets along with the Middle Eastern duo that insisted on singing selections of Sting’s repertoire. After the second verse of ‘Eeenglishmaan Eeen New York’ I stood from my seat on the steps leading to the Sacre-Coeur; my wife once loved the way the top of the cathedral seemed to touch a cloudless sky.

“Denis, with one ‘N’?” She asked when I wrote down my name and number on the napkin stained with her lipstick.

‘My mother was a bit of a Francophile. She named all of us after important or literary French figures. My sisters are Héloïse and Jeanne.’

‘Jeanne?’ She asked.

‘After Jeanne D’Arc, Joan of Arc…my mother was odd.’

‘I think it’s fascinating’. Theresa smiled, squeezing my hand. ‘It was very nice to meet you, Denis.'

We had been dating six months when Theresa finally learned of all the quirks my mother imposed upon my sisters and me.

‘You really had to celebrate Bastille Day?’

‘Every July 14^th…you have no idea how humiliating it was. We were the only kids perhaps in the world and surely in New Hyde Park that were forced to wear those tri-color bonnets and parade around in front of our house.’ Everyone wondered why my mother was almost comically obsessed with everything French. I didn’t learn until years later that she once fell in love there.

‘…to my father.’ I told Theresa as we sat in Central Park one afternoon.

‘She met your father in France?’

‘Yes. Apparently she had an affair with a French man who was already married. When she found that she was pregnant with me, he stopped speaking to her. She decided to come back to New York and it wasn’t until after I was born that she met Héloïse and Jeanne’s dad who became the father I know.’

‘Absolutely fascinating.’ She would say constantly, ‘I would think being jilted by a Frenchman like that would make her hate them all.’

‘I think she still loves him.’

‘That’s the kind of love I want, one day.’ She started, ‘The kind that couldn’t die no matter how much time has gone by.’

I stared at Theresa for an uncomfortable length of time then and when I think of her today, it is that same image I see. The soft, auburn waves of her hair gently grazing her shoulders, her blue eyes piqued with interest and the green sundress she would pack with her on every vacation. Albums are filled with the image of Theresa standing in front of countless monuments in countless countries wearing that damn green dress.

We were happily married until Paris. Years of my mother’s insane obsessions and romantic ideals had penetrated Theresa’s thoughts until all she could think about was the City of Lights. Standing in our understatement of a fixer-upper on the Left Bank, I was in awe of a woman who had forced me to another continent.

‘You come to Paris to fall in love not to stay in love’ I shouted.

‘Always the pessimist, Denis, just open up and live a little.' So we did. We lived every day and spent every euro in an effort to live up to Theresa’s expectations of what Paris was supposed to offer. It was our lack of funds that led us to Montmartre on Saturdays and Sundays. Luckily, sitting and watching the tourists as they marveled at the view from this unassuming hill was free of charge. We met Laurent one Saturday morning in between his tours of the Sacre-Coeur cathedral. Laurent, a certified tour guide of French cathedrals, would rotate from the cathedrals in the heart of Paris throughout most weekdays to the Sacre-Coeur in Montmartre on the weekends.

‘I went to school for it.’ He told us one Sunday afternoon. ‘Tour guiding was a major at my university. It was much harder than one would have you believe, the final examination is gruesome.’

‘That sounds fascinating’ Theresa would say after ever word he uttered.

‘What isn’t fascinating in your opinion, Theresa?’ I muttered.

After over a month of between-tour-meetings on the steps of Montmartre, and café lunches, Laurent began to realize we didn’t know anyone else in France. His less than stereotypically French benevolence surprised us, when he asked if we would enjoy a visit to his home. Laurent's cottage on the outskirts of Paris convinced me I took up the wrong profession. The surrounding countryside alone implied that the money in tour guiding must have been better than free-lance journalism. Acres of greenery surrounded a small cottage home that added to the pastoral notion that Goldilocks was moments from being escorted away by her three friends.

‘Beautiful stuff you have here.’ I said slamming the door of the small Citroën Picasso.

‘Thank you, it is very old. It has been in my family for generations.’ He said as only Europeans can. We entered, and the smells of authentic French cooking imbued the air. A tall gentleman stood at the stove. Dressed extremely well, the apron covering his elbow-patched blazer and khaki pants seemed somehow out of place. Ladle in hand and cigarette dipping from his lower lip, he turned to us. I saw Theresa’s face and I suppose, had I been a woman, the look on mine would have been similar. Rugged and professorial, this man in his mid-fifties must have personified every co-ed’s dream. His strong jaw was punctuated with the manicured scruff expected of the wise -even if slightly pedantic- aging Frenchman. His hair was finely trimmed and peppered with gray. As the sides of his mouth began to wrinkle into a smile, his eyes grew bright and I saw the resemblance.

‘This is my father, Auguste’ Laurent mentioned stepping in behind us. ‘Papa, voici les-’ his father interrupted him in lilting English.

‘These must be your American friends. Please, come sit.’ Placing the ladle onto the counter he came over to Theresa and kissed her once on each cheek. Assuming I was next, I stuck my hand out. He shook it firmly.

‘I simply love a good American greeting, don’t you?’ He said, shaking my hand once more. ‘What are your names?’

‘Theresa,’ my wife said breathily, as she was the only one of us he was looking at.

‘Ah, after the saint?’ He inquired.

‘No, actually, I was named after my grandmother. But Denis is named after a saint!’ She gestured in my direction.

He looked to me, ‘The man with no head?’ he said condescendingly.

‘The one and only’ I uttered.

‘Well’ he paused, looking for the right words, ‘how nice for you.’

Possessing the uncanny yet formulaically feminine ability to force me to do anything that I detested most, Theresa and I ventured out to Laurent’s cottage once or twice a week. One morning, however, I received the most positive news of our Parisian sojourn. 

‘Theresa!’ I shouted after setting down the phone. Theresa looked up from the journal she had started upon our arrival. ‘I got the job with the magazine.’ La Vie Americaine, a new magazine for those interested in American life had found their newest journalist. Luckily, for my sanity, working for the magazine would require long hours on my part to help get it off the ground.

‘I’m not sure I’ll be able to travel with you as often to Laurent and Auguste’s home’ I mentioned, trying to seem unenthused. Looking down at her journal I thought I saw Theresa hide a smile.

‘That’s alright,’ she said clearing her throat, ‘I won’t mind going alone.’

‘Sounds perfect.’

She scurried off into our bedroom. Leaving the door ajar slightly, she began to slip on the green dress that made the red of her hair brighter and the blue of eyes more striking; I should have known.

We spent four more months in Paris together. I, busying myself with the magazine and Theresa began busying herself with guided tours and the homes of tour guides. One evening in late autumn, I came home to one of her many notes that read: Off to Laurent’s for dinner, will be back soon.

I went to the kitchen in search of the Cup o’ Noodles I had Jeanne send me from the states. Its fascinating the kind of things you start to miss when living abroad. While adding the hot water there was a frantic knock on the door.

‘Denis, ou est Thérèse?’ He began again in English ‘Where is Theresa?’ Laurent stood before me sweating profusely.

‘She’s at your house.’

‘Which one?’ He asked matter-of-factly.

‘You have numerous homes, now?’

‘I have my apartment in Paris for work and my cottage near Fontainebleau with my father. You’re saying she is at our cottage?’

‘That’s what I thought all these notes meant. She’s there once every few days.’

‘How does she get there?’ He asked.

‘Laurent, what the hell is going on? You drive her, you take her to your cottage, isn’t that what has been happening for the past few months?’

‘Denis,’ he said stepping into my apartment and shutting the door, ‘I have had a lot of tours lately; I have been living in Paris and haven’t returned to Fontainebleau since I took the both of you.’ The noodles fell to floor.

‘So where is Theresa?’ I asked, collapsing to the couch. Stepping over processed American noodles, Laurent handed me a small brown envelope with my name on it.

‘I came to give you this’ turning it over, I saw Theresa’s signature next to the words: Please give this to my husband.

‘I do not know why it was delivered to my apartment but I was hoping she would be here to explain.’

I only read the first few words of her handwriting before I began to tear it the pieces: Auguste is the type of man I have always…

I walked to the window throwing fragments of paper to the street below.

‘She’s run off with your father.'

Just as my namesake had centuries before me, I stumbled. Dragging my broken body along the seedy streets of Montmartre, I realized I would have rather lost a head than a heart. No one has ever been canonized for possessing a broken heart. It’s the beheaded guys who get all the recognition. Staring downward for a significant portion of my journey, my feet had led me to Geneviève’s apartment.

‘How long has your wife been gone?’ She asked adjusting the sheets.

‘How did you know I was married?’

‘They always are.’

She said ‘They’. Geneviève was not speaking about me specifically. She instead referred to me as another, one completely disconnected and removed. I wondered how Theresa refers to me, now. Her former husband, Denis with one ‘N’ or perhaps as the man who should be revered for his ability to stumble along with his heart in his own hands and still manage to stay alive. 

~carter 

[a work of fiction]