Two Americans in Paris (3 page)

We come to the corner of Le Bassin du Miroir, a glassy, perfectly rectangular lake rimmed with grass. Professor gestures to the basin’s features as he speaks. “André le Nôtre, who was hired by Louis XIV to design the gardens, is focused on illustrating man’s control over nature, perfecting the geometrical lines of everything, whereas in England, landscape designer William Kent emphasized the natural flow of nature, with dainty little flowing waterfalls where elves might have frolicked. In England, that was okay, but that would never have been okay in France.” Professor shakes his head and smiles, thinking of how silly little free-flowing waterfalls would be to the French. “The water is perfectly flat so it acts as a mirror.” He moves his hand in a straight line to emphasize the water’s glassy surface that perfectly reflects the surrounding statuary and shrubbery. “It’s another trick to please the eye and then they put classicized free-standing sculpture around it. It’s all about signage. Can you tell which statues are derived from the Greeks and which are Roman?”

“The urns are more Greek, aren’t they?” I venture.

“And the dramatic poses of the human figures make them Roman-inspired,” Pig Face adds.

“Yes, good,” Professor says. He gestures as though beginning to give a follow-up point but is cut short, his attention drawn to a fit groundskeeper with salt-and-pepper hair pushing a lawnmower along the grass edging the lake. His aim and focus is so intent that he has clearly mowed the lawns of Versailles for decades; he is as much a figure here as the neoclassical statues and dramatic, opulent rooms. The mower’s whirring blade trims the thick grass and lops the blooms off of tiny purple clovers. “Goodbye, flowers,” Professor says.

The entry to our next site, the Colonnade, is blocked by an iron gate so we plant ourselves outside of it and peer in through the bars. The Colonnade, all pure white marble, blazes in the sunlight.

“Which Roman emperor designed a colonnade like this?” Professor asks.

I notice Mermaid opening her mouth hesitatingly. “Hadrian?” she answers.

“Yes,” Professor says. “Hadrian decorated his villa with sculpture and architectural elements just because they looked nice, purely for aesthetic purposes. Louis XIV is drawing from that.” He turns his gaze from the art and sees we are restless and fatigued. “Alright, that’s enough for today.”

Several students stay to enjoy more of Versailles while the rest of us stroll back through the outdoor rooms.

Now that class is over, I must know I will see you again. We need to have longer, more intimate discussions and also, I hope, kiss to still one another’s speech. I comb through the things you said on the train earlier and recall you expressed an interest in going to the ballet. Seeing a ballet together would be so romantic. We could wander the streets of Paris afterward, searching for the perfect glass of red wine, somehow ending up
chez moi
in a puddle of silk and skin.

On our way up the long, shallow steps leading to the palace I align my stride with yours. “You want to go see the Russian ballet or something, right?” I ask, trying to sound as relaxed as possible.

“Yeah.” Your tone of voice conveys only a casual interest, but it’s enough for me.

“We should go.” I tense, my entire body awaiting your response with trepidation.

You nod. “Yeah, we could go.”

The tension of awaiting your response melts in an instant and pure glee rushes through my bloodstream like a honey-soaked river. “I don’t know about Russian ballet, but we could definitely do Opéra or Bastille.”

“Sure.”

Now that our plans are settled I turn our conversation again to literature. “Have you read any Beckett? I bet you would love his work.”

“I have,” you nod. “Recently I read
Endgame
and loved it. I’ve been meaning to read more of him.”

“
Endgame
. . . is that the one with the people in pots?”

“No, the woman who lives in a garbage can.”

I am almost giddy with amusement—an outsider’s ear would find our conversation so bizarre, but to us, the living conditions of Beckett’s characters are a natural part of the literary world. “Oh, yes, I must have read it at some point, but I don’t remember it very well. Beckett’s
Trilogy
is considered his best, but it’s also the most difficult.”

“Trilogy?”

“Yes,
Malloy
,
Malone Dies
, and
The Unnamable
. There are also YouTube videos you should watch for
Not I
and
Play
. Truly horrific to watch but you definitely should if you can sit through them.”

“It’s so hard to meet someone who reads.” You look to me, your gaze weighted with gratitude for having met me.

Your observation strikes me with fresh flutters of joy. “I know.”

We walk together to the RER station, mulling over our own thoughts. I picture your twelve thousand books, the contents of many of them piled beneath your sorrel brows. Among all the pupils of your professor you were the chosen recipient of his extensive literature collection. I am hardly alone in finding you magnificent.

On the train inbound to central Paris, you plop yourself across from me, naturally bonding us within the grove of seats, but throw your left leg onto the seat, adjusting your body away from me.

An acid-bright poster on the platform advertises the soon-to-be-released film
Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen
.

“Look, Transformers!” I exclaim. I hope to take you with me to see it.

“Eh, Transformers,” you say. “My girlfriend’s brother really loved those growing up, but not my girlfriend.” At hearing you mention your girlfriend, I panic. There is a potentially impenetrable obstacle in our having a summer-in-Paris romance. My panic must be showing on my face, because you repeat, “Yeah . . . my girlfriend.” You nod slowly as if confirming your last statement not only with me, but with yourself, saying “girlfriend”
with a wistful tone as if she were distant from you not only physically, but emotionally, someone who no longer causes you the happiness she once did.

I pretend not to hear. I am conflicted about the prospect of becoming “the other woman,” but I push my feelings aside. I can’t deal with them right now. “Megan Fox, she’s in it. She’s hot.”

“Uh yeah, she’s super hot.” A wave of sex ripples through you, your eyes wide as if to take in the full impact of your mental image of her. Changing the subject, you ask, “So what do you do in Paris?”

“I go horseback riding with AUP’s equestrian club sometimes.”

“I’ve never been horseback riding. I would like to try it.” You lean forward slightly, your gaze meeting mine.

“You should come with us! We ride on Fridays.”

A lull in our conversation prompts you to talk over the back of your seat to the rest of our class. You repeat your fist-fight story, seeking attention from a different group of students. The large, red-headed girl who heard your story the first time rolls her eyes. I ignore that, though. Instead, I re-imagine your immediate punch, testosterone zipping through your hot, fast body, the thin trail of blood drying crimson on your white knuckles.

The train pulls toward Invalides and with each passing métro station the time in which we have to exchange phone numbers shrinks.

“So . . . Opéra . . .” I say, hoping you will ask for my number.

“I should probably have your phone number,” you say without further prompt. “I don’t have—just give me yours and I’ll call you.”

I give it to you and stare at my phone, waiting for it to ring. After a few moments, your number runs across the bottom, reminding me I don’t have a name to link to the number. I squirm with embarrassment, for I know you probably do know my name, considering Professor says it all the time. So I have to ask, “What is your name?”

You give me a snarky look, half-smiling and lifting one eyebrow, but give it to me. “Should I ask what yours is, just to even it out?” you ask cheekily.

“Sure,” I say, spelling it out.

The train rolls into métro Invalides and we gather ourselves to emerge en masse onto the platform.

“So are you doing anything this afternoon?” I ask.

“I’m up to lots of stuff.” You bounce a little, your body moving lightly as if you are so busy there is no one activity that ever holds your attention for long. “Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

“Yes! Horseback riding.”

“Ah, horseback riding. I’ll call you in the afternoon. Will that work? Scare the horses?” you ask with a bright grin.

Wrapped up in your magnetic effect on me, I accidentally walk with you to the turnstiles that shepherd people through to connecting trains. “Oops! I’m going out here. Bye!” I wave to you.

“I’ll call you!” You extend your arm into a point as if you really mean it.

I head off toward the exit, repeating in my mind everything we spoke of, your endearing gestures, and your handsome features I long to touch, especially now that I know you have an exceptionally brilliant mind. You exude a passion for life that is absolutely infectious. I want so much more of you. I barely know you—I only learned your name ten minutes ago—but my life is already so much brighter for having you in it.

Golden rivers of lights down her cheeks and joy pours forth from her soul

My horse for the afternoon, Forban, trots around the indoor ring, my legs straddled around his enormous rib cage, my butt bouncing up and down to the rhythm of his gait. I watch my black bag, which is hanging from a peg on the wall, and imagine your missed call on my phone awaiting me at the end of the lesson. On the train returning to Gare Saint-Lazare I check my phone. No message.

Later that evening I lay down on my bed, my fingers brushing the ceiling slanted above my head, and text you. “Hey, you still up for Opéra tomorrow?”

You text back instantly, my phone purring in my palm with the arrival of your words. “Hey, yeah. I tried to call this number earlier but it didn’t go through.”

I doubt you called earlier, as I have never before had issues receiving calls, but I am grateful you have responded to my text so quickly. I text you back, “That’s weird. I’ll look up what’s going on tom. and let you know.”

I balance my laptop on my windowsill to grab a wi-fi signal. According to the Opéra National de Paris website, Shakespeare’s
King Roger
is playing at Bastille tomorrow evening. I arrange with you via text to meet at three in the afternoon to get tickets and then have a late lunch before seeing the play. You ask how nicely you need to dress, so I instruct you to wear a collared shirt, pants, and closed-toe shoes. My favorite part of our plans is their romantic quality: the expectation that we will dress up to share an afternoon and evening of cultural activities. Thinking of our time together tomorrow makes my insides squirm with bubbly hope for all the good things that could happen.

From my window I admire the warm, slate-gray rooftops lit by a rich Van Gogh yellow light all the way down to the Latin Quarter where Notre Dame’s tiny towers appear like a pair of eyes in the velvety dark. The joy I find in looking out across Paris from my window is doubled for I think of sharing it with you and know you would take a similar joy in looking out my window as I do.

An hour later my phone buzzes. It’s a text from you. “I don’t want to be a jerk but . . .” I don’t even bother to read whatever excuse you give—why you can’t make it doesn’t matter to me. I fixate on the last bit of your text, “could we go some other time?” It gives me hope that even though we will not see a piece of theater tomorrow, we will later this summer, when our friendship has had time to flourish.

I text back, “Yes, that’s ok, we can go later.”

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I mull over the dilemma. I am not happy you have postponed our plans, but neither am I surprised. Given that you are in a relationship, the romantic overtones of our plans proved to be too much too soon. Yet, I must see you. Speaking to you inspires in me a sense of warmth and pure joy I have not felt with any other person. An unnamable but powerful force rooted deep within me impels me to you. I want to hinge myself to you, to burrow myself deep within the marrow of your bones and the soft matter of your mind. After all, we are in the City of Love.

I remember that Fête de la Musique is this weekend. Paris never fails to provide. My best friend, Lady, her friend, and I will be pregaming at Lady’s apartment before going out to enjoy the various musical performances around Paris. It’s an ideal opportunity to introduce you to the gorgeous, intelligent women who are my companions, making me even more desirable in your eyes for the connections I have. I grab my phone and text you an invitation to Lady’s gathering. You readily accept. “Sounds great,” your text says. You’ll be there.

I lie down on my bed, simultaneously ecstatic that I successfully determined a way to see you this weekend and horrified that I invited you to Lady’s home without asking her first. I feel I had no choice. Our bond is like an iron rod freshly dipped in fiery coals, its potential for becoming something beautiful enormous. In order for our bond to grow and develop we must see each other often.

Of course, I had nothing to worry about—when I tell Lady I invited you she is okay with it. She trusts my judgment.

Lady is the person in whom I will confide my deepest feelings for you. She is blonde and perky with big blue eyes and is fiercely patriotic for her home country, Poland. We met in our Media Analysis class two years ago. I reminded her of her best friend from Canada and she needed to borrow one of my books—from there we became friends. Her family is wealthy, but hard-working. Although she was once a party girl, she has settled into a strict regimen of studying, maintaining an impressive 3.97 GPA. She lives in the sixteenth arrondissement, the ritziest residential area of Paris. It is lined with row upon row of Haussmannian buildings interspersed with restaurants whose tables are protected by crisp white tablecloths and set with fine white china.

On the evening of Fête de la Musique I make my way to Lady’s apartment with my bag of gin and vinegar chips banging against my calf. Inside her building’s lobby I find the plaque of buttons that connects visitors to residents perched in a corner. While I scroll through the names I imagine how you will scroll through them later, searching for the same name, your firm, pink pads pressing the same keys. I find the name that correlates to Lady’s flat and press “appelle.” The door clicks and I quickly push it open.

Down the hallway on the sixth floor, I hear Lady’s feet shuffling along the floor, her door cracked slightly.

She opens her door. “Hey darling!”

“Hey!”

We press our hot cheeks together, once on each side. I set my groceries down on her freshly cleaned countertops and slip my red flats off beneath the table.

“Oh, your haircut looks so cute!” she coos.

“Thank you! It feels
so
good to have it in some kind of shape.” I bunch my bob in my hand. “Want to start making the mojitos?”

“Yes!” She hands me the mojito mix. I read the back of the package and discover, to our dismay, that for mojitos we would need white rum, not gin, and also seltzer water.

“Well, we have gin. We’ll make gin tonics. I can just run down to the Arab and get some tonic water.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Yes, yes it’s fine, I’ll be right back. My friend will probably be down there, so I’ll get her on my way.”

When Lady returns she brings with her a woman whose beauty surprises me. All of Lady’s friends are beautiful, but this young woman is even more so than I expected. A long slide of thick, jet black hair runs down her back and she is tall and willowy. Her movements are graceful and reserved, her skin the color and texture of a pale pink peony. Despite her appearance of fragility there is a strength within her that causes me to think of the sharpness and intelligence of ravens, so I think of her as Raven.

The phone connecting to visitors rings.

“That’s probably him. You can get it,” Lady says to me.

I pick up the receiver, anticipating the sultry sound of your voice.

“Hey,” you say, your voice slow and warm.

“Hey! Come on up. It’s on the sixth floor.”

“The
sixth
floor?”

“Yes, there’s an elevator on the left when you come in.”

“Oh, okay.”

Every few seconds I glance at the door left slightly ajar. The anticipation of seeing you makes the moments before you appear feel like a mini-eternity. I begin to wonder if perhaps you got stuck.

At last, I hear the sound of flip flops, unmistakably yours, scuffing casually across the clay tiles. From the crack in the door I see you sauntering down the hallway, clutching a liter of partially drunken 1664 beer.

You slip into Lady’s flat and I firmly click the door shut behind you. I introduce you to my friends, terrified they will find your appearance inadequate. You wear the uniform of American male youths: a t-shirt, baggy cargo shorts, and flip-flops—hardly an outfit that suggests you have anything unique or interesting to say. Lady’s expression is subtle so that you do not notice it, but I see her eyes widen with shock and disdain as she takes in your appearance, in particular your half-empty beer and failure to have brought anything to share with everyone. I know, though, that once you begin to speak she will see why I invited you.

You haven’t yet said a word, though. You appear almost dazed to see so many beautiful women I assume you did not expect to meet here. Alcohol is a social lubricant, so I ask you if you would like something to drink.

You hold up your beer. “No, I’m good with this.”

Lady and I deal with our drinks. She jokes, “Alright, you pour. I can drink drinks, but I can’t pour them!”

“You can drink drinks but you can’t pour them? You’re so silly!” I tease her. “Are they cold enough?”

“Not really, but we’ll just drink them like this,” she says.

“Sounds good to me!” I say.

I pour a gin and tonic for Lady and myself. Raven gets herself a glass of water. We gather in Lady’s bedroom, which is functioning as the living room for the evening. Lady sits on a cube cushion against the wall, Raven sits in the desk chair, and I sit on the bed. You stand slouched against the door frame.

“Oh please, sit down!” Lady insists.

“I’m a sloucher. I’m a natural sloucher,” you say, half-smiling.

Soon enough, though, you sit on the bed too, no more than a right angle away from me. I notice the slight knots along your nose are visible even in your profile. You slouch so your t-shirt stretches across your finely muscled back. Your shoulders are broad and limber, reminding me of a lion’s nimble strength. In a moment I could crawl over to you and be in your lap. I lose myself in a daydream of all that I would do while in your lap, and do not hear anything being said. I tune back in when I hear Lady say, “Oh, it’s not the end of the world.”

I quickly respond so I appear to have been paying attention. “2012 is the end of the world, supposedly. All those movies—I don’t think it will actually happen, but . . .”

“I hope it doesn’t. There’s stuff I want to do.” Your words cause giddiness to pop and foam in my stomach. “There’s stuff I want to do” is a vague, simple sentence, but hearing you say it means far more to me than it should. I also want to do and experience many things. I am under the delusion that all I want from you is a summer fling, but the truth is that I wish to perceive you as someone with whom I may share not only Paris but the rest of my life.

In between sips of your beer, you snack on the chips and pretzels set in bowls around the room. “I’ve been craving Mexican food,” you say.

“There’s Mexican food in Poland,” Lady offers.

“Can we go to Poland?” You lean forward eagerly toward Lady.

“You want Mexican food so badly you’re willing to go to Poland?” I ask, incredulous.

“Yes. When I was in Mexico City, I fell in love with Mexican food, fish tacos.” Your lift your face upward, relishing the memory. “Eating fish tacos was like reading Shakespeare for the first time.”

“Eating fish tacos was like reading Shakespeare for the first time?” I repeat. “That’s excellent! That’s going on Facebook! What about bathrooms there? Can you use them?”

“No, you’ll want to just hold it until you get back to your hotel room,” you advise. “The public ones are pretty much unusable. I mean, you can try . . .”

I imagine travelling to Mexico with you, devouring fish tacos and wandering through monumental Mayan ruins, discussing the enduring power of great beauty. We would drink as little as possible, delaying the need to use the bathroom until we return to our hotel room.

Our conversation drifts away from Mexico to AUP.

“I’d like to go to the library. I’ve been craving some poetry,” you say.

“The AUP library is pretty good,” I say. “A lot of people complain about the collection, but they should definitely have some poetry. You can come with me, I work there.” I grin, glad for a reason to invite you to come with me to the library.

“The AUP library sucks!” Lady says, pouting.

“Oh, I know, it doesn’t have a lot,” I say. “But I’ve never gone there and not found what I needed.”

“AUP just sucks,” she says sulkily.

“Well, AUP isn’t perfect,” I agree, “but we do have such a multicultural community and you just don’t get that at other universities. It really adds a whole other dimension to the classes—all the different perspectives.”

“Yeah,” Lady says. “For communications I wrote a paper about how different cultures reacted to
Sex and the City
. I had to do interviews so I talked to French, American, and Japanese girls. French and American women’s reactions were pretty much the same. They thought the women’s lives were very open, especially how they had sex, but Japanese women reacted differently. They focused more on how independent the women were.”

Raven, one of the girls Lady interviewed, affirms that she found the women on the show very independent, very strong and self-sufficient. “It is not like this in Japan.”

“It’s so you to write an academic paper about
Sex and the City
!” I say to Lady. “The women on that show are so skinny though. Men like girls with tits and ass, some body to them, something to hang onto.” I look over at you, a male in the room. “Oh, hah, like I know for sure. But they do, don’t they?”