Two Americans in Paris (2 page)

I wonder if you’ve read my favorite book. “Have you read Proust’s big novel
In Search of Lost Time
? It’s like four thousand pages, depending on the edition.”

“No, not yet. Is it any good?”

“Yes! It’s excellent. He’s considered one of the greatest writers on memory. His portrayal of fashion, jealousy, sexuality, and the ridiculousness of upper crust society are easily the best I’ve read. Especially fashion. He illustrates how fashion is an art form. His writing is gorgeous, too.”

You grin, showcasing a neat row of brilliant white teeth. The intense focus of your eyes on me sends a pleasant jitter up my spine. “I’ll have to check it out. You make it sound amazing.”

I grin back. “It is.”

Your speech stilled for a moment, I admire the perfect round of your head silhouetted against the imperial image of Versailles. Your upper shoulders form a sloping crossbow and your firm biceps peek out from beneath your t-shirt sleeves. I imagine the flat of your abdomen, the girth of your lithe thighs, and the build of your shapely calves would be warm and hard beneath by roving fingertips. You also smell fantastic—like evergreen after a fresh winter snow with an undertone of vanilla and a hint of cardamom. I wonder how long it will take to get you into bed.

“You know, there are kids who don’t read the assigned books during the semester and then return them at the end, sell them back,” you say, your voice thick with disgust and indignation. “There isn’t anything I’ve read that I haven’t liked. Each book has its own value, its own value to add to your understanding of life.”

Although I believe there are, contrary to your opinion, many books not worth reading, your broad taste and the strength of your belief in literature’s importance is refreshing. Most of my peers in the Comp. Lit. program at AUP, including myself, are snobbish about books.

We proceed for a moment in silence and you pull a camera from your pocket and start taking pictures of Versailles. I break away from you to rejoin our classmates, who are gathering around Professor. Realizing I am no longer with you, you soon rejoin the class as well.

While Professor explains that Versailles was ordered to be built by Louis XIV so he could have complete control over the aristocracy away from Paris, my mind is entirely focused on his lecture. I listen attentively and take detailed notes. Perhaps in the deepest levels of my subconscious, I know I’m about to become wildly infatuated with you, so I’m basking in one of the last moments of mental independence I may have for an unforeseen period of time.

After telling us of the intentional symbolism behind Louis XIV’s other name, the Sun King, and pointing out the gold suns that decorate the palace, Professor walks over to a gilded statue of a Roman god. “This is Apollo, the god of light and the sun—”

“No, it’s Mars. He has the spear,” interrupts Pig Face, his smushed nose and beady eyes twisted—the embodiment of arrogance and ugliness. Although I was, at the beginning of our course, attracted to Pig Face for his expansive knowledge, his pomposity and total lack of tact has turned me off.

Professor looks confused. His main area of study is modern art, though I am a little surprised his knowledge of classical art isn’t sharper. He reevaluates the sculpture and says, “Oh, yes, you’re right. It is Mars. Thank you for pointing that out. It actually makes sense for it to be Mars since Louis XIV initiated so many wars.”

Finished with the first phase of the lecture, Professor leads us to the group entrance where we are stopped by a stout man with a silver mustache. The two men have an increasingly intense argument that results in Professor’s disappearance inside. Two groups of Spaniards enter ahead of us with a welcoming flourish of the gatekeeper’s hands followed by perturbed glares at our group.

Twenty minutes pass slowly in the heat of the sun. Finally, Professor returns to us, waving white tickets. The formerly stern gatekeeper turns to us with a smile and welcomes us inside.

Rather than take in the splendor of the interior Palace of Versailles, I first locate you among our classmates. I’m not letting you out of my sight. The details of your handsome body, your personal preferences, and your individual quirks are quickly accumulating in my mind.

So as to not be caught staring at you, I eye you from the periphery of my vision. You are one among a tightly packed group of people tip-toeing to see the immense silver organ and grand Corinthian columns in the Chapelle Royale. Your forehead is perfectly smooth like the inside of an almond, your nose slim, the inside of your lips tinted with the violet-red translucence of pomegranate seeds.

Stepping back from the mass of people, I feel small and insignificant. A giant could stride from room to room without needing to stoop, but to feel at home he would need to be accustomed to opulence. Nearly every surface is covered in multicolored marble, the stair railings dark chocolate, the stout balusters cinnamon brown, the plasters clay red and capped with gilded ionic capitals. Even the walls and floors are patterned in strong geometries of olive and red-brown marble.

“I like it,” Professor says, nodding as he surveys the room. “I’m impressed.” He draws the class around him and explains that the interior incorporates Italianate motifs, which are by their nature theatrical. All of the rooms are theatrical setups for the games the nobility were required to play if they desired power.

We follow Professor through the château packed shoulder-to-shoulder with people. The rooms are wallpapered with richly pigmented brocades and adorned by large mirrors framed with gilded woodwork, their surfaces distorting the many bodies ambling by. Wavy-glass windows, each pane no larger than a man’s hand, look out onto the immaculately landscaped grounds. The beds are fitted with thick, brocaded silk to match the high canopies whose edges are trimmed with heavy gold fringe. Bouquets of lavender-gray ostrich plumes cap the four posts of the king’s bed.

“Louis XIV couldn’t just go to bed,” Professor says. “He had fourteen people in here: one to remove his day clothes, another to put on his nightgown, and so forth. There was no privacy, no peace, but he had complete control over the aristocrats, keeping them busy doing mundane tasks for him so they didn’t have time to plot to kill him.” Professor half-smiles, amused by Louis XIV’s ridiculous yet effective plots, and then directs our attention to the paintings of mythological scenes on the ceiling. “The paintings are tricks, made to look like sculptures, sculptures made to look like paintings. It’s about oohing and aahing the eye. The Baroque masterpiece
Las Meninas
also used mirrors and screens, illusions to trick the eye. It’s one of the most famous paintings in art history. Does anyone know who painted it?”

Although I wouldn’t normally offer an answer, I feel more comfortable in Professor’s class than I do in most others. “Velázquez,” I say confidently.

“Yes.” Professor nods, his eyes widened slightly, seemingly impressed.

From the corner of my eye I see your eyes on me. To you, I am now the girl who knows her art history and can speak with you about literature. We will be fast friends for sure, but I am determined to have more than your friendship. I’ll stop at nothing until we are talking intimately about anything and everything into the wee hours of the night, our speech silenced only when you press the hot weight of your body against mine.

We step into The Hall of Mirrors. Warm light pools down the hallway through the tall, arched windows and twinkles through the teardrop crystals of the chandeliers reflected on the wall of mirrors struck through with brass bars. I evaluate my appearance in the mirrors, wondering what you might think of me. My red A-line dress shows off my long legs, which are toned from my tri-weekly runs. I love to eat too, though, so I’m not skinny. Something like “shapely” but not quite “curvy.” My irises are sea-green and with the help of mascara, my eyelashes are thick and dark. I like to think my eyes convey sharpness and strength, though right now they look wide-eyed and excited. My light brown hair is a short, shaggy mess. After an especially tough semester last fall, I rewarded myself by getting my long, heavy hair shorn off into a pixie cut. I’m growing it out now. I make a mental note to my hair cut into a bob as soon as possible. I have every intention of seducing you.

“These mirrors, at the time, would be the equivalent of us walking into a room with three dimensional landscapes projected onto them.” Professor motions his hand as if projecting images onto the mirrors. “It was amazing, unbelievable. Many of them had never even seen a mirror, so to see this much was stupefying.” Professor walks over to a window. “The garden is intentionally tilted so it looks very close to you, but really it would take two hours to go all the way to the end.”

“Two hours?” one student asks.

“Yes, about that,” Professor says. “It’s just a trick of landscaping that it looks so close. When we get out there you’ll see. Down to the far right is Marie Antoinette’s domain, which is an aristocratic version of a shepherd’s haven with quaint little houses and sheep.” He cups one of his hands as if over the roofs of the picturesque houses and fancy animal sheds. “It’s quite nice. I recommend it.”

“Could you walk to it?” I ask, thinking of visiting it later this summer. Perhaps I’ll even take you there with me.

“You could, but there’s also a little trolley that goes there,” Professor says.

We leave the exquisite theater of light behind and descend into the neatly organized outdoor rooms of Les Jardins de Versailles.

At the summit of the gardens we look out over the extreme perfection of razed tree limbs that form blade-sharp lines to the left and right of the horizon-line. Down the central aisle runs a long rectangular plot of well-groomed grass followed by a rectangular lake sprinkled with little boats whose rowers splash ripples through its glassy surface. Puffy, lilac-gray clouds are gathered along the otherwise azure blue sky.

I hold myself back from you, harnessing the hot loops of lust burgeoning within me. Seducing men has never come naturally to me, but I have learned enough to know that if I wish to seduce you, I must not overburden you with my presence. I must flash and shimmer in your line of sight like a flighty hummingbird, alluring and just beyond your reach.

So that I may appear busy, I walk over to Professor to ask him if he received the e-mail I recently sent to him.

“Did you send it to my regular account or my school one?” Professor asks, moving his hand as if between the two alternatives.

I shake my head, “I’m not sure. I just responded to the last email you sent me.”

“No, then I haven’t checked it yet. But I will, thank you.”

Satisfied, I mingle with the rest of the class while they talk among themselves and admire the milk-white marble statues of Greek gods and goddesses lined along the high walls of emerald greenery.

The pause in Professor’s lecturing allows me time to reflect on how overjoyed I am to have you here. I can hardly believe it. We’ve had several weeks of class already and I have hardly noticed you until now. Even just an hour ago I thought you were a relatively average young man who enjoyed adventure and beer. Your appearance deceived me and only in speaking to you have you become so special to me. It is, in part, because your appearance deceived me that I find you so attractive. There is almost no pretension in the expression of your intelligence, allowing you to be receptive to ideas that come from outside yourself. The ideas you encounter will broaden your knowledge and reinforce your intellectual power, a power you handle humbly and with humor. You are the embodiment of my ideal partner. I want to draw my lips along the robust nape of your neck, slip my fingers beneath your soft cotton clothes and pull them away. I don’t even know your name but I hardly care. I move toward you to initiate conversation, saying anything just to say something. My words are little nothings, offered to you like folded paper doves who conceal beneath their wings the weight of my desire.

“So, do you like being in Paris?” I ask.

“Yeah, so far I do.”

“What have you done so far that you’ve really enjoyed?”

“On days when we don’t have class, I sit in Musée d’Orsay and read or write.” You gesture as if to the museum’s low bench seats. “I’m writing a novel.”

“I love Musée d’Orsay,” I say, thinking of how we might go there together soon. “I like their collection better than the Louvre’s, I think. What’s your novel about?”

“I don’t tell people . . . fifteen minutes in and you’ll be bored of my explaining.”

I know your suggestion that I would be bored is merely an excuse to keep the content of your novel private. I would never be bored by you. The thought of having your attention for fifteen minutes is thrilling. Though I’m longing to know the story you believe is worth writing about, I tuck the subject away for later.

Beneath your cool, laidback manner I sense you are interested in me. Yet you avoid standing too close, answer my questions but do not ask questions in return. Your body language, though subtle, conveys a conscious hesitation in your interactions with me. Men are supposed to be more forward when they meet a young, pretty girl who shares their interests so passionately. Perhaps you have a girlfriend. I can’t be sure, of course, but it seems the likeliest reason for your reservation. I’ve never gone after someone in a relationship before. It’s not just against my morals, it also seems like a bad idea—inserting yourself into someone else’s problems and becoming one of their problems, too. Despite my basic understanding of right and wrong, logic is finding no place in my mind. If you are in a relationship, I’ll work around that. I’m drawn to you like one magnet impelled to another, obeying the laws of science.