Parisian Promises by Cecilia Velástegui Page B

From her sunken eyes to the chewed fingernails and disheveled hair, she exuded defeat. In a fragile voice, she asked, “Won’t you please tell me why you cherish the story of Isabel and the Amazon?”
    â€œSure, why not. But it really is chilly in here, isn’t it?” Jean-Michel wrapped himself in the cashmere blanket and Monica squeezed her body between his and the chesterfield to warm up. “It’s a very long and fantastic story, but I’ll only tell you the highlights.” He yawned. “I’m so tired from trying to protect all my friends.”
    He yanked the blanket closer to him, so Monica’s back was completely exposed.
    â€œIsabel was the most faithful wife,” he told her. “She married Jean Godin des Odonais, who was part of the 1735 French expedition led by the well-known naturalist Charles-Marie de La Condamine. Isabel listened to every word her husband told her, and when he decided to go on another expedition to French Guiana, she stayed in her hometown of Riobamba…I think she loved her horses like you do.”
    Jean-Michel put his arm around Monica, but when she wrapped her body around his, he pushed her away.
    â€œI can see that you’re not really interested,” he said, sounding hurt. “Shall I stop?”
    â€œNo, no, I love the story. It’s just that I’m really cold. Do you know where my clothes are?”
    â€œSo now you’re threatening me? Just say so and the door is wide open.” Jean-Michel stood up and stalked to the door.
    Monica didn’t budge. A tiny whimper escaped her mouth.
    â€œWell, make up your mind, please. Either you leave now or you stay and listen to the story and then we can make love all night. Which is it?”
    â€œI, I’d love to stay––please.”
    â€œBut of course. Let me pour you a nice Cognac. It will warm you up.” He rummaged through one of the bags and pulled out the bottle.
    â€œThis is delicious, thank you,” said Monica, grateful for a swig and not daring to ask for a glass. “Won’t you please continue with Isabel’s tale?”
    â€œAs I was saying, before you interrupted me, Jean Godin could not return to Riobamba in the Ecuadorian highlands due to a series of snafus, but in a letter to Isabel he commanded her to take a boat and cross the entire Amazon River to meet him. Did Isabel complain about it being too cold or too hot or too many insects or the fact that she’d already buried her child? No, she did not .” He slapped the cocktail table.
    â€œShe certainly did as she was told,” whispered Monica.
    â€œThat she did. Did you know that her boat capsized and just about everyone on board drowned? Those who didn’t ended up bitten or eaten by the mighty black caimans and were glad to die. Did I tell you that her father and brothers who had accompanied her also perished?”
    â€œNo,” Monica said, wondering if a caiman was like a crocodile, but not wanting to sound stupid by asking. “How sad! I can’t believe she could continue.”
    Jean-Michel slapped the coffee table again. “Damn it, if you don’t believe what I’m saying then get out.”
    He pointed to the door, and Monica started to cry. She was so tired, cold and hungry, and her clouded mind could take no more. All she could think of doing was to make love with Jean-Michel, to verify that she’d felt something unique, something life-altering, with him. She wanted to return to their first few idyllic hours together when she’d been swept off her feet. And if she didn’t recapture that feeling, then she would have to escape this morgue––before he locked her in all alone again.
    He ignored her tears, glaring petulantly towards the door. Monica straddled him and covered his face with kisses, hoping to seduce him again, but he pushed her aside as though she were a pesky lap dog licking him.
    â€œSo, as I was