Page 122 of The Holy Grail
Americans in Paris
After landing at the Charles de Gaulle Airport, Malcom and Evan took a cab to the Ritz. After checking into their ‘Grand Deluxe Room’, they wandered around, both deciding it lived up to being grand and deluxe.
It was almost large enough to be a suite, with a sleeping area and a semi-separate sitting room.
The focal point was the bed, which was covered in luxurious linens and topped with down pillows, and the ornate, gold-leaf headboard was upholstered with yellow silk fabric, embroidered with dusty pink roses and leafy green vines.
This material adorned every window, with floor-to-ceiling drapes, tied back with work-of-art tassels.
The sitting room had a loveseat and two chairs, which were covered in a gold and cream paisley pattern, and a desk that looked like Louis XIV might have owned it. There was also a chandelier, a marble fireplace with a gilded mirror hanging above it, and a small balcony.
The walls were painted a soft yellow, topped by stunning crown molding with carved flowers, and an inlay of French blue, as well as detailed wainscoting.
Almost every wall had some kind of artwork, and not the kind seen in American hotels.
Each picture in the room looked like an actual piece of art, nicely matted and framed, with some of them having their own accent lighting.
The bathroom was spacious, with a shower and a tub both easily big enough for two, which did not escape Evan’s notice, nor did the bidet, which he told himself he would make use of, because he was determined to embrace every bit of French culture.
All the finishes were bright gold—almost brassy—from the knobs, drawer pulls, hinges, and towel racks, to the faucets, which were in the shape of swans, with wings slightly spread, the long neck curved downward.
When the tour was done, Evan gave a low whistle. “Do I want to know what the nightly rate for this ‘Grand Deluxe Room’ is?”
“No … and if you ask, I’m not going to tell you,” Malcom replied bluntly, before adding, “And if you give me any shit, either directly, or indirectly during our stay here, about what I might be paying, I will throw you head first off that lovely, wrought-iron balcony, then toss your suitcases down after you.”
As much as Evan adored ‘shy’ Malcom, he absolutely loved the ‘take-no-shit’ Malcom, and gave him a little bit of smolder.
“I know we flew all night, didn’t sleep very much, plus lost six hours, are hungry and have jet lag, and one of the most beautiful cities in the world is just waiting to be explored, but right now all I’m interested in is you taking your clothes off. ”
Malcom blinked at Evan. “And then what?”
“And then you can take mine off, too.”
“All right.”
“All right …. what?”
At the change of tone, Malcom’s eyes widened and a little shiver traveled down his spine. “All right … Mr. Malone.”
After christening the shower, with Evan topping Malcom as he braced himself against the marble-tiled wall with one forearm, and simultaneously stroked himself off with his free hand, they headed out to get their first real look at the city.
They had chosen to arrive in Paris early Sunday afternoon, so they’d have most of the day to decompress and walk around a little bit, before meeting up with Colette, one of the ‘accommodation specialists’ that école Ducasse worked with to find suitable housing for its students, on Monday morning .
Colette and Malcom had been in contact, discussing housing needs and possible locations in which to live.
She had compiled a list of about fifteen apartments for him and Evan to look at, both near the campus, and in the heart of Paris, and had also provided conversions (British pounds to American dollars, and meters to square feet) to make things easier.
Where they ended up would likely come down to whether or not the advantage of living close to the campus outweighed the allure and cost of living in the city, which, given Malcom’s ‘want’ list was going to be expensive.
The average furnished apartment was $3,500 USD a month, and that was for a 295 square foot, one bedroom, one bath apartment.
So, a furnished three bedroom, two bath apartment, with more than 1,312 square feet of living space was going to be costly.
However, any place they lived in had to be able to allow for guests, have a decent kitchen for cooking, and at least one King-sized bed.
It also needed to be either within walking distance of école Ducasse, or the Metro.
Malcom had told Colette he didn’t want the cost of any of the apartments to be discussed if Evan was with them.
She had given Malcom the listings, so he knew what the rent was for each one they were going to see, and hoped like hell Evan never asked, because Malcom didn’t want to lie, but he also didn’t want to get into anything ugly about the cost of rent.
It was Paris, and they needed what they needed to be comfortable living there, and since he had the money, he didn’t want to fuck around with Evan over the price tag.
And, given his concern over the hotel’s daily rate, knowing the monthly rent for an apartment might be $13,000 USD might make him lose his shit.
Did Malcom wish an apartment could be more affordable? Yes.
Did Malcom think living in Paris would be worth it? Yes.
Was Malcom willing to cut corners and decrease the quality of the experience of living in the City of Light? Not even a little.
Years from now, as he lay on his deathbed, spending north of $10,000 USD on an apartment in Paris would not be one of his regrets.
While grabbing a Croque Monsieur (a grilled sandwich made with ham, Gruyère cheese, and béchamel sauce on a baguette) at an outdoor cafe, they FaceTimed Jules, who had just gotten up.
After telling her about the flight and the hotel, they reversed the screen so she could see the surrounding area.
“That looks amazing,” she said. “I can’t wait to get there. ”
“And we can’t wait for you to get here,” Evan said, adjusting the camera back to his and Malcom’s faces.
“So, what are you guys doing for the rest of the day?”
“Just walking around,” Malcom answered. “Maybe buying matching berets …”
Jules shook her head in amusement, trying to picture them wearing matching berets, and actually hoping they did it, then sent her a picture.
“What do you have planned?” Evan asked.
“ La lessive, connards ,” she answered. Laundry, you assholes.
Instead of being offended by the comment, Evan smiled and told her, “You know, your accent is actually getting pretty good.”
The two men spent the next week viewing apartments. In America, they likely could have seen them all in three days, but in France, things were a little more … leisurely.
They didn’t get into any apartments before 10 a.m., after which it was lunchtime, and that could take almost two hours.
It was on the fifth day, naturally, that they found the apartment they wanted. Colette had proven to be very discreet when it came to the cost of each apartment, and unbelievably, Evan never once inquired about it.
Divine intervention? Possibly.
The fourth floor apartment was located on the Rue de Ponthieu, one street over from the Champs-Elysées, and not far from the Seine. At almost 1,400 square feet, it was the largest one they looked at, with three bedrooms and two baths (one with a tub), and a fully equipped kitchen.
It wasn’t quite as luxurious and modern as the hotel accommodations, but it was the quintessential French apartment.
The floors were a dark, chevron patterned parquet, with rugs in every room.
The ceilings were high, with plush curtains flanking every window, as well as the French doors leading out to the two balconies.
The walls were painted a light mocha color, broken up by rectangular, off-white decorative picture frame molding that added an element of style.
Matching off-white crown molding with baroque carvings, drew attention to the ceiling and the crystal chandelier.
From the black-and-white patterned chairs in the living room, ornate marble fireplace, and impressionist artwork on the walls, to the antique dining room table, Louis XVI chairs upholstered in gold and cream striped fabric, the bronze and ice blue floral damask wallpaper in the bedrooms, and views of the tree-lined boulevard below, it screamed French charm.
It was exactly what Malcom was looking for, and he didn’t even think twice before signing the lease later that day.
Upon finding out that a woman would be living with the two men during the lease signing, Colette had responded to the news with friendly interest, asking questions about Jules, how long the three of them had been together, and finally asking who was the boss in the ménage à trois .
When both men just blinked at one another, Colette smiled and said, “The woman is always the boss. That is the correct answer.” Then, after giving Malcom copies of the lease, she added, “She will love you even more when she sees the apartment.”
Afterward, he and Evan decided to go out and celebrate, so they walked along the Seine, holding hands while looking for a place to eat.
Since their arrival, Malcom had noticed the vibe was different in Paris, with the two of them drawing hardly any attention, and when they did, it was usually because they were American and not because of their sexuality.
They found a small bistro to eat at, and decided to text Jules the pictures and video they’d taken of the apartment.
She immediately FaceTimed them, and while they ate, told her about the apartment in French.
They’d been speaking it for most of the week, especially when out in public, and had found being really immersed in it not that difficult of a transition.
When the conversation was over, and Malcom was setting his phone down, he caught the eye of an older man at a nearby table.
“ Vous êtes Américains? ” he asked with a friendly smile.
“ Oui ,” Malcom answered.
The man gave a welcoming tilt of his head. “ Bienvenue à Paris. ”