Two Americans in Paris (15 page)

We had a passionate stateside reunion, but the longer we spent together the more apparent it became that I wanted to share with him my passion for books, art, and the thinking side of life. He had absolutely no interest in any of this. After no more than a few months, he ended it. My heart was a splintered mess and for a long time I was convinced I would never again find anyone. Once my year at Parsons was over I happily returned to Paris. While walking the beautiful, peaceful streets I thought very carefully about the failure of my relationship and what I wanted in a partner. I decided my ideal partner would have, as I do, a passion for books, art, and life. My ideal partner would also be different enough from me so that we would broaden each other’s perspectives, keeping our time together exciting.

When I first met you, I found you overwhelmingly attractive, but didn’t think I wanted more from you than a summer fling. It is only in spending more time with you that I have come to want more from you. According to my detailed evaluation of your behaviors, passions, goals, perspectives, and so forth, you do fit my “ideal partner” description, with some exceptions. Beyond all that, perhaps even more importantly than all that, I just like spending time with you.

At the Versailles stop we disembark from the train. Insides the gilded gates we cross the courtyard of large cobblestones and walk through the gardens toward Marie Antoinette’s domain. We pass by a tiered fountain filled with finely sculpted bronze frogs and turtles and further on, we stop for a moment to admire my favorite fountain, the Basin of Apollo. In an enormous circular basin a golden bronze statue of the sun god drives his highly energized horses through the water, their strong necks and flowing manes silhouetted against the cornflower blue sky. Everything here is stunning and I am so grateful to be here with you for the second time.

I gesture to the fountain. “Do you want to take photos of this?”

“No. I’m not a tourist. I don’t need those pictures. I like to take pictures of more important things. Like the rack on that girl!” Your eyes are pinned to a young woman whose large breasts are jiggling freely in a revealing white tank top.

We pass through a grove of towering poplars and up ahead of us we see a flock of sheep in a picturesque pasture. We follow a well-trodden grass path to get a closer look at them.

“I love sheep so much. They’re totally dumb, but they’re so cute with their thick wooly bodies, aren’t they?” I ask.

Rather than answer my question with a simple “yes” or “no” you look toward me and say, “The sheps” with an impish smile.

“No, not sheps, they are sheep!” I insist. “If they were sheps, then that sounds as if it is short for shepherds, and I don’t see any shepherds.”

“Sheps,” you repeat with an even more mischievous smile.

I know you are teasing me, so I keep my response “They are
sheep
!” to myself. If I loved you, I would find your saying “sheps” instead of “sheep” endearing instead of irritating. I realize my thought pattern assumes I might love you, which is ridiculous. I’ve only known you for a few weeks! We haven’t even kissed or anything! Because you have a girlfriend! I push the thought that I might love you far away from the surface of my mind, burying it deep within the recesses of my mind.

We return to the main path and enter Marie Antoinette’s domain through a pair of tall iron gates. Inside the Petite Trianon, we buy tickets and walk through the ground floor. Pastel portraits of various Rococo royals are hung along the wall of a white marble staircase. The beauty is so formal it seems almost staid. A fresh breeze whisks in through an open doorway, making me even more eager to be outside. “Want to go outside first?”

“Sure,” you nod, leaning forward already.

Outside, the landscape rolls with lush hills of green grass, patches of forest, and a sparkling sand path winds through the grounds. We stop at a steel-blue pond fringed with cattails and leaning saplings. Opposite us is the Pavillion de Musique, a glowing white marble bandstand. Drawn by its beauty, we go around the edge of the pond and up the small hill of damp grass on which it sits. A sheet of waist-high plastic prevents us from entering, so we peer inside. Silver and gold ivy is painted between the windows. Much of the interior paint is peeling, the loose strips reminding me of an artfully shredded couture gown.

We go back to the path, but soon feel drops of rain rolling down our necks and along our arms. We return to the bandstand, which has a short overhang that shelters us from the rain. I watch the rain ping on the water, its surface a rippling print of interlocking circles.

Others join us beneath the bandstand’s overhang to get out of the rain, making us move closer together to make room. You are so close I can feel your body’s warmth. Your fingertips brush lightly against mine. It almost feels like you’re caressing the back of my hand, teasing me. The lightest pressure from your fingers sends tingles through my bloodstream, their intensity increasing the longer we stand here until I am so high that I am only half-aware of our surroundings. I feel that I could be blissfully content to just stand here forever. I know, though, that in order for your hand to do more than brush against mine, we will have to move on from here until we reach a private space, namely my box. I can only imagine how wonderful it would be to feel the grace of your touch not only on my hands, but across every inch of my skin.

The rain soon slows to a drizzle. The other people with us beneath the bandstand’s hood begin to disperse. “Do you think it’s okay to go out now?” You gesture toward the path.

Although I would like to keep you close a little longer, I know my desire is not reasonable. “Sure.”

We return to the path. The air, thick with cool humidity, envelops our bodies as we make our way around the back of the bandstand and through a patch of woods. Drops of water fall from tree leaves as we brush past. Being with you in this lush, freshly wetted forest feels almost magical. I feel as though as if at any moment we might spot Pegasus shaking his wings free of raindrops or a fairy flecking drops of water from her tiny wings as she plays in a rose bush’s velvety blooms.

You aim ahead in front of me with vigor and energy. Unexpectedly, you fart—a single, clear pop from between your butt cheeks. The childish part of me thinks it’s funny, but my mother taught me that a lady ignores it when someone farts. I ignore it.

We encounter a short slope in our path, which you descend with no trouble at all, but I have a paralyzing fear of falling down so I step down the slope with tiny, pathetically cautious steps. I am afraid you will notice me lagging behind but cannot make myself go any faster. You stop no more than a couple strides away me. You sigh and shift impatiently, but say nothing. You offer to help me down. I would typically decline, but the prospect of having your hand in mine is too alluring. My hand meets yours and an ache of longing burns in my abdomen. As I step slowly down the slope, you offer reassurance, “Just take it easy. It’s okay.”

I find comfort and safety in your guidance and imagine you as my guardian lamassu, your lion chest broad, your eagle wings folded protectively over me, your large lion paws gently guiding me. Because of your aid, I am able to make it to the bottom of the slope more quickly and easily than if you were not there. You allow your hand to linger in mine for just a moment too long before releasing it.

At the end of our path through the woods I look up and see the Norman-esque village of Marie Antoinette before us. It looks almost unreal, like something that could only appear in a pop-up fairytale book. There is a large, wooden waterwheel that slowly turns, sloshing water. Each of the quaint, picture-perfect cottages are unique. One is built with warm yellow and pale brown stones, another with the wooden crossbeams exposed, and yet another built alongside a small watchtower reached by a wooden spiral staircase.

We gleefully watch emerald-headed mallards paddle toward us through the river that snakes through the grounds. Beneath the mallards, a carpet of fat carp look up at us with soulless eyes.

Following the walkways, we choose one direction or other on a whim. Along our path we encounter pens of farm animals. One pen is filled with a variety of birds—plump chickens, turkeys, and a pair of peacocks. Another pen holds fat, black-haired pigs munching on food.

Further on, brindle donkeys hee-haw and shake dust from their short, stiff manes. They trot up to us and we stroke their velveteen muzzles and run our fingers down the length of their thick, pliable ears. Directly in front of us, a pair of donkeys link their necks so their muzzles rest in the dips of each other’s backs, a touching display of donkey affection. It’s a sign! Even the donkeys know we should be more than friends. You scramble to take a photo and capture the moment in the nick of time. The caretakers carrying buckets of hay have arrived, unlocking our donkeys who clip-clop to their dinner.

Deciding we are finished with Antoinette’s domaine, we turn around to make our way back to the Petite Trianon. I think of how warm and soft the donkey’s ears were on my fingertips and am reminded of the warmth of your hand against mine. The feeling is addictive and I’m craving it already.

You turn to me with an exultant look on your face. “I know this is becoming a cliché, but this was one of my best days in Paris.”

“Me too!” I look over at you, seeing how happy you are to have spent so wonderful a day with me. Your happiness in combination with the unexpected but all-too welcome hand-holding gives me hope that you will say yes to sleeping with me tonight.

“You know, I love how you organized everything. Buying ballet tickets, now here, and warm food next. Can’t wait for that. I’m so hungry.”

I run my hand down my abdomen. “Me too. And I’m so glad to be able to share all the knowledge I’ve gained while I’ve been here. Plus, I like the control of organizing everything.”

“We work well together.” You grin, your eyes glimmering lasciviously.
“Indeed we do.” I can’t wait to get back to my apartment.

We pass a tree-bush of white hawthorn bells that look like the most intricate lace, their scent clean and light like laundry detergent. Just up ahead is the Petite Trianon, which doesn’t interest either of us much. We decide to skip it and head back through Versailles toward the exit.

As we walk through the outdoor aisles of the gardens my mind wanders to the past few evenings I’ve spent reading one of your favorite books. “I started reading
Naked Lunch
. So far, it seems just like an onslaught of obscene, really bizarre images and passages about obtaining and taking hard drugs. Does the drug stuff ever stop?”

“No. It’s this constant drug, nightmarish dream sequence. He even says in there ‘If you’re trying to read this in order for it to make sense, it’s not like that.’ There’s no meaning.”

“Of course there’s meaning!” I retort. “I feel like it’s designed to elicit a visceral reaction. When I read it, I feel like I’m inside the mind of someone on a drug rush. It’s obscene, grotesque, insane. How can the book be meaningless if I react so strongly to it?”

“But the prose itself has no specific meaning. There’s no logical narrative. That’s part of what made it so radical when it was published, why the classical literary world took a while to accept it as literature,” you explain. “There may be meaning in your reaction to it, but there’s none in the book, especially in the sense that there’s no story, no moralizing tale. None of that.” You move your hand firmly through the air like Professor does when he lectures.

As you speak I can feel the gears of my mind shifting, learning your fresh perspective. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” I grin. “Not sure I agree, though. We’ll have to discuss it more once I’ve finished it.”

“Sure. I’d love that.”

I have always wanted a good friend to discuss literature with, and you’re the first. Curious about how the small miracle of our meeting came to be, I ask you how you ended up taking Professor’s class.

“Well, I had decided to come to Paris to write my novel,” you say. “A lot of American writers came to Paris to write—Hemingway, Fitzgerald, a lot of the beats. So I was planning on coming to Paris for the summer, and my dad suggested that it would be easier to do it through a program. So I found this one, Abroadco. You pay them and they arrange your housing, classes—all of that. Most people go to the Sorbonne, but I picked Professors’ class at AUP. I’m glad I did.” You look to me with a grin, your chestnut eyes bright. “So, is this your last semester at AUP?”

I nod. “It is. After this I’m going to Emerson to do a Master’s in Publishing and Writing.”

“Mm. Where is Emerson?”

I wonder if you’re curious about how far away I will be from you once we’re back in the States. “It’s in Boston. I’ll visit my friend in NYC pretty frequently, though.”

On the train we plop side by side onto a pair of seats, glad for rest. Once we are back in Paris I look out the window and see puffy blue-gray clouds hanging over the buildings, promising more rain. I tell you we’ll switch to line thirteen at Invalides and get off at Saint-François-Xavier, so it’ll be no more than a minute-and-a-half walk to my building.

As we exit from Saint-François-Xavier we are greeted by a heavy drizzle. Tucking our heads against the rain, we hurry across Boulevard des Invalides and onto my street, rue de Babylone. A few doorsteps down I turn into my doorway and swiftly tap my code into the keypad. I push open the door and you follow me into the hallway.

“It really was only a minute and a half!” you say.