In Paris With You
Page 16
He thought she’ll write to me ten times a day,
doesn’t matter how expensive it is to send texts,
she’ll use the uni wifi or the one at her hotel
or she’ll go to Starbucks to send me emails.
He was convinced that she wouldn’t be able to help herself,
and he waited, impatient,
for the emails to pour in,
detailing her adventures in that foreign land.
And yet, the evening
she arrived,
Tatiana didn’t write. Eugene checked on the Delta Airlines
site that the aeroplane had landed
yes, on time, without any problems;
and yet, perhaps – probably –
because of the time difference,
no text.
The next morning,
no text.
In the afternoon, Eugene finally sent:
Hello, American girl, did you get there okay?
No reply.
A few hours later, he sent a second text:
I hope everything’s going well.
Still no reply.
The next day, he composed a little email.
Hi Tatiana, I’m thinking that maybe your mobile’s not
working there.
Let me know what’s happening when you get a chance.
Apparently she didn’t get a chance.
The day after that, he sent a picture message:
of the Seine, covered in ice.
You’re missing a chance to skate.
Still nothing. He let another day go by
and then decided it was time
to worry.
This silence
seemed to contradict all the available evidence;
the two of them would be together,
it was just a matter of time;
no one sends a hundred messages, each written in a haze
of love, all in the space of six days,
and doesn’t end up replacing
their paragraphs with plans,
their commas with tongues,
their words with hands.
If she wasn’t answering
at this moment,
it meant she was in a coma!
Nervous, he wrote to Leprince.
Dear Sir,
I’m sorry to bother you. I was wondering if you’d heard
anything from Tatiana.
I know she’s in San Francisco at the moment,
but she’s not responding to my messages, and I wanted to
make sure that she was okay.
Best wishes, etc.
*
The response arrived the following afternoon:
How kind of you to worry, I must say.
Tatiana is perfectly fine; she is here with me as I write.
We crossed the Golden Gate together yesterday
And experienced an earthquake just last night.
As I’m sure she’s told you, she is simply thrilled
To be in the city where the rest of her life will unfold.
Eugene reread this email ten times, concentrating hard
as if it were an essay in an end-of-year exam:
with me as I write Leprince is in San Francisco?
I don’t understand,
she never said he would be there, all she told me was
it’s a symposium on Caillebotte
why didn’t she mention her supervisor’s presence?
And if he can write back, then why can’t she?
crossed the Golden Gate, experienced an earthquake
if she has time for tourism,
why not write a text?
unless it’s just a euphemism
for
we’re having lots of sex?
Most mysterious of all, that last sentence: what does it mean?
where the rest of her life will unfold?
What the hell is he talking about?
She’s only there for a week or so.
Hello Tatiana
I didn’t know that Leprince was there with you.
I don’t understand – he says that your life
will unfold there, or something like that.
What does that mean?
Send me a reply if you have time.
And remind me when you get back?
love, Eugene
Hey just a quick text to check if you got my email?
Dear Sir,
Thank you for your reply.
I’m trying to get in touch with Tatiana
about something in particular.
Could you ask her to write to me please?
Best wishes.
Dear friend, Tatiana is rather busy all this week;
We both have a multitude of meetings, I fear.
Tonight, we will encounter the museum’s director;
He will be her mentor for the next two years.
Hi Tatiana
I don’t understand why your professor told me that you
will have a mentor in San Francisco for the next two years?
Hello. Aren’t you supposed to get back tonight?
Dear Sir,
I was under the impression that Tatiana
was supposed to return to Paris last night.
I haven’t heard from her and I’m wondering
if the plane landed all right?
Best wishes.
We landed safely yesterday, at seven in the morning.
Hasn’t Tatiana been in contact with you yet?
Everything went very well; an excellent symposium,
And the decision has been made for her next step:
She will return to San Francisco in early June.
Naturally, she is delighted by this news.
Tatiana
There’s something
I don’t quite
understand
what does your
professor mean when he
talks about your plans?
He says you’re leaving
again in June
but that can’t be right,
can it?
Dear Eugene,
Forgive me. I’m sorry for my silence.
My trip to San Francisco was brief and intense
and important
and I had to think things over,
without your influence.
I hope you understand.
Yes, I’m leaving. It’s been planned
for a long time.
I have a two-year contract
at the Museum of Modern Art:
one of those offers that you can’t refuse, you see;
a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
It was probably wrong of me not to tell you before.
I didn’t mean to hide it from you, but when I saw
you again the other day,
the subject didn’t arise,
and since then
it’s as if it fell through some secret trapdoor in my mind;
as if I wanted to forget its existence.
But over the last few days, with the distance
between us, and all your emails, your insistence,
I came to realise
that I had been trying to delay telling you the truth;
I’d allowed myself to think of the past,
too much,
to wonder if it could all have been different,
but I need to think of the present;
of the future. And that future, for me,
is like a new land
where most of the plots have already been sold,
most of the buildings already designed, most of the fields
already ploughed
and I have to tell you that I’m proud,
really proud
of all the work I’ve done on its architecture,
and I know that it must seem terribly dull to you,
because it’s not a grand adventure,
it’s a future tha
t smells of turpentine
and old books
and dust
but right now I can’t think of anything in the world
that would make me happier.
I really hope you understand.
I hope we can stay in touch.
I hope that when I return from time to time, we’ll go for a
sandwich together
on the Rue de Seine.
I hope that we’ll write to each other
and stay friends.
Good luck, Eugene, and till soon …
Tatiana.
*
She’s sleeping with Leprince,
Eugene immediately deduced.
She’s sleeping with Leprince.
This American thing is just an excuse.
Like she just happened to go with him to San Francisco,
and hey presto!
she suddenly decides that she can no longer
be bothered to reply
to all my texts?
Two-year contract my arse.
The two of them are having sex.
Why bother with all that crap about ‘ooh
I’ve got a big future’ and ‘ooh I’m so proud’?
you’re screwing your professor, you slut
He bit the inside of his cheek,
ashamed at having called her that
Look, it’s her choice, okay? You’re such a twat.
Women have the right to sleep with who they want, but why?
This is what I don’t understand.
Why didn’t you just tell me matter-of-factly:
I’m sleeping with Leprince?
Why did you have to invent all that other stuff?
What was the point exactly?
stupid b …
no, shut up
Christ though I really am idiotic
this whole thing is turning me neurotic
Christ how could I have let myself be taken in
when I’m usually so rational,
so independent, so reasonable, so
alone
The pain seized his throat like a dog’s jaws
and didn’t let go or relax the pressure
enough to let him breathe or drink or eat
he just sat there, gasping for air,
rigid with rage in his seat,
and in the days that followed, his mind worked through
various scenarios, allowing him to question
Tatiana’s true motivation.
She’s sleeping with Leprince because
she never got over being abandoned by her father.
She’s sleeping with Leprince because
she hopes he’ll help her with her career.
She’s sleeping with Leprince because
she thinks he’ll ask her to marry him.
She’s sleeping with Leprince because
she wants to have his children.
In fact
thinking about it now maybe she’s already pregnant
she was wearing that badge, after all, and how
can I be sure that she wasn’t lying before?
Finally he moved beyond this futile fury.
Maybe in the end she was sleeping with Leprince
because she actually loved him.
Well
why
not?
After all, it was her right, after all;
why
not. Let’s be honest.
He has the right to touch her if that’s what she wants it’s
not because you personally wouldn’t like Leprince kissing
your neck that it’s the same for everyone.
Let’s be honest.
Even if the idea of Leprince’s cigar-like fingers
on Tatiana’s tummy,
of his parchment lips on her breasts,
of his drooping belly hanging above her hips
killed him … Let’s be honest.
If she’s in love with him,
that’s fine. That’s totally okay.
And so, armed with this noble resignation,
he reached the stage of actually it’s better this way,
it’s not like I was really in love,
the whole thing was just a gigantic con,
and, with the hefty trowel of this allegation,
he built a wall with bricks of self-justification:
After all I don’t even know who she is really
I hardly talked to her at all I’d never even have thought
of her again if it weren’t for that morning We don’t have
anything in common really I’m not going to waste
my time on a girl who I don’t even like who’s not
even my type I already told her no once before I must
have had my reasons Even if I don’t remember them
exactly It would never work the two of us.
But this simple deduction – we got all worked up over
nothing – wriggled in his hands and slipped between his
fingers, an eel of explanation:
his mind told him it was true,
but his body said the opposite, because
nothing was more real for Eugene,
and nothing ever had been
than his guts wound around an icy steel rod
when he thought of Tatiana,
the impossibility of swallowing a single morsel
of food,
the possibility of sleep suspended above his bed
like washing on a line:
all of these things are real; this rough, raw throat,
like swallowing glass,
this fly-buzz in his ears and his stomach full of rats,
all of this is true, and your wall of explanations
is paper-thin;
it would crumble within
seconds if you breathed on it – ragged,
panting – while you thought about her skin,
about your hands sliding over her hips,
about her lips, poised inches from a kiss.
All of that is true, and you know it perfectly
well; even the devil himself couldn’t swell
every swellable body part with blood, transform
your pillow into a pin cushion,
and fold your sleep until it fits inside a drawer.
Come on, admit it – all this confusion
is reality. It’s the rest of your life
that’s filled with self-delusion.
*
Eugene wrote to her to tell her all of that:
texts, emails, even a letter or two,
phone calls, messages left on her answer machine my God,
what kind of loser
still leaves messages on an answer machine
ugh, look how far you’ve fallen, Eugene
(Tatiana – I think that we’re missing out on something –
think of – why don’t we – seriously I’m happy to talk
about – over again – is it something I said – the Lensky
thing – me too I do think of it you know – any possibility
tomorrow – but you don’t reply to any of my – you know
what let’s not talk of anything serious –
let’s talk of Paris –
love and kisses)
But none of this made it past the borders of his mind,
and soon all that remained was the sadness
which enveloped Eugene like a cloud,
turning life and Paris a hazy grey,
muting other humans and muffling the city
in a dull fog of self-pity.
At night, if/when he finally fell asleep,
his sadness would be lying in wait for him at his bedside,
and it was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes.
Still there, I see.
Good morning, pain.
Why wouldn’t it release its grip
and leave him to breathe freely again,
untroubled, nondescript?
Why couldn’t he just go back to the way
he’d been before all this?
before that fateful morning
when he bumped into her on the train?
That man he’d been – how he longed for him,
a little grey man – sure –
but not a man in pain.
Eugene wasn’t stupid, of course,
he knew perfectly well
that eventually it would start to fade,
this mist of misery.
Droplet by droplet, it would slowly evaporate,
be scattered by the winds of passing time.
But he wished the process would accelerate.
He’d never even held Tatiana in his arms, so why
did her absence hurt so bloody much?
How could that be fair? All this agony, all this torture,
and not even the slightest touch
of her body, her lips, that he could recall.
Enough!
It had barely been love
at all …
But the truth is that recovering from heartbreak
is like convalescing after surgery;
it takes time for everything to heal,
for the soreness to subside:
all you can do is wait.
He waited until April,
and he waited and waited,
but still … not a single
particle of that mist
dissipated.
*
Around mid-May, awake at last, the city
stretched itself and yawned,
spat a few birds back in the sky,
hung a few buds from the branches of trees,
and Eugene ventured out onto the streets.
Noticing the girls in shortened skirts,
he imagined their long legs
coiled around his waist like soft-skinned boas.
This idea, though lukewarm, did him some good;
it was a sign
of the happy numbings
and dumbings
to come
that might finally stifle
the screaming of the past few months.
It was too early, of course, to start hanging around in bars –
he was still surrounded by his personal cloud of strife –