What Happened at the Hotel de Minuit

Content Warning: Sexual themes, alcohol/substance use, violence, blood, and disturbing imagery.

I don’t know why I did it. Or where she is. I’ve been wracking my brain ever since the night I recalled what happened at the Hotel de Minuit.

It was in September.

I had earned a scholarship to The National Parisian School of Digital Sciences and Technology and was at the start of my senior year.

Everything in Paris was beautiful. From the architecture to the art to the little bakeries and cafes that littered the city.

And I had the privilege of studying at one of the world’s top technical universities in a country most Americans would never get the chance to see.

This fact wasn’t lost on New Me. New Me was determined to graduate with a 4.0 and enter the post-grad world with a sparkling resume.

But Old Me was a 19-year-old college freshman. Appreciating culture and the value of education only went so far in his mind. So, Old Me spent time doing all of the things that young college kids do when they’re left to their own devices.

He smoked too much. He drank too much. He stayed out way too late way too often. He attended classes hungover, sleep-deprived, barely holding on.

But by my senior year, I was done with all of that.

Old Me was dead.

Until that night in the Hotel de Minuit…

I remember that morning. The sky was overcast. The air was cool. Thunder mumbled in the distance as I boarded the train from my apartment in Pontoise to Central Paris. I spent the better part of fifteen minutes fiddling on my phone, people-watching, daydreaming, ignoring the people around me.

Until we stopped at the station in Saint-Ouen-l’Aumône.

That’s when I saw her.

She boarded the train like the steps beneath her were a red carpet. The sunshine that peeked from behind the clouds was her spotlight. And the other passengers were her paparazzi, eager to see her next act.

She was in her late forties. She wore a bright green business suit. She had sunglasses shaped like eggs. Her lips were painted red. Her emerald earrings matched her eyes. Her expression was mildly impatient.

She looked like a movie star.

Maybe that’s why I found her so fascinating…

When we arrived at Saint-Michel–Notre-Dame, I expected us to part ways. But instead, we both started walking in the same direction.

I slowed down and let her go ahead of me, keeping her far in the distance. I felt self-conscious and didn’t want it to look like I was following her. But I also didn’t want to speed ahead and make it look like I was on the run.

I was very worried about what she thought, even before she spoke.

But looking back, I don’t think she noticed me at all.

Until we reached the Digital Sciences Building and I held the door open for her.

“Merci, jeune homme.” (Thank you, young man.)

Her smile was intoxicating.

I felt my face burn bright red as I found that we were, again, walking in the same direction. Only now, being in a hallway, we were much closer to each other than before. That nervous dizziness that comes with attraction flooded my mind as we both stopped at the door to room 102.

“Après vous.” (You first.)

“Êtes-vous toujours aussi galant ?”

My French wasn’t good enough to understand her reply, but when she winked at me, I nearly melted.

My feet forgot how to function as I wobbled to the only desk available at the very front of the room.

“Good morning, class. Welcome to Advanced Digital Forensics. My name is Professor Lavigne. It is a pleasure to meet all of you.”

She was a professor. She was my professor, and I had no idea how I was going to focus.

The next hour was an excruciating thrill.

Her eyes scanned the class and paused whenever they met mine. Sometimes it felt as if she were looking through me. She added more “hmms” and “ohs” to her sentences and would say them in a soft tone while she ran her hand across her desk. I watched her walk, and sway, and bite her lip in concentration.

No one else seemed to notice, but I couldn’t stop myself from staring.

And at the end of class, she stopped me at the door.

“Tu t’appelles Roger, c’est ça ?” (Your name is Roger, right?)

“Oui.” (Yes.)

“Alors, what are you doing after this class?”

“Oh, uh, nothing.” I blushed.

“Do you like coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been to the Café du Poète Triste?”

“I can’t say I have.”

“It is a little coffee shop in Le Marais beside the Hotel de Minuit.”

“Oh, that sounds cool. I’ll have to check that out.”

“Do you mind if I join you?”

She was very clever like that. She had a way of bringing your deepest desires to the forefront. Holding them in her hand so that you couldn’t ignore them. And cornering you until you gave way to what you truly wanted.

And what I truly wanted was her.

The Café du Poète Triste was a small establishment. Homey and familiar but a little cramped. So, we sat at a table on the balcony that overlooked the streets. I found my eyes following the pigeons that flew from window to window.

“Tu me trouves vraiment si séduisante que tu n’arrives même pas à me regarder ?”

“Uh, sorry, my French isn’t as good as it should be.” A nervous chuckle escaped me.

“You’re a very quiet person.” Her emerald eyes gazed into mine.

“Yeah. Uh, sorry, I think I’m just… distracted.”

“Don’t apologize. I like it. You give off an air of what is the word I’m looking for?” She ran her finger across her lips as she thought. “Sophistication.”

“Thank you… So, I’ve never seen you on campus before. You’re new, um, obviously… Where are you, uh, from… originally?” I took a sip of coffee to stop myself from talking.

“I have lived in Saint-Ouen-l’Aumône my whole life.”

She picked up my left hand and began playing with my fingers.

“Oh… what made you decide to-?”

“Do you find me attractive?”

“What?”

“You can be honest.” She intertwined her fingers with mine.

“Is, um, is this appropriate since you’re, um, you’re my—we’re, uh.”

“C’est très inapproprié. But that does not answer my question.” She gazed at me.

(It is very inappropriate.)

“Look, Simone, the thing is I’m on a scholarship and I can’t afford to, uh, lose it. I graduate in the spring. And, uh, I, uh, I wouldn’t want you to get in any trouble either. Which—that wouldn’t be good.”

“You know, I am staying in the city tonight for a conference in the morning. In the hotel next door. In room three hundred and seven. Perhaps, you can answer my question later tonight.”

The rest of the afternoon was torture.

I sat through my Advanced Network Security class, preoccupied by the memory of her. She had hacked my brain, infiltrated my mind, rewired its circuits all in under an hour and a half. New Me knew better than to meet her at the hotel, but as the afternoon progressed, I found myself coming up with excuses for why I should.

New Me kept pushing these “excuses” away. But Old Me, the me that smoked too much, and drank too much, and stayed out too late way too often. The me that enjoyed the wild stuff. The crazy mistakes. The careless actions.

That Me kept remembering the way she intertwined her fingers with mine…

That night, the moon was obstructed by the clouds. The buildings were covered in shadow. A light drizzle fell from the sky, and the breeze was unusually chilly.

Regardless, Le Marais was booming with life.

Clubs blasted music through the streets.

Lines of people spilled out from every bar.

And drunken crowds danced on the sidewalks.

The Hotel de Minuit was a small motel-ish building across from a bar I had frequented in the past. I knew most of the bars in Le Marais, but I didn’t remember ever seeing a hotel…

The inside had a color scheme of blue and green and yellow. The lights were a bit dim. And the attendant at the front desk didn’t bother to verify who I was.

I should have turned around, but the thought of seeing her again pulled me up the rickety steps to the third floor.

The door to 307 opened.

And there she was.

Dressed in a green lace robe. Her hair trailed down her back like a silk waterfall.

“Salut, beau gosse.” (Hello, handsome.)

She wrapped her arms around my neck. Her lips touched mine, and any trace of New Me vanished as she shut the door behind us.

“Do you find me attractive?” She kissed my ear.

“Yes.”

“But that is not why you came here tonight.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re here for Simone.”

“Who?”

“This morning, in the classroom. I introduced myself as Professor Lavigne. But in the cafe this afternoon, you called me Simone.”

“I did?”

“Who is she?”

“I… I don’t know. I don’t remember saying that.”

“You met her on the train three years ago.”

“I’m sorry, I’m confused.” I backed up.

“This hotel room? Does it not look familiar?”

I looked around at the green walls. The flimsy TV. The thick curtains. All things I had never seen before.

But then my eyes fell on the brass lamp on the bedside table.

Something about it was… familiar.

I felt the warm light begin to creep up my arms. Shadows began to stain the walls. The lamp grasped them and twisted them into uncanny shapes.

“I think I’m gonna go, actually.”

“Oh non, mon beau. Is there something the matter?” Her voice was soft.

“Yeah. I mean, no! I just, I, I’m not feeling well. So, I think I’m just going to…” I tried to gently pull away from her as beads of sweat gathered on my skin.

“You never wondered why no one this morning noticed? I was practically undressing for you in front of the class. But you are the only one who noticed? And the Café du Poète Triste. The name. It was familiar too.” She caressed my face.

“What are you talking about?” My heart began to pound as the darkness closed in on all sides.

“You do not remember?” She whispered in my ear.

Then silence struck the room as if all the noise in the world was vacuumed away. The shadows dripped from the walls and gathered in a pool of blood beside the lamp on the carpet.

She stared at me. So closely, I thought she would kiss me again, but instead, she did nothing. Her matted hair stood up on one side. Shards of glass stuck from her scalp. Red liquid poured across her face. Her wide eyes gazed unblinkingly into mine.

Then she dropped to the floor.

I remember now that I had met her on the train at the start of my freshman year. We had coffee and went out that night. I don’t know why she fascinated me. New Me would never have taken her out to a bar. New Me would never have asked her to stay the night in a hotel room.

But I was drunk, sleep-deprived, barely holding on. Doing everything that young college kids do when they’re left to their own devices.

I stood in the doorway, remembering how her body lay there in that pool of blood, wondering why I did it. Wondering where her body was.

Until the sun came up and the chaos in the streets died with the night.

Then I turned the light out.

Stepped out into the hallway.

And shut the door behind me.