Marriage Named Hatred Chapter 13
Annelise had not expected Paris to be so cold in winter.
When she dragged that old red suitcase out of Charles de Gaulle Airport, the sky was gray.
Fine, dense threads of rain drifted through the air, nothing like what she had imagined.
Her phone had died, and she stood at the arrivals exit, staring at foreign-language signs she did not recognize, and suddenly had no idea which way to go.
Before coming, she had looked up the route: she needed to take the metro to the city center first, then transfer to a bus.
She had copied the directions onto a scrap of paper and stuffed it into her pocket.
But when she found the metro station and faced the ticket machine crowded with foreign options, her finger hovered in midair, unable to press anything.
She tried tapping the screen a few times; the interface jumped, and there was another string of words she could not read.
A uniformed staff member came over and said something at a rapid clip.
She only caught the last word, as if he was asking whether she needed help, but she could not keep up with the long stretch that followed.
She opened her mouth, but the vocabulary she had learned stuck in her throat and would not come out.
In the end she got into the line for the manned window and waited twenty minutes before she bought a ticket.
The metro was crowded. She hugged her suitcase and squeezed into a corner, watching the dark tunnel whip past outside the window.
Annelise looked at her face reflected in the glass and silently tried to encourage herself.
She had arranged the rental through an agent back home.
The photos the agent sent had looked decent, the price had seemed fair, and she had prepaid one month of rent.
But when she followed the address to the building, she froze where she stood.
The tidy, spotless apartment from the photos was, in reality, a run-down building.
The exterior walls were mottled with mold, the corridor was dim and cramped, and a smell she could not quite name hung in the air.
The so-called “single room” she had rented was actually partitioned off from the living room, with no window.
The mattress lay directly on the floor, and there was a puddle of unknown dampness in the corner.
She called the agent, but the number had already been disconnected.
Standing in that dim room, Annelise gripped her phone, her fingers trembling.
It was not anger. It was exhaustion.
The kind of exhaustion that seeped out from between the bones, with nowhere to brace herself.
She squatted down, buried her face in her knees, and stayed that way for a long time.
Finally she stood, dragged her suitcase, and left.
The rain was still falling. She had no umbrella, and her coat was soaked through in no time.
She stood beneath a storefront awning, turned on her phone, hesitated for a long while, and dialed the number the orchestra had sent.
The phone rang for a long time before a woman answered, speaking with an accent.
She haltingly explained what had happened. After a few seconds of silence, the woman said something Annelise understood: “Wait where you are.”
Forty minutes later, a car pulled up at the curb.
The driver was a woman in her forties. She got out, helped open the trunk, and put the suitcase inside.
“My name was Malinda Hayson. I worked in administration for the orchestra.” The woman glanced at her, a hint of sympathy in her eyes. “Stay somewhere first. We can take the rest one step at a time.”
The dorm room was tiny: a single bed, a desk, and a wardrobe.
The window faced the wall of the building next door, with no sunlight.
But at least there was heat, clean sheets, and a lock on the door.
Annelise set the suitcase down, sat on the edge of the bed, and looked at the dull gray wall outside the window.
“Thank you,” she murmured softly.
Malinda waved a hand breezily and then left.
The moment the door closed, Annelise finally allowed herself to cry.
She held Miriam’s memorial portrait, not knowing how long she cried.
In the end, worn out from crying, she lay down on the bed fully dressed and fell into a heavy sleep.