The Paper Wasp

by Lauren Acampora

  I’d pictured Buenos Aires as a dusty city of slums and was surprised as our car took us from the airport over elegant boulevards with designer shops. An obscene obelisk marked the end of one avenue, which was as wide and loud as the 405 freeway in California. The side streets were calmer, with faded verandas and old, twisting trees. The hotel was a whitewashed inn with tall windows and wrought-iron railings. You’d generously reserved a single room for me, with a bed as spacious and deep as a cumulus cloud. Still I’d hoped, irrationally, that you and I might have shared a room, that we might have had that last intimacy.

  My presence here seemed a formality only. Bianca, your stylist, had co-opted the role of maid of honor, nitpicking your dress and makeup, gossiping about the wedding guests. When I heard her say Mireille Sauvage’s name, I felt it as a strike in the gut. The guest list wasn’t just family, I understood now. You’d lied. But I betrayed nothing and smiled at you in your spotlight of attention. The qualms about Rafael that you’d confessed to me seemed to have evaporated. Perhaps this was the real reason I was not to enter the church. The bride had used me as a repository for her doubt, and now I was tainted. In order for the ceremony to remain pure, for the marriage to knit together cleanly, I was to stay outside.

  I’d slept badly in the beautiful hotel. Since leaving California, I’d felt the approach of a surge, the familiar beginnings of an updraft at my feet. For two nights I’d lain awake on the cumulus bed, powerless against the accelerating cyclone. My heart revved. The scraps of sleep that touched me were embroidered with bright, erratic dreams. These were often lucid, and I felt I could pull them toward me and push them away when I wanted. A hummingbird flew at me and morphed into a small human, with wings on either side of its head where the ears should be. I slapped it away, and it came back. When I thought I was awake, it reemerged from the white window curtains, flapping at my face.

  I sat at the café table and rippled with impotent energy, just as I had on the airplane, coming to California. I knew from experience that when this feeling came, this tidal power, I had to direct it wisely. Pulling an olive pit from my mouth, I watched as one of the photographers left the paparazzi throng. He came striding across the street toward the café and flashed a smile as he sat at an adjacent table. His face had a pleasant golden bristle, and he wore a baby-blue linen shirt. He struck me as familiar. Perhaps all photographers resembled one another, with that same aloof, immoral gleam in the eye. After he set his camera down, this one could have passed for an ordinary patron as he gestured to the waiter. He ordered coffee in Spanish, and when the waiter withdrew, he turned to me and smiled.

  “So, what brings you here?” he asked in plain American English. “Are you a reporter?”

  I looked sharply at him. “No hablo inglés.”

  He smilingly held up a hand and apologized in a river of Spanish. I returned to my sangria and hoped the interaction would end there. The alcohol had already soaked into my veins, but I was dressed too lightly for the weather and still shivered. The white-diamond sunlight didn’t warm me. I drew a long breath and bit into another olive, adding its pit to the wet pile on the table.

  The man leaned toward me. “Me puedo unir a ustedes?” he said. When I didn’t reply, he tried again in English. “May I join you?”

  His eyes were the same placid blue as his shirt. It seemed unlikely that anything bad could come from talking with the owner of these eyes. I nodded, and he smiled and dragged his chair to my table, tugging his camera by the strap. “Thanks,” he said. “It gets lonely in the crowd.” He gestured to my glass. “What are you drinking there?” Before I could answer, he called to the waiter and requested a jarra de sangria. “Too good not to share,” he said. “I’m Lucas.” He held out a hand. The linen shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing the fine gold hairs of his forearms.

  The name was somehow ready on my lips. “Jessica.”

  “Hello, Jessica. Where are you visiting from?”

  We were interrupted by the waiter, who lay down a giant pitcher of sangria, orange slices layered like lily pads over a lower stratum of darker clumped fruit. Lucas topped off my glass, filled his own, and lifted his drink. “To the newlyweds.”

  For a moment, I considered whether to pretend not to understand. But my hand lifted and our glasses clinked.

  “I’m so glad to be here,” Lucas said. “It’s a nice change from L.A.”

  “I’m surprised you came all this way.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Are you kidding? This is a great assignment. I love this city.”

  “Isn’t it risky to leave your post, though? I haven’t seen anyone else budge since I’ve been sitting here.”

  He shrugged. “The action won’t start till afternoon, that’s definite. No one in this country does anything early.” He smiled. “I already have my position, and a couple of guys will hold it for me. We trade favors like that. Plus, I believe in taking sanity breaks. A drink helps keep you mellow. Celebs don’t like it when paps are agitated. Think about it. Would you turn and give your best smile to someone who’s practically cursing at you? You convey a lot by the tone of your voice. They can hear it. You need to modulate yourself when you call to them. Make it so you’re the one they want to look at.” He pushed his chair back and crossed his legs. “You look familiar. Are you from L.A.?”

  I gave a small smile.

  “I knew it.” He winked and raised his glass. “Another toast, then. To the City of Angels.”

  We drank again, and Lucas refilled my glass. Somehow the pitcher was already half-empty. I hadn’t had anything to eat besides olives all day. I hadn’t felt hunger.

  “You still haven’t told me what brings you here. I don’t think you just happen to be on vacation, staking out this church.”

  The day was relentlessly bright, turning the metal café tables into reflective discs. I felt cloistered inside my sunglasses—trapped, but safe. My body had finally warmed from the sangria, and my heartbeat was still in overdrive. I wanted to talk. It wouldn’t make a difference, I decided, if I confided in this one friendly photographer. I paused a moment, taking a long sip of my drink before answering.

  “I’m a friend of the couple’s,” I said.

  As soon as the words were out, I felt that I’d stepped outside a barrier. Lucas’s face transformed, brightening. He uncrossed his legs, sat straighter in his chair. “Really! I can’t believe my luck.”

  My body grew warmer, and I smirked.

  “You think I’m kidding? Do you know how many people over there”—he gestured toward the crowd at the church—”would love to talk to a friend of the couple’s?”

  I raised my eyebrows and took another drink. He gave a wicked smile, and I felt my face heat. My hand brought the glass to my lips, and I took a long, deep drink.

  Another pitcher arrived. I began to talk. Lucas moved his chair closer. He ordered food in a jumble of Spanish. The minutes blurred and looped, one into the next, and I never saw the waiter, though I was aware of plates being cleared and replaced. I was conscious only of Lucas’s face, the pleasing geometry of his eyes and lips, the smooth slope from nose to brow. I felt as if I’d been looking at his face forever, that it had been planted in my memory long ago.

  I realized that I’d been talking at length, delivering a monologue, but I couldn’t stop, and he didn’t interrupt. He only listened, with a nod or tilt of the head at pivotal moments, in a way that invited more. I felt I was divining a soft profundity in him that deepened as I spoke and that echoed an equivalent depth in me. The history of Michigan and college and the bridge poured out of me, across the café table, into this twin hollow. And now, as I spoke your name, as I approached the doom of Malibu, of Rafael, a plug formed in my throat. I swallowed against it. I’d forgotten the church, forgotten where I was. This felt like a private confession, occurring in limbo. I sipped the sangria and put my hand on the tabletop, palm down, to keep the table from spinning.

  “They fight all the time. They had such a bad figh
t at Cecconi’s that Elise ran into the ladies’ room crying. She was a mess.”

  Lucas gave a sympathetic look.

  “It got so bad that the maître d’ had to ask them to leave.”

  “Oh my God, how humiliating.”

  “The truth is that Rafael’s a terrible person,” I said loudly, spray coming from my mouth. “Elise is making a huge mistake. She knows, but she’s in denial. And there are even worse things about him she has no idea about.”

  I lifted my glass and drained the rest of its contents, the swollen wedges of orange colliding with my lips. The mass of fruit dropped back to the bottom of the glass, wilted and bloody.

  “Oh, that can’t be right,” Lucas said with a frown. His face was tense, his eyelids blinking. “What could possibly be so bad? You said you’re a friend of the couple’s, so he’s your friend, too, right?”

  On some level I knew what he was doing. I heard my inner voice warning me of it, in an amusing, untranslatable language. “I can tell you exactly what’s so bad,” I said.

  As I continued, in detail, I felt an unburdening that I imagined was what they called catharsis. I became lighter with each grain of elaborated perversion and depravity I swept out of my dreams and into the light. The bridle, and the slugs. As I spoke, I knew that what I was doing was absolutely correct, the only way to save you from your hideous error. It was something only a true friend would do. My final gift to you.

  Afterward, I was spent. I leaned back in my chair and felt a sudden need to sleep. A new plate of food had arrived, some quiche or tortilla. I lifted a wedge of the food onto my plate, and at the moment I took my first bite, a buzz rose up from across the street. A white Rolls-Royce rumbled into view, and the camera shutters exploded. Lucas sprang from his seat, thrusting a handful of pesos onto the table.

  “You’d better hurry, if you don’t want to miss the ceremony,” he said. Then he leaned down to me, took my face in his dry golden hands, and placed his mouth on mine. The kiss was long and full, and I had the sensation of sinking in water, circling down. “Adios,” he said as he jogged away, then turned and called back: “Muchas gracias.”

  The Rolls-Royce had released its occupants and driven away. A matching car appeared and disappeared, swallowed and disgorged by the crowd. Then another. I sat alone and watched the motorcade. The sun had lowered, casting my side of the street into shadow and fixing the far side in a nostalgic sepia bath. The heat of the sangria and of Lucas had left me, and I shivered. For a long time, the waiter didn’t return. I ate my wedge of tortilla and let the rest go cold. The money was still on the table.

  At last, a white limousine slid into view, presumably the bridal carriage. The photographers swarmed the vehicle. My first instinct was to hide, to run into the café behind me, shut myself in the ladies’ room. For some reason, now that you were just paces away, it felt crucial that you didn’t see me here watching. Still, I forced myself to stay seated. The truth was that you couldn’t see me if you tried, you were so tightly surrounded by the photographers who ascended the church steps until the heavy doors finally shut in their faces.

  You’d be entering the dark vestibule now, wearing the dress I helped choose: the antique beaded sheath that draped on you like a negligée. Your hair, swept back, would show the diamond teardrops at your ears, equal to four years’ worth of food in Honduras. I saw you closing your eyes for a moment. I closed my own eyes, and in my mind I heard the first notes of the organ, saw the inner doors swing wide, your first steps down the aisle. The intricate beading on your gown straps reflecting the light like fire. Your father at your side, clutching your slim arm. And your mother in the front pew, her face distorted in joy and loss.

  You left for your honeymoon in the Pacific, and I flew back with the other personnel. Owing to some administrative oversight, my seat was in coach for the return trip. The others gave me pitying looks as I dragged my suitcase past them through first class to the back of the plane. Truthfully, I was more comfortable there. The seven hours to Panama City—and the following seven to L.A.—were mine. I could spin in my personal whirlwind. My eyes closed, and I flew to the firmament. The wedding was over; my job was done. I had no fear of falling to earth.

  By the time the plane landed at LAX, the tabloids were afire. In the arrivals hall, your team jabbed at smartphones, barked into Bluetooths. I strayed to a newsstand and picked up the fresh copy of Star. Through some metaphysical transfer, you were already on the cover of this magazine in your wedding gown. Your eyes were cast aslant as if in suspicion of something outside the frame.

  BETRAYED! screamed the headline over your head. HOW RAFAEL CHEATED HIS PREGNANT BRIDE! PERVERSIONS AND KINKY ROLE PLAY! THE SORDID TRUTH SHE NEVER SUSPECTED!

  I carefully replaced the magazine in its stand and returned to the team. In the flurry, no one looked at me. No one appreciated the expression of shock I’d designed for my face. I’d already been forgotten.

  The tabloids rolled it out sweetly and thoroughly. They’d gone deep into the archives for photographs to match the occasion: tormented expressions on your face, a yawn that could be mistaken for outrage, a hand over the eyes that telegraphed shame. There was a photograph from our trendy lunch, angled to show swelling at your belly. BETRAYED! the headlines screamed. BETRAYED!

  I thought of you on a remote island, obliviously resting beside your fraudulent new husband. No one would tell you about the tabloids now, I reasoned. Not on your honeymoon. What good would it do? The print couldn’t be unprinted. For your sake, I hoped there were no magazines on your island. The fallout, when it came, would be painful, even if it was for the best. I didn’t begrudge you a few days of ignorant joy.

  Meanwhile, I was still flying. The blood flamed through my veins as I wrenched my best things from their closet hangers in Malibu and threw them into my suitcase. I scrunched underwear into the mesh pocket and forced the zipper closed. I spun, leaving your house, as I’d done when I’d left mine. My reflection mimed me in the vanity mirror, and I knew, as if I were reading a sentence in a story, that this would be the last time my face would appear there.

  In my final hour, I walked through your house, opening all the doors. I went into the orb room and swept my hand over the childish globes, making them sway and collide. They clanged as I went down the hall to the library and plucked at the spines of the books. I took down Jung’s colossal Red Book. I hauled it to the floor and flipped through the pages until I found one that arrested my attention: an illustration of a hooded figure on a boat, a gnashing sea monster beneath. A German paragraph ran in calligraphic text, its translation at the side, and I left the book open on the floor, for you to see when you returned.

  The part that you take over from the devil—joy, that is—leads you into adventure. In this way you will find your lower as well as your upper limits. It is necessary for you to know your limits. If you do not know them, you run into the artificial barriers of your imagination and the expectations of your fellow men…. These barriers are not your real limits, but artificial limitations that do unnecessary violence to you.

  I sat on the brown velvet chair and wrote my letter. When I finished, I spread it over the open pages of the book.

  I’m sorry to be writing this in a letter instead of telling you in person, but I didn’t want to spoil your happiness. I’m sure you’ll understand why I can’t be your assistant anymore. It’s better if I leave, so that your new marriage can grow and flourish. Our friendship is too close, too intimate, to coexist with a marital bond. As much as it hurts me, I know it’s the right thing to pull back and untangle myself from your life. You’ll be better off with a professional assistant who can keep a healthier distance. It will be better for me, too. I’m going home to Michigan, where I belong. But you and I will meet again soon enough and celebrate the arrival of your baby.

  Beneath the body of the letter, I signed off the same way you’d done in my yearbook, echoed that same lie: I hope we’ll be close again someday. My love always, Abby.
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  Last, I went to the master bathroom and watched the captive stingrays pass over me. I sat on the toilet seat where Rafael would have sat when he’d proposed, and stared at the tub where you would have lain. It was like visiting the scene of a crime. I was reminded of the painting of Marat, the dead revolutionary, his arm hanging from the bath, feather pen still in hand. I thought of the dreamy smile on his face, the closed eyes that could be mistaken for rapture. The stingrays passed overhead, traveling their infinite causeway.

  XV.

  IN GRAND Rapids, I rented a tiny Hyundai and drove north. I was startled by the austere surroundings I’d forgotten, the houses that looked incomplete somehow, as if they’d been pushed out in public half-dressed. The ground was muddy from some recent rain, and the overcast sky was like a stained white sheet. I’d become so accustomed to color in California, lush saturation with no expense spared.

  But coming out of the city onto wide, traffic-free Route 96, I felt a lift of clear purpose. The surge was as strong as ever, a motor propelling me forward. I felt that I was the car’s engine, delivering fuel through my foot on the accelerator. It was hard not to speed, to stay behind traffic in the fast lane. As I blew past my parents’ exit, I thought of their house and its contents. Instead of the box of magazine clippings under my bed, all those treasured pictures of you, I thought of my Perren collection neatly stored in its cherrywood DVD case on top of my bedroom dresser. I thought of the satisfying snap the case made when I closed it. All of the films were there, minor and major—Eureka Valley, Land of the Beings, Nyx/Nox, Horn and Ivory—a whole world sealed safely away for me, and inaccessible to you. You wouldn’t audition now that your pregnancy was public. It was gratifying to know that Perren’s world remained mine. And as I drove, it was gratifying to know that my collection was just half a mile away, if I wanted it. But I had no desire to stop and retrieve it, to subject myself to my parents’ bloodless faces, their excoriation, the crusty old scabs of the past. I had no wish to see the black patch in the yard where the bonfire once burned, or the garage where the gas can was kept.