Parisian Promises by Cecilia Velástegui Page A

now-deceased great-uncles, and he drank their exquisite wine, ate delicious bread and cheese, and sketched to his heart’s content. Had his two eccentric and absent-minded great-uncles still been alive, they may not have even noticed that a young woman was being held captive in the adjacent apartment they used as a warehouse for their odd collections of taxidermy and unwanted art.
    Jean-Michel had heard that some less sophisticated squad leaders physically and sexually abused their female targets before they offered them the pity and kindness that elicited their captives’ fidelity, but in Jean-Michel’s estimation, such brute force was tantamount to admitting that the squad leader’s mind was not strong enough to “mind control” the female targets. He would have to present this modified version of traumatic bonding at a future meeting of his compañeros.
    As Monica massaged his legs and rubbed her flimsy body against his in a feeble attempt to seduce him, Jean-Michel decided to name his new style of assault on a target’s identity as the “California Girl.” It was a catchy title that implied that even smart-ass, independent, American chicks could be broken down with the surgical scalpel wielded by a master manipulator such as him.

    Jean-Michel had previously made the rounds of several clandestine insurgent groups embedded in Paris. He admired the revolutionary zeal of some of the group leaders, but he determined that he did not have the same driving force. He had not experienced injustice, discrimination, poverty, or political submission. In effect, he had never suffered a day in his life; he’d gone from a silver spoon to a generous trust fund––and now he resented his family for feathering his bed too luxuriously. He was attracted to the idea of creating such a suffering persona, but he did not convince anyone of his underdog status––and this made him rabid with indignation. While at a nightclub in Paris he ran into friends from the same Swiss boarding school. Soon the alcohol surging through their veins turned them hot-blooded, and they started talking about Che Guevara and continuing the revolution, their drunken talk igniting their bravado. Soon thereafter Jean-Michel started calling them compañeros and alluding to their formation of a special squad of insurgents, soon to be called to action. In the meantime, they drank the finest Bordeaux and lounged at various cafes and bars, seducing women and periodically pamphleteering or taking unknown packages from one building in Paris to another. The formation of their supposed insurgent group gave the compañeros a structure to their days and a sense of purpose to their disaffected rich-boy life, and it satisfied Jean-Michel’s need to be perceived as a leader.
    Jean-Michel kept moaning in fake pain while a still-shivering Monica massaged him. He noticed her chewed nails and trembling body, and decided to switch tactics––to keep the ball rolling, as Americans liked to say.
    â€œYou’re a sweetheart,” he said, wrapping her in the blanket. “I feel better already. Shall we have a bite to eat?”
    Monica wanted to wolf down the croissants and slices of ham and cheese he’d brought, but before she could put a bite in her mouth, Jean-Michel said, “Surely you’re not going to eat the whole thing, are you? I love your litheness.”
    He pinched her frozen nipples, and Monica tried not to grimace. She shook her head.
    â€œNo, not at all. This plate is for you.” She handed him the full plate. “I’ll just have a couple of bites from what’s left.”
    â€œYes, that’s a good idea. Your thighs are much too plump for a woman your size,” Jean-Michel said as he ate everything on his plate, and most of what remained in the other shopping bags.
    Every detail of Monica’s appearance revealed a woman who had relinquished control of her own life.