In the Bag (3 page)
As I saw it, I had two options: one was to tell Mademoiselle Scarf that she was in the wrong line of work; the other was to breathe deeply and solve the problem myself.
I put my arm around Coco’s shoulder. “Let’s find an Internet café. We’ll file a report with the airline.”
Coco sniffled and nodded. And then, as was her habit, she ran her hands nervously through her toffee-colored hair.
My daughter. My beautiful eighteen-year-old daughter. She would throttle me if I told her in that moment she looked like her most adorable self. She would also object to the fact that I couldn’t help loving these rare times when she needed me. It was such a nice change from recent years when I seemed to have become an unwanted appendage, like those absurd-looking prehensile arms on dinosaurs.
“But first, we’re going to have a delicious lunch,” I said.
As a chef, I have always believed that a good meal can solve most of life’s problems. I slipped the creepy note in the pocket of my black slacks and forgot about it until that evening.
I
couldn’t blame Dad for being pissed. He had a lot on his mind. I’d told him I’d stay out of his way on this trip. And here I was screwing up already.
We were in the hotel lobby. Dad was talking to the concierge, trying to explain the situation.
“We flew from St. Louis to Chicago,” Dad began.
“Chicago,” the concierge echoed. “Very
bayou
-tiful city.”
“It is,” agreed Dad. “And then from Chicago, we flew to Paris. And in Paris, we caught a flight here. To Madrid.”
“Madrid!” said the concierge, gesturing grandly with his hands. “Welcome to Madrid!”
“Yes,” Dad said, gritting his teeth. “Thank you.”
This wasn’t going well.
Dad’s BlackBerry was chirping. He looked uncharacteristically hopeful at the interruption, and then excused himself to check his messages. I collapsed in a lobby chair with the errant duffel bag at my feet. I couldn’t help looking at it dismissively, like it was a stray dog that had followed me home from school.
And that’s when I saw it: a small white card tucked in a side pocket of the bag. I pulled it out and read it.
Dad was still messing with his BlackBerry and swearing under his breath. So I stuck the card in my pocket, grabbed the duffel bag, and approached the concierge.
“Um,” I said. “¿Tiene una, um, sala con—”
I had no idea how to say “computer” in Spanish, so I stupidly tapped my fingers on an invisible keyboard in front of me.
The concierge responded enthusiastically. “How wonderful is your Spanish!” he said. “Yes, we have the business center. It is down the hallway. To your left.”
“Gracias,” I said.
I caught Dad’s eye and indicated with my head where I was going. I still had the wrong bag, but at least I now had a clue who it belonged to. Something in me wanted to solve this screwup alone, without having to waste any more of Dad’s time.
When I found the business center, I logged on to a computer, opened my e-mail account, and started writing.
A
fter we left the airport for the second time in one day—
argh
—Mom and I had lunch at a café in a neighborhood called Saint-Germain-des-Prés. We sat outside at a little round marble-top table under a blue awning. It was my first meal in Paris.
I had a plain omelet, which weirdly came with french fries. It should’ve tasted delicious. I should’ve felt chic. But instead I felt like crap because I was wearing the same clothes I’d had on the day before, when we left Chicago.
“Isn’t this wonderful?” Mom asked, trying to be all bright and cheery.
I needed to be nice to Mom. She’d had a rough couple of weeks.
“Yeah, it’s cool,” I said. “I want to take pictures of everything.” And then I remembered. “My camera’s in my bag.”
“You
packed
your new camera?” Mom asked. “That should’ve been in your carry-on.”
“I didn’t actually think they could lose my luggage on one friggin’ flight,” I said sharply. “We didn’t even have a
connection
. If you’d have let me bring my iPhone, I could’ve taken pictures with
that
.”
“Honey,” Mom said firmly, “we’re going to find an Internet café and report your bag to the airline.”
So that’s what we did. After lunch, we found an Internet café right next to an ATM where Mom got some euros. She handed me a thin stack of bills.
“Here,” she said. “Put these in your pocket. Keep an eye on them.”
“Mo-om! It’s not my fault about the bag!”
“I didn’t say it was. I’m just telling you to watch out for pickpockets.”
“Right,” I mumbled. My eyes were stinging. I knew if I didn’t watch it, I would start crying again.
I hated when I acted bitchy with my mom. But I couldn’t help it. She always knew
exactly
what to say to make me come totally unglued. And then she’d have some credible but completely random excuse about what she
really
meant, so it seemed like
I
was the one who was in the wrong.
We were barely speaking by the time we settled in at separate computer terminals.
“I’ll deal with the airline,” Mom said, handing me a slip of paper with a log-in password. “You do whatever you want.”
Fine.
I immediately went to my Facebook account. I had a few messages, which I glanced at quickly. Unlike my friends, I found keeping up with Facebook dull and exhausting. So I opened my e-mail account. That’s where I saw a message from an address I didn’t recognize.
Fr: Webbn@com
To: CocoChi@com
Subject: Your bag
Dear CocoChi,
I got your e-mail from the card in your bag, which I picked up by accident this morning at the airport in Paris. I would’ve taken it back to the airport, but I left almost immediately for Madrid. I didn’t even realize I had the wrong bag until I got to the hotel. Is there any chance you have my bag? I think I forgot to put my name on it. But you’ll know it’s mine if it looks exactly like your bag, except it’s filled with guy stuff and a couple of books, including Walden by Henry David Thoreau. (A good book, if you haven’t read it.)
Anyway, sorry about the mix-up. If there’s anything in my bag you want to wear, help yourself. At some point I’d like to get my bag back, but I’m not sure how we’re supposed to do that. Any thoughts? I will be back in Paris on Saturday and then back home in St. Louis on Sunday.
Sincerely jet-laggedly yours,
Webb Nelson
I responded immediately.
Fr: CocoChi@com
To: Webbn@com
Subject: Re: Your bag
Mr. Nelson:
Thank you SO much for letting me know you have my bag. I am HAPPY and relieved beyond words! My mom is checking the airline’s website right now to figure out how we’re supposed to exchange bags.
I’ll get back to you soon.
Thanks for writing!
Coco Sprinkle (in Paris)
P.S. If you don’t mind me asking, what kind of name is Webb(That’s supposed to be a question mark, but I can’t find one on this keyboard.)
I
’d been in Madrid less than three hours, and already I was regretting taking the job.
The problem wasn’t the show itself. I liked the concept. The exhibit was titled
Love in the Postdigital Age.
The idea was to showcase the first generation of artists working in a postdigital environment, artists who had come of age with PlayStations, Facebook, and iPods. Their art reflected their electronic sensibility. Instead of working with canvas and paint, these artists used interactive computer games, virtual-reality installations, laser displays, and 3-D short films.
The museum had hired me to create a space that would display these works in a way that encouraged viewers to not just see them, but, in the words of the curator, “to experience them and their creators’ passion.” Or what passed for passion. (Forgive the cynicism, but that’s what you get when you hire a fifty-three-year-old exhibit designer.)
The curator was a woman named Solange Bartel. I’d worked with Solange on previous shows and spoken with her by phone dozens of times during the months I worked on the design for this exhibit. From the beginning, Solange was clear about her vision for the show. We agreed on the importance of creating a space that felt modern and high-tech, but not cold and uncaring. After all, this was a show about love.
I’d heard nothing but good things from Solange. For weeks, every e-mail from her was positive. But if her first message to me in Madrid was any indication, Solange was like every client I’d ever worked for. Everything is wonderful, perfect,
brilliant—
until forty-eight hours before the exhibit is scheduled to open, when everything becomes a problem, a crisis, a disaster. And it’s all my fault.
“A cluster,” Solange wrote in her e-mail. “No elec since last pm.”
Most of the pieces in the show required monitors or plasma screens, so a power loss was clearly a problem.
“Just got to hotel 1 hr ago,” I responded on my BlackBerry. “Grabbing something to eat and then I’ll be @ site.”
“Hurry!” she e-mailed back.
I skimmed the rest of my messages, looking for a response from Ms. 6B. Nothing. So I went in search of Webb, who had parked himself in the hotel business center.
“Hey, Dad,” he said, smiling broadly. “I think I’m getting this situation figured out.”
“Situation?”
“My lost bag,” he said. “My clothes and stuff.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “Good.”
This
was
good. I wanted Webb to be able to solve his own problems. Let him be resourceful, I thought. Let him find his way in the world. Let him develop the buoyancy that life demands. He was seventeen, for God’s sake. Let him learn how to look people in the eye and deliver a firm handshake. And please don’t let him grow up to be one of those thirty-year-old guys I always saw on flights, playing games on their phones and laptops.
“Let’s get something to eat and then head over to the exhibit space,” I said. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Webb hesitated. “Um, is it okay if I stay here for a while? Till I get this bag stuff figured out?”
“You’re okay on your own?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I can get food here at the hotel, can’t I?”