Morning Is a Long Time Coming (13 page)

“Well ...” I said, again, deciding that I had to strike that word from my vocabulary once and for all, “if you really want me to, Michael, I think that I could.” At the same time trying to estimate the distance between Göttingen and Zurich.

This time he kissed me nicely. Not like all those other
times when he tried to hungrily stuff himself with kisses in the same indiscriminate way he’s always stuffing himself with food. For the last six days, I’ve been wondering what’s wrong with me. Why was I so secretly grateful that he shared his stateroom with three males while I shared mine with three females? But now in the sharing of this particular kiss, I forgot to be grateful.

And so the fact that I had never felt a romantic thing for either Marshall Lubin or the Jenkinsville farmboys didn’t prove anything!

We moved away from the railing, away from the cold, persistent ocean spray. Then Michael looked at me as though he had suddenly come upon answers to questions never asked. “You’ve caught yourself a doctor,” he said, with obvious satisfaction.

At the same moment, I felt both an enormously positive and an enormously negative charge. I didn’t know which one to react to. Positive? Negative? Neither? Both?

“I think you know that I like you, Michael ... a lot. I think you’re very intelligent and witty, and I even think you’re good looking, but ... but please don’t make it out that I’ve captured you.”

Michael looked at me as though I had with malice aforethought let all the air from his balloons, ordered rain on his birthday, and wished him a mouthful of cavities. “It’s only an expression, for Christ’s sake!”

“I know, I know it is, but I still don’t like what it expresses.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, if you hadn’t lived all your life in the sticks, then you’d know that it was only an expression!”

“That phrase isn’t so original that it’s unknown in
Arkansas. Actually it may be just as popular in Jenkinsville as it is in Forest Hills, but I still don’t happen to like it.” He had turned his head from me. “Oh, Michael,” I said, moving to face him, “please don’t turn away from me now. Ever since we’ve met you’ve felt comfortable telling me what you didn’t like about me—my gazing off in the distance when you speak to me, my swimsuit which you claimed was manufactured for the varicose set—and I could go on ...”

Michael’s face had set. “And I told you that it was only an expression! And this is the dumbest conversation I’ve ever had!”

I could scream because he was choosing not to hear me. “Whatever it is, it’s not dumb. If we belong together, Michael, it’s because we each have something to give. Not just you giving and me taking, I’d hate that, but both of us giving, taking. I want you to understand that I need to have value too!”

“All right! All right! I tracked you down. I captured you. Are you satisfied? Now, for God’s sake, I’d like to go! The music is getting cold.”

Is that what he thinks this is all about? Who’s tracked whom down? Suddenly he was pulling me toward the Grande Salon with as much gentleness as a bulldozer moving an enormous earth-embedded boulder. But I didn’t resist. There was no need to. Because the really important thing was that I didn’t know any way to make him understand what he preferred not knowing.

15

A
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ARE
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AZARE,
Arlene and I were among the first passengers off the boat train, and considering the bulk and weight of our luggage, we climbed up the stairs with surprising speed to rush from the open doors into the late afternoon of a Paris day.

From the very top step of the massive station, I took my first real look at the street scene below. What I saw threw my senses into a dance of frenzied greed, and I knew that
I had to find a way to become a part of it. Couldn’t waste time. Had to belong to it all. And I had to belong to it now!

I wanted to ride to Montparnasse on the rear platform of that passing bus; wanted to stroll the wide boulevards hand-in-hand with some new boy I was beginning to love. And within the same measure of time and space, I wanted to drink espresso and eat decadent desserts at that little sidewalk café across the way; then, on some irrepressible whim, I’d buy myself an extravagant silk scarf from a shop so far off the beaten track that it had never before been discovered by a mere tourist.

I had to experience all those things and a thousand more while simultaneously exploring every single street, searching out every face to find one that might be willing to teach me all those things that I was born needing to know.

Yet for all the freshness and all the wonder of Paris, this was not the first time that my senses had exploded while trying to capture the dazzling beauty and enchantment within this world. Somewhere, someplace, it had happened to me before. Had to have happened because it felt too real to have been only a dream.

Yes, yes, that was it! But such a long time ago. I was only seven—certainly no more than eight. And one star-filled night, I was riding the great Ferris wheel high above the Memphis Cotton Carnival when, for at least a moment, my gently swaying gondola paused at the very top.

Arlene instructed (in apparently faultless French) a mischievous-eyed taxi driver to take her to the Cité Universitaire and me to the Hotel Vaucluse. As soon as he drove off, I understood why he kept a crucifix dangling from the
dashboard of his Renault. He wasn’t taking fares across Paris; he was competing in the Indianapolis 500.

I guess I minded a lot because I had paid such a big price for the privilege of being here on this continent. I deserved to see it with more clarity than through the blurred side window of a racing car.

Then Arlene objected to the wind blowing from my completely lowered window. For moments I pretended not to have heard her, but then my selfishness became a barrier to the full enjoyment of this city. So I grudgingly raised my window by a few, very careful inches.

Much too quickly, the cab came to a cops-and-robbers stop and the polo-shirted driver announced, “Voilà, mam’selles, Cité Universitaire.” Arlene then explained to him in French what she had twice previously explained to me in English. That the cab was to wait for her, since she was arriving a day ahead of schedule and wanted to make certain that her room was now available.

After she disappeared behind a pale stucco wall made beautiful by a network of sun and leaf shadow, I silently called upon the God of my fathers. Listen to me, God. I know. I know I’m a nudge. I bother you only when I need something (and, God knows, that’s often enough), but maybe if you think I deserve it you’ll help me now.

That’s when my concentration was broken by the driver, who turned around to speak to me. One word sounded like
roses,
but I’m not really sure of that. “I’m sorry, sir,” I admitted, “but I don’t speak French.”

He nodded and smiled as though he wished me luck, or maybe he was indicating that I was going to need luck. I
couldn’t be sure. At any rate, he had broken more than my concentration; he had gotten me out of my God-nudging mood. Just as well, because if there’s a God up there who’s listening in, I really can’t imagine him involving himself in something as shabby as helping me out while hurting Arlene. But it wouldn’t be hurting Arlene. Maybe inconveniencing her, but that’s all. Why is it such a big deal if she stays with me tonight, just for a single night?

I mean, I think it would be scary for anyone, being alone in a strange country without even knowing the words for food or water.

When I saw her reappear, I knew that the good Lord had not only heard my plea, but had actually joined with me in my conspiracy, for Arlene wore an expression of “This world is so dumb that it doesn’t deserve to have me in it.” Hallelujah! And thank you, God, for sealing Arlene from her room tonight with a sticky bit of your celestial red tape. Surely by tomorrow, I’d be infinitely more adept at facing Paris alone.

“Oh, too bad,” I offered. “Aren’t they letting you have your room tonight?” I sounded so obviously hypocritical that anyone even half as smart as this candidate for a master’s degree would pick it up in less time than it would take light to travel across a country lane.

Arlene looked surprised. “Oh, I have the room. It’s only that the concièrge has the key and he’s not expected back for at least an hour.”

“Wonderful, Arlene,” I said with a little too much badly manufactured enthusiasm. “Makes it so much more convenient than having to sleep elsewhere for the night.”

She gave me 375 francs for her share of the taxi ride.

“Three hundred and seventy-five francs,” I asked incredulously, “for only half of a taxi ride?”

“Francs, not dollars,” explained Arlene. “One thousand francs equals three dollars ... remember?”

I nodded. “Oh, yes! Sure. Sorry.”

“Well ...” she said. “I wish you all kinds of luck and don’t forget what I told you on the
Ryndam.”

“Oh ...” I said, purposely vague, hoping that that would inspire her to repeat it. Twice on ship she had given me detailed instructions on “getting structured in a foreign country,” and I had loved it ... loved it far beyond the words of advice which in themselves were useful enough. What it was, I think, was this girl, three years older and maybe six years more competent actually bothering with me ... bothering to give me something.

“First thing tomorrow,” she was saying, “go over to Boulevard Raspail, to the Alliance Française and sign up for their beginning French class.”

“Beginning French class,” I repeated.

Arlene nodded her approval as though I was already a student and learning well. “Then cross Raspail and go directly over to Montparnasse—it’s only an eight-or ten-block walk. Pass Montparnasse and from that point, ask anybody to direct you to the American Club.”

“Avenue Montparnasse. The American Club.”

Arlene smiled as though she was already the esteemed professor that she would someday be and I was her most gifted student. “I’m very glad we met,” she said, letting her smile linger on. “You’re the first person I’ve ever known who hailed from Jenkinsville, Arkansas.”

The farther I go from my home town, the more humor
people seem to discover in its name. “It’s okay—until I met you and Michael, I had never known anybody from New York City.” I was afraid that my large effort at making small talk was tiring Arlene. She had a lot of really important things to do and I didn’t want to impede her or have her think I was a bore. But most of all, I didn’t want her to even begin to suspect that I was afraid to be alone.

This conversation had to be immediately terminated, and terminated by me while I could still appear strong and competent. I wanted her to see that I was really tough, and because of that toughness I didn’t need her or anybody. I could manage very well alone, thank you. “Well, Arlene,” I said, holding out my hand, “I hope it’ll be a good year for you; I know your thesis will go well.”

She shook my hand for a moment and then for a still longer moment, she merely held it. “Call me when you get settled. You know how to reach me.”

“Yes,” I said, jumping at the invitation. “Yes, I surely do.” Suddenly two diverse—maybe not totally diverse—thoughts struck me! Arlene Hollander with all her master’s degree competence was also more than a little frightened and secondly, strangeness of strangenesses, I think she likes me.

That she had been very friendly on board ship was undeniable, but I had, for the most part, considered it nothing more than a courtesy to her boyfriend’s best friend, Michael Werner. But now that Michael and Howie are both en route to Zurich, there’s no reason to continue extending the courtesy unless ... unless she actually does like me.

I threw my arms around her and hers like a reflex tightened around me. Then just as suddenly and without so much as a “So long, Arlene,” I quickly re-entered the cab and
directed my now tightly stretched voice toward the driver. “Hotel Vaucluse on Rue Pierre Nicol.”

Then I began to explore seriously this dumbness of mine. How can I so consistently dismiss every single item of evidence which indicates that there just might be people in this world who happen to like me? Michael wants to marry me, Arlene wants to be my friend, so I couldn’t possibly be doing everything wrong. Then why don’t I know that? Why can’t I really know that?

As I tried to supply the answer to my own question, I saw rows of pastel buildings wearing ornate wrought-iron balconies and, at the same time that I was seeing this elegant French city, I was also “seeing” a drab American town.

Jenkinsville, Arkansas. An early September morning in 1938. I wake with a Christmas-morning kind of excitement even though I’ve been sleeping for too long in my own sweat. Jenkinsville has been suffering through a late summer’s heat wave and this would be just another damp rot day except for one thing. I am six years old and today is my first day of school.

Next to my bed is the red-and-blue plaid book satchel. Opening it, I smell the newness of my primary tablet; I slide open the pristine pencilbox which came with two finely sharpened yellow pencils, one virgin gum eraser, a red pocket pencil sharpener, and a strange instrument with an ice-pick point that makes perfect circles.

After breakfast my mother comes into my room. I think she is going to tell me that I should be leaving now, but she doesn’t. What she wants is to fix my hair. Her way. But I won’t allow it because it’s already fixed my way. So I take my prize book satchel and run out the door. And just as I
am beginning to believe in the safety of the public sidewalks, she calls after me.

“Don’t expect any of the first graders to like you, Patricia Ann, ’cause they won’t! And don’t expect Miss Blackwell to like you either, ’cause she won’t! They’re all going to take one look at the plain way you’ve combed your hair and they’re not going to like you! Not a single one of them is ever going to like you!”

As I watched the taxi travel a boulevard shaded on both sides by aging chestnut trees, I closed my eyes. Even so, it felt as though Arlene and the not-to-be-seen Paris sun were making me a present of their warmth.

16