Stone

Under the twilight sky, in beautiful Saint-Germain-des-Prés, the cafes were beaming and it seemed that the whole city of Paris let out a sigh of relief that the work week had ended. Under one of the awnings of cafes sat a young man alone at his own table. On the table in front of him was a book, a notebook with sprawled writing filling the pages, three pens, an empty mug and a half-drank vodka soda. The weather had only recently turned warm and yet the swarms of tourists were already filling the streets. Most Parisians, from the young man’s experience, hated the summer season for this reason. The tourists’ loud conversations in English were like nails scraped across a chalkboard. But to him, it was a sort of relief. Fewer fellow Parisians stared at him as their attention was turned towards the Americans, and the tourist girls seemed to have such a romanticized idea of French men that they would sleep with just about any of them, even him. The winter months were the loneliest, fewer Americans were there, so they had more chances with the attractive French men. That night he listened in to conversations of the Parisians at the tables near him complaining about the Americans and heard said Americans, who seemed unaware that most every Parisian spoke English, discussing how attractive all the men were or how rude all the women are. Laurent, the young man in question, finally concluded his fake work and downed the rest of his drink. He packed all his belongings into his bag and set off after paying the waiter. He walked down the cobbled road, the sun finally dimming almost entirely. He noticed the moon, how full and bright it was that night. He felt a surge of strong emotion—particularly motivation. He dreaded returning to his small apartment all alone that night. He didn’t want to turn on the flickering lights and see the mess he’d left in the kitchen for the last three days or the messy bed. Laurent looked around quickly, surveying for nearby American girls. There were a few signs that one could use to detect an American quickly. Before you’d see them, you’d hear them—their loud voices with the oddest accents, and the loud laughs that he’d never heard from any French women. And of course their appearance: too dressed up or not dressed up enough, bleach blonde, pounds of makeup. Laurent had many preconceptions of American girls—he chief one being that they were all incredibly easy to bed, especially if you’re a Frenchman. He walked the streets of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, trying to seem as reserved and casual as possible, which proved difficult as his posture was odd and made him look like he was constantly trying to slow himself down; his head like a equestrian trying to calm down the colt which was his body. 

After about an hour of wandering around the neighborhood in vain, he finally conceded and began towards home. His route towards his studio apartment from the cafe passed the Luxembourg Gardens, where Laurent had gone every morning with his mother for the first eighteen years of his life. After her passing, he had never set foot back in the gardens and made himself believe it was an act of rebellion against touristy spots and not because he’d think of his frail mother, which he hated because it would depress him endlessly. But tonight, under the bright full moon, he was lead into the gardens by his legs against his head’s judgment. There were very few others there, which wasn’t shocking, seeing as when Laurent had last checked his pocket watch, at the cafe, it was almost midnight. As he wandered the gardens, admiring the statues of the Queens, he stopped suddenly in front of one of the pedestals. A pit grew in his stomach suddenly when he felt a unique force pulling him to this particular statue. 

The plaque on the pedestal read Marguerite d'Angouleme. He looked up to the statue’s head and admired her beauty. He looked into the stone eyes of the queen and watched intently, waiting for movement. Laurent’s mind was racing, thinking of how beautiful this woman was and how desperately he wanted to wed her. This was an entirely new feeling for him; he’d never felt any attraction to any women beyond sexual and never thought any part of women were attractive beyond their breasts and hips. But by Margaret of Anjou he was entirely bewildered and entranced. He felt that if only he could reach, he could feel a heartbeat in her chest and if he’d kiss her cheek, it’d grow a rosy tint. He looked around desperately for something to bring him up to his love so he could admire her properly. The only thing that could help were the scattered chairs, but he knew they’d only raise him two feet. He suddenly thought of his apartment, the step ladder he kept in the closet. He smiled and touched Margaret’s pedestal.

“My dear Margaret, wait here. I’ll return soon and we can see each other eye to eye. Just wait.”

When Laurent returned to the Luxembourg Gardens, dragging a step ladder under his arm and heaving, he sighed of relief when he saw the statue again. The moonlight poured all over and created shadows that made her even more real. He rushed to set up his step ladder and climbed it clumsily. When he reached the top step, he reached out to Margaret to stabilize himself. They were eye-to-eye, and Laurent looked her up and down, noticing all the details he couldn’t see from below. 

“I’m amazed by your beauty, Margaret. Stunned. I adore you entirely. If only you knew the man I have been, how I’ve seen and felt about all the other women I’ve ever seen. I’ve slept with plenty and yet I cannot say I’ve felt attraction to any, if this is what attraction truly is. Perhaps this feeling is love, for it only compares to the admiration I had for my own mother. Whatever it is, however I feel, it is entirely new. You, my dearest Margaret, are unrivaled in beauty and I know that you are not only perfect from the outside, but you are perfect inside as well, I know, I can tell,” He whispered to the statue, stringing together the kindest and most beautiful words he knew. His attention was so entirely absorbed by her that he failed to notice the few people who had passed behind him and heard what he was saying. Though, if he had heard, he wouldn’t have cared. They are jealous of our love, he’d think. As he looked at the statue, he admired just how real she looked, how her stone eyes expressed emotion far more than anyone he’d ever met, how her cheeks looked so soft even if carved from marble. His attention was pulled suddenly to her lips. How soft and perfect they looked, the shadow casted from the moon making them look incredibly plump. Laurent grabbed the back of Margaret’s neck and closed his eyes, pulling himself in and laying a kiss on her cold, stone lips. The kiss lingered, his eyes pressed shut and a smile spreading across his face. When he pulled away and slowly opened his eyes, he expected to find Margaret’s skin pale and soft, her cheeks and lips pink, and her eyes blue. But when he looked again, she was still of stone. He tried again, and again, kissing the statue profusely. He grabbed at her hand which was held up just below her face, and he whispered in desperation to her. “My love, my dear Margaret, my only Queen, please. Wake up, come to me. You needn’t be stuck here. Come to me, I will show you Paris beyond these gardens. I will bring you to the Seine, we can sit on the edge of the river and drink wine and live together. Please, my love, my future wife, wake up. I will marry you, I will take care of you. I love you. I need you to wake up.” He glanced around the park, staring at the other statues. “These other Queens and all the women in Paris can’t ever feel a love like you could, if you’d only just wake up.” Her face remained expressionless, her gray eyes staring straight ahead, as though past Laurent. 

His face changed from desperation to rage. “Goddammit, Margaret! Do you know how lucky this is? Do you know just how rare it is for a man to fall in love, to propose within minutes? Hell, I’ll bet you do this to everyone. Every man who walks through these gardens late at night. You lure them in and break them down. Fuck, Margaret!” His mind was racing, the pit in his stomach turning from butterflies to locusts. He stepped down from the ladder, keeping his eyes on the statue. Her position was fixed. She was still stone. The kiss didn’t bring her to life. Laurent backed away from the statue and sat down on a bench that faced the Queen. He sighed. “I’m sorry, my love. I didn’t mean to lose my temper, really. I didn’t. I just had a little too much to drink. I hope you won’t hate me. Please don’t. You still love me, right?” It looked like there was a gleam in her eyes and from where Laurent was sitting, it looked like she smiled ever so slightly. “My Margaret, I’ll stay with you. I’ll stay right on this bench, all night. Take your time. Wake when you want.”

Laurent felt a soft touch on his cheek. His eyes opened swiftly to find his own Margaret standing in front of him. She smiled slightly when a look of complete shock wiped over Laurent’s face. “Margaret? Have you awoken?” He glanced to the now empty pedestal.

“Laurent, your skin is so pale and your skin so soft. The moonlight is bouncing off of you. Feel me, Laurent. Look and feel my skin,” Margaret whispered, her voice filling Laurent’s ears with honey. She grasped his hand and brought it to her cheek. Soft and pink. Her lips were plump and soft. Laurent looked her up and down. She wore the gown of a 15th century Queen and a tiara decorated her curly brown hair. Laurent stood up and backed away slowly.

“This isn’t you, Margaret.”

A confused expression covered her poor face. Laurent got a new look at her. Her nose was awkward and her eyes far too small. Her neck was too wide and her face was too long. A feeling of repulsion and regret swept over him. He glanced at her body, which was hidden behind her excessive and gaudy outfit. 

“Margaret, go back. Please.”

“What do you mean?”

“Go back. Back to your pedestal. Back to stone. I’m too tired. I have work in the morning. This is insane–you’re being insane. You are dead. You died centuries ago. You’re a statue. Go back to being a statue. This isn’t right. Nothing is right with this. You’re freaking me out.”

“Laurent, please. Don’t make me do this. I thought we were getting married. I thought we’d drink wine by the Seine. What happened? You wanted this! This is for you!”

Laurent turned and looked at the empty gardens, at all the surrounding statues. He was struck with a sudden eerie feeling that, just like Margaret, they were all alive and listening. He pulled his watch out of his pocket. Five o’clock.  “Shit, Margaret. How was I supposed to know you’d be real? I was drunk and tired and wanted to go to bed with someone tonight.”

“You’re lying. You know that you didn’t just want to sleep with me. You know. You know you came here looking for companionship. No Americans wanted you so you thought maybe you’d at least be able to talk to some marble. You know the truth. You know why you chose to come here.” 

“You’re crazy.”

“Laurent, look around.”

He opened his eyes which he didn’t remember being closed. Margaret was still standing in front of him, but the pedestal had her statue again. The sky was turning to dawn. A few Parisians were walking their dogs or reading the newspaper while drinking coffee. He pulled out his watch again. Seven o’clock. His gaze returned to the statue, then back to Margaret. Suddenly, the face of the statue became terribly recognizable. It looked strikingly like his mother. Margaret approached him slowly. 

“You’re too tired. Let’s go home. You get some rest.”

When the two entered Laurent’s shabby studio, he had a clear memory of the night before. He was sat at the cafe, with Margaret next to him. She excused herself to the restroom, and he walked out from under the veranda and he wandered the streets. Laurent, reaching his bed, pulled off his shoes and climbed onto the bed. Margaret walked out of the apartment, her gown knocking against the thin doorframe. When Laurent awoke that evening, he was entirely alone in his grubby apartment. Without brushing the alcohol breath off his teeth, he rushed out of the apartment and to the gardens. He approached the statue with the plaque that read Marguerite d'Angouleme, with the same statue on the pedestal, with the face of the woman who had come to life that night. The step ladder was missing, he noticed eventually. He craned his neck to stare at the statue and once again saw the beauty he had seen the night before. Returning to the bench, Laurent watched the statue, ignoring all the people who passed by him. His eyes never strayed from Margaret and the pedestal on which she stood so firmly. By the time the sun was fully set, Laurent had drifted to sleep on the bench, sat upright and pointed towards Margaret.