Thank you to Kyle Gregory Devaras for the photo on Unsplash
I should have been more afraid in this foreign city, but in my early years, fear had no hold in my conciseness. My friend Julie, carefree yet wise for her 19 years, quickly squashed any recklessness that surfaced in me. We rarely stayed out too late; both of us had long walks home after stepping off our separate trains from Paris to our respective suburban villages. My twenty-minute journey home wound through spaghetti, cobblestone streets where streetlights were scarce, and 200-year-old stone homes stood indistinguishable….with only the colour of the shutters and doors to best identify the correct house.
But for now, we were still in the city, laughing as we replayed the night’s highlights from the Latin Quarter, our favourite hangout in Paris. Julie was telling me about her latest romantic interest. Her story bursting with energy and animation. As she spun in a graceful 360, a move eloquently empowered by the Kir Royals we had just sampled, her voice suddenly dropped to a whisper. She straightened to a normal walk, her spidey senses flickering to life.
“Don’t turn around,” she murmured. “But I think we’re being followed.”
A chill zipped up my spine. “Are you sure?” I asked.
“We are going to find out,” Julie said.
We quickened our pace, weaving through crowded streets, lingering near shops. Staying in the lights. Staying in the crowds.
At the bridge, we stopped, and I stole a casual glance.
There he was.
A dweeb of a man, standing unnaturally still in the flow of passersby, his head tilted toward the sky as if he were searching for the Big Dipper.
Or a UFO?
Coincidence, I told myself, struggling to process the possibility of something so terrifying happening to us. But a new-found instinct within me screamed otherwise.
We kept walking, pretending nothing was wrong. Our conversation had shifted from the fun events of the night to the shadow of white trailing behind us.
“I want to turn around again and look,” I whispered.
“Not yet,” Julie hissed, her Southern tone sharpening with tension. “We need to confuse him. If he’s following us, we can’t let him know we are going to the train station. That would mean he’ll have to choose—me or you.”
For a fleeting moment, we considered both going to her house, but I had an early morning. My little French girls needed me to help get them ready for school.
Instead, we sat on a bench by the Seine River, trying to act normal.
I turned toward Julie, angling my gaze past her shoulder.
“Julie.” My voice squeaked more than I’d expected. “He’s still there.”
“And he is still looking for stars,” I added.
We walked.
So did he.
We stopped.
He stopped.
But he was closer.
“We need to find a police station,” I said quietly. The panic was torturous, my heart thumping its way out of my body, my legs screaming, Go, Go, Go! It was crazy surreal to think this was really happening in real life. This was stuff I read about during my childhood in Nancy Drew novels.
One more stop.
He was within earshot now.
Julie and I picked up our pace, our hurried steps turning into a near trot, too terrified to look back.
And then, for no apparent reason, Julie’s southern voice belted out with giggles and squeals.
“Kevin! Is that you?” she asked excitedly?
What? I was stunned. What was she….
Before I could react, Julie ditched me and sprinted straight into a crowd of men. Large, broad-shouldered, the kind who could have stepped out of an NFL lineup. She launched herself into the arms of a towering figure, squeezing him into an embrace like a long-lost lover.
Was this for real?
Brilliant solution, Julie!
Should I follow her lead? Pick one of the others? There were several other ‘magnificents’ to choose from!
But, here on the other side of the world…
Some 7,000 kilometres from Julie’s hometown in “One Traffic Light” town, Georgia, USA…
Out of 5.1 billion people on the planet…
Just when we needed this most…
Julie had seen someone she knew from back home. Clearly, she knew him well!
Whatever stars our stalker was looking for, they had just aligned for us.
The group of men looked up in surprise after hearing Julie’s southern squeal, particularly Kevin, the man Julie clung to. His face shifted from shock to recognition as he tried to place this girl from his past.
Just how well had they had known each other?
Sure, they had shared a homeroom once. Julie was an academic superstar, the kind of girl who mastered French literature and history while the rest of us were still fumbling through our dictionaries. But their interactions had been nothing more than polite hallway greetings of “Hey, Kevin, how are you?
“Just fantastic, Julie, how are you?” Julie never responded, as the hall pass would end before she could respond. Instead, she tossed up a playful right-hand wave as she walked away… “Bye now!”
Yet, here she was, arms and legs wrapped around him like he was a fiancé returning from a long-term military tour.
Still gripping him, Julie whispered urgently into his ear. “Please play along. My friend and I are being followed. White jacket. White pants.”
Kevin’s arms instinctively tightened around her. Over her shoulder, his jaw tensed as he scanned the street.
“You mean that guy pretending to be an astronomer?” he murmured?
Julie nodded.
Kevin exhaled sharply. “You want me to have a word with him?”
“No,” Julie whispered. “Can we just stay with you guys for a while?”
Clever girl. I thought. My friend had just charmed her way into a handsome guy’s arms.
Noted… with details.
Kevin put Julie down, and I waited politely for my turn. Instead, Kevin introduced us to his friends. They were in Paris on a university art history trip. Julie was a bit surprised that Kevin, a former high school jock, discovered a passion for art that brought him here.
Somewhere in the conversation, our predicament had spread among the group. The guys instinctively shifted, forming a protective circle around us.
Julie asked Kevin, “Where are y’all staying, how long y’all here for?”
“We’re staying near the Louvre at the Grand Hôtel du Palais Royal. Flying out next Monday.” He replied.
Despite the lingering fear, time moved forward. Some of the guys began discussing a nightclub, their energy shifting from guardian goon detail to party mode. Julie and I were not ready to relinquish our fortress just yet.
I casually looked around, “Does anyone see the creepy guy?” I asked.
A few scanned the street.
No white jacket.
No stalker.
The Georgia giant guys offered to walk us to the train station. We declined. As much as we wanted the protection, it was time to let them go. Still, as we started the long walk to the metro station, our senses stayed on high alert. Every glance over our shoulders came with a silent prayer.
At the station, Julie and I separated.
Before stepping onto my train, I scanned the platform.
Nothing.
I boarded. Checked behind me.
Nothing.
No white jacket. Just me, a sleep-rider across the aisle and my paranoia.
When I reached my destination, I stepped off the train, gripping my three-inch French skeleton key like a dagger, my fingers clenched tightly onto the thick metal that served as a weapon should anyone surprise me from behind. My patent leather heels pounded on the pavement as I broke into what could have been a record-setting Olympic sprint home.
Sleepless but safe in my bed, I replayed every moment of the evening. What could have happened? What almost did?
My friend had saved us.
For days, it whispered.
For a lifetime, I listened.