Two Americans in Paris (30 page)

“He isn’t interested in not being an asshole,” Professor says. “He’s interested in the social advantage.”

“Okay, the social advantage!”

Professor, as keen in social situations as in art history, knows precisely what is going on between you and me. “I think women like fixer-uppers.”

Professor’s prescience comforts me—he understands the inner workings of my desire of you without my having to explain it. “We do.”

You choose another quandary you would like Professor’s opinion on. “The other day she and I went row-boating in the Bois de Boulogne. She wanted to row the boat so we switched places so she could row.” You gesture to me. “These French guys snickered at us. But she was very happy to row the boat.”

I nod, “I was very happy to row the boat.”

Professor says nothing, so you continue your story, divulging another aspect of your row-boating experience that might better pique his interest. “These little kids splashed the oars and soaked me. I was so pissed. They were these little spoiled French kids.”

“Not all French kids are spoiled,” I say.

We look to Professor for an answer. He devises a response that aggregates both our perspectives. “Deleuze expounded the idea of French difference, especially in his work
Difference
. Like, these little French kids, especially in the sixteenth, they’re so cute! With their perfect little strollers and their little bonnets.” He mimes the string of a bonnet around his chin.

“Yeah, the kids in the sixteenth are spoiled,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean all French kids are spoiled.”

“Right,” Professor says. “But it’s either one or the other. American people are so used to a little bit of everything, but that doesn’t exist in France. Like, at Versailles, the man at the door preventing us from being allowed in was mean, but as soon as he gets his paperwork, he’s perfectly nice. That’s why Americans come back from France and they either say ‘Oh, they’re so nice!’ or ‘Oh, they’re assholes.’ There’s no in-between.”

“I read some of Deleuze’s
Proust and Signs
,” I say. “It was amazing. I was blown away by his interpretations—I wrote about it and Proust’s
In Search of Lost Time
for my Lit. Theory class. Proust is my favorite author. He writes so beautifully on memory, time, art, fashion. In my opinion, especially fashion.”

“Proust is good,” Professor says. “If you lined up all of my friends and asked them who they believe to be the greatest author, half of them would answer ‘Proust.’” He moves his hand as if arranging his friends before him. “But I feel like such a chump reading it in English.”

“Well, I guess I should read Proust then.” Your eyes illuminate with your newfound interest in Proust, even though I have told you how much I love his work many times.

“And I guess I chose the right favorite author!” I say.

Inspired by our subject of authors, you bring up another personal opinion you think is brilliant. “I think if everyone were required to read one hundred books, it would change the world!” Your enthusiasm for this idea reverberates through your body like a luminous boomerang flung from your puffed-out chest.

Professor chuckles, shaking his head. “That wouldn’t work.”

You have now brought up several ideas you have strongly believed in, only to have them easily shot down by Professor. There are holes in your intellect I haven’t seen before.

“It’s not about
reading
one hundred books, it’s about understanding them, too. It would be far more difficult to do that,” I say. “Really understanding a book is life-changing, but getting to the point where you are able to understand a text fully is difficult. It requires teachers.”

The boomerang lands back on your chest, no longer illuminated. “Yeah.”

“Like,
The Sound and the Fury
is by far the most difficult book I’ve ever read, but I needed my teacher’s help to get through it,” I say. “Even though Proust is my favorite author,
The Sound and the Fury
is my favorite book. Supposedly Faulkner wanted to color-code it, but his publisher wouldn’t let him because it cost too much.”

“He wanted to color-code it? Really?” Professor asks.

“Yes, my teacher told us about it,” I say. “I think there may be examples of how he wanted to do it on the internet. I’m not sure if they’re accurate, though.”

Professor nods and again alters the course of our conversation. “Why did you come to Paris?” he asks you.

“I came to write my book. A lot of American writers came to Paris to write their great novels. I don’t talk about what it’s about, though.”

“I tried to get him to tell me,” I sigh. “I’m going to write a book too. Not the fashion book I was telling you about,” I say to Professor. “It’s fiction.”

“You write fiction, too?” Professor asks.

I nod. I call my book fiction to ensure you have no reason to suspect its true subject. “I’m thinking about calling it
The 34 Page Love Letter
, though it’ll probably end up having a different title. It won’t actually be thirty-four pages. Anyway, my friend was in love with this guy while she was in Paris and this guy had written a thirty-four page love letter for his ex-girlfriend while he was in love with her. He offered to write one for my friend too, but she declined. Her boyfriend’s dead now. He and his roommate took a lethal dose of heroin.”

“A hot shot,” Professor says.

“Yeah, a hot shot. Ever since then I’ve been fascinated by what you would say to someone in a thirty-four page love letter. I was originally going to write about the Paris part of my friend and her now dead boyfriend’s relationship, but I’ve decided to write about something else.” I look at you a moment or two too long, relishing the brazenness of speaking so openly about the subject of my book which is, at its core, about my obsession with you. I hope that what is hidden in plain sight will escape your notice until I choose to reveal it to you.

Sensing the topic of writing has been exhausted, Professor again redirects the conversation. “So you’re going to grad school this fall?” Professor asks me.

I nod. “Yes, Emerson. I’m doing the Publishing & Writing program. It’s in Boston.”

Your eyes narrow and you tut. “Why are you going to grad school?”

You’ve previously told me that you want to see a bit of the world and work for a while before going to grad school—a path you apparently think I should also follow. “You mean, because I should get some real-life experience first?” I ask. You nod. “What do you suggest I do instead?”

“After undergrad, I went to Eastern Europe.” Professor offers.

“Yeah, do that.” You look at me and gesture to Professor.

“No, don’t do that.” Professor shakes his head and chuckles. “It wasn’t good.”

As I speak my voice is firm. “Well, interest is accruing on my loans with time. I don’t have the freedom to just take off and go anywhere without consequence. And I want to work in publishing, but I’ll need some more internship experience before I can get a real job. Publishing internships are nearly always unpaid, so I need a way to support myself while working for free. Taking out student loans for grad school and doing internships while in grad school is my solution. It’s not ideal. But this is the path I’ve chosen and I’m going to do it.” I look to you for your response and you nod lightly. Satisfied that you accept my choices, I move the conversation in a new direction. “What is your undergrad degree in?” I ask Professor.

“Literature. My Masters and now Ph.D. are Art History.”

“Do you like teaching in museums better?” I ask him. “I thought the class was fantastic, being able to interact with the artworks as you taught us about them.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Teaching in a classroom gives more options with slides but there is a greater intimacy with artworks and students in the museum. I do like it.”

The bottle of wine is nearly empty and pressure is building against my bladder. I excuse myself to use the bathroom and sway a little on my way to the stairs, the alcohol humming through my veins.

When I return, you and Professor are discussing your girlfriend. I wonder if I have missed any parts of the conversation I would find illuminating, but it’s no use speculating. I’m here now, and it seems you just began discussing her.

“How old is she?” Professor asks you.

“She’s twenty-four,” you say.

“Oh, older.” He nods, his eyes widened slightly.

I decide to share my opinion of your girlfriend with Professor here as referee, should his refereeing be needed. “You know, when you talk to her it sounds like you’re talking to someone you know well. But she killed your cat. You know her, but she killed your cat.”

“Being miserable is a great state to write in.”

“You’re an ass to her,” I say, hot lashes of anger laced through my voice. “You’re hurting her more by staying with her.”

“I know. But it’s complicated,” you say. “I’m the godfather of her nephew. It was great. I was going to bring him up with Buddhism, Judaism, Christianity, Islam, all the religions. Do I stop being the godfather if we break up?”

“You would have to talk to her about that,” I say. “You’re obviously not happy being with her and it’s not fair to her to be treated badly.”

“Yes, but it’s hard. You know, give back stuff . . .” you say. I sense beneath your hesitancy a resolve to end your relationship with your girlfriend. I believe this resolve will disappear upon your return to the States when you again feel the depth of her care and love for you. Of course, your relationship with her will inevitably end anyway. The two of you are no longer happy to be together and you aren’t well-matched, either. It’s merely a matter of time. “I don’t want to talk about it,” you say.

“I think she does want to talk about it,” Professor says.

Professor’s prescience again impresses me. Although he’s right, I shoot him a sharp glare to convey the subject must be dropped.

You take charge of changing the subject. “So, did you want to ask him?” You look to me and then Professor.

“Which?” I’m not sure if you’re thinking of the question of what the singular of putti is or whether Baudelaire’s translations of Poe are better than the original.

“About Baudelaire’s translations of Poe. She said they’re better,” you tell Professor.

The corners of Professor’s lips turn upward slightly, revealing a hint of the pleasure he takes in being the chosen person to answer our intellectual questions. “When Baudelaire translated Poe’s work, he transformed the work into something different. His translations of the stories are beautiful. But, they’re terrible translations. Essentially, they’re different works.”

Once again, Professor has found a happy middle ground between our perspectives. “Right, so we can agree on that.” I look to you. You nod.

Our glasses are empty and the rosé bottle is too. We order a final round of beers.

Having recently asked you about your girlfriend, Professor asks me, “Have you dated anyone while you were in Paris?”

“No, not really. Most of the guys I’ve met here haven’t really seemed interested in me. The feeling was mutual for the most part.” I glance at you, thinking that you certainly belong to the category of guys I have been interested in who have not returned my feelings. Having had a barren love life in Paris sounds pathetic, so I decide to share something that confirms my allure to the male sex, hoping it might make you jealous. “There was this one cute guy who eyed me in the Jardin de Tuileries the other day. You don’t want to sleep with people you meet randomly in gardens, though,” I sigh.

“No, probably not,” you and Professor agree.

There’s a pause in the conversation, so Professor, ever the expert conversationalist, keeps it going. “Have you seen other people from the class?” he asks us.

“Not since the end of the semester,” you say. “I was friends with Frame-twin at first, we hung out a lot. But he started hanging out a lot with these frat guys. It wasn’t cool. And then I met her.” You look at me and pause, the focus of your gaze making me feel as though my companionship was all you needed to satisfy you over the past couple months.

Professor takes this opportunity to give some sage advice. “You shouldn’t be friends with a ton of people. When I was in college I was hanging out with people just because they were nice. As you get older, you meet more and more people who share your same areas of interests.”

“That’s good to hear,” I say. “I only ever have a few friends. You know how that professor in Harry Potter ‘collects’ the most brilliant students?” You both nod. “That’s a bit like how I think of it. I surround myself with people who share my interests and perspective on life and who add something positive and unique to it.”

My comment reminds you of a story. “This was on the A train, the day you missed class,” you tell me. “I was saying how my girlfriend would pick up a book on my bookshelf and read a random page, conclude that it was stupid, and then just lay it down on the shelf, not even put it back! So Skeleton said ‘You need someone who reads big, thick fashion books.’”

I repeat the golden nugget in my head: “You need someone who reads big, thick fashion books.” Skeleton knows nothing about me and even she knows I am who you need.