Two Americans in Paris (28 page)

Pulling your attention away from the window, your phone rings. It’s your girlfriend. You talk to her about the weather at her sister’s wedding. The call is short. You give her curt answers and hardly ask any questions. I hear her say “I love you,” but I’m not sure if I heard correctly. In any case, if it is what she said, you don’t say it back. You just say goodbye.

You look anxiously out the window at the métro stations we’re passing. Each one is a potential escape route. The bus is increasingly crowded and you’re getting claustrophobic. I am too, but I don’t want you to leave yet. I want five, ten more minutes with you. I tell you the RER B stop is right by where I am getting off. “It’s right there, literally right there,” I say. “Much faster than any of the métros.” You still want to get off, but relent, and stay beside me.

At my stop, we squeeze through tightly packed bodies to get off the bus. At the RER B station you don’t hug me as you usually do. You just wave goodbye and disappear down the steps. I wave back and force a smile even though I’m fuming. Hugs are the only physical contact we have, for now. I feel robbed of a sacred physical intimacy that is, to me, a meager substitute for the sex you have denied me. I think ridiculous, insane things like
I’ll get a hug from you next time! I’ll hug you as soon as I see you! I can’t believe he didn’t hug me goodbye even though our day together was horrible.

I tell myself to calm down and stop being foolish. Neither of us behaved well today. You were inconsiderate and I let you be. Of all the days we have spent together, today is the only day I have left your company unhappy. I comfort myself with the knowledge that tomorrow I will be on my own and may spend my time however I wish. We will see each other the day after, when the rough waters between us have calmed and been forgotten.

A stutter of dark lightning passes over her eyes, blinding her to her rapturous mistake

For my day alone, I decide to go to the Paris zoo but get lost and end up in the Bois de Vincennes. I go with it. Children ride by on tubby Shetland ponies and couples row boats in the nearby lake. I settle onto a bench and doze off while elderly men play croquet and children squeal and run around on the playground behind me.

A dog bounds behind my bench, the vibrations waking me. A silver chain collar is sunk into his thick, chocolate-brown fur. He’s happily panting, his limbs sleek and strong. A tall, handsomely rugged man follows him. The man looks at me and I automatically think of how I like you better, even though this man is much more physically attractive. He continues on after his dog.

I had planned to enjoy today on my own, watching pygmy owls and red pandas play and sleep. Instead, I am on this bench thinking of how you would again tease me for running into more Shetland ponies. I’m an introvert—I shouldn’t miss you. I should be relishing my time alone. Yet, I long to have you here on this bench. Even though our time together yesterday went badly, I’ve forgotten about it. Life is more fun when you’re around. Never after so many consecutive outings with anyone else have I wanted to spend even more time with them rather than be by myself.

In lieu of your presence I have your image at my disposal. Though I take pleasure in animating your body in my mind, actually spending time with you is always better. I want it to be tomorrow when we will be seeing each another.

At home in my box I write a letter to you. Tomorrow is our last day in Paris together and I always write a letter to my closest friends when I part from them. In my letter, I tell you my Paris is better for having you in it. I tell you that I believe you can change the world and that you are now among my friends for whom I would crawl over a bridge in order to save them. I’m careful to avoid saying what I dearly wish I could—how much I will miss you, how I might love you, and how I want you to do corny things like kiss me and fill my life with buttercups.

I open a large envelope and nest the pages inside with the same care as I would tuck you into bed. It will soon be in your hands. I turn off the light and quickly fall asleep.

She is a black butterfly, her wings dotted with snow

The first rays of sun are spreading white-gold wings over the rooftops of Paris. It’s six
a.m.
and I’m wide awake. We have plans to go to Giverny, but since you spent most of your money on your train ticket, we can’t go until your parent’s bank transfer goes through. Giverny is among my favorite places in France and I yearn to share the experience of visiting it with you. I imagine we would take the train to Vernon and bike through the French countryside to Giverny. Upon our arrival, we savor a lunch of potato salad, Normandy beer, and a gently spiced fish soup at a local restaurant. In Monet’s garden, we stand together on the wisteria bridge. Vines twisted tightly like your soul to mine wrap the bridge’s rail. Your forearm lightly brushes against mine, the slight touch sending tingles of pleasure through my body. We look out over the pink, blue, and white water lilies while discussing how painters paint color where they see it, drawing our attention to beauty where we might not otherwise notice it.

Should going to Giverny not be possible, I intend to instead ask you to go to Chartres with me. I want to share with you the asymmetrical beauty of the cathedral’s mismatched towers and the Chartres blue of the stained glass windows. Chartres blue is a translucent indigo unlike any other in the world.

We won’t be seeing each other until the afternoon, so I busy myself with preparing for my return to America. I bundle my clothes, books, and other belongings into my suitcases and scour all the surfaces of my box until it is clean and neat.

Around noon I call you. You are in the laundromat and will be done soon, but your parent’s wire transfer hasn’t gone through yet. Going to Giverny will not be possible. I suggest we instead go to Chartres. You could use your train pass, so it would be free.

“I’m kinda tired,” you say. “Could we do nothing, but do something, but do nothing?”

Although I am disappointed, I say, “Sure.” Since I suspected you might not want to leave Paris, I have a back-up plan. “We could just take the twenty-nine bus through Paris. It goes through Opéra and Saint-Lazare. It’s supposed to be very scenic.”

“That sounds perfect!”

We arrange to meet at Bastille at two.

For the occasion of our last day in Paris together I wear my “date dress,” a red cotton number with a deep scoop neck that reveals an ample yet still sophisticated amount of cleavage. The hem falls around my mid-thigh, showing a little leg but not too much. My red ballet flats complete the ensemble.

On the other side of Paris, the Colonne de Juillet stands tall and grand in the center of the Place de la Bastille. While I wait for you, I watch a parade of buses zoom by and study the stops on line twenty-nine. The place-names are so beautiful: La Place des Vosges, Tournelles-Saint-Gilles, rue Vieille du Temple, Centre Georges Pompidou, Le Bibliothèque Nationale, Opéra.

You swoop over me with the swift power and assuredness of a young king. “Hello, stranger,” you say, your voice suave and seductive. My heart pants. “Oh, hey! A ton of buses have gone by but I haven’t seen the twenty-nine bus, so it should come soon.”

As if heeding my prediction, the bus arrives within minutes. We sit alongside each another and watch the streets stream past. The bus is stuffy and hot so we disembark at Bibliothèque Richelieu, the old National Library of France. Across from the library is a small park I had never before noticed. You gesture to the park’s entrance and ask if we can go in. I nod and follow you inside.

A large, tiered fountain burbles in the center and each of the park’s corners are bedded with flowers. Benches line the gravel-specked pathway that forms the perimeter. The tiny oasis has a delicate, airy grace. It reminds me of the small rooms in the Louvre hardly anyone ever finds but that are filled with beautiful artworks.

We sit in the grass in front of the fountain and chat. Another couple is sitting nearby, though they are a real couple, sharing tender caresses and flirty glances.

You playfully pinch my knee between your fingers. “Want to go sit on the fountain?”

I follow you like an eager puppy. We sit on the lip of the fountain, our feet dangling over the grass.

Young children run around on the lawn while their parents sit on the benches and chat.

“You know those pieces of fabric you see parents wrap their infants in? They look so much nicer than the nylon strappy things. I wonder how you wrap one. It looks complicated.” I think of how we might, one day, wrap our children in such fabric to safely and attractively fasten them to our bodies.

You shake your head. “I wouldn’t know how to wrap one.”

You let your flip flops fall to the ground. My flats dangle from my feet so I let them fall onto the grass too. You turn your body around and dip your toes in the water. I want to instantly follow your example but wait a few minutes before doing so in order to maintain an appearance of autonomy.

Water runs from the mouths of bronze heads mounted above us, sprinkling us with droplets. I immerse my feet in the chilly water. The fountain basin is lined with algae so I don’t put my legs in any further. I flick my fingers through the water to occupy them. My fingers yearn to be all over you: rubbing the inner circle of your knee, caressing your spine, cupping the round of your shoulder.

You look up at the series of large bronze infants posing along the central tier of the fountain. “Are those cherubs?”

“I think they’re putti. I can never remember what the singular word for putti is. It’s not puta, because that means whore in Spanish, and it’s not pute because that means prostitute in French. I can ask Professor.”

“You can,” you nod.

I turn around and swing my legs back and forth to dry my feet. You turn around too and slip off the fountain. You sit cross-legged on the grass, your back to me. Unable to resist rejoining you, I slip off the lip of the fountain and seat myself alongside you. There are few activities so liberating as doing something but doing nothing and I cannot imagine another person with whom I would prefer to do it.

The afternoon light is warm, the atmosphere relaxed, and my mind basks in the freedom to think of nothing at all. But as always, my mind drifts to the thought of you, and I recall my final activity before I fell asleep last night. “Oh, I wrote you a letter!”

The entire composition of your body instantly changes. You’re excited, your face alert, your back straighter, your chest puffed out. “Can I have it now?”

“No. I’ll give it to you before we part this evening. Remind me to give it to you.”

“I can’t promise I’ll remember,” you warn me.

I know too well that you are often absentminded, but you’re too excited about the letter to forget. “You’ll remember.”

Ready for the next leg of our journey to nowhere in particular, we return to the bus. At the end of the line we disembark before Gare Saint-Lazare. Although the station’s insides now hum with the life of modern travel, I prefer to see it as Monet did. In his paintings, the stations is a hub of the Industrial Revolution’s coal-fed locomotives that puffed clouds of soft charcoal-gray smoke.

“So what’s the plan for lunch?” you ask. “Are we going to get the ingredients at your place and go to my place, or eat at your place?”

Because you so enjoyed the Indian dish I made the evening we went to Versailles, we are going to have it again this afternoon, preferably
chez moi
. Your reticence about coming home with me on Bastille Day concerned me because it illustrated you do not trust me. I cannot blame you for this. My lust is like a ravenous bear I constantly struggle to control. But if our friendship is to continue Stateside, I must regain your trust. I have decided that the best way of doing this is by having you come home with me again. This time, though, I will not attempt to seduce you. This way, you’ll know that even if we are alone in a small space, I will not encroach on your space. For my plan to work, though, you have to willingly spend the afternoon at my place. I respond to your question nonchalantly. “I thought we would just go to my place and make the food there. I mean, that seems easier. We can go to your place if you want to.”

“We can go to your place,” you say, to my relief.

Inside my box you stand at my window looking out over our city. The silhouette of your body forms a sinuous line over the Haussmannian buildings that follow the curve of the Seine to Notre Dame.

I smile, enjoying the sight of you, my dearest of all. The pleasure I feel makes me want to give you pleasure as well. “You can see Notre Dame from my window.” I guide your gaze to its towers that look like tiny rabbit ears against the soft blue sky.

You grin and raise your eyebrows. “Yeah, there it is!”

You sit on my bed and look around my room. Most of my possessions have been packed away, so my box is bare but for the essentials. “It feels bigger.”

“I know. Would you like to watch
Lord of the Rings
while we eat?”

“Do you have it?”

“Of course! I’m the girl who likes Mexican food and
Lord of the Rings
, remember?”

“Yes, I do remember.” You grin, your chestnut eyes bright with the memory of our Mexican food meal. “That’d be great.”

I turn my laptop on. “You know, Professor said something about
Lord of the Rings
being a myth. What did he mean by that?”

“Tolkien went out to write this series based on England not having a mythology, so he wrote a complete mythology for England,” you explain. “It has a lot of English history and Norse mythology in it. There are a lot of biblical metaphors too, like the ring Frodo bears being like the cross Jesus bears. And the bible can be interpreted as its own sort of myth—a collection of stories woven into a narrative, just like
Lord of the Rings
.”

I’m impressed. I’ve loved
Lord of the Rings
for years but never properly studied it as a work of literature. “How do you know so much about
Lord of the Rings
?”

“Reading
Lord of the Rings
was what really turned me on to reading. I read them all and then read all of the literature published about them.”

I am again impressed, and also turned-on, by further evidence of your voracious appetite for good books.

You sprawl across my bed and watch
Lord of the Rings: Return of the King
. I’d like to ask you to help make our meal, but cannot bear to disturb you.
While I drain the corn and mushrooms cans in the sink, I eye the tempting crescent of your body on my bed. One of my close friends from New York told me to “put my tongue down your throat. See what happens.” I long to be so bold and reckless—but I can’t. We must wait to enjoy the pleasure of each other’s bodies until you are single and worthy of my love. When you are, I daydream you will come to me, your eyes blazing like hot chestnuts. Carnal hunger stirs in the depths of my abdomen and you envelop me with the breadth of your lion-strong back. The pleasure is so intense I black out, retaining only fragmental memories of our heavy, rhythmic breathing, our hands eagerly exploring one another’s bodies, the tenderness of your lips and the roughness of your cheek against my cheek, my breast, my inner thighs.

Although I have chosen t
o
not make any direct efforts to seduce you, I can’t resist teasing you. The seam of my dress is conveniently pressing into my torso, so in the privacy of the bathroom I unzip it. I wonder how long it will take you to notice.

I cobble together the ingredients of our meal on my hot plate. As I gather glasses for the Chardonnay, I stretch to reach the top shelf of my kitchen-closet.

“You’re unzipped there.” You trace your finger along the bare flesh of my side exposed by my undone zipper.

“That tickles, don’t do that!” I laugh and press my hand down my side. “My skin is very sensitive there. It’s unzipped because it was so tight. Unless you mind . . .”

“No, just wante—just so you know . . .”

We eat while watching the fellowship carry out their quests. I hardly pay attention. My mind is consumed with the memory of your finger running along my side. A net of tingles is wrapped around my torso. It takes all of my control to not shut my laptop, pull my dress over my head, and straddle you between my thighs.

Only part way through the film, you ask me for the time.

“It’s a little before five,” I say. “We have plenty of time before meeting Professor.”

“Yeah. I’d like to go to my place first. I need to take a shower.”

“Okay. I’m going to change my outfit before we go. Hold on.” In the bathroom I slip into a navy skirt with cream embroidery and a blue top with a deep V-neck that reveals generous slivers of my silk balconette bra patterned with deep pink roses. I feel as sexually shameless as a flower with its stamens and pistils not-so innocently exposed.

At the bus stop, I look around at all the sights I have seen almost daily over the past year. Invalides’ gold dome beams from down the road and the Monceau Fleurs flower shop is across the street. Although I am seeing these sights for the last time in a very long time, I feel at peace.

The last time I left Paris, I missed the city constantly. Now I am calm. My youth in Paris feels complete. I love Paris enormously and before I met you, I could not imagine how I would ever be able to leave and not long to again live here. You have enriched my Paris and in so doing, you have given me a sense of completion.
We have created here a world unique to ourselves that will live forever inside of us as a moveable feast.