Most Parisian homes did not have air conditioning or even fans. A gust of hot wind was flowing fitfully from the Sahara. The lilac in the fields and olive trees curdled in the heat in the south of France. Nearly everyone was soaking in the Mediterranean. Parisians had no respite. The public pools were crowded and the private pools in gyms were just as chaotic. Algerian and Moroccan street sellers sold popsicles on the corners of streets. They laughed and took money. Forty degrees Celsius was normal for them. It had become normal for me. I was from Lake Tahoe but had lived in Arizona for years. I knew how to cope with the heat. I stayed in the shade and took small walks and then hydrated. The Parisians, on the other hand, were walking doggedly in the heat and not drinking water. Their popsicles were disintegrating before they had time to finish them.
I was supposed to meet my client at two. I went into the hotel only three blocks from the Eiffel tower. I had nearly been mowed down by a woman in a scarf driving a jaguar with the top down. Silly woman. She would roast. She needed to roll everything thing up and lavish in the air conditioning.
My client was distinctive. She had very close cropped blonde hair with a slight wave in the strands emanating from the roots. She was dressed in black. Black dress. Black tights. Black Ferragamo’s. She was sweating. The hotel was air conditioned but I could see rivulets of sweat sliding down her face and ruining her makeup. She waved herself with a brochure about the Moulin Rouge. I thought it might be in bad taste to hand her a napkin or kerchief to wipe the sweat.
I was a ghostwriter. I worked for a publishing company in London. When I was not hiking through Sedona, I was at a rental flat in London writing famous people’s books and memoirs. Three months ago I had finished a memoir of a woman who had been a lover of Camus. Her apartment in Paris was stacked with boxes of mementos and documents.
“So,” I said. “What’s your story?”
“Your name is Martin, right?”
“Indeed.”
“And American?”
“Indeed.”
“Well, let me start with the punchline.” Her English was flawless. “Your president raped me.”
Oh, no.
“I have a fashion line, Paradis. You know it, yes?”
“Yes. I know about you. I gleaned what I could from the internet.”
She waved the brochure high in the air. “Your president raped me. I have also been a lover of Sarkozy and Macron.”
“Macron?” I asked.
She shrugged. “He likes older women. French men like aged wine.”
She handed me a folder. “This is my statement. My written English isn’t very good.”
I took the folder. “If you think it’s hot now…wait until you accuse Trump. Be prepared for a thorough, misogynistic bash on the head. Stay cool Solange.”
I walked outside and shrugged in the heat. I was used to it. Solange will have to adjust to the heart when the book comes out. Unfortunately, no fan could whisk away the ire of Trump.
THE END