Page 9 of The Crimson Lily

W hat better place to find a fancy dress than the renowned Galeries Lafayette?

A few steps away from the hotel lies the entrance to yet another eye-catching building.

When I walk in, I only have eyes for the glass ceiling and the hundreds of colors scattered around me.

I then lose myself drooling in front of sparkling watches, expensive makeup, rings, and earrings.

It’s all so shiny I can’t stop looking at it.

I go through each floor and pass by designer shops, checking each dress or formal wear that looks pretty, and immediately run away when I see the prices.

Man, I can’t afford a dress here. It’s like the higher I go, the higher the price tags, and now I’m about to have a silly panic attack.

I’m not going to find a fancy dress. Not here.

Not ever. I didn’t know dresses could be worth a month’s rent.

But then I figure it’s the standard for these designer brands.

I feel silly, and for a split second, I’m fiddling with Maksim’s credit card in my hand, considering it. No. I can’t let my ego down like that.

But then, out of all expectations, my heart stops when I turn around.

“It’ll be perfect for you, dear!” he exclaims with his best French accent.

I know that, thank you. He hands me the same dress in what he deems to be my size, and I disappear into one of the numerous fitting rooms with electric-red doors.

I discard my sneakers, take off my gray shirt and jeans, and stop and stare at the dress dangling on a simple black hanger.

An acute stage-fright frenzy takes over me.

Am I really going to wear that? This tight, knee-length velvet dress with short puff sleeves and a slim oval cut at the chest. The type of cleavage that could nearly allow someone to peek.

The waist is adorned by two joint stripes of rounded dark-red jewels in a horizontal diamond that split in the back in an opening that will let my skin show.

Now that I see it up close, the color leans more toward dark crimson than burgundy.

Won’t this dress be a little too much for me?

Just as red pumps aren’t my style, nor are fancy dresses.

The realization hits me, right here, that I have never worn dresses, not even in my previous life.

Maybe a formal business dress for my PhD defense. Oh, I remember my PhD defense now.

Screw it. I put on the dress. French guy was right. It’s perfect for me. I check myself out, repeatedly spinning on my heels to look at my figure and buttocks in the mirror. It matches my skin perfectly. It lets just enough of my breasts show to make it delicate, not vulgar.

“Is everything all right, madame?” the French man asks behind the red door.

I clear my throat. “Yes!” Then the impulse overtakes me. I have to show him. I open the door and expose myself.

“Wow!” he exclaims. He scans me head to feet again, now speechless.

He’s actually kind of cute—younger than me, and probably a student.

I smile at him, then change back into my ordinary clothes and go spend half the rent on that red velvet dress.

As I’m standing by the counter, I see a pair of black heels that reminds me of Bratva-Olga’s red pumps.

€200. Oh well, they’ll have to do. I don’t go for any jewelry; I don’t have time—money—for that.

On my way out of the Galeries, I stop by the makeup aisles to get mascara, eyeliner, and a nice, not-too-flashy lipstick—all under the advice of the beautiful lady at the counter, who gives me a free eyeshadow sample that will make my eyes sparkle .

At this point, an extra €50 won’t kill me.

Outside, I check the paper bag she handed me, and I notice the additional sample of foundation she slipped in it.

I figure she saw the bruise, and I figure she was a good Samaritan about it and gifted me with a way to mask it.

I’m sipping on a cup of coffee at the big crossing near the hotel.

I stopped here for a short moment in the sun, to relax and enjoy the Parisian life.

I love the coffee here. Sorry, Rajesh, but French coffee is just so much better.

I lift my face to the sun, to appreciate the warm rays.

The golden shimmers I can see through my eyelids soothe me, and as I open my lips slightly, I breathe in, opening my senses to the marvel that Paris is.

After this instant of stillness, I suddenly hear a loud, angry voice.

A man shouting. I look in the direction of the commotion and see a man in a suit yelling at a fleeing taxi.

The driver didn’t let him cross the road and almost ran into him or something.

I’m about to look away when the reflection of the sun on the man’s silver briefcase strikes me in the eyes.

I’m blinded for a second, then the images of a night in New York begin rolling before me.

A man pulls a gun to my head. I can see his face. I have no idea who it is.

Fuck. I am seeing the same man now, crossing the street, just a few steps away from me. Dark-brown hair, a beard, and a gray suit with a blue tie. I panic. I stand from my chair, leave a €5 bill—yes, I have euros now—and take off in the quickest of hurries.

I make it to the hotel, cast all my things on the nearest seat, and call…?Maksim. Who doesn’t pick up. What the fuck am I doing? Why am I calling him ? What did I expect?

I dial Béatrice’s number. She doesn’t pick up either, but hearing her voicemail introduction makes me feel safe.

I just tell her I feel lonely and wish to tell her about my day.

She calls me back an hour later, and we talk for two more, about nothing and everything, until I finally have the guts to tell her what I saw.

“I don’t think my accident was an accident, Béa.” I speak like I’m confessing to a crime.

She falls silent. I can still hear her breathing, but she’s deep in thought.

“What do you remember now?” she eventually asks.

“I think I saw a man,” I begin, then hesitate, roll my tongue thirty-six times in my mouth, and continue. “I think he had something to do with all this.”

“In Paris?” she immediately inquires. “Lili, you’re not safe here, not alone.” She doesn’t let me say more. “Give me your hotel’s name, and I’ll send for a taxi. You’re staying with me.”

“No, no, no, Béa, I’m safe here,” I reassure her, multiple times. “I know I am.”

Do I? I don’t know how, but I have this constant feeling of safety in this room. I am sure, absolutely sure. But Béatrice isn’t.

“Trust me, Béa, I know what I’m doing,” I try to convince her. I really don’t know. Well, maybe partially. “I’ll just…?be careful and keep an eye out.”

Béatrice remains silent. I know what she’s thinking.

That I’m being reckless. That I have to watch out.

That I’d better leave this place and stay as far away as possible from the Bratva.

But something tells me this isn’t the Bratva.

Something inside me whispers, telling me this man I saw isn’t Russian mafia or even connected to them, and that I am actually safer with Maksim around me.

“Share your phone’s location with me,” Béatrice says out of my silence.

“What?” I have no idea how to do that.

“You have an Android phone.” She proceeds with instructions: “Go to your Google settings, location sharing, and share it to my email. I put it in your phone already.”

“Okay…” I put her on speaker and do as she says. I’m able to find the settings menu and her email address. I hear a beep on the other side shortly after I click yes, yes, accept .

“I have it,” Béatrice announces.

“I set it on ten days.”

“I see,” she confirms. “Thank you, Lili. That way, I can keep tabs on you,” she says in this jocular tone that makes me smile. “Just be sure to always have your location on!”

“Yes, Mom!” I exclaim, and she laughs.

She blows a kiss through the phone, says goodbye, and hangs up. I must admit I feel even safer now, knowing that Béatrice will be around if something happens.

An idea pops into my head—and after watching a spy movie on Netflix the other day, the idea makes total sense.

I head out of the hotel, go back into the Galeries to a beauty store, and purchase the simplest, cheapest hair dye package I can find.

Black, the total opposite of blond. I just have to use it like shampoo, let it rest for ten minutes, then I will have black hair for about two days.

Enough to survive the reception, which makes me feel quite anxious when thinking about it after today’s events.

I jump in the shower, do as the package says, and come out with long and wavy midnight-black hair.

I like that style. It makes me look…?mysterious, and much different.

If I cut it in a bob, I could even look like sexy Olga.

Knock, knock, knock.

I’m watching French TV when I hear a series of loud thumps. Déjà vu, much? I ignore it, hoping whoever’s behind the door will go away. I’m really not in the mood for visitors.

Loud thumps again.

“Darn it,” I say out loud.

I walk to the door, disconnected, and open it.

I squeal a little when I see Maksim standing right in front of me, leaning against the doorframe, a long black trench coat over him.

I haven’t seen him in over two days, and the color of his eyes surprises me, like it’s my first time seeing them.

Cerulean blue, but with darker tints of indigo tonight.

“I’m done early,” he grunts, panting as if he’s having trouble breathing.

That’s when I notice the blood on his neck diving into the collar of his coat. He opens it, and I see his white shirt painted red.

I gasp and take a few steps back. There are blood splatters on his face, his hands, and all over his trousers. Maksim staggers into the room, along the left wall, passing me without looking at me. He collapses on the nearest velvet seat.