Love Is Pink!

I grasped it even though it wasn’t entirely clean. “My name is Kr?mer. Michelle Kr?mer.”


“It’s nice to meet you.” He briefly held in his breath. “Well, if you like, you can get your things.”

“You mean you’ll take me?”

He shrugged, and a winning smile drifted over his face.

“Like she said, it’ll be Christmas soon. And Emma’s wish is that we take you to Geneva. I’ve already gotten my present.” He knocked on the fender of the car behind him. “How can I deny her anything?”

“We’re taking Michelle to Geneva! We’re taking Michelle to Ge-neeva!” Emma sang. She grabbed my hand and walked me back to the rest stop, where my suitcases and that Swiss woman’s Prada bag still stood.

I gathered my things and made my way to the restroom with Emma. However, this presented a problem. The use of sanitary facilities was not free of charge. And I had no money. A turnstile prevented adults from entering without paying. Next to the gate was a small opening for children, through which Emma was able to slip. I realized that I could, too. First, I awkwardly pushed my bags through. Then I got down on all fours and followed—perhaps not so elegantly.

Emma, at least, found my maneuver cool.

A woman behind me seemed to be complaining about my effrontery in French.

“Oh, shut up,” I yelled at her, heading to the spacious mother-child stall with Emma.

I took off my ski jacket and the coat underneath it. I carefully folded that coat—a Dior—and stowed it in one of the suitcases. My boots were ruined. My socks were wet. I found replacements in my other bag. I chose Louis Vuitton booties with relatively flat heels and plain D & G jeans. Emma proved to have surprisingly good taste during this operation, advising me on each item of clothing. We had fun despite the tight quarters and unappealing ambiance.

At last, I was finished.

I quickly styled my hair in the mirror above the sink and managed to refresh my eyeliner and mascara. As I did, Emma used my lipstick. After we’d removed all traces of it from the tiles and her face, we were ready to go.

As for the sad remnants of my Louboutin boots and the wet socks, I tossed them into the garbage can.

The turnstile didn’t require money on the way out. Emma was disappointed that we didn’t have to sneak through the small opening again.

When we got back to the parking lot, Emma’s father had shut the hood and was trying to sweep the snow off the car with a small broom. As he noticed us, his glance fell upon me, and he froze in place for a moment. That happened to me constantly. I was undeniably good-looking and had an effect on all men, regardless of whether they were educated, intelligent, and wealthy—like Valentin—or not.

“There you are,” he said, not very wittily, before nervously resuming his work with the broom.

Now it was my turn to stare, dumbfounded. The vehicle that had appeared under the protective coat of snow was large, ancient, and completely rusted. What turned me off the most about the hunk of rust was its dreadful color: a loud, kitschy pink. Totally offensive.

Emma’s father registered the change in my expression. “You’re flabbergasted,” he said. “You’ve never seen such a jewel.”

I had a sarcastic response on the tip of my tongue, but then I remembered the endless kilometers I’d just walked and managed a careful nod.

“Impressive,” I said. “I’ve never come across anything like it.” And that was the pure truth.

“It’s a 1973 Citro?n DS 23 IE Pallas,” he said proudly.

I sighed on the inside. Maybe the guy couldn’t afford a decent car and had to depend on this old wreck. I certainly didn’t want to expose him in front of his daughter. In the end, I had to get to Geneva. So I played along.

“Great,” I said. “How fast does it go?”

“It’s not quite at its peak right now, but it can handle a good ninety kilometers an hour.”

With my mouth agape, it was a few seconds before I managed to respond, “Cool.”

“Is that your luggage?”

I nodded.

He opened the creaky trunk and then grabbed the suitcases, lifting them as though they were as light as a feather. From up close, I realized that he couldn’t be much older than I was. Maximum five, six years. But certainly considerably younger than Valentin. Younger and less mature.

He stowed my bags and struggled with the hatch of the trunk, which wouldn’t close at first. Once the latch shut with a click, he straightened his back and shot a victorious glance my way. “You see? A genuine classic!”

Emma opened the passenger door and waved me in.

No pleasant surprise awaited me. Burst-open leather seats, dashboard full of cracks, a stuffy odor, worn-out seat belts.

Emma’s father tilted the driver’s seat forward, and Emma crawled into the backseat. “Go, Papa!” she called out. “Show Michelle how great our car drives!”

He looked at me. “Keep your fingers crossed for it to start.”