Things We Lost to the Water: A Novel

by Eric Nguyen

  When he was nearing graduation, Schreiber sat him down in his office. He asked Ben what graduate schools he was applying to.

  “I have a good friend up in New York,” the professor said. “Their doctorate program is world-class. And you’ll have all the resources you’ll need at your fingertips as well as a sizable stipend, if you’re willing to teach.”

  “I think,” Ben said then, “I’m going to take a year or two off.”

  Schreiber was surprised, perhaps even shocked. “You have a bright career ahead of you,” he said. He furrowed his brows. “Why would you do this?”

  To me was what Ben thought he would add, but the professor didn’t.

  For the last four years, Ben had been grateful for all that Schreiber had freely given to him. Yet there was the feeling of incurring debts—debts that he could never repay. It was unfair to the professor, who acted like a father to him. It was unfair to his own father, who he never had the chance to know, who never had the chance to know him.

  Ben told Schreiber it was time he got some life experience, to spread his wings on his own, to fly.

  “And what is your plan? How do you plan on surviving?”

  Ben told him he would travel to Paris and find a job and settle down. From there he would live and write.

  “That’s more than a year or two,” Schreiber said. Then, “As long as you’re writing, I guess that’s at least something!” Schreiber threw his hands in the air; he was being sarcastic—he was mad. In the past, when they had arguments, they were always theoretical, philosophical, abstract. Ideas were involved but never people. Now it seemed personal.

  “Remember,” Ben said. “You, too, moved to this country with a dream.”

  “Go to Paris, then,” Schreiber said. “Go to Paris and be a writer!”

  Yet when he got to Paris, he hadn’t a clue what to write! His words failed him. He was waiting to be inspired, though he found himself in bookstores like Livres avec des amis—with its charming hand-painted store sign, its book carts scattered on the sidewalk—more often than not. It surprised him that, after several months of living in the city, every other day sitting in the aisles of his favorite bookstore, skimming the pages of a book he had no intention of buying, he had just noticed Michel.

  At closing time, while the customers emptied from the store, Michel and the manager reshelved books, rang up customers, and dusted the shelves. Ben stayed and fingered the same pages of an antiwar novel he’d been reading for three days.

  The manager whispered something to Michel and pointed to Ben. Ben went back to his book, anticipating the tap on the shoulder and the notice that they were closing in cinq minutes—those lips saying cinq minutes and those fingers pointing to a clock or the door or a watch. Ben heard footsteps.

  Then “C’est trop tard. C’est presque minuit.”

  Ben cleared his throat. “Cette,” he said, holding up the book.

  Michel smiled and took the book with him to the cash register.

  “A good one,” Michel said. When Michel spoke English, his words glided in a way a native speaker’s words wouldn’t, like he was preparing to sing. “Tourist?” Michel asked Ben.

  “I just moved here,” he corrected Michel. He felt like he should have added something—where he was from, why he was in Paris, what brought him to the bookstore today. He dug into his pockets and fished out a few crumpled euros.

  “Where from?”

  “New Orleans,” Ben said. Then, as if to clarify, “America.”

  “I have friends in America,” said Michel, smirking. “Have you heard of Peter Johnson?”

  “No.”

  “Johnson Peter?”

  “No.”

  “You must know Pete Johns, then?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m just joking with you. I do not know any Americans.”

  “We’re not that bad.”

  “You’re not that bad.”

  Ben blushed and took his book. When he was out of the store, he realized he’d forgotten his change. The manager locked the door. The bookstore lights flickered out.

  “Fuck,” he told himself. He took out his wallet to count his money. He had to be careful. The cost of living here was high. Everything was double what it was in New Orleans. In addition to that, he had yet to find a job.

  He began walking. The January air was cold and made his skin ache with dryness; he held his hands in his pockets. Though it was late and winter, the bars and brasseries were still busy. Passing by, he saw tourists huddled around wine bottles. He could tell the tourists from the locals now. Tourists were more excited to be alive, to be in the moment, while the locals had a gentle melancholy about them. Both groups could be heard saying “Oh, Paris!” but one said it ecstatically and the other said it forlornly.

  He heard a tourist group laugh through a window. Over at the next table, a waitress was texting on her phone.

  Ben made his way through the small, old streets, leaving all the tourists behind, and headed toward the 10th arrondissement, a mile or so walk, but Paris was a walking city and he enjoyed that. He felt as if he finally understood why Vinh went on long walks. It gave you time to think, to be alone. And Paris was that, at its core: a lonely city.

  When he arrived at the flat, he stopped himself. It was too early. The Austrians hated when he came home early, though he didn’t understand why they should have a problem; it was his place, too. They were a boy and a girl, a couple, who came from Graz. Like Ben, they were artists, though not writers. The boy was a photographer, the girl a singer. Ben was excited to room with other artists. He believed they would be carefree, exciting, and passionate: bohemian.

  Instead, they left dishes in the sink (they would do it later, they said), tossed their clothes every which way (they were their clothes to toss every which way they pleased), gave off body odor (deodorant is an American invention). And, despite renting the place together, they didn’t like him there and tried to convince him he’d be better off elsewhere, if only temporarily.

  For the first month, the girl left flyers on his bed for concerts and book readings and, on more than one occasion, postcard-sized pieces of paper advertising a gay club on the other side of the city. From anyone else, it would have been an act of kindness. But from the girl, it was her attempt at getting him out of the flat and out of the way. Ben could tell by the way she would clench her jaw, waiting to see if he would take her bait and leave. It was the lack of intimacy they had in such a space, Ben came to understand. They hated to see him home, their shared flat too small for even one person.

  “Bean,” they would call him, “why don’t you go see the city more?” They’d smile crookedly and speak slow English, the words slurring into one another and then yanked in different directions. “Yes, Paris is a beautiful city.” “They call it the City of Light.” “You can see the light only at night.” Afterward, the girl would say something in German to her boyfriend. They didn’t bother whispering, the same way his mother spoke Vietnamese in public, which he always found too loud, too obnoxious.

  That night, he had promised he would stay out longer. “Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be out late, mes amis,” he said, though he was sure they didn’t consider themselves his friends.

  “We will miss you!” said the boy.

  “But don’t make so much noise when you come back!” said the girl.

  Ben looked up at his room’s window. The Austrian girl was leaning out. She was wearing underwear but not pants or a shirt. She held the curtains to her chest, but they were paper-thin and Ben saw her small breasts anyway. She let a cigarette fall, and he sped away just in case she saw him.

  Because it was a weeknight, those who were out in the 10th arrondissement were walking home from their jobs, the homeless, or no-good teenagers. And then there was Ben, a foreigner away from the tourist center of the city,
the historical sites, the hotels and hostels.

  In America, Ben felt like a foreigner, too, but in a different way. He couldn’t have explained it. In New Orleans, he couldn’t have explained how he and his family got there. There was a boat, a wind led them this way, and, like pilgrims, they settled. Here, in Paris, there was some choice in the matter. It was not a familial myth—a story told and retold, each time a little bit different, each time a little bit more holy. His hero of a father sacrificed his life under Communist bullets while his mother played reverse Penelope, cast away from her homeland waiting for her Odysseus until the news of his death arrives and she is transformed into a tragic widow who weaved fables for her children (because that was what his life was—a fable, a series of twisted truths, outright lies). His immigration to Paris was a story made of flesh and bones written by himself, and no matter how horrible things turned out, he was the one who wrote it. That was the important part—to be the writer of his own story.

  He walked into a convenience shop and bought a pack of cigarettes and a soda. The cashier, a brown-skinned man in a turban, was talking into his cell phone and held it on his shoulder as he counted the money. Outside, Ben lit up a cigarette and coughed out the smoke.

  He was disappointed in Paris. When he thought of Paris, his mind drifted to independence and liberty. A European paradise of writers and artists. He knew the risks he took. He would be poor and there would be challenges of communication, but he’d find others like himself and they’d all be poor but happy.

  Instead, the nights were cold, the streets smelled like urine, and the average Parisian was rude and just as idiotic as any American.

  His first week in Paris, a beggar ran away with his backpack and, with it, his wallet, a pen, a French-to-English paperback dictionary, a plastic key chain in the shape of the Eiffel Tower, and a diary. Ben walked two blocks and found it dumped in a trash can. The wallet was gone; everything else remained.

  When Ben finished smoking and found himself at a park, he sat on a bench and threw away the rest of the cigarettes. Murger lied, he thought. Madame Bovary was right: France was a bore. And Paris, for all its European sophistication, was not that different from New Orleans.

  Everything was clear now. This was no place for him. He would leave soon enough. Somewhere else he would go, but here he would not stay.

  * * *

  —

  “C’est le gars à la librairie,” Ben heard someone say. He opened his eyes and sat up. Three silhouettes under streetlights. Who could they be? “It’s you,” the same voice said.

  Ben readied himself to run, but when the figures came closer, all three of them wearing hoodies, one of them looked familiar—Michel, the bookstore boy.

  Michel came up close and patted Ben’s face lightly three times. “You are afraid?” he said; his breath was sweet. “Did I scare you?”

  “Non,” said Ben. “I was just lying down. You surprised me. That’s all.”

  “You shouldn’t sleep in the streets. It is very dangerous.”

  “Michel,” said one of the other men. “Qui est-ce?”

  “Un Chinois?” said the other.

  “Non,” answered Michel. “American?”

  “Oui,” said Ben.

  “Américain,” said Michel. The others let out a sigh jokingly, as if in relief.

  Ben looked at his watch. It was midnight. He had been asleep for nearly an hour. He checked his pockets to make sure he still had his wallet, and, finding it there, he let himself relax. Then he said, “I have to go. Good seeing you again.” He began toward his flat, but Michel grabbed his arm.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “We’re not unfriendly. We’re communists!” He laughed. The other men did the same.

  Ben freed himself from his grasp and began walking again, but Michel ran to catch up to him and, to Ben’s surprise, took a step in front of him.

  “The night is young, mon ami,” Michel said. “Que faites-vous ce soir?”

  “Going home, I guess,” Ben replied. The Austrians should be asleep by now.

  “Going home!” Michel scoffed. He chuckled. “Il est trop tôt. La nuit est jeune! Nous sommes tous les jeunes! Come, come!” He grabbed Ben’s arm.

  He tried to move, but Michel’s grip was tight. He couldn’t have run from this strong man even if he wanted to, and the realization made him smile.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  * * *

  —

  The other two left Michel and Ben alone. Michel lived fifteen minutes away. It was less of a proper flat than an abandoned apartment complex. A piece of plywood with condamné painted on it was nailed to the entrance.

  Michel opened the door. “A perfectly good building,” he said, “left here all alone.”

  Ben strained his eyes. There was no electricity, possibly. He saw the shadows of a wardrobe, boxes, a table, and on top of that, piles of something. Michel closed the door and Ben jumped as the darkness enveloped them.

  “Something to drink?” Michel asked. He took out a lighter and pressed down on it several times before a flame jumped up and just as quickly disappeared.

  Ben took out his book of matches and handed it over. Michel swiped a match against the book and a small flame appeared in his hand. He took a few steps forward and lit a candle.

  “You live here?” Ben asked.

  “Oui.” Michel took Ben’s hand. “Avec mes amis.”

  Together they walked, stepping over piles of books and bricks and boxes, and then a row of glass bottles. Michel led Ben to the far side of the room, where there was a table and, on top of it, a plastic cooler. He let go of Ben’s hand and dipped his own into it. There was the sound of water splashing.

  “Merde!” Michel said. He fished out a bottle and handed it to Ben. “Wait,” he said. Michel took the bottle back and laid the capped top against the table. He held the cap in place with one hand and pulled the bottle away with the other. The bottle cap popped off and rolled onto the floor before settling. He opened another.

  “Salut!” said Michel.

  “Salut!” Ben repeated.

  “To new friends!”

  After the beer—two or three or four bottles more plus some type of hard liquor—they fell into bed passionately, or as passionately as two drunk men could. Afterward, Michel got up to wash himself from a tub of collected rainwater, because the building had no plumbing.

  “We have our ways,” Michel said, though Ben was too tired to remember all that was said.

  * * *

  —

  When Ben woke up, one of the boys from the night before, one of Michel’s friends, was shuffling cards. The sound seemed louder than it should have been. The boy said good morning, and then to Michel (still lying in bed, half awake from the look of it) said something about bringing outsiders over and about rules and agreements, and Michel mumbled sharply, “Baise les règles!” and the other boy replied “Baise-toi!” the word said firmly with a sly yet serious smile.

  The other friend, sitting with a bottle of beer, said they should go get breakfast. At this, Michel stood up and stretched his limbs.

  “Room 210!” Michel said.

  “Room 210!” the others said in unison. They packed up their cards, their cigarettes, their beers, and ran to the door.

  Room 210 sat across the hall. It was the same layout as the other apartment but less cluttered. It seemed just painted, and, indeed, Ben saw a bucket of paint in the corner along with brushes and a roller.

  In Room 210, they sat at a kitchen table and passed around bread and jam and cheap wine by a window that looked out onto a street. Someone rode by on a bicycle. Pigeons flew on and off the window ledge of the building across.

  “Who is this boy here?” one of Michel’s friends asked.

  “This is the American,” Michel answered. “Ben,” he said. />
  The boy shuffling the cards introduced himself as Mateo. His curly brown hair made him look young. He was twenty-three and a Spaniard but had come to Paris two years prior on a whim, hopping aboard a train and jumping off after they found him.

  Across from Mateo sat a Russian named Sergei. Sergei was twenty-five and wore thin wire-frame glasses. His hair was red and wavy. At university, Sergei read about the Soviets, how the Revolution had failed miserably, and, learning of this and seeing the conditions now, he felt disappointed with his people.

  “The Soviets didn’t try hard enough,” Sergei said.

  Mateo said something about the general dimness of Russians, and Sergei pushed the table forward, knocking Mateo over playfully. Only Russians could make fun of Russians, he said.

  Everyone spoke French, though bent with different accents. It sounded like a bus depot or an airport, a place full of travelers trying to find where they needed to go. At times, Ben couldn’t keep up.

  Mateo took out the cards again. “We want to change the world,” he said. He shuffled the cards and dealt them. What they were playing, Ben didn’t know; he picked up his cards anyway.

  “What do you mean?” Ben asked. “How do you change the world?”

  They did things, they said, for the betterment of society. They protested; they wrote pamphlets; they stole from grocery stores, department stores, and gave what they stole to the poor. Mainly themselves.

  Once Michel, Sergei said, broke into Parliament at night. He was arrested, of course. He convinced the police that he was drunk and they let him stay in jail until he seemed sober enough.

  But they weren’t lawless, violent, fou.

  Sometimes, for instance, they were a band. They played an acoustic guitar and tambourine in Place de la Bastille to bring awareness to revolution. Mateo ran into another room and came back with a guitar, strumming a few chords and singing off-key.