Two Americans in Paris (27 page)

You sigh. “Alright. We’ll just have to find a bathroom.”

We walk deeper into the park and pass the lake where we’ll go row-boating. For the moment, my plan is to find a map and locate a restaurant or café, which always have bathrooms.

You’re sulky, sighing exasperatedly and grunting. My doleful darling, there isn’t anything I would like less than to cause you any discomfort. I decide to tell you a story to distract you. “The last time I was here my friend and we saw a hooker van and prostitutes got out. Their pimp bought them lunch. I think the vans have little beds in the back of them.”

“Well, yeah.”

“I wouldn’t want to have sex in the back of a stranger’s van, no matter how desperate I was. While we were here, my friend and I also saw a group of men in business suits stroll down one of the roads as if it were the most natural thing in the world. We decided they were looking for the prostitutes.”

You laugh a little and begin searching for a hooker van. At the sight of the next large automobile you ask, “Is that the hooker van?”

“No. The hooker vans are white.”

Disheartened by the search already, your mind resets on the current problem. “You could pee in the woods.”

“I can’t pee in the woods!” I protest. “I just couldn’t. It would be so weird.”

“I’m not going to watch.”

“But it’s knowing that you would know I was peeing. I just couldn’t.” I shake my head. As I look around at the splendor of nature, all I feel is anxiety. My need to use the bathroom is compounded by my knowledge that I’m inconveniencing you. “I feel badly that I have to pee.”

“You should!”

I hope you don’t mean it but the slice of your words cuts upon impact, sending a painful shock through my body. I should scold you for your cruel response but my fear of losing you grips my emotions with thick, black claws and I am stifled. I am determined to not give you the slightest cause to dislike my company until I know your desire to spend time with me will continue when we’re back in the States. I will tell you how I feel about your bad behavior when I know that you miss me and will travel to see me. I must know our friendship will withstand the strain of time and space. So I suppress my confident, bossy self, which you would likely find more attractive if I were to express it. I feel powerless, bound to my uncontrollable longing for the caress of your limbs and the warm outpouring of your love. I want this unpleasant situation to be over as quickly as possible. “I want to break into a run, find a bathroom, and come back to you.”

“Do you really have to pee that badly?”

“No. I just really don’t like inconveniencing people.” Especially you.

Rather than running ahead, I walk briskly, leaving you strolling along behind me as if there were nothing to be in a hurry about. I frequently turn my head to keep track of you.

Finally, we find a map, which shows there is a building with a restaurant in it nearby. We quickly locate it.

Inside, I find a young man in a waiter’s uniform and ask him where the bathroom is. He tells me it’s on the second floor. I soar up the steps. At the top of the second flight I find a powder room and just beyond it is a toilet. It is so beautiful.

Upon leaving, I descend the steps with a one two, one two, rhythm like an overjoyed bunny. Outside, the air seems fresher than before, buoyant with health and vigor. I spot you sitting beneath a tree. I walk over to you.

You look up at me, your chestnut eyes glistening. “I was stung by a bee.” You show me the swollen red bump on your foot.

“Oh no! Are you alright?”

“Yeah. I just feel bad for the bee. He’s going to die.”

I find it agonizingly adorable that you feel badly about the bee’s death even though it stung you. “Aw. Yeah, I guess that does happen. Can you walk?”

“Yeah.”

We stroll back through the park, on our way back to the lake. Even though we’re beyond the perimeter of Paris, the top of La Tour Eiffel peeks over the skyline every once in a while, reminding us of Paris’ closeness.

We discuss Professor’s class and argue about whether Baudelaire’s translation of Poe’s work is better than Poe’s original. You insist that “Poe is too good. It’s not possible Baudelaire’s is better,” while I insist the critical consensus is that Baudelaire’s is better. We agree to ask Professor about it when we meet him for drinks next week. By your suggestion and my initiative to email Professor, he has agreed to meet us on our last evening together in Paris.

We enter the area where rowboats may be rented and each put five euros on the counter to rent a boat for one hour. “If we take more than an hour, they charge us more, so we need to keep an eye on the time,” I tell you.

You nod, “Okay.”

Before getting into the rowboat, I ask you to take the oars first to give the boat direction. When I last took a rowboat onto the lake with my friend, we spent most of our hour stuck in a corner until a young man prodded our boat back out into the middle of the lake.

Like an unsure child, you flap the oars, making splashes in the water. “You look so silly.” I half hide my giggles behind my hand. “I’m so glad you started. I know I would look just as silly.”

“That is why I started.” You keep your expression calm and focused as you settle into the motions of rowing.

“Turn a little to the left. No, no, the right,” I direct you. “It’s backwards for you.”

You slip the tip of your tongue between your lips in concentration. I hold my camera with its focus centered on you. I capture the sphere of your head silhouetted over the quivering poplars lining the lake, the breadth of your torso bending as you row, your smiling face bathed in soft afternoon light. Later, I would show them to my sister. She insists that “It looks as if an angel took them. They’re the only good pictures of him on Facebook.” My sister’s response bolsters my belief that I see the best of you—your handsomeness, sophistication, and intelligence. The rest of the photos of you on Facebook show you as drunk, obscene, and cocky.

I hand you my camera and ask you to take pictures of me rowing. You take off-center photos of me, as though avoiding the intimacy of my image. In an effort to make my appearance as appealing as possible, I turn my head sideways to make my bob look as long and sleek. Aiming for a sexier look, I stare up at you through the fringe of my eyelashes.

“Well, now you just look constipated,” you say.

“Great.” I roll my eyes.
Of course
my attempt to look sexy is a turn-off.

You put my camera back in my purse.

“Can we switch positions so I can row?” I ask.

“How are we going to do it?” you ask.

“We both kneel in the center and then crawl over to the other side.”

I kneel and you do the same. The boat wobbles. I freeze on my knees beside you, silently wishing this were a kinky game and not a maneuver to switch our seats. You scramble up onto the other side.

“Okay, I’m up on the other side,” you say.

I pull myself onto the seat and take an oar in each of my hands. We glide onward.

You direct me as I directed you to ensure we don’t bump into other boats or veer too near the edges of the lake. “Turn that way. Now to the left. Use the left paddle. Okay you’re straight.”

Lactic acid burns in my upper body muscles. “I’m going to be sore tomorrow.” I rub my upper arm, allowing the canoe to float for a moment.

“Do you want me to row?”

“No. I love rowing. Do you want to row?” I offer, hoping you will decline.

“No,” you shake your head. “I’m content to be the passenger. I don’t mind being . . . feminized.” You gesture toward a couple of French men sniggering at us. “I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I know what they’re saying.”

“Oh, they’re teasing you, saying you’re a pussy or something because I’m rowing the boat. But I’m very happy to row.” The sniggering men remind me that anyone who sees us would assume we’re dating. We would be any definition be dating, or at least having an affair, if it weren’t for the lack of physical intimacy.

You continue directing me, “A little to the right. A little to the left. Okay, that’s good.”

When directing me before the men sniggered at us your tone was respectful and kind, but now your tone is condescending. As I follow your instructions, your expression turns smug. I feel like a marionette dangled on strings woven through your wanton fingers. I believe you
do
mind being emasculated, even if on a subconscious level. “I feel like a puppet.” 

Your eyes light up with amusement. “I feel like a puppeteer.”

Your shameless acknowledgement that you are behaving like a puppeteer is disrespectful and unacceptable. Out of self-respect, I cannot remain mute. I consider my next words carefully, suspecting you may not respond positively. “I think your tone is not nice.”

“I don’t think it is.”

“Could you try to be kinder, please, in directing me?”

You look away and don’t answer.

I should admonish you for your irreverence, but you are not mature enough to respond appropriately. You are twenty-one, full of bravado, a man who sees the world only in how much pleasure he may derive from one moment to the next. You are a narcissist, a Tony Stark, an Odysseus. The most important person in your life is yourself. Everyone else is secondary.

But you will not be twenty-one forever. You will grow up and you will learn that there is pleasure in caring for others, too. I do not know how long it will take you to learn this, but it will surely take years. Maybe you will never learn it. It is enormously frustrating to know that even if you were single and we were returning to the same city in the US, I would not be happy if we were dating.

Although you are imperfect, I adore you exactly as you are. As your friend, I want to help you grow, to support you in achieving your successes and console you in your failures. I want to see you happy, successful, and fulfilled. I want to see you spread your wings and soar to the fullest extent possible. You have so much to offer and if you want it, you will have my support in taking every opportunity open to you.

You inspire in me a feeling of infinite joy and unconditional love, a feeling no other person has ever given me. My love for you is rooted in me like a centuries-old oak, capable of withstanding the damage incurred by the storms of your youth and inexperience. Pure goodness lies within you, along with the great and beautiful potential you have to be a loving husband and father.

Right now, though, you’re behaving like a ruffian prince. You move backward and settle into the boat’s bottom. You hold your torso upright on your elbows, your flip flops dangling over the seat.

You continue directing me with a self-satisfied tone. “Turn to the right. A little more. You’re good.” You nod smugly.

At your every command I am increasingly irritated. I feel like a provoked cat, my hair raised on end, ready to strike with sharp, blood-drawing claws.

We nearly crash into a French family’s boat. One of the little kids splashes the oar, sending large dollops of water down your front. As we glide away the wife apologizes and calls out in French, “It’s a thing, it’s hard!” while her two young boys laugh.

“What did she say?” you ask.

“Um, it’s a thing, it’s hard!” I translate.

You sit back up in your seat and quit playing puppeteer. “I hate kids!” you sneer, but your expression turns pensive as you reevaluate your statement. “I hate spoiled little French kids.”

“I think it was an accident. I don’t think they meant to splash you.”

You are indignant and wet, nostrils flared. “I think they did. They splashed me on purpose. Little shits.”

“You could take your shirt off.” I would like you to take your shirt off.

“I could.”

“But then you would be cold.”

“Yeah.”

“It’ll dry quickly,” I assure you.

You relax a little, your tensed shoulders loosening.

“We only have about fifteen minutes left.” I eye the docked rowboats, trying to determine how long it would take to return.

Your eyes focus on me with a knowing stare. “You’re worried about the time.”

You’re right that I’m worried, but I contradict you, “No, no, we’ll be okay.” So as to not prove you are right too quickly, I continue rowing for a few more minutes, but then concede. “Okay, I kind of want to go back.” I turn the boat around and return to shore, awkwardly angling the boat alongside the dock.

“Real good job there, expert rower!” you say, mocking me.

No longer willing to put up with you, I tell you to shut up and you do. The boldness of my pushback feels phenomenal. I have power here, too. You aren’t going to abandon me if I tell you to stop being an ass. This is a solace, but it feels quite obvious, like I should have known it all along.

We get out of the boat and totter for a few steps as we readjust to solid ground.

On the bus back to central Paris, we pass a group of boys playing roller hockey. You look out at them longingly. “If I were out there, I’d be showing them up,” you say. I imagine you among them, your roller blades blazing against the pavement, your stick an extension of your limbs.