Two Americans in Paris (5 page)

I grimace, struggling to rationalize your bad manners. “That is pretty bad. I should have told him to bring something. Sometimes guys don’t think about that stuff.”

“Don’t worry about it. Totally not your fault.”

The train pulls into Opéra, where I am getting off. “Bye darling!”

“Bye! I hope you feel better sweetie!” she says.

“Thank you!”

On line 13 I pull down a seat, relieved to know when I get off I will be home.

“Bonjour mademoiselle. Ça va? Hello? Do you speak Engleesh?” A young man attempts to get my attention by waving his arm in my face and asking me a variety of questions in Franglish. I stare straight ahead, ignoring him completely. His cracked-out friend sitting across from me is wan and his eyes are spacey. Dreadlocks spread from his head like petrified octopus tentacles and he giggles at me. My mouth remains firmly shut and my expression blank. Dealing with unwanted male attention is a part of life here for young, attractive women and I quickly learned the best response is no response. Several minutes pass and they stand up, preparing to get off. The drugged friend places his hand on the round of my head and drags his fingers off as he descends from the train. The gesture doesn’t bother me. I’m just glad they’re no longer on the train.

In my tiny room I make myself some ginger tea and sip it slowly. Its warmth and sweet-spiciness calms my digestive system. I think of you gallivanting among the stone buildings and dancing to techno music with other girls. I am angry with myself for getting so wired I’ve made myself physically unwell, though I now know to not let it happen again. I’m not surprised I’ve made a mistake. Although I generally succeed academically and have good relationships with my friends and family, romance has never worked out the way I wanted it to. Nearly everyone I have ever liked has rejected me. The only person to ever return my feelings, my ex-boyfriend, ended up rejecting me, too. His manner of ending our short, intense relationship left my heart in shards. I subsisted on a diet of Entenmann’s cakes and wouldn’t leave my bed except for class. I was convinced no one else would ever return my feelings, until I realized it’s pointless to think that way.

After going over and over the dilemma in my head, I finally conclude that it’s ok if I screw up sometimes. I am only twenty years old, after all. I will see you soon in class, providing me with the opportunity to invite you to do a nearly infinite number of activities. The only question is whether you will say yes.

She is an incandescently happy cat, curled up and asleep

On my way out of the métro stop of the Louvre, where we are having class this afternoon, I pass a woman with caramel skin and a stroke of thick onyx hair. She sways with her violin as she draws her bow across its strings. Her violin case lies open before her, dotted with coins. Her simple, exquisite beauty, both in her appearance and in her musical talent, strikes me as a fitting reception to the Louvre.

As I walk through the Carousel du Louvre toward our classmates gathered at the information desk I wonder how we should greet each other. Should anyone else in the class know we’ve seen each other outside of class? My question illustrates my fixation on a simple question with an easy answer. When I see you, I should smile and say “Hi”. It’s not actually a big deal at all, but I second-guess myself. I have never wanted to befriend someone so much as you and do not want to make any missteps.

I join our classmates. We make eye contact briefly, barely acknowledging our newfound acquaintance. I puff “Hey” under my breath so softly my lips barely part. My lack of certainty in how to greet you has resulted in my hardly greeting you at all. I am upset with myself for not being more confident, but remind myself that if we become closer friends, I will become increasingly self-assured and natural in my interactions with you.

Professor arrives and leads us to the room of Rococo paintings, a paradise for lovers of feminine fashion like myself. The most common scenes are of gorgeous, wooded parks in which bright-eyed gentlemen seduce rosy-cheeked women wearing corseted silk gowns colored powder blue, lemon chiffon, or pastry pink. The brushwork is soft and well-blended, intensifying the eroticism of the paintings’ subjects.

Before looking at any individual painting Professor gives a brief overview of the cultural context of the Rococo period. “After the death of Louis XIV in 1714 the nobility migrated to Paris and built townhouses in Le Marais. The women hosted salons where the aristocracy would gather and have witty, intellectual conversations. The art is designed to fit this setting.” To segue into a discussion about Rococo art specifically Professor asks us a series of questions. “What are the defining elements of the Rococo?” he asks.

“The use of color,” I say.

“What do you mean by that?” he asks.

I draw my answer from the paintings around us. “All of the pastels, paler colors, a typically ‘feminine’ palette.”

“Yes. What other commonalities are there in Rococo art?” he asks.

“The scale is fairly small,” I say.

While Professor addresses further questions to the rest of the class, I reflect on my readiness to respond to his questions. I am rarely so responsive to the teacher’s questions in the other classes I have taken at AUP. My steady flow of confident answers to Professor’s questions serve a dual purpose: they remind not only Professor of my intelligence and aptitude for the class material, but also you.

My every move and every word is measured by how you may perceive it. Not only am I more forthcoming and self-assured than I usually am in my dialogue with Professor, I also stand up straighter and study the art more intently, presenting for your pleasure what I hope is the most attractive version of myself. A consummate multitasker, I also keep sight of you from my peripheral vision. You observe each artwork thoughtfully, engaging with it on your own for a few moments while Professor lectures.

Professor situates us in front of Watteau’s
The Pilgrimage to Cythera
in which a group of couples robed in soft pastels beneath the boughs of a towering tree are preparing to embark on a lover’s voyage. Tiny putti frolic in the skyline. “This painting is in the book, isn’t it?” Professor asks. We aren’t sure. “If it isn’t, it should be,” he nods. “It’s one of the most famous paintings of the Rococo period. Watteau was a Flemish painter who came from the Flemish tradition established by Rubens. These lovers are going to Cythera, the island of love, Aphrodite’s island. Men are doing things to get the love of the ladies. They play instruments, sing songs, become lovers and suitors. They say ‘Come on, let’s go to Cythera.’ The putti are Baroque—see how tiny and frilly they are.” He traces his fingers over their chubby, fluttering bodies. “Watteau is interested in how light moves over the folds of the dress. There is a softness to the brushwork. It’s sensual and intimate. The brush on the canvas becomes a metaphor for a dandy’s touch on female bodies.”

A thin woman with curly hair protruding from her head like frayed telephone wires interrupts Professor for a moment. “You’re a great teacher,” she tells him. “These guys don’t know how lucky they are.”

He smiles, “Thank you.”

The woman smiles back and walks away.

Continuing on, Professor turns to
The Shepherd’s Presents
by Boucher. The painting is composed of little Rococo ladies cheerfully shearing their cutesy sheep while a naughty shepherd boy observes, his arm slung lackadaisically over a tree limb.

“The wealthy aristocracy wanted to be like the shepherds,” Professor says. “They found the shepherd’s peaceful life of protecting sheep in nature alluring so they built these little shepherd’s paradises. If you have all the money in the world there is nothing more fun than to shear sheep. Real shepherds didn’t live like that, hah, but these would be the idyllic version. Marie Antoinette’s domain is an excellent example, very well-preserved.”

In between Professor’s lecture I turn my gaze to the glossy slats of wood set in geometrical patterns across the floor, scuffed by millions of shoes. I focus on your feet, careful to steal glimpses while you are unaware. Your feet are subtly tanned, the hair on them deep bronze, and your sandal’s soles are worn, embedded with the dirt of your transcontinental expeditions. The most interesting aspect of your feet, though, is your sorely bruised pinky toe—surely there’s a story there. I find your bruised toe almost beautiful, its color like a tiny sphere of violent midnight shaded with royal purples and superhero blues.

Lest you notice my focus on your feet, I study everyone’s. Your friend whose frame is similar to yours, who I think of as your Frame-twin, is wearing pants and sneakers. Another of our male classmate’s sandals are one size too big and fraying at the edges, earning him the nickname Sloppy Sandals. Pig Face has chunky calves and wears olive flip-flops. Most of the girls wear ballet flats and have tan, slender feet.

Professor brings us to a painting of Mme. Boucher posing as an odalisque, her fleshy bottom and plump thighs sprawled over plush marine blue velvet. “You could never just paint your wife nude. Proper women were not to pose nude. She looks French but he calls it
Odalisque
. If she’s an odalisque, then it’s okay; my wife’s showing her butt.” He underlines her bare bum with his hand. “Boucher is a naughty painter. It’s sex—that’s what they all want. There are different set-ups for what is seductive and what is permitted.”             

We move across the room to Boucher’s portrait of Mme. de Pompadour fashionably dressed in a gown of tawny gold silk with a deep décolletage. She rests her dainty hand on a Rococo piano with gilded details. You observe Mme. de Pompadour attentively, your eyes intently focused on the softly gilded fabric and furniture framing the soft, powder white curve of Mme de Pompadour’s neck.

“During the Rococo period, the aristocracy hosted salons in their townhouses in Paris. As hostesses, women came to have much more power and intellectual authority than they had previously,” Professor says. “We tend to think that throughout history men have always had more power than women, but there were periods when women had more power than in others. How can we see that Madame de Pompadour is being shown as intellectual?”

“She’s playing the piano,” Mermaid says.

“But she’s not really playing it, she’s looking away!” I retort.

“Yes, it would be too heavy to paint her actually playing,” Professor says. “The eighteenth century was also the period of the Enlightenment. Can anyone explain what that means?” Professor nods to you, inviting you to answer.

All eyes are on you as you step forward and begin to speak. “Well, from what I know from literature, it was a period where a lot of work was being done in the sciences, advocating reason. They were searching for knowledge.”

While you speak I look between you and Professor, who is the model for the kind of man I hope you will one day become. He is mature in the expression of his intelligence and his social interactions. Even so, your raw, unrefined brilliance is so incredibly sexy to me. Your potential for growth on every level is enormous. I daydream about running off with you into a Rococo painting. We would wear luxurious, pastel-hued silks and velvets and spend hours shearing fluffy sheep. Just before we tire of our sheep you pull a tuft of wool from my hair, gazing at me intently with your warm chestnut eyes as you do so. My cheeks flush a bright pink and I look away, pretending to be shy. At the moment just before I return your gaze, my rosebud-tinted lips parted just slightly, the plot of our Rococo story ends, as Rococo paintings are all about the prelude to sex, but my imagination continues on.

At the end of class, Professor leans against a wall near the exit from the Sully wing, preparing to hand back our short essays on the metaphor of light and Saint-Chapelle. The assignment was optional, though Professor strongly encouraged us to write one for practice. Since it wasn’t mandatory and also because I wrote an essay on Saint-Chapelle and the Gothic for Professor last semester, I didn’t write another. Even so, I still feel like an awful student for not having written even more.

“The essays were okay, but many of you are just spitting information out,” Professor says. “Especially for the midterm, you need to use the factual information in your notes to make larger points. Remember, points not pieces.”

While Professor hands out our papers I move closer to you. “Are you still interested in going to the library?”

“Is that where you’re going now?”

“Yes.” My heels are ready to jump from my shoes. My entire body is vibrating with anxiety, fervently hoping you will say you will come with me.

You notice how eager I am to leave. “Can you wait until—” You point to the rumpled papers dispersing from Professor’s hands.

All of my anxiety flows away like air from a balloon. “Yes.”

Once you have collected your paper, we break away from our classmates and ride down the escalator with Professor.

“It was so weird, that woman who came up to you to compliment you on your teaching,” you say to Professor.

Professor raises his eyebrows and looks taken aback.

“No, no, the lady was right!” I say. “You’re an amazing teacher and we should know how lucky we are to have you! It wasn’t weird at all.” I shoot you a dirty look to let you know your comment was inappropriate.

“Thank you.” Professor smiles, his eyes filled with gratitude. “So have you been enjoying the class?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “I like it even more than your class last Spring. There’s nothing like learning about the artworks directly in front of them.”

Following my lead, you are complimentary as well. “It’s different from any other class I’ve taken. It’s nice to get out of the classroom. And learning about the visual art that was being created simultaneously to the literature that was being written has added a lot of depth to my knowledge.”

“I’m very glad to hear it,” Professor says. Are you enjoying the summer here?”

“Yes! I’ve wanted to live here since I was seven, so being here is a dream come true. I’ve never longed to be back in the States. Do you miss New York?” I ask.

“Sometimes.” He gestures as if between the two cities. “But they’re so different. I do think that in Paris, you always feel rich no matter how much money you have, but in New York, no matter how much money you have, you always feel poor.”

“That’s so true!” I say. “I feel like a queen here but a total pauper in New York.”

We’ve reached the end of the escalator, and Professor is off to bike through Paris, so we say goodbye to him. We are on our way to the métro.

Now that we are on our own I initiate a conversation about books. “So what kinds of literature do you like?”

“I’m really into the beat generation.”

“That’s the sixties and seventies, isn’t it?”

“Late fifties through the sixties.”

I think of the novel you are yourself writing and still want to know more about it. “What is your novel about? I know you said I would be bored, but I would listen.”

“That’s admirable of you, but I haven’t even told my mother yet.” You look to me with a cheeky grin. “She’d never forgive me if I told someone else first.”

Even though I know you’re bluffing, I play along anyway. “Oh, well you should tell her, because I would like to hear about it.”

On the métro we stand, holding onto the silver poles.

“I want to see the new
Transformers
movie, but I can’t seem to find anyone who wants to go with me,” you say.

“I want to see it!” I exclaim. You have no response to my desire to see the film. Even so, I remain hopeful you will say yes when I invite you to see it with me.

At La Tour Maubourg we ride up the escalators to the street, you behind me. I’m wearing tight, black jeans and wonder if you are secretly admiring my curves. Out on the street it’s warm and humid, prompting me to inform you that “French deodorant just doesn’t work.” As soon as I’ve spoken I realize how embarrassingly unattractive my comment is.