In the Bag (15 page)
“Andrew, you will see that Daisy gets back to the hotel, yes?” Solange asked.
“I will,” he said, holding boxes of cookies in his hands.
He’s adorable. He looks like a little boy carrying a cafeteria tray.
“Good,” Solange said, winking at me. “Because I am staying at Maria Luciana’s tonight.
Maria Luciana. Who knew?
“But Daisy,” Solange continued, “I am taking you to the airport tomorrow morning.”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I’ll get a cab. My flight’s at seven o’clock. There’s no reason for you to get up that early. Aren’t you coming to Chicago next month, anyway?”
“I am,” Solange confirmed. “We will catch up then?”
“Yes,” I said. “Perfect.”
Solange hugged me and performed a yoga bow for Andrew. “I am hopelessly in debt for all you did to make this show happen. Really, I am in debt to
both
of you.”
“I’ll remember that,” Andrew said.
“Good night,” I added as we started down the steps. I stopped. “Wait! I forgot to give you your cell phone.”
I put my box of sweets on the top step and began digging through my purse.
“Keep it,” Solange called over her shoulder. “I have a half-dozen phones. Use it while you’re in Paris. You can give it to me when I’m in Chicago.”
“
Really?
”
“Really. Good-bye!” Solange blew kisses as Andrew and I walked down the crushed gravel path that led to the gates of Retiro Park.
“Why are these things always so exhausting?” I asked.
“I was just wondering the same thing,” Andrew said. “I’m getting too old for this.”
I wondered how old he might be. Early fiftysomething, I imagined. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, but that was no guarantee he was single. Still, it was a good sign, just like his kind offer to help me serve cookies. I suddenly regretted my early morning flight. It would’ve been nice to compare notes about the show over a lazy breakfast.
We walked side by side under a dark canopy of trees toward the park entrance. From a distance, I could see people on the street. They were carrying signs.
“Are those protesters?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” Andrew said, staring ahead at the assembled crowd.
“Look. The signs are cut to resemble hands.”
“Cinco por Cinco,” Andrew said, reading the words on the sign.
“Five for five?” I asked. “What does it mean?”
A teenage couple was sitting on a park bench, watching the protesters.
“¿Qué pasa con ellos?” Andrew asked.
“Manifestación,” said the boy emphatically. “Cinco por Cinco. Son locos.” He made the international sign for crazy by turning his index finger in circles next to his head.
“Do you think they’ve been marching like that all night?” I asked Andrew. “My feet hurt just looking at them.”
He smiled and switched places with me so that he was walking closest to the protesters when we passed them. They were dressed in black. The men, mostly in their twenties and thirties, had longish beards and wore black hats. The women were dressed in skirts and shawls. Up close they looked harmless, almost like the Mennonites who sold apples at the Oak Park farmers’ market.
Andrew and I walked in silence for a few moments.
“I wish you didn’t have to leave so early tomorrow,” he finally said.
Really? Did he wish this for his sake or mine? Or was he just making conversation?
I thought I detected a note of sincere disappointment in his voice.
“I have to get back,” I answered. “I left my daughter there, at Solange’s apartment. She was feeling too sick to make the trip.”
Oh, God. That makes me sound like a horrible parent.
“She’s eighteen,” I clarified.
“Ah,” he said. “I have a son. Seventeen.”
So he was married. Oh, well. Damn. Shit.
“I’ve barely seen him since we got here,” he continued, almost like a confession.
“Is he spending time with . . . your wife?” I asked. “Or, um, your partner?”
I was never this bold. But I was tired, and my flight was leaving in six hours. And, while I couldn’t explain it, I felt a connection to this guy.
Or am I just tired? I know I need a small vacation.
“Just me and Webb,” Andrew said.
“Oh!” I said with way too much enthusiasm. I tried again, less peppy this time. “Just the two of you. That’s . . . nice.”
He was large but gentle: a rare combination in nature. My mind inexplicably flew back to an old chef in culinary school who had repeatedly lectured about how the youngest meat is always the most desirous. It never failed to elicit bemused looks from his students, both male and female.
Fifteen minutes later we were back at the hotel. Andrew watched as I filled the arms of two confused bellhops with boxes of sugary predigital treats. I tried to explain in my best high school Spanish that I wanted them to give the food away to their fellow workers.
“Do you think they understood me?” I asked Andrew when we were standing in the lobby.
“I’m not sure I understand you. But I’d like to. Would it be foolish of me to ask if you’d care for a drink?”
“I’d love one,” I said.
I looked at my watch: 2:05 a.m.
A
s soon as Coco was in the kitchen, I spit the vomitous cheese in my hand.
“Do you want wine or soda or water or . . .” she called.
What I wanted was
time
. And a place to dump the cheese guano I’d held in my mouth for as long as humanly possible.
“Uh, do you have any hot tea?” I asked, grimacing even as I said the words.
Hot tea?
Surely she was more enlightened than my idiot guy friends who equated drinking tea with being gay.
“Oh, sure,” she said brightly from the kitchen. “Solange has all kinds of teas. I love tea, too!”
Suddenly Coco was back in the living room, holding a wooden box filled with tea bags. I hid the cheese in my fist.
“Pick a tea, any tea,” she said, smiling.
“Uh, let’s see. Chamomile sounds good,” I said, handing her the first bag I saw. I had to use my left hand because my right hand held the half-chewed flotsam.
“That might put you to sleep,” she said tentatively.
Did that mean she wanted to go to bed with me?
“You’re right,” I said. “Well then,
mon ami,
I’ll just have whatever you’re having.”
“I really like Earl Grey,” she said.
Is that a double entendre? Is Earl Grey code for a certain kind of sex? I can’t think straight with the aftertaste of poisonous cheese festering in my mouth.
“Excellent,” I said, trying to sound chipper.
While she returned to the kitchen to make the tea, I scanned the room to find a place to stash the cheese.
“This’ll just take a sec,” she hollered.
“Take your time!”
I could’ve tried to sprint to the bathroom and dump the vile stuff down the toilet, but I’d have to pass the kitchen. Wouldn’t I look suspicious hiding something in my hand? Plus, unless I banked the cheese off the side of the toilet, there’d be a huge
plop
accompanied by a hideous smell. She’d think I’d just taken a foul dump.
“Do you want sugar or honey in your tea?” she asked.
“Yes, honey,” I said.
Ugh! Think before you talk, idiot!
“These electric kettles really heat up fast,” she was saying from the kitchen. “And I think they’re, like, super energy efficient. I wonder why people don’t use them back home. Do you know?”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “I mean, no.”
She was still rattling around in the kitchen. I had to think fast.
I could hide the stinky cheese behind a stack of books on a shelf. But the smell would give it—and me—away in no time.
There was only one solution. My duffel bag was sitting near a futon against the wall. If I could just stash the cheese in my bag, I’d deal with it later. I’d dump it down the toilet on the train or throw it out the window or something. Anything. I just had to get rid of it.
I felt myself levitating above the scene, distancing myself from the horror of it all. It was almost as if I was watching myself from above as I moved slowly across the room. I opened the side pocket of my bag and slid the handful of cheese deep inside the tight space.
I was just withdrawing my hand from the bag when Coco returned to the living room carrying two mugs of tea.
“I hope you like—” she began. And then she stopped. “What the hell are you doing in my bag?”
I
could tell Webb was sorry.
“I thought this was my bag,” he said, putting one hand to his forehead. “I am such a moron.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, handing him his tea. “Seriously, no big deal. Do you need to get something from my bag?”
“Uh, no,” he said, looking a bit dazed. “I just . . . um. I’ll deal with it later.”
“Okay.” I blew on my tea and then took a sip.
Silence.
He took a sip.
More silence.
“Do you want to wander around after this?” he asked.
“Sure,” I answered.
Okay, so he didn’t want to have tantric sex with me. Fine. Great. Whatever. That was okay. Maybe it was for the best.
“I should take my camera,” I said. “I haven’t been able to take any pictures since we got here.”
I set my cup down on the floor and reached over to grab my bag. I pulled the top zipper, but gasped in horror at what I saw.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, kneeling to see what I was staring at.
I reached across and pushed him back on his ass so he couldn’t see what I saw. “Nothing!” I said frantically. “It’s nothing!”
“Did I wrinkle your clothes?” he asked. “Do I need to buy you a new wardrobe or something?”
He was being sweet. He was pretending not to notice. But how could he
possibly
have missed the pink padded bra that practically
jumped
out of the bag when I unzipped it?
“I
told
you not to look through my stuff,” I snapped.
“I didn’t,” he said. “I mean, I
had
to look through some of it to see it wasn’t mine. But besides that—”
“Never mind,” I said. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
And I didn’t. But I could’ve
murdered
my mother for telling me to pack my oldest, most worn-out underwear. Bringing old underwear and bras to Paris and replacing them with new stuff had sounded okay at the time. But that was a week ago! And now Webb had seen my faded old flowered granny panties and stretched-out foam-padded bras, which I hadn’t worn for over a year if not
longer
because they were god-awful to begin with and also because the padding had turned all lumpy and tumory.
I felt like screaming at the top of my lungs:
If you think I wear foam-padded bras, I don’t! Right now I’m wearing a gorgeous midnight blue silk bra and matching undies from Galeries Lafayette that would drive you mad with desire, if only you knew!
But of course I couldn’t say that. No wonder he didn’t want to have tantric sex with me.
I grabbed my camera from the bag, trying not to cry. “Let’s just go,” I said blankly.
“Seriously, do I need to buy you new clothes or something?” he asked. “Did I fold them wrong or, I don’t know,
contaminate
them somehow?”
I laughed weakly. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get out of here.”
So we left the apartment and walked around Solange’s neighborhood.
“We could walk to Sacré Coeur,” I said. “It’s pretty close.”
“That’d be great,” he said.
We walked in silence for about a block.
“Coco’s a really cool name,” he said.
“My mom lived in Paris for a while. She went to culinary school here and studied with a pastry chef. She’s wild for chocolate.”
“As in cocoa?” he said.
“Yep. And she loves her designer clothes, especially Chanel. It’s a brand that was started by Coco Chanel.”
“Plus,” he said, “it’s just a cool word to say:
Coco
.”
“I think Webb’s a cool name.”
“Now you’re just being polite, Blouse Girl.”