Two Americans in Paris (21 page)

Inside my box I stand at my window, admiring the cityscape and enjoying the cool breeze against my neck. I text you to let you know I am home. Just as I’m about to turn away from my window, I hear the sound of a horse’s iron-clad hooves clip-clopping down pavement. I watch, amazed, as a young woman trots down the street below my window on a white horse. Never before have I seen a horse trot down my street. I am flooded with appreciation for the beauty I find in the sight. It is an exquisite reminder that no matter what happens with you, I will always have Paris.

She lies in a bed of white satin apple petals, enraptured by the golden silk threads of their stamens

On my way home the following evening, I muse over my affections for you and the infinite possibilities of what we may do this evening, as I have come to do so often. My vision of our ideal evening entails grabbing a drink in the tenth and then seeing a play at the Bouffes du Nord, and perhaps then grabbing another drink. It would be just like a date, except without the expectation of kisses and shared beds, although I retain an unerring hope we may enjoy these pleasures, too.

I gaze up at the buildings tinted a rich, butternut gold by the softening sunlight, reminding me you haven’t called me yet to make plans for tonight as you said you would. I see no purpose in waiting around for you to call, so I decide to take the initiative and call you.

You answer my call with “I was just going to call you,” acknowledging you were the one who was supposed to be doing the calling. “I can’t make it to hang out tonight. I have a horrible stomachache.” All my imaginings of our out-on-the-town evening together are instantly obliterated and replaced by empathy for your illness. I feel as though a pit has spontaneously emerged in my stomach. “I’m walking around trying to find a pharmacy but they’re all closed.”

“There’s one pharmacy in every arrondissement that is open twenty-four hours,” I tell you. I am so grateful to be able to share my knowledge of Paris with you when you most need it.

“Oh, I didn’t know that.”

To allow you to continue your search, I end the conversation with my well-wishes for your feeling better soon.

Inside my box, I search the internet for 24/7 pharmacies in Paris. I contemplate rushing out to get medicine for you and showing up at your door, cure in hand. I know this would be far too much for me to do, though. Only for your girlfriend or mother would it be appropriate. I decide to write a message to you to offer what I feel is appropriate: soup or tea and a movie in bed—the same as I would do for Lady if she weren’t feeling well. In an effort to be honest and clear about my intentions in general, I add to the message that I don’t want you to remember me as the girl you cheated with in Paris, but as the girl with whom you made wonderful memories.

Throughout the following day, I anxiously wait for a message from you to appear in my inbox. By late afternoon, there is still no response. I fear my message has somehow offended you or revealed too much about my affections, though underlying my paranoia, I know my fear is irrational. Nothing I said in the message was offensive. It was only too honest, at most, so I shouldn’t worry too much about it.

To distract myself, I burrow into my literary theory homework of selected readings by Nietzsche and Derrida. As I read the texts, I imagine discussing my understanding of the philosophers’ ideas with you. Because I know you believe education should be open and accessible to everyone, I feel certain you would say Derrida’s work, like that of many of his contemporaries, alienates anyone unable to untie intellectual knots. I, however, think the struggle to understand his work is part of Derrida’s intention—to push readers’ minds to take on complex ideas that are conveyed in complex forms, thereby forcing the reader to consider the ideas in the most focused manner possible. Still, I believe we would agree that Derrida is so abstract it is difficult to relate it in any meaningful way to life experiences.

Yet, after having this imagined intellectual conversation with you, I feel trapped in a circuitous pattern of addressing my thoughts to you and inventing responses I think you might make. Outside of this pattern, there is an infinite universe of my own creativity and intellect unconfined by my imagined version of you. Addressing my thoughts to you is limiting the potential breadth of my intellect. Doing so induces in me a sense that I am incapable of finding new perspectives from which to consider ideas on my own, which is not true. There are cracks in my strength of self and I am becoming dependent on the thought of you to satisfy myself.

I know this is a horrid state to be putting myself in, but I have always wanted someone in my life who actually wants to discuss intellectual topics with me and also has a perspective distinctly different from my own. Doing nothing more than talking to you is among my greatest pleasures, so I can hardly prevent myself from fixating with careless abandon on the vast number of potential subjects we may discuss.

Interrupting my infatuated thought patterns, my phone buzzes. It’s you. I’m so excited I nearly drop my phone. “Hey!”

“Hey. Padd and I are going down to the Eiffel Tower tonight. Do you want to meet up with us?”

“I’d love to!”

We arrange to meet at eight-thirty around the Champ de Mars by the Eiffel Tower. As soon as we say goodbye, I allow myself to savor the warm ecstasy that has flooded my system like a tropical pool flush with life at high tide. Our evening will be luxuriously simple, just lounging on the Champ, chatting, and drinking wine—I have a bottle of red on-hand just for such an occasion. This is also the first time you have taken the initiative to invite me out. I interpret this happy turn of events as an affirmation that I am someone you actively choose to spend your time with. This is, to me, a huge milestone in the deepening of our bond.

In the depths of my mind, I know I shouldn’t go out tonight. I’m not done with my homework, but it can wait. I also had tentative plans to go to the hammam with Lady if I got enough of my work done.

I text Lady and tell her I need to finish my paper. Lying to her makes me feel awful, but I must see you. Everything else is inessential.

On my way to the Champ, a light, warm breeze makes the light silk of my hot pink dress swish softly between my thighs. I am filled with anticipation for seeing you and the laidback evening we will share. The path to the Champ is lined with gates blocking off large expanses of space for the preparations for Bastille Day, which I plan to spend with you. I make my way around the blocked-off areas until the Champ de Mars unfolds before me, wide and green, peppered with lounging people.

I search the bodies sprawled on the grass for you and Padd, but all the bodies appear indistinguishable from one another. I call you to figure out where you are. At first, our descriptions of our surroundings sound identical—at the Eiffel Tower with rows of trees and sand paths on either side—but then you explain that you are directly beneath the tower.

“You’re under it?” I exclaim. “Why? Champ de Mars is over here! Meet me here.” But you say no, and ask me to meet you under the Eiffel Tower. This doesn’t make any sense to me, since we’re going to be on the Champ anyway. Essentially, you are asking me to come fetch you. Rather than have an argument, I relent and say I will come find you. I want to see you, no matter how much work it might take. It occurs to me that you may be insisting I come find you because you know I like you and you don’t want to put forth the effort to find me. The implication of this thought, though, is that you are willing to take advantage of my feelings for you. Not wanting to assign any additional flaws to your character, I push the thought aside. The situation does not have in it enough evidence to conclude decisively that you are taking advantage of me.

Fueled by my desire to see you, I locate the path through the barricades that leads to La Tour Eiffel with hardly any trouble. Once I reach the Tower, I press past masses of tourists and center myself under it. Like the ceilings of Gothic cathedrals, the height of the Tower’s inner ceiling draws my gaze upward until I am looking straight up its full height. Between the metal crosshatches, tiny patches of the deepening blue sky are visible. For a moment, I feel as though I am alone with this behemoth icon of art and architecture, the most recognizable symbol of Paris.

Too soon, I recall you are here, waiting for me. I pull my gaze back down and pan my eyes over the crowd. My eyes fall first on Padd, who sticks out as a tall, lean figure, and then focus on you. I wave and your eyes lock on me. As we move toward each other, I evaluate your walk—half-strut, half-mosey, like a blue ribbon stallion on vacation. After all the difficulty of locating each other, it is such a relief for us to see each other that we greet with a hug. Having your warm chest pressed to mine in greeting is such a welcome, unanticipated pleasure—this is the first time we’ve greeted each other with a hug.

We pull back from our embrace and I feel as though my veins have been filled with an ambrosial drug. I look at you, the source of my pleasures, the person to whom I would like to give every imaginable joy, and think of the wine in my purse. I know you will be pleased to hear I have brought it. “I have wine,” I say.

In response, you stand up straighter, your chest puffed out as if it has been filled with this unexpected treat. “Oh, well that sets the mood.”

On the Champ, we choose a spot of lawn and sit, the scruffy grass prickly against our calves. I grab the wine from my purse and drive the corkscrew into the cork. Recalling how helpless you looked when you couldn’t uncork the wine when we last had dinner together, I twist and tug on the corkscrew. I want to give you an opportunity to help me open the wine as I helped you. “Can you do it?” I hold out the half-uncorked bottle.

You smile and give me a cheeky, knowing glare, but take the bottle between your hands and easily free the cork.

Since I didn’t bring any glasses, we drink directly from the bottle. The wine, a Pinot Noir, is delicious, though Padd declines to have any. I relish the knowledge that by sharing this bottle, we are also indirectly sharing saliva, which we would be directly sharing if we were ever to kiss. I know this thought makes my desire for you especially pitiable, but because actually kissing is forbidden by your commitment to your girlfriend, even the indirect contact is tantalizing to me.

“How was your day?” you ask.

“Quiet. I did my homework, read some Nietzsche.” I think of the conversation I imagined having with you. I decide to see what it would be like to actually have such a conversation with you. As I speak, I gesticulate to emphasize my points and focus on conveying my thoughts accurately but casually so you do not find missteps in my intellect. With any other friend I would be confident in my intelligence, but you so easily express alternant perspectives to my own I must be doubly careful about my choice of words. “Apparently we understand everything through metaphor,” I say. “Every word is a metaphor for something else. Like ‘cat’ has no meaning without the association of images of cats we attach to the word. And since we each have different associations with cats, everyone has a slightly different association with the word ‘cat,’ which means that when we talk, we’re never able to relate exactly what we mean to another person. But that’s just the nature of how we communicate, and that is all I understand about Nietzsche.” I let out a deep breath and await your response.

You nod, “Yeah. The only Nietzsche I have read is his writing about the Übermensch, sort of like a Superman, which humanity is supposed to aspire to. Basically, he says humanity as a whole can benefit from individuals working to improve themselves.” You pause, reflecting for a moment. “I hadn’t ever thought of it that way, that by improving myself, I am also working toward bettering humanity as a whole. I don’t know how well the idea works in practice, but it’s a nice thought.”

I find it admirable that while the narcissistic part of you would like to think your efforts to self-improve benefit for everyone, you recognize that Nietzsche may not have been right. Your questioning of a great thinker underlines your own keen mind.

I look over at Padd. He’s hardly said a word, so I invite him into the conversation by asking him if he has read any Nietzsche. He says he hasn’t. Padd’s disinterest in our conversations makes me wonder why you brought him. From my perspective, his presence is an assurance that we do not do or say anything romantic or sexual, which may have been your reason for bringing him. He is our chaperone for the evening. In keeping with this duty, he doesn’t seem to be enjoying himself.

Pulling my attention away from Padd, the white lights arranged around the perimeter of the Champ change to magenta, coloring the lawn a bright pink. The light is surreally beautiful and transforms your appearance. I discreetly study your magenta-tinted skin, the Tiepolo pinks highlighting your cheekbones and the Titian reds that fill the shadow beneath your fine jaw and in the crooks of your arms. After a few moments, the bright pink fades, turning to violet, lining the curves of your ears with indigo shadows. You turn your head slightly toward me, revealing tiny periwinkle pinpoints of light reflecting on your chestnut irises.

Wanting to see you again as soon as possible, I ask if you want to meet at your place to have lunch before coming down to the Champ on Tuesday for Bastille Day.

“Sure. That sounds great,” you say.

The lights around the perimeter of the Champ return to their typical white. As if to continue the spectacle of light, the Eiffel Tower sparkles as it does for the first ten minutes of each evening hour, bestowing on you a pale, shimmering radiance. We finish off the bottle of wine and chat about nothing in particular, just saying things for the sake of speaking.

When the Tour Eiffel returns to its marigold glow, we gather ourselves in preparation for departure, the grass springing up from our palms and heavy legs as we stand up.

You say you aren’t sure how to get the RER B from here, so I offer to show you the way. “It’s on my way home,” I say, though it actually isn’t. I just want to spend a little more time with you. We wind through the streets with an unhurried gait. At the intersection of our paths, I point you toward the RER and we wave goodbye.