Shots Fired Read online

  Lyle schooled Jimmy. Lyle had taken several years of French in school, had a natural affinity for the language, and could understand most conversations. He chose not to speak it, though, and advised Jimmy to follow his lead. “In mixed company,” Lyle said, “speak Lakota, not English. It goes over better. If you speak American English, it ruins the illusion,” he said. “The French like to despise Americans. That’s one reason they like us—they think we have a common enemy. We’re pure and natural and the Americans whipped our ancestors and keep us in poverty, you know the drill. So if you open your mouth and that Black Hills State assistant English professor crap starts rolling out, you can kiss the rest of the evening good-bye.”

  Lyle was six years older, with a dark, fierce face that was starting to fill into an oval. He wore his hair long, past his shoulder blades, with a bone comb in it. He’d bought the comb from a West African near the Louvre, but it looked authentic, he said. Lyle had once owned a landscaping business and been on the tribal council representing the Porcupine District, but he’d been accused of embezzlement and angrily resigned and drove to Rapid City to meet with the Disney recruiters. Later, Jimmy learned that Lyle probably did steal the money to pay off a new landscaping pickup.

  “I don’t know much Lakota,” Jimmy said.

  “Then fake it,” Lyle said, “that’s what I do. Remember how Aunt Alice talked? Stiff-like? Just do that. String words together. Who is gonna know?”

  Jimmy smiled at the common reference. Aunt Alice used to bake him pies.

  “You’ll start picking up the French language soon enough,” Lyle said. “It’s total immersion, so it comes quicker. Until you do, I’ll listen and tell you what they’re saying. It’s my secret weapon—I know what they’re talking about, but they don’t know it.”

  Jimmy nodded with appreciation.

  “And don’t smile,” Lyle said. “If you smile, they’ll think you’re on to them and they won’t want to screw you. Be inscrutable. Think Fort Apache. Think Dances with Wolves.”

  • • •

  A GENERAL INVITATION arrived for a reception at the American embassy. Luckily, it was on their night off. The Nez Perce complained that the invitations always came on Lyle’s nights off, and accused him of manipulating the schedule. Lyle shrugged. Sometimes the cowboys were invited, but not nearly as often as the Indians. This was a sore point among the cowboys.

  Lyle decided on a ponytail held with a leather string and the bone comb. Jimmy braided and, with the help of a questionable Crow who seemed just a little too happy to help, added beaded extensions to his hair. Jimmy had never, in his life, taken so long to get dressed.

  It was an hour by train from Disneyland to Paris. Jimmy was nervous and sweated inside his buckskin jacket. He’d never been on a train before, although he’d flown many times. It was one thing to be admired by the tourists at the show, those families wearing the straw cowboy hats with colored bands reading Colorado, Texas, Wyoming, or Montana, but it was another thing to be stared at by people on the train. When one well-dressed man came up to Lyle and handed him a five-euro note and said something in French about “exploitation by the Americans” and “cultural imperialism” and something nasty about the past president, Lyle nodded solemnly and took the money. After the man left, Lyle winked at Jimmy and grinned.

  “George Booosh,” Lyle mocked. “He’s still money.”

  They emerged from the train at the station on Rue de Rivoli, the Tuileries Garden on their left and beyond them the Seine, behind them the Louvre. Ornate canyon walls of magnificent buildings on their right, the Eiffel Tower in soft focus, the top vanishing into the moist twilight mist. The sidewalks were crowded with tourists, mainly Japanese being shepherded by their tour leaders with little flags held aloft, the street choked with traffic. In the distance, sirens were braying in singsong. Jimmy was astounded, felt pummeled by the impact of the scene.

  “Holy shit!” he cried.

  Lyle shook his head, admonished, “Remember who you are.”

  • • •

  THEY WALKED ALONG THE RUE DE RIVOLI, shouldering past gawkers and tourists, Jimmy feeling the heat of staring eyes on his jacket, both thrilled and embarrassed by the attention. Lyle was easy to follow, with the eagle feather in his hair. The braying of the sirens got louder, and both men stopped to watch a convoy of police vans, blue wigwag lights flashing, weave through the stopped traffic en route to somewhere up ahead of them. It was then that Jimmy saw the black-clad riot police hanging back barely out of view in the alley, more in dark knots within the gardens. The riot police wore helmets, Kevlar vests, shoulder pads, and carried Plexiglas shields.

  “They look serious,” Jimmy said.

  “They aren’t,” Lyle said.

  “What are they doing? What’s going on here?”

  Lyle stopped, turned, looked Jimmy in the eye with disdain. “This fucking place is about to blow up, is all I know.”

  “Who is rioting?”

  Lyle shrugged. “Everybody. I can’t keep track.”

  Jimmy looked up to see dozens of police surge from a side street, most back-stepping with their shields up, forming a gauntlet for hundreds of shouting demonstrators who poured through the passage, stopping traffic. The demonstrators were young, exuberant, dressed in grunge-like college clothes—hooded sweatshirts, denim, track shoes. They looked American, Jimmy thought, like students in his classes at Black Hills State. Many waved hand-painted signs.

  “Students this time,” Lyle said, “just students. The big stuff won’t happen till later this summer, when all the North Africans in the suburbs get going.”

  A small phalanx of boys bull-rushed several policemen, stopping just short of confronting them.

  “Why don’t the cops bust their heads?”

  “They don’t do that here,” Lyle said, shrugging with his palms up. “They’re tolerant. At least that’s what they call it.”

  Two males broke from the demonstration and got past the police, headed straight toward Lyle and Jimmy. The Lakotas stood their ground, although Jimmy felt himself start to pucker up as the boys approached.

  “Solidarité! Solidarité!” the scruffier of the two boys said, grasping Jimmy’s hands in his, thrusting his face into Jimmy’s face, shaking his hands as if they were long-lost friends. “Unité!”

  “Solidarité,” Lyle said, mangling the word, stepping forward and raising his clenched fist high. “We are rebels!”

  “Rebels!” the scruffy boy shouted back, letting go of Jimmy, raising his own fist. Then turning to the demonstrators to show off his two new friends, shouting “Solidarité!” which pleased them all, eliciting cheers so loud even a few of the policemen looked over their shoulders to see what had caused it.

  “Ni glasses toki ye he?” (Where are my glasses?) Jimmy said stoically in Lakota, words he recalled clearly from Aunt Alice. “Ni TV Guide toki ya he?” (Where is my TV Guide?)

  Both boys turned to Jimmy with reverence, as if they’d heard wisdom from an oracle.

  Jimmy said in Lakota, “Tunkasina nite oyuzune ciya!” (Grandfather hurt his hip!)

  The boys nodded solemnly and raised their fists.

  Jimmy and Lyle stood on the corner with their fists raised also, shouting “Rebels!” until the boys rejoined the demonstrators, who flowed into the gardens surrounded by accommodating policemen. When they were gone, Lyle looked over, said, “That was fucking brilliant, Jimmy. Did you see how they looked at you?”

  “Like they would follow me anywhere,” Jimmy said.

  “You’re gonna be all right,” Lyle said, clapping Jimmy on the shoulder and checking his wristwatch. “We’re late,” he said.

  As they crossed the street, Jimmy asked, “What was that all about?”

  “The one thing I’ve learned over here,” Lyle said, “is it doesn’t matter what it’s about as long as we cheer them on and say we’re r
ebels just like them. It’s all about being a rebel. Every-fucking-body here is a rebel. And it doesn’t hurt to be Indian—that gives us street cred.”

  Jimmy laughed, mainly out of relief, still proud of his Lakota phrases.

  Three of the female demonstrators had not crossed the street into the Tuileries, but stood on the opposite corner, giggling, shooting long looks at them. Jimmy thought they were attractive, and nudged Lyle.

  “I see ’em,” Lyle said. “We can do better.”

  They left the disappointed girls on the corner. Jimmy tried hard not to look back.

  “This place . . .” he said.

  “Yeah,” Lyle said.

  • • •

  THE AMERICAN EMBASSY on Rue Boissy d’Anglas was a fortress, Jimmy thought, with concrete barriers keeping both pedestrians and motorists away as well as a tall wrought iron fence topped with gold-painted spear tips. Inside the fence, in the foliage, U.S. Marines in desert camo stood under wall-mounted cameras and held M16s and didn’t smile.

  “That’s not it,” Lyle said, leading Jimmy on. “We’re going to the Talleyrand around the corner.” Which was also behind concrete barriers and rimmed with marines and cameras.

  “We got this place after the war,” Lyle whispered to Jimmy as they stood in a line where a marine checked invitations and IDs. “The Germans used it. There’s still Nazi shit in the basement, like those guys just walked out.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Lyle smiled. “A nice lady took me down there once. We did it on a desk. It was weird, though, because I remember looking up and seeing this calendar in German that was turned to June 1944.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I am not. It takes a while for history to grow here.”

  “That makes no sense, Lyle.”

  “Stick around and you’ll see what kind of sense it makes,” Lyle assured Jimmy.

  They went individually through a massive cage-like turnstile, then a metal detector, then a hand search and document check. The older marine handed Lyle’s passport back to him, said, “Good seeing you again, Lyle. I see you brought along fresh meat this time.”

  “My cousin Jimmy,” Lyle said, nodding.

  The marine looked Jimmy over, assessing him, made Jimmy feel naked.

  “What would you do if the ambassador stopped inviting you to these things for local color?”

  “Go home, probably.”

  “I wish those dollies liked marines the way they like Indians.”

  “Ha!” Lyle said. “No chance of that.”

  • • •

  THE RECEPTION was in a high-ceilinged room dominated by hanging crystal chandeliers that glowed with gold, syrupy light. Massive windows framed the Eiffel Tower, its girders flashing with lights signaling the top of the hour. The Place de la Concorde was across the street, the Avenue des Champs-Elysées to the northwest, headlights streaming through and around the Arc de Triomphe. Jimmy had never in his life been in a space so intricate, ornate, or intimidating. The crowd was well dressed, speaking French, plucking glasses of champagne from trays carried by men and women wearing black and white. Jimmy stood with Lyle in the very back of the room, watching, acting serious and regal the way Lyle had instructed.

  Jimmy began to reach for a glass from a passing waiter but Lyle stopped him. “Indians look stupid drinking champagne,” Lyle hissed. “It ruins the effect. Ask for a beer or something.”

  Jimmy shot a look at Lyle, but withdrew his hand.

  The American ambassador, who introduced himself in English and French as Bob Westgate, former congressman from San Diego, welcomed everyone and introduced tourism representatives from the states of Idaho, Wyoming, South Dakota, and Montana, the reason the reception was held.

  “Tourism people,” Lyle said softly, not looking over at Jimmy. “There’s a parade of ’em that come over here, one after the other. Ambassador Bob hosts them and invites French travel industry people and government types. It makes for real good picking.”

  Jimmy didn’t need to be told because he couldn’t take his eyes off a tall dark-haired woman with pale skin, flashing green eyes, and dark red lipstick. She was sipping a glass of champagne and talking with a curvy redhead in a shimmering black cocktail dress, the white orbs of her breasts straining against the tight fabric. The redhead gestured toward Lyle, said something in French, and both women nodded and smiled knowingly.

  “Gabrielle le Peletier,” Lyle said. “She’s mine.”

  “Which one is she?”

  “Redhead.”

  “Who is the other?”

  “I’ve never seen her before. You want her?”

  Jesus yes, he thought. “It can’t be as easy as that.”

  “You’ll see,” Lyle said.

  “Do we go over and introduce ourselves? Grunt at them?”

  “Naw, we just wait. They’ll come to us.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “If they don’t, some other babes will. Just remember who you are.”

  Jimmy snorted. “Who am I?”

  “Don’t start that,” Lyle said, an edge in his voice.

  • • •

  WHILE SPEECHES were given to bored applause—the white Americans seemed so eager to please and out of place among these sophisticates, who knew how to dress, knew how to cut their hair, knew how to stand, knew they were the best-looking fish in the aquarium, Jimmy thought—his eyes left the tall woman only to check out what was going on outside. The student demonstrators they’d encountered earlier were still in the Tuileries Garden, and the crowd had tripled in size. So had the number of riot police. Police on horseback now circled the perimeter of demonstrators but kept their distance. Every few minutes, there was a surge in the crowd toward a cordon of police, and Jimmy could see the police retreat for a moment in their lines, shields glinting in the streetlights, then slowly push the demonstrators back.

  He realized he seemed to be the only person in the room focusing on what was going on outside.

  “I would think,” Jimmy said, “they would be at the windows watching. I mean, there’s a riot right out there in front of us. Don’t they care?”

  Lyle shook his head, but didn’t look at Jimmy, said, “They pretend they can’t see it.”

  “Why?”

  “You’d have to ask them. It’s like if they don’t see what’s going on, it isn’t really happening.”

  Then Lyle turned, his face dark with anger. “Are you gonna keep asking questions and wasting our time, or are you gonna give some French woman a ride? Make up your fucking mind, because you’re cramping my style, Jimmy.”

  “Sorry, Lyle.”

  “Get ready,” Lyle said, “the reception is winding down. Meaning it’s showtime.”

  • • •

  “DON’T TALK,” she said in English, placing her elegant fingers to his lips.

  They were in a third-floor apartment four blocks from the Talleyrand. She’d led him there by the hand. The doorman nodded to her with respectful recognition and stepped aside to let them in. She inserted a key into the lock on the door and opened it but didn’t turn on a light. He hesitated on the threshold for a moment until she had said, “Entrez vous.”

  He wore nothing but the quill breastplate she insisted he keep on. In the muted blue light from the bedroom window, her skin was so white it was translucent. She was lithe and long-limbed, her legs toned by walking, he supposed. He could see the blue veins beneath her skin on her small pert breasts and abdomen. Before they went to bed, she inspected him, running her hands over his shoulders, belly, buttocks, thighs, giving his biceps a little squeeze as if checking out the freshness of a baguette.

  The contrast between his light brown skin and her paleness struck him when they were pressed together, reminded him of mayonnaise on rye bread. Her skin looked like it had never s
een the sun. She was the whitest woman he’d ever been with. She didn’t want to play, kiss, or caress. She wanted to be taken, and responded with encouraging mewls the more aggressively and selfishly he performed. He pretended he was in control.

  Her name was Sophie Duxín, and when he exploded inside her the first time she took a sharp, sweet intake of breath.

  At four in the morning she stood at the window, a naked silhouette against the sheer curtains, said, “You must go now,” without turning to look at him in the bed.

  He was ready, but confused. “Is everything okay?”

  She turned, smiled; he could see the whiteness of her teeth. “Everything is okay. Three times, that is very good.” She patted her belly as she said it.

  He was sore. “This apartment . . .”

  “My husband owns it. He owns lots of flats.”

  “And he doesn’t mind?”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  Jimmy felt hungover, although he hadn’t drunk anything. He wished he had something now, though.

  “But—”

  “Don’t talk,” she said again, crossing the floor to him, again pressing her fingertips to his lips.

  “We have an understanding,” she said, looking away. “Actually, we do not.” It took him a moment to understand she was referring to her husband.

  She watched him dress with cool, appraising eyes. As he pulled on his beaded jacket, he said, “What does he do, your husband?”

  “He’s a businessman and politician,” she said, sighing. “He is very well known. He works in the government. But we won’t talk about him again.”

  “Okay,” he said, wanting to know more but not wanting to risk her anger.

  “I will see you in three weeks,” she said, rubbing her flat belly. “By then I will know. I’ll contact you.”

  He didn’t ask, Know what?

  She was done with him and he was exhausted and felt oddly hollow. He wanted to leave, but he also wanted to ask:

  Where is he, your husband?

  What would he think of what we just did?

  What would he think of me?