The Paper Wasp

by Lauren Acampora

  “Oh, here’s one I’ve actually looked at,” you said, pulling an enormous book down from a shelf. “It kind of doesn’t count, because it’s mostly pictures and the writing’s in German.” You laughed. “But it’s so cool, isn’t it?”

  The book was heavy, bound in red leather. The name on the spine was C. G. Jung.

  “Did you read Jung in college?” you asked.

  “No.” I hesitated, unsure of how to explain academia’s snobbish ranking of thinkers, and why Jung was near the bottom.

  “Well, this was recommended to me by my guide at the Rhizome. It’s this place where I go, kind of for professional therapy. My guide thinks it’s important for me to know about Jung’s work, to understand the idea of the collective unconscious.”

  My heart pitched. You were quietly turning the pages, each of which was illustrated with elaborate, colorful mandalas. There were snakes, trees, and eyes woven into the designs.

  “You go to the Rhizome?”

  You glanced at me. “Have you heard of it? I wasn’t sure you would have.” There was a questioning upturn in your voice.

  My face went cold, then hot. “Of course. It’s Perren’s place.”

  You blinked. “Ah, you’re still into Perren, then?”

  I nodded mutely.

  “Remember the time we saw Eureka Valley together?” you said, smiling. “It was life changing for me.” You glanced up, at a point over my head. “Anyway, I started going to the Rhizome a couple of months ago, and it’s been completely transformative. It’s really taught me to think like an artist.”

  You put the huge Jung book back on the shelf and led me out of the room, through the hall, moving a rope of hair over your shoulder as you walked. I felt a disturbance in a hidden well inside me, a rumble from some dark geyser. You’d pronounced Perren’s name too casually. You’d used the word “artist” in reference to yourself, and it hit my ear like a flat note. I watched your body move beneath the loose dress. There was your child’s back, now stretched to its full length, the same back I’d once gently, rhythmically pummeled with my fists. I remembered the chant we’d learned at slumber parties when we were nine or ten: “People are dying, babies are crying. Concentrate. Concentrate.” Now I looked at the place on the back of your head where I’d once rapped my knuckles, “Crack an egg on your head and feel the yolk drip down”; and the spine where I’d glided my fingers, “Stab a knife in your back, feel the blood drip down.” I closed my eyes for a moment as I followed you down the hall.

  You stopped and opened a door. Stepping aside, you gestured for me to enter first. The room was painted entirely black. After a moment of disorientation, my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I saw a collection of colored glass spheres hanging from the ceiling, at least a hundred of them, faceted like the compound eyes of insects and refracting brilliant light.

  “Go in,” you said.

  I entered the room, navigating around the orbs, which hung at staggered heights. Some held a luminous glow, as if lit from within; others flashed gaudily. It was like being in outer space.

  “This is incredible,” I muttered, just as I brushed against an orb, which began to sway and twirl, sending convulsions of light onto the walls.

  “I commissioned it from a Japanese artist,” you said. “It was my first manifest dreamscape, from one of my first sessions. You know those round shapes you see when you close your eyes, that kind of float around behind your eyelids?”

  I watched the rise and fall of your eyelids as you spoke, weighted by the heavy, lush lashes beloved by so many. You were like a child, standing before me now, awaiting my praise. To you, it was something novel, miraculous, your discovery of your own eyelids, the geometric dance that was identical to mine and everyone else’s.

  “Yes, I know exactly what you mean,” I said.

  “The Rhizome encourages bringing your dream visions to life in whatever way feels constructive. So I thought I’d try to physically bring my dreams into the waking world. I have my own house now, so why not?”

  You looked at me and waited. I understood that you wanted my validation. You wanted me to effuse, to offer admiration and encouragement, as I’d done when we were children, to tell you that you were special, incomparable. My throat felt dry, and for a moment I couldn’t speak. The sense of interior rupture persisted, the threat of the dark geyser.

  Finally I managed to croak, “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” you said. “It felt a little indulgent at first, but I love it.”

  You showed me the master bedroom next. The decor was minimal compared with the rest of the house. The platform bed was high and wide, resting on a hairy sisal rug, and the walls were plain beige. This unfinished quality was the opposite of your frilled childhood room. Still, there was clutter: designer shopping bags huddled in a corner, shoes capsized on their sides, beaded jewelry tangled on the dresser top.

  “My designer kept it spare on purpose,” you explained. “My Rhizome guide says a simple bedroom is better for dreaming. Anyway, it’s the bathroom I want you to see.”

  You opened the bathroom door onto a glowing cube of ultramarine. It took a moment to understand that I was looking at an immense aquarium tank. The tank arched up and over, composing the walls and the ceiling. Flat gray creatures slid through the blue water, passing overhead, tails trailing behind. Only the muted gurgle of a tank filter was audible.

  “This is from a dream, too,” you said. “I never used to think of stingrays as beautiful, but in the dream they were magical, and now I’m fascinated by them. They’re so graceful and prehistoric. Doing this was a lot more expensive than I thought it would be, and the maintenance is insane, but it’s my favorite place in the house now. I just lie in the tub sometimes and watch them.”

  The presence of a sink, bathtub, and toilet seemed sacrilegious here, and yet I would have liked to lie down in the tub myself and watch the water ballet, these captive creatures endlessly searching for a way out. Or perhaps they were unaware of their confinement, swimming from mindless instinct, back and forth, over and over again.

  “It’s gorgeous, Elise. Beyond belief.”

  “Thank you. I haven’t shown it to many people. Obviously. I’m glad you don’t think it’s stupid.”

  “That would be impossible,” I told you. “Nothing you do could ever be stupid.”

  You looked at me in the blue wash of light, and I thought I saw love in your eyes. Then you said, “Where did you say you’re staying tonight?”

  I blinked. Clearly, I’d misread your look. You were waiting for me to go. Now that you’d shown off your house, you were finished with me. “I, I haven’t looked into it yet,” I stammered.

  “Would you like to stay here?”

  “No, no,” I said, renewed warmth spreading through me. “That’s not necessary.”

  “I know it’s not, but I’d like it if you did. Come on, I’ll take you out tonight.” You looked at me for another beat, your smile widening. “You’re crazy, you know. I can’t believe you just showed up like this.”

  You took me to the guest room. It was a muted space furnished in black lacquer. The bed frame was inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and there was a Chinese panel screen painted with cherry blossoms. An enlarged color photograph dominated the wall opposite the bed.

  “It’s by someone we were just talking about,” you said. “Can you guess?”

  It was a photograph of a woman, her spine exposed in a backless navy gown. The fabric was fluid, as in a painting by Whistler or Sargent, and her skin was flawless ivory. But, as the woman turned to look at the camera, the skin of her face peeled away, revealing something mangled and cartilaginous beneath.

  “Perren,” I breathed.

  You stood there, smiling pensively in the doorway, rubbing a hand over the jamb. “Well, I’ll let you get settled and rest. Take a nap if you like.”

  After you’d gone, I sat on the edge of the bed and felt the room spin. This must be jet lag, something I hadn’t considered
. It wasn’t natural for the human body to traverse a continent in a day. I couldn’t stop staring at the Perren picture. His films were full of sinister images, but they flicked past as quickly as they appeared. This one was fixed in my field of vision.

  When I awoke in your guest room, there was a dark patch where I’d drooled on the satin bedspread. Standing, I saw that my capris were horribly wrinkled, deep pleats fanning out at the crotch. In the bathroom mirror I confronted the fact that nothing could be done with my lank hair. I rubbed concealer on the purple moons under my eyes and put on my drugstore blush.

  You hadn’t told me what to do when I was finished resting. I crept downstairs and found you on the phone in the entrance hall. When you caught sight of me, you hung up and pushed your hair behind your shoulder.

  “Are you hungry? Let’s go get dinner. There’s a little Italian place nearby, if that’s okay with you.” You stood and stretched your arms out and back, as if you’d take flight. As if going to a restaurant were easy and obvious. As if my presence wouldn’t be a humiliation for you. I wanted to ask if we could stay in, but instead I said, “What should I wear?”

  “Anything. What you have on is fine.”

  “Just give me a minute,” I said and hurried back upstairs. I rummaged through my suitcase, frantically trying on and casting off clothing before finally surrendering to the safest option: a black wrap dress made of cheap jersey material. The neckline was too low, exposing the fabric of my bra, but with a safety pin I was able to secure the two panels together. I hadn’t brought dress shoes. The best I could do were open-toed wedges, which were awful with the dress but could maybe be seen as Californian. You waited for me at the bottom of the stairs, and as I descended I was keenly aware of the safety pin, the glint of metal I was sure you could see.

  And then we were in your car, a blue convertible Mustang with the top up, winding through the canyon. The setting sun brushed rouge over the scrubland. For a while I saw no sign of human life at all and wondered if we were passing over the same empty expanse I’d seen from the plane. Then the ocean appeared. I felt a little jump inside me, the excitement of a child. I didn’t tell you that I’d never seen the ocean in person before. People liked to brag that Lake Michigan was an ocean unto itself, that it was larger than some saltwater seas, but I saw right away that this water was different. Its color was deeper, a sick jade tint, and it moved in a way the lake didn’t, drawing into itself with a singular force.

  We turned onto a road that paralleled the coast, passing clam shacks and empty tracts of land with real estate signs. I was surprised by what appeared to be a dry, provincial place, with none of the luster I associated with Los Angeles. As we parked in front of the restaurant, you said, “It’s nothing special, but they have good pizza, and no one will bother us here.”

  The pretty young hostess looked right at you without blinking and asked if we wanted to eat on the patio. It was a mild evening, but you told her: “No, inside is fine.” When she led us to a table in the middle of the room, you put a hand to her shoulder and said, “Actually, could we sit somewhere else? That booth over there?”

  The hostess pivoted us to the booth in the far corner. You took the banquette that faced the wall, and I was struck by your consideration in giving me the seat looking outward. Only after we were sitting, when your face hit me like a floodlight, did I understand the logic behind your choice. You didn’t want to be seen.

  I watched you study the menu. There was a quiet between us at the table that made me uncomfortable. I felt compelled to say something to you, something kind that would make you look at me the way you did the night of the reunion.

  “I was so glad you came to the reunion,” I finally said.

  You looked up from the menu. “I was glad you came, too.” You smiled then, and I saw the ghost of my childhood friend beneath the famous features, a pencil sketch beneath an oil painting.

  Our waitress approached with a pursed, impatient look that turned to delight the instant she recognized you. “Well, hello!” She smiled broadly at you, then at me. “What can I get you ladies to drink?”

  You looked at me. “A bottle of cabernet is fine.”

  A few customers at nearby tables glanced slyly toward us and away. I wondered if they were murmuring to each other about you, preparing observations for their friends—or if the people here were immune to fame. Your green eyes were trained on me, exotic and familiar at once. When our wine arrived you took a deep drink and watched me over your glass.

  “So,” I began, a nagging tremor in my voice. “I meant to tell you that I saw you in Vanity Fair. The new movie seems like a really big deal.” My hand went instinctively to my hair. I didn’t need a mirror to know it had fallen limp again.

  Your eyes brightened. “I was really lucky to get that role. It’s opening up new possibilities for me. I’m already getting to read scripts I never would’ve gotten before.”

  Delightful rosy patches appeared on your cheeks. You’d never talked to me about your acting when we were younger. You were still holding back now, I could tell—still speaking like the subject of an interview—but I sensed that you’d tell me more if I waited.

  “I just hope I don’t blow it,” you continued after a moment, in a lower voice. “It’s such a crucial moment in my career, and I have to be careful what parts I audition for right now.”

  “But isn’t it too late for you to blow it? You’re on fire. I’m sure people are begging you to be in their movies.”

  “Yeah, well, kind of. But that’s why it’s important for me to nurture an image that sets me apart from other actresses. Now that I have some leverage, I need to take control of my career. It’s a lot of pressure. So many people make false steps when they’re young and never get back on track.”

  “That does sound like a lot of pressure.”

  You sighed. “What I really need now is more artistic credibility. It’s important that my next film is a serious one. I need to distance myself from the sugar-pop girls, you know? But it’s hard to convince the studios to send me the heavyweight scripts. Already I’m sort of being pigeonholed.”

  “Already? That’s not fair.”

  You rolled your eyes. “No, of course it’s not fair. I mean, this is the least fair business on the planet. Especially for women. But I have a mission. What I really want is to be in a Perren film.”

  I drank from my water glass, swallowed an ice cube whole. It inched down my throat, a sharp pain.

  “Of course, I’m not the only one. Everyone wants to work with him, or at least everyone with big ambitions. It would be an incredible boost for me. It would stamp me as a real artist to do a Perren film, to have that imprimatur, as they say.” You gave me an unblinking gaze. “But he’s notoriously selective. He doesn’t even hold auditions.”

  “How does he cast people, then?”

  “It’s kind of a mystery, but it’s sort of understood that he gives preference to people who go to the Rhizome. He visits sometimes to do his own sessions, and I guess he sizes people up while he’s there. He comes every few months, I’ve heard. It’s all under the radar, but it’s generally agreed that going to the Rhizome is a prerequisite for being cast. He really believes that it brings actors to a higher level, so in his mind, going there shows that you’re committed.”

  The pizza had arrived and was now steaming between us on a metal stand. There was a long pause in which I tried to process what you were telling me. Auguste Perren lived in Switzerland and was famously reclusive. I’d been under the impression that he’d founded the Rhizome for the benefit of others, not for his own use. I never thought he’d visit there himself, or even touch the shores of this country.

  You lifted a piece of pizza onto your plate, and the silence extended. You glanced up at me, gauging something as you put fork and knife to your slice. You leaned forward and whispered, “And, on another topic, I don’t remember if I told you at the reunion, but I’ve started seeing someone.”

  I felt a tor
que at the base of my diaphragm. “No, you didn’t.”

  You glanced to either side of you. “Rafael Solar.” You slid back into your preteen face as you said this, and all at once I felt the sympathetic burst of excitement that once came with our old sharing of crushes. He was from Argentina, you told me, a couple of years younger but in your opinion the most gorgeous man in Hollywood. He’d cracked into the scene a few years ago in a role as one of Genghis Khan’s marauders and had been rising steadily since.

  I widened my eyes and put my wineglass down carefully, even as my excitement subsided. “Wow, that’s fantastic.”

  You nodded, your mouth curling up into the devilish little smile I remembered. “And it happened so fast. The first day on the Vespers set, I swear something just clicked. It was like we could read each other’s thoughts.”

  The torque at my diaphragm tightened. As I attempted to transfer a slice of pizza to my plate, strings of cheese trailed onto the table.

  “He’s from an aristocratic family in Argentina, and he’s the most elegant person I’ve ever known. And much more traditional than you’d think. It’s his Latin background, I guess, but it’s important for him to be a gentleman. He’s always gallant, which is so refreshing compared with other men in the business. He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever been with.”

  I knew all about the other men you’d been with, of course. The magazines reported everything. Your boyfriends had seemed disposable to me, elfin and overgroomed, slightly older versions of your eighth-grade crush, Topher. I remembered how we’d snuggled our sleeping bags together at slumber parties and aimed a flashlight onto a pad of paper to play MASH. We’d listed the names of movie stars as possible future husbands, along with the cutest boys in school—Topher among them—and the most repellent. Had you ever landed on a movie star’s name? Had you ever landed on “Mansion”?

  “He said he wants to take me to Argentina one day. His parents breed polo ponies. They have a whole stable. And Raf’s an amazing polo player. He’s, like, the best in L.A.” You refilled your wineglass and took another drink. “It’s so nice to be able to share all this with you, Abby. It really is. I know I was a little tipsy at the reunion, but it was true what I said. I’ve missed having friends who really know me. Old friends like you, who’ve known me since I was a kid.” It was clear you were drinking too much again, your words beginning to blur into each other. “I mean, I do have friends here, but it’s different.”