We had a…thing, today.
Jolie and I went for a short run this afternoon, but there were problems almost immediately along our usual route. First, there were the children. There were about a million children along our island (the narrow strip that runs up the middle of the Seine–fenced, no cars, perfect for dogs), and the first one to see us started barking at my dog.
Barking.
I gave him the nastiest look in my arsenal–have they no shame?–but he didn’t even see me. A minute later I had unhooked Jolie’s leash and was looking for a safe way to throw her ball between the clouds of children swarming all over my path (looked like an elementary school field trip) while my puppy followed intently at my heels.
“The dog is racing me!” Bark Boy yelled to his creepy little friends, running along next to her. Umm…yeah.
Anyway, we finally got clear of the children, and were confronted by…a firetruck.
Not what you expected? Me, neither.
At first I thought that it must have something to do with the homeless man that one of the firemen was talking to beside the truck, but this guy, even if he had been as belligerent as sun and wine can make a person, was not drive-a-truck-onto-the-island material. Besides which, there were about eight more firemen that I nearly ran into just a bit further along the path, and they weren’t bothering with the homeless man at all.
They were just looking into the river.
I thought I saw something, like a frame or a cage, down there, but I couldn’t stop and stare without putting myself right in the middle of them, and my crisis vocabulary is seriously weak. Besides, there was a decent chance that there would be more to see on the way back…you know, if I were to run as fast as Nick always pushes me to run. Call it incentive.
Further along our route, one of the city landscaping guys (I think he’s asked about Jolie a few times over the last year) asked me out for a drink. What do you think it is with me and bold landscapers?
Anyway, the children had cleared out by the time I got back to the island, but the firemen were still there. This time, I could tell that the frame-y thing was actually the top of one of the police boats that cruise the river now and then, but that was all. I really almost asked this time, but…stranger in a strange land, or whatever.
Less than a block from the apartment, Jolie spotted our gardienne, who didn’t seem as happy to see us as usual. “Have you seen Alex?” she asked.
We had not. Alex is the gardienne‘s young-adult son, who has some kind of developmental delay that I couldn’t possibly label. Jolie loves him beyond all fathoming, and bolts toward him whenever he’s anywhere near to crouch by his feet like a piglet-shaped disciple, so I could be quite sure that we hadn’t passed him–even if I had missed seeing him, Jolie would have let me know. And that’s just what I told the gardienne, who asked where we had been so that she would know where she didn’t have to look.
Which, you know, got me thinking.
“There’s something on the island,” I told her. “I saw some firemen…and children.”
I spent a minute lamely trying to suggest that the firemen were doing something exciting and that there was a crowd and that maybe Alex was a part of it, but God am I ever short on vocabulary when I’ve just realized that I’m talking to a distraught mother who will immediately assume that her son is the focal point of the crisis, rather than a spectator.
“You mean like a festival?”
“Um…a thing. There was something on the island. Maybe he saw, and we didn’t see him, because of the children.”
Except that now I was the one worrying, because there hadn’t been any children when we came back. “There’s something on the island,” I repeated. Go there; I can’t handle the doubts I’ll have if you don’t. You can’t say things like that; even thinking them is dangerous given the complete lack of subtext that comes with not-really-fluency.
Tonight, Jolie and I ran into the gardienne and her son, together. “The firemen were there because Alex stripped down to his bathing suit; he wanted to swim. They brought a boat to help get him out. They told me the Seine was dangerous; there is a current….”
It’s fine; he’s fine. She didn’t want her other gardienne friends, who came by partway through the conversation, to hear about it, but she whispered, “I thought you were saying there was a festival.”
I thought…it’s a small town, in some ways. Maybe I’m not such a stranger now; maybe I have no right to pretend that I am. He’s just fine now, though, and that’s where we can leave it tonight.