553
553 is the number of almost… not the beginning, not the ending, the moment just before things change.
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It’s a hot Sunday noon in Paris, those July days when breathing becomes difficult, and the only places to take refuge from the humidity and heat are Paris parks, beside water fountains, under the shadow of trees. Like many studios in Paris, we don’t have any option for air conditioning. We use a small mechanical fan Guido puts on the kitchen counter. From the morning, when I head out, I don’t want to go back home. The heat is only part of it. His godfather, Issa, is visiting. I know their relationship is complex, and I want to give them space. For reasons unknown to myself, I don’t want to know details about his family. I feel our relationship is fragile, like spring days. I want to enjoy it while it lasts and not get deeper into his backstories.
I stop in a small shop to buy a snack and a beer, a late lunch. After wandering around Musée d’Orsay, I walk toward the Tuileries and find a quiet space. Originally, I came out of the studio planning to see some art, but when I saw the long lineups of people waiting in the direct sun, I passed. I wanted to walk, get lost in the city. In my white Lasse short skirt and my loose striped red-and-white top, I look like a promeneuse. Paris is the best place to do that, to ponder between the alleys and wander between predictable and unknown.
I end up under the shadow of a large maple tree. No one is around, only two chairs, exactly what I need. Dropping my tote bag and holding the beer in my hand, I sit on one of the green steel chairs and pull the other chair in front of me to stretch my legs. I take off my flip-flops and braid my legs on the other chair. In the hazy landscape before me, if I follow the line of my straight leg past the park with the manicured hedge of trees on both sides, I can see the Eiffel Tower.
As I sip my beer, my mind goes back to six months ago. I can’t believe it’s only months that we’ve been living together. It feels like years, as if he was always in my life. I take another sip and try to remember the before, and the after. I could pin a few days when I was happy before him, but nearly all the joyful moments of my life leak back to him. How did that happen?
I’ve always had this observation about one of my friends. When she dates, she transforms. Her personality changes into a blurred version of herself, not vivid anymore. Recently, she started dating a boring guy, so she has become boring. Watching TV at 7 p.m., going to bed at 9, even on weekends. With Guido, it’s quite the opposite. But am I blurring too?
The cold beer runs through my chest like a breeze on a beach. I notice a number on the chair beside my stretched leg, F0553. I smile. Paris numbers its chairs? Of course it does. My mind drifts to when I wrote Iran national exam, the famous Konkoor, when the whole country takes one exam on the same day to enter university. It was a stressful day. I remember my mom was more stressed than me. I went mountain climbing the day before, and later she was surprised to find out. In the exam, I became the 53rd to enter medical university. It was the same number. Funny.
Then, another one, our studio rent, 553 euros. His franc-to-euro confusion almost cost us the place. He was close to signing a deal at 812 euros. I asked him to follow me to the washroom. As the owner waited for us, I whispered;
“Hon! France has changed to euro, and you’re still thinking in franc.”
He has the same floppy attitude over any money-related matter, and when I remind him, he gets pissed off. I know why. He has never felt the pressure, not until recently. I can see that from the contrast between what he buys for himself in Paris, thrifting clothes, cheap ten-euro black T-shirts, and then his fancy fashion pieces from his past life in Barcelona. Once, I checked the brand of his ankle boots and was shocked. 2,500-euro boots! I couldn’t help but check other nicer pieces he owned. They were the same. A blazer for 1,200, the khaki sweater 800, and of course his watch, an Omega. Not a surprise for the son of the former Spanish government ambassador. He never had to think about money, a sharp contrast to me and my upbringing.
I check my cell phone. A large number screams, 5:53. Am I drunk or what?
I call our landline. It rings five times.
“Allô?” It’s not him. It’s a woman with a French accent. My heart drops. I sit up, trying to gather myself.
In French, I ask, “Je peux parler à Guido?”
She replies fast, “Bien sûr, un moment s’il vous plaît.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. Just one day I take off, and a sexy voice is picking up our phone?
It takes more time to have him on the call, and it gets worse when he picks up.
“Hey, sorry, I was showering.”
I’m speechless. I wanted to share the funny story of the numbers, the chair, my Konkoor, the clock, but I lost my words. Instead, I say that I wanted to go to a gallery, but it was busy, and I may go see a show and I will be home late tonight. He replies with a simple, “…mm. Sure. See you then.”
We hang up. I can’t decide if I should be mad or angry or nothing at all. Cultural differences, DAA! Of course we have that, me from the Middle East, him from Europe, a combo that I can’t even remember all the countries he has in his blood. But this, one day me out of the home and another woman is picking our phone, this is out of the zone.
I finish my beer in a glop, put the snack back in the tote bag, and walk toward our place. Whatever the situation is, I want to know. I walk in speed, strong steps, pressing the floor under my flip-flop as if the floor did something wrong to me.
When I walk up the stairs of our apartment and reach the last rise, I hear laughter from our place. His distinct loud laugh is merged with others, maybe two people laughing. I don’t stop. I put my key in and open the door. There is a woman sitting at the counter on the red bar stool, her back to me. A man is on the sofa. Guido is in the middle of the room, a beer in his hand. The three of them look back at me simultaneously.
“What a timing, love!”
I glance at them, send a light Salut, and walk in. I don’t need any introduction. Eve, Mamma as he calls her, looks at me with a big smile. Her hazy eyes are so big I take my time to soak in them. Her facial expression has the same familiar charm. I pause to admire her beauty. Then I look at the man sitting on the sofa. Those eyes, there is no way he doesn’t have a blood relationship with the man I love the most in my life.
After we hug and I take their warm embraces in, I come to the kitchen to get a beer from the fridge. There is a pair of Levi’s jeans still wrapped on the table. The tag reads 553.
This isn’t destiny.
It’s pattern.
