After I send my story to Perry, I begin to get ready for dinner with the backstabbing Mr. Kent. I decide to look as devastatingly beautiful as I can pull off, so he can see what he might have had the slightest chance with if he had played his cards right. Part of me wants to confront him the moment I see him, shake those handsomely broad shoulders of his, and berate him for trying to steal my story. But even I know that you can catch more flies with honey. I need to find out what he knows and why he wanted my photo in the first place.
Clark is irritatingly punctual, not even giving me the chance to get angry with him for standing me up. He also looks quite delectable in his evening suit. This would be a very romantic date except for the fact that I haven’t known him a full day and he has already betrayed me!
“You look lovely, Miss Lane,” he says, and I roll my eyes, wondering how many gullible women he has lured into his arms with that line. I will not be taken in by his charming manners!
“So where are we going?” I ask coolly, avoiding taking his proffered arm.
“A little Japanese restaurant near here. Is that all right?”
I nod and we begin to walk. Inwardly I am fuming. I want so much to turn to him and berate him about the photo—but a girl’s got to eat. And I certainly can’t afford Paris dinner prices on the little I have saved up – and, my leeway on the Daily Planet expense account doesn’t go as far as covering fancy dinners.
I hear my heels click angrily on the pavement as we walk side by side. We head off the main Avenue de l’Opéra and up a quiet side street.
“So, why me?” I decide to start him off easy and then by the time we are eating dinner I’ll be able to get him to tell me exactly what he’s up to.
“Excuse me?” he asks.
“Why did you want to take me to dinner?” I clarify, secretly thinking he probably wanted to probe into my story and ask about my mysteriously missing photo!
“Well, I told you,” he says honestly, seemingly surprised by my question. “Since you don’t know Paris all that well, the least I could do is show you around.”
He says it innocently enough, but I know there is more to the story.
“So what brought you to Paris, then? A travel story?” I say a little sarcastically, imagining him gloating over having swiped my photo. Travel journalist, my Aunt Fannie!
“Well, actually, I’m on my way to Rome. But I like to stop in Paris when I can. And the Japanese restaurants here around Opéra have been getting quite a reputation. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try one of them. Ah, here we are.”
We sit down, and we’re each handed a huge menu. It’s only in French and Japanese, neither of which I can speak. I glance helplessly over at Clark. “Will you order for me?” I ask, hating how dependent I sound.
“Sure. What do you like?”
I give him my rundown of the kinds of sushi I like and the things I avoid, like raw eel. I had a bad experience with it once—and no matter how good the restaurant, I plan to avoid it at all costs for the rest of my life.
Just before we are set to order, Clark excuses himself to use the restroom. I’m left to sit and point at the items Clark had chosen, utterly humiliated by my inability to speak any French to the waiter except “Merci” and “Oui.”
Clark seems to be taking forever in the bathroom, but at last, he emerges. “Get lost on the way to the boy’s room?” I tease, as he sits back down at our table.
He brushes my comment off and settles into his seat. I stare at him a moment, thinking. I realize I’m trying desperately to size him up, but he doesn’t register on any of my usual male categories. Yes, I’m sure he’s betrayed me – but he also seems like a sweet, upstanding guy. The man is confident, yet he doesn’t seem egotistical. He seems intelligent and honest – except that he isn’t honest, which I plan to prove by the end of dinner.
He clears his throat, and I realize I’ve been staring. “Sorry,” I apologize. “Just thinking.”
“What about?” he asks.
“Well, you,” I answer honestly. “Where are you from?” I ask. It’s an innocent enough question, yet I see him blanch for just a second. I’m suddenly intrigued. Maybe he is hiding something under that gentlemanly exterior.
“Well, I’m from Smallville… It’s in the Midwest, Kansas.”
“Smallville?” I laugh. “Surely you’re kidding. That is a joke of a name!”
“Honest truth. If I had a map handy, I’d show you. It’s not far from Wichita.”
Our sushi dinner arrives, and I try to make more small talk as I struggle with my chopsticks. Mr. Smallville manages them with no problem, I’m shocked to see.
“So how did a small town farm boy end up traveling the world?” I ask, genuinely curious about how a guy from a small town could end up as a reporter—and possibly one intent on scooping me.
“Well, I always loved to write. And in college, I found myself as a journalism major. And I figured, if I’m going to write about the world, I need to see it first. Actually, what I hope to do is a land a position at the Daily Planet someday.”
I try not to glare at him. So that’s what this is about? Was he trying to scoop me so he could get my job at the Planet?!
That was the last straw. “So, is that why you stole my photo?” I suddenly demand, unable to keep up the polite exterior any longer.
He looks up at me, a little offended. “What? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the photo that was in my bag when I went into the café but had mysteriously disappeared by the time I got back to my hotel room!” I try not to draw the attention of people sitting nearby, but I can’t help that my voice goes up an octave or two.
“If you thought I stole a photo from you, why did you agree to come to dinner with me, then?” he asks pointedly.
“Because I wanted to face you. So you admit it? You stole it, hoping to scoop my story!” I say, brandishing my chopsticks at him like an accusatory finger.
“What? No, I did no such thing! Will you please calm down? You’re drawing attention to us.”
Noticing he’s right, I sit back in my chair, my chopsticks safely resuming their duty as utensils and not weapons of war. “Now, tell me about this photo. Maybe I can help you find it.”
I scoff. “Yeah, right. I know you have it, Mr. Kent – and you just want to have the story that goes along with it! I know all about your type!” I say, realizing he is just as deviant as I had suspected.
“Look, I just want to help you. What was the photo of?” he asks innocently.
I cross my arms, looking across the table at his blameless chocolate brown eyes. What if he is telling the truth? Have I been betrayed so many times that I can’t spot an honest man anymore? But—how else would the photo disappear? Had I really lost it? Have I lost my touch so badly that I have resorted to accusing an innocent man?
I hesitate a moment, and then lean slightly towards him. “Are you really just a travel writer?” I ask, narrowing my gaze at him.
“What does that have to do with—“ he begins, but I hold up my hand.
“Just—answer the question,” I demand, my chopsticks in the air, dangerously close to becoming a weapon again.
He pulls out his wallet and shows me a press pass that reads: Clark Kent, Travel Writer, Borneo Gazette.
I raise my eyebrows at that. “Borneo, huh? Long way from Kansas.”
He smiles a little as he replaces his wallet in his pocket. “It’s just a one-year contract. Like I said – it’s given me a way to write about and see the world. So—you can trust me, I promise. I’m not after your story, Miss Lane.”
Oh, he looks so innocent… The wounded reporter in me wants to hold all the details close to my chest and not tell a soul till I know more. But the woman, and the girl who is desperate for a friend in the world wants to trust him.
I debate a moment longer, but realize the story is already sent to Perry, and the photo is lost. If anyone does find it, it isn’t likely to be anyone who can do anything about it…
I sigh, “I better not regret this.”
He smiles warmly at me. “I just want to help.”
“Well, my flight over was pretty uneventful—except for the screaming baby—“
“Lois, can you hold that thought?” he asks suddenly. He sets his napkin down, looking a little bit worried.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Uh—I just remembered I was supposed to meet this friend of mine… But he doesn’t carry a pager. He’s in the area though. I’ll be right back!” He says all of this as he stands up to leave, leaving me speechless.
How could he just up and leave like that? – especially after he finagled me into telling him about the photo in the first place! Weird guy!
Well, he won’t get a second chance to hear my story, that’s for sure.
I look around the restaurant, suddenly feeling very alone. Oh God, what if Clark doesn’t come back? What if he was just looking for an excuse to leave me with what will be a bill that I absolutely cannot afford? I feel my palms start to sweat with panic. This can’t be good. I was such a fool to come here with him anyway – and besides, I still don’t know if he was telling the truth about the photo—
I start to think of escape plans. I could just up and leave – it’s been done before. It’s not normally my MO, but I could do it. I’ve gotten out of tighter jams before, after all…
The waiter comes by several times and I debate whether I should just ask for the check and leave. But part of me hopes Clark hasn’t abandoned me. I kind of liked him—even if he is a reporter.
The longer it takes for him to return, the more my panic grows. I can’t even eat the rest of my meal. I feel totally abandoned and foolish.
Clark suddenly walks back in and I glance at my watch. He had only been gone twenty minutes, but it had been enough to work me up into a frenzy.
He sits back down at the table and looks over at me with concern. “Everything all right?” he asks.
I feel even more stupid. I had imagined all sorts of crazy scenarios in his absence, and they all sounded ridiculous now that he had come back.
“Sorry about leaving you like that,” he says kindly. “Now, where were we?”
I shake my head. “I really don’t want to talk about it, Clark. Can we just enjoy the rest of dinner?”
His eyes meet mine across the table and I suddenly feel terribly awkward. I had completely expected him to leave me in the lurch. It was so strange for him to leave like that, and yet come back.
I think he notices the bewilderment on my face because he looks at me with that boyish smile of his and asks with a half-laugh, “What is it?”
I feel myself blush. I was ready to paint him as sneaky as the rest, but now I am not so sure. I usually have a good instinct for people, but Clark Kent is a puzzle. He seems genuinely kind, and yet I get the distinct feeling that he is hiding something.
I move my sushi around on my plate a bit, thinking. I look up at him, wondering if he will come back to the issue of my photo. I am reluctant to bring it up again, not wanting to sound petty. I feel like if I accuse him again, I will somehow be in the wrong, though I don’t know why.
“Would you like dessert?” he asks.
I look at him sharply. “At a sushi restaurant?” I whisper, a little disgusted at the thought.
He laughs, “No, I know the best place to get ice cream, over on the Ile-St-Louis. It’s called Berthillon, and it’s world famous.”
“World famous ice cream? Now you’re talking!” I say with a grin. Excellent ice cream can make up for a lot, in my book.
Clark motions for the check and pays. I’m terribly tempted to try and see the amount, curious how much the lovely meal cost him – a reporter like myself, but he is circumspect with the check. He is a gentleman as we leave the restaurant, helping me into my coat and holding the door. I swear, they don’t make men like this guy anymore. Too bad I’m leaving tomorrow.
We start walking down towards the bridges, taking the side streets, which are quiet this time of the evening.
“Lois, I’m sorry I left earlier… But, I still want to help you – if you want,” he hastily adds.
I sigh inwardly. I had hoped he had forgotten. But he wouldn’t be a reporter if he didn’t try to follow up on a lead… And, I still need to find the photograph.
I hesitate.
“Lois, you can trust me,” he says, stopping in the covered passage that leads to the Louvre, just off Rue de Rivoli.
I almost want to stomp my foot in anger. I hate it when men say that! Because it always means just the opposite!
“Please don’t patronize me, Clark,” I say. “Look, I think you’re a nice guy and you mean well, but you missed your chance! I don’t share stories—it’s gotten me into too much trouble in the past. Now, I want to believe that you didn’t take my photo, but I hardly know you.”
He seems to chew on that a moment. “You’re right, I’m sorry… Look, let’s just walk and enjoy the rest of the evening. I promise I won’t ask about it again.”
*L**L*
Walking back to my hotel, I’m surprised by how much I enjoyed the evening I had had with Clark Kent. After dinner, we had walked to the Seine and admired the golden glow of lights on the water. He took me to that little ice cream place he mentioned – and Rocky Road has nothing on the flavors there! I will have to go by there again tomorrow for another scoop…
We talked of mundane things, and Clark’s travels – He managed to make me forget for about an hour that I was a reporter on a mission. Something no one has been able to do—ever.
I hate that I went to dinner with him, because there is no possibility of a future—not even a short-lived dating future. He’s leaving for Rome tomorrow afternoon, and I am leaving for the Congo tomorrow night. I’ll never see him again.
I sigh in frustration as I enter my hotel room. I know it’s just as well. As wonderful as it was to be with Clark tonight, I still have a mystery to solve. I need to find that photo—and the story behind it. Clark was a nice distraction, but first thing in the morning, Lois Lane the reporter has to get back to work.
I change out of my dress and slip into my pajamas. I turn on the TV, knowing I’ll understand very little of it… I almost hope there are some ‘Ivory Tower’ reruns on. Even if they are dubbed in French, I’ve watched them so many times I would know what’s going on.
When I start flipping through the channels, I stop on the news channel. They're showing a group of people who had been evidently trapped in a Métro car earlier this evening. It had apparently been ablaze and then the fire had mysteriously extinguished. Eyewitnesses said an extremely cold breeze was felt as the fire went out—like a ghost passing through the car. Well, at least from what I could understand – ‘phantôme’ means ghost, right? Like Phantom of the Opera?
Then the camera pans to the Métro car, where a door had been opened from the outside, though no one saw who opened the door. I stand up beside my bed, inching closer to the TV screen. It’s hard to tell, but it looks like a hand pushed the door forcibly open—bending the frame of the door---
I make myself sit down on the bed. No one has noticed the detail, which is so apparent to me. Some*one* opened that door—and I think it’s the same someone that saved my plane.
I obsessively go through my bag one more time, just in case I really had misplaced the photo. But of course it’s not there.
I recline back on the bed, thinking. What is going on here? There seems to be someone out there, saving people. I wonder if it’s just in Paris… and why hasn’t the press picked up on it yet? I feel my blood pumping with excitement—and my stomach is in knots. I know this is the story of the century—and I somehow let the evidence for it slip through my fingers, and yet fate has presented me with the opportunity to recapture my evidence – if only I could get down to that Métro car and get a picture.
Excitement pouring through me, I toss off my nightgown and pull on sweat pants and a hoodie. It’s after midnight, so I figure there’s no need for me to work at looking elegant, even if I am in Paris. I’m just a reporter, and this story has my name written all over it.
*L**L*
I head to the station that had the problem, and I suddenly wish I had donned something more flattering than my sweats. I forget that the lights are bright in the Métro, and even after midnight, Parisians look fashionable. But I brush it aside. I’m not here to be seen. In fact, I’m hoping I can get by any remaining security that might be at the station to snag a photo.
I have to change two trains, but I finally arrive at my stop, Arts et Métiers, one stop away from my destination, Réaumur Sebastapol. I wait until the passengers all clear the platform so no one will see me. The Métros have all been rerouted around where the accident was. I take a peek down the dark Métro tunnel, feeling a breeze coming from the abyss of darkness. At least I know no trains will be whizzing by as I make my way underground to the stopped Métro car. I take one last look around me, to make sure I’m not seen before walking the narrow path against the wall of the Métro tunnel.
The way is slippery, and I’m pretty sure I hear some rats squeaking nearby. But I can see the light on the other side, at the next stop, slightly blocked by the damaged Métro car. As I near the station, a rancid smell hits my nose, and I wonder if the station would be better named Réamur Cess-pool! I’ve smelled some funky Métros in Metropolis, but none have come close to this particular noxious smell. At last, I make it to the station. No one seems to be around, which surprises me, as I expected to at least have to deal with a police officer or two. But just one work light remains on in the middle of the station.
Before I step back onto the platform, my eye catches a movement. Or more like a swift wind in the air. Then, standing about twenty feet away from me, I see none other than my date from earlier, Clark Kent! He had appeared--- seemingly as if out of thin air! I hang back in the shadows, watching him closely, trying not to breathe, lest I catch his attention.
Suddenly, I see him take the door of the Métro, and flatten it out with his bare hands! I realize in that instant, that this has to be my mysterious plane rescuer—and now, he’s covering his tracks! I stare at him, in curiosity and maybe even a little fear. Who is this guy, and what is he capable of? But even though I’m nervous, seeing him bend steel to his will, I know that he isn’t dangerous.
I am also now certain that he did steal my photo—he obviously doesn’t want people knowing what he’s doing. But it’s so strange – why would he help strangers, only to disappear all the evidence of it? I slowly back into the shadows, not wanting him to see me. I realize how major a story I have on my hands—a man who can bend steel and fly?! This would put me on top for sure. But I have to tread carefully. I need to learn more about him first. Why is he here? Why does he hide?
As I make my way slowly back through the darkness to the other Métro station, I also realize that I will never make it to the Congo.
Because now I have a story to follow up on -- in Rome.
*L**L*
The
Louvre arcade where Lois and Clark stop a moment.
Berthillon ice cream 
Paris at night
