Two Americans in Paris (12 page)

To rest for a moment, we sit on a pair of sage-green metal chairs facing a Romantic sculpture. The sculpture’s bronze figures are arranged around a tall stone pedestal supporting the bust of a finely clothed gentleman.

I study the sculpture, wondering if you actually find as much beauty here as I have imagined you do. In an effort to find out, I decide to voice my thoughts and gauge your response to them. I gesture to the sculpture. “See, you can just sit down, and beautiful things are everywhere! This is why I love Paris. There is an insistence on beauty in everything. The sculpture kind of looks like Delacroix, doesn’t it? It has that rhythm.” You watch as I trace the flow of the sculpture’s figures with my hand, beginning with the handsome male youth at the bottom right and ending with the bust of the stately gentleman on top. The bust is actually of Delacroix—the sculpture’s title is
Homage à Delacroix
. “Isn’t it great that we can apply the knowledge Professor gave us?” I look to you for a response. You meet my gaze, your eyes glimmering. I forget all about my question. We hold our gazes on each other until our attention is drawn away by the flustered movements of a young couple taking their upset toddler daughter to the side. Her large blue eyes are budding with tears and her cheeks are flushed with Botticelli pink. You gaze at her with adoration so complete and pure it exudes from you, reminding me of your desire for your own daughter. Your cheeks lift in a rare full-on smile. You lean toward me so the parents don’t hear and say, “Children are so dramatic,” your voice layered with the emotions of your gaze.

There is within you a natural sense of care and protectiveness for young lives that I think would make you a good father. I want to tell you but instead lodge the phrase in my throat. To say so might convey to you not how I admire your paternal sensibilities, but that I, more specifically, might want you to be the father of my children. You read the subtext of my speech with such acuity I must be doubly careful what I divulge.

Feeling rested enough, we decide to head on toward Shakespeare and Co.

The building adjacent to Shakespeare and Co. has the exposed wooden beams characteristic of pre-Renaissance Paris, giving the shop an air of having been here for centuries. The interior reminds me of Belle’s beloved bookshop in Disney’s
Beauty and the Beast
. Wooden ladders lean against cherry bookshelves crammed tightly with literature. Books are stacked everywhere there is room: on tables, on the floor against the bookshelves, and beneath the stairwell.

You are instantly drawn to the section dedicated to the beat generation and pull a copy of
Naked Lunch
from the shelf. You fondle it with such tenderness that I ask to see it. In my eyes it is a gem for its place on your list of favorites. I clasp it against my chest as if it were already my own.

We pass the French literature, which I direct your attention to with an exclamation of glee.

“French literature, exactly what I
don’t
need,” you say.

I rap the back of my hand on your warm shoulder. “That’s awful!”

“I’m kidding.” You grin at your own cheekiness.

You lead the way to the general fiction section. You gently pull from the shelf a small, clothbound edition of
The Rainbow
by D.H. Lawrence. The edges of its pages are gilt and the type inside is clean and elegant. “I’ve been wanting to read some D.H.” 

“How much is it?” I ask.             

“Ten euros.”

“Not bad.”

“But it’s so pretty, I couldn’t write in it!” you say, frustrated.

I pick up a copy of
The Bell Jar
by Sylvia Plath. The back copy says the book is about the slow onset of insanity in a young female poet. At the moment, the pairing of
Naked Lunch
, which you call “drugged-out, nightmarish, nonsensical” and a novel about a woman going mad seems appropriate. They match my state of mind. My all-consuming desire for you is driving me crazy and not knowing if my desire will be fulfilled is making me even crazier. I hate the uncertainty. “Have you heard of
The Bell Jar
?”

“Nope.” You look down at the book in your hands. “Well D.H., you’ll have to wait for another day.” You slide the book back onto the shelf and wait patiently for me at the door while I pay for my books.

Hungry already, we move on to Anahuacallí.

I lead the way and after we make a few turns you start looking around at the street signs. “Do you know how to get to the restaurant?” you ask.

“Yup. I memorized the way there.”

“Great. I have more important things to think about than directions.” You grin cheekily.

“I’m sure you do.” I pat your back.

Despite being a Mexican restaurant, Anahuacallí’s entrance is no different from any moderately priced French restaurant. The windows are framed by wood painted deep evergreen and the door’s brass handle has been rubbed to pewter. Inside there are already a handful of diners even though it is only a little after seven. I greet the maître d’ and through a mix of French and hand gestures she instructs us that we may sit wherever we like. Without needing to discuss the options, we choose a table just to the right of the kitchen’s open door.

You inhale deeply, filling your mighty lungs with the odors of tender chicken and pork, chipotle chilies, freshly cooked rice, shredded tomatillos, caramelized onions, and a hint of cilantro. “I have an erection right now.”

My immediate reaction to your totally unexpected statement is shock. Your statement is inappropriate, but my imagination doesn’t care. There are so many things I would like to do with your erection in private.

We sit.

“Well, I could have one right now,” you say.

My expression returns to normal. I am so glad your words instead of my own have set the tone for the evening. The door is now open for a conversation about sex that I hope will lead to activities involving the erection you have just spoken of.

The aromas emanating from the kitchen indicate that anything on the menu would be incredible. I suggest we order a pitcher of wine to go with our meal. “Choose whichever one you think would be best,” you say. I decide on a red Argentinean wine.

The waitress arrives to take our orders. Without having previously shared with each other the main course we chose, we both order the enchiladas verdes, which fills me with bubbles of happiness—in rom-coms, the couples destined to be together often order the same meal on the first date.

“Do you see a lot of movies?” you ask, thinking back to our recent excursion to see
Transformers
.

“No, I don’t go to the movies often. They’re kind of expensive and I’m not much of a movie person. I only own two films:
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
and
Lord of the Rings: the Return of the King
.”

“My girlfriend doesn’t like
Lord of the Rings
,” you sigh.

“Why not?” Your girlfriend is not, generally, a topic of conversation I would invite you to continue speaking about, but it sounds like the two of you may not be well-matched. I definitely want to hear a little more about that.

“She thinks it’s stupid.”

“Mm.
Lord of the Rings
is one of those things that you really have to be really immersed in to enjoy.”

“A girl who likes Mexican food and
Lord of the Rings
.
”
You shake your head in disbelief at your good fortune.

I am thrilled that you appreciate how my taste in food and film parallels your own, especially because your girlfriend does not like
Lord of the Rings
and I do. I feel your girlfriend’s presence in our conversation need no longer continue. I imagine flicking her image far away from us.

Our chicken enchiladas arrive on weighty, earth-red plates. My stomach swells with the mouth-watering odors of the meal before us. We smother our enchiladas with the cream and tomatillo sauces. I carefully cut a piece with my fork and place it in my mouth. The combination of flavors is elation-inducing. The tomatillos are sweet, the
crème fraiche
thick and creamy, the chicken tender, and the hint of cardamom gives a little kick.

“Do you like it?” you ask. I shake my head. I do not think I have ever had anything so delicious in my mouth before. “No?” you ask.

I swallow. “No, no, it’s so good, I can’t believe it. Do you like it?” I ask. You nod.

I think of the book I have just bought because you recommended it. “You know, I’m kind of excited about reading
Naked Lunch
. I haven’t really
read
purely for pleasure in a while.”

“You will be aroused.” Your eyes meet mine and I’m aroused already. You say some other things about Burroughs’s unrestrained prose style, but I only half hear it. The phrase “You will be aroused” is resounding in my mind.

Changing the subject, you ask, “So what is Professor writing his thesis on?”

I quickly gather my thoughts. “Um, it’s about a modern artist in the eighties, I think, who had something to do with Paris. That’s why he’s in Paris. Or that’s his excuse, anyway. He could tell you what exactly he’s writing on if you asked him.”

You smile, showcasing your perfectly shaped, white teeth and bright pink gums. “You know, you’re kind of my expert on Professor.”

It warms me that you think of me this way. I decide to put Professor on a pedestal with you as my audience. In a few years, you may be like him, and I hope you will make the connection between my attraction to Professor’s intelligence and yours. Even now, I can see the qualities Professor possesses are growing in you. You already have Professor’s casual approach to high-minded texts, speaking of them in your own, unassuming manner while remaining open to ideas that come from outside yourself. “Hah, well, I only know as much as I learned last semester,” I say. “Professor is so brilliant! If he wasn’t married, I would marry him. I mean, he’s so well-read and he has something witty to say about everything. He’s sexy and intelligent and a great teacher.”

“If he were behind you right now, he would be blushing.” You look behind me, making me think he might somehow be secretly listening to me wax lyrical about him. I check behind me to make sure he isn’t here, and of course he isn’t. “That’s really flattering. I would tell him that,” you say.

“Are you kidding? That would be so creepy! I would be so creeped out if one of my students told me that.”

“No, I don’t think so. It should be flattering.”

“Maybe I’ll write it on the review form at the end of the class. He’d know it was me, though.”

Showing a more vested interest in getting to know me than you have before, you again change the subject. “So, you’re bisexual?” Your eyes are pinned on me, expectant and excited.

I nod affirmatively, taking a sip of wine before continuing this conversation.

“What is that like?” you ask.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I mean it pretty much doubles the number of partners I could have. It either makes it much easier or much more difficult to find someone. Once you take out the too young and the too old.”

“Yeah. So have you ever done—?” you ask, inferring by your silent ending the question you really wanted to ask in the first place, “Have you ever had sex with a girl?”

Although I could lie and increase my attractiveness in your eyes, I decide to be honest. “No, I’ve never really done anything with a girl, but I would like to. Well, I’ve made out with a girl, but that’s not much. I’m much pickier about women than I am about men. I have much higher standards for women than I do for men.”

“That’s good for me.”

I am so overexcited by the implications of what you have said I feel like my organs are jittering around inside me. “Men . . . men are easier. I mean, have sex with you, no problem . . . but date you . . .” I shake my head. I may like you enormously, but even if you didn’t have a girlfriend, I am fairly certain you lack the maturity to be a good boyfriend. I have no interest in putting myself in an unhappy situation. “I would date a girl, though. I just want to have tried it before I settle down with anyone.”

“Would you be okay with ending up with a woman?”

“I would, but I’m so much pickier about women that I don’t necessarily see it happening. I expect at least as much from women as I do from myself.”

“Would you date me if I was a girl?” you ask.

“What?” I ask, unsure how to interpret your question.

“You know, add boobs, longer hair.” You hold your hands over your chest as if holding an orange in each and run your fingers as if down long hair so that I may more easily imagine what you would look like as a girl. It’s so comical I have to stifle giggles. “I think I’d make a pretty good-looking girl.”

“Um, I don’t know. If you were a girl, like actually a girl? I guess . . .” I’m still not sure what to make of your question.

To erase my thoughts of your feminine image you say, “I think I have a certain kind of rugged handsomeness.” You run your sturdy fingers over your stubble and turn your head as if to show me how you are manly like a cowboy or lumberjack. I raise my eyebrow at you.