My Evening in Paris by Marlene DeVere

My Evening in Paris

Marlene DeVere

As I perched one foot on the toilet and the other on the ledge of the open window, I pondered my next move. In an attempt at subterfuge, I kept the water faucet on, flushed the toilet, and felt the adrenaline flooding my body. Philippe continued pounding on the bathroom door.

“Blah, blah, la pute, blah, blah.”

Although he was speaking French, I got the drift and jumped.

That was my first and last night in France. In the late ’60s, Linda and I were twenty and worked for an airline where nearly-free flights were a perk. Neither of us spoke French. We just assumed everyone everywhere spoke English, which it turned out they didn’t or wouldn’t.

The goodwill extended to Americans after World War II, and the assassination of JFK had long since expired. The locals figured we were just a couple of young, ignorant Americans who didn’t have enough sense to learn some basic French. Yep, that was us.

However, Linda spoke a little Spanish, which is how we found ourselves communicating with a young Frenchman who also knew some Spanish. He had boarded the same bus we did from Orly airport to reach the city center. He smiled at us and seemed friendly. Linda and Philippe struck up a conversation that included hand gestures and giggles. I ignored them, gazing out the window, until I heard the words Moulin Rouge.

Ever since seeing the old black and white movie about artist Toulouse Lautrec and his posters of the jubilant can-can dancers, I dreamed of going to the Moulin Rouge, the Red Windmill. I had no idea of the famous Parisian cabaret’s scandalous reputation until years later

when I learned the can-can performers in the 19th century often wore open-crotch pantalettes in their high-kicking numbers.

“He works in maintenance,” Linda excitedly told me, “but he needs to go home first to change out of his maintenance uniform before taking us to the Moulin Rouge.”

I couldn’t believe our luck!

Boarding a commuter train, we traveled to a small town. The scenery moved slowly through long passages of flat earth with brown tones and few trees. I had no idea where we were or even which direction we were traveling. It took about an hour to finally arrive at Philippe’s destination. He brought us to his friend’s house to wait while he went home to change his clothes. Linda and I were mystified by this, but it was hard to question him when your communication consisted of only giggles, gestures, and a little Spanish.

His friend, who never said a word, sat at a kitchen table holding a large knife cutting thick, bloody sausages. The only thing he offered us was a frown as he chopped countless speckled sausages for the next two hours, occasionally stopping to glare at us while we waited for Philippe’s return.

Both Linda and I were finally becoming suspicious and had decided to leave when Philippe walked in, locking the front door with a key that he dramatically showed us and put in his shirt pocket. He then stood in the middle of the living room, removed his pants—sans underwear—and waved his flag. His eyes were red and appeared to be swirling around the room before focusing on us. Linda giggled. I screamed. I wanted out! Earlier, I had located the bathroom, which I knew had a window. It dawned on me that’s how I’d escape.

“I’ll be right back. I have to go.” I winked at Linda.

I meant that literally and hoped she understood. I didn’t think Philippe would, although he probably did comprehend more English than he let on.

By this time, it was pitch black outside, and the jump out the window included an unexpected tumble down concrete basement stairs. As I picked myself up from the bottom of the staircase, I discovered I was in the backyard, facing a gardener watering the grass. I’m not sure who was more surprised—him or me. I ran around to the front of the house encircled by an iron fence, out its gate, and down the street as fast as possible, looking for help. Linda was still trapped in that house with two maniacs, one practically naked and another holding a carving knife.

I was running in the direction of street lights in the distance, which I thought might be the town center when I met a young couple. I rambled on for a few minutes before realizing they didn’t understand me but were still concerned.

Minutes later, a gendarme on his nightly patrol turned the corner and walked toward us. The couple pointed at my bloody legs and torn dress, which I hadn’t yet noticed or felt, and all three of them looked at me with pity. Something had happened, but what?

After some discussion, none of which I understood, we all started walking toward the house of horrors, when who should round the corner but Philippe and Linda—arm in arm—cozy as you please. I had mixed feelings. On the one hand, I was relieved that she was still alive. On the other, I could have killed her.

Philippe began talking to the gendarme. The formerly sympathetic couple looked at me with disgust and stormed off. He apparently said we were “for hire” and had argued over the price. The cop brought Linda and me to his police station, where several of the cops taunted us, crooning Ah, Gay Paree, ignoring our pleas to talk to the American Embassy.

Just before dawn, four officers drove us to our hotel in Paris. We crept into our room, afraid we’d wake the manager. Unfortunately, the police had already done that, revealing our sordid behavior that evening. Shortly afterward, the hotel manager threw open the door to our room, yelled at us, and kicked us to the curb. 

On the bus back to the airport, we sat across the aisle from a maintenance man on his way to work. Philippe sat stoically, ignoring us, and—this time—we him.

Linda and I caught a flight out that day, scoring first-class seats, and reminisced about our evening in Paris. While drinking champagne, I contemplated all the possibilities in life once you take a leap out of a window into the unknown.


About the Author

Marlene DeVere is retired from teaching, broadcast journalism, and copywriting in the U.S. and Middle East. She continues to work on a collection of memoirs and has been published in The Bad Day BookAngels on EarthThe Dead Mule School of Southern LiteratureOddball Magazine, and Harpy Hybrid Review, among others. She was a finalist in the Annie Dillard Award for Creative Nonfiction and won first place in the SOOP Curator Award for Humor and Entertainment.