by Olivia Dean
Instead of disappearing, I decide to pick up something at McDonald’s and go eat in my little room while watching a movie on my computer. I deserve a little comfort this evening.
I come home with puffy eyes, carrying an enormous paper bag reeking of fast food and enter the building…and again I come face to face with the stranger who, this time, seems to be leaving. I want to crawl under the floor. He looks at me, not at all like the first time. I feel like I’m an old incontinent cat. At least that’s what I get from his disgusted and slightly scornful grimace. I manage to croak out a 'bonsoir'. He sizes me up for a little while and then grants me a polite 'Mademoiselle' before disappearing into a sedan whose back door opens like magic.
Well, who does this guy think he is? I fume while eating my fries on my bed. What does he think? That everyone eats caviar for dinner? I’d like to see this punk at the university cafeteria! He's probably never set foot on a college campus, he probably never even studied. He must be the kind of rich kid who goes from golf games to cocktail parties without asking any questions. The gentleman was born rich and handsome and despises all those who aren’t like him! What a despicable guy…
But still handsome. That can’t be denied. A natural kind of handsome, almost wild. I’d like to say he seemed artificial, wore too much cologne or too much hair gel, but he didn’t. He emanates something animal and deeply masculine. A force, an energy…something indefinable. His eyes are a dark black, bewitching, and his fleshy mouth seems ready to bite or kiss something. His body is enormous. Athletic. He’s handsome, yes. Which makes him even more revolting.
It’s not worth thinking about anymore. Actually I should go and pay my respects to his father if I don’t want to come across as a freeloader.
I spend the evening with Marceline Desbordes Valmore, Mrs. Granchamps’ prescription to, as she put it, relax my judgment. It’s poetry. In French, moreover. I have to admit that it’s not my favorite. But it is fascinating. Her way of painting passion, forgetting one’s self…it’s deeply moving…and very exotic.
My dreams are tormented and disturbing. I’m running naked down the staircase, which never end. At the bottom I can see the stranger, who keeps moving towards the door of the waiting sedan. I wake up sweating, incredibly anxious. I decide to stop with all this romantic poetry and chance encouters in the foyer.
This evening I’m going to meet the famous Delmonte. I decide to keep my schoolbooks with me to show him what a serious student I am. I started looking into housing options in this city and it seems pretty much impossible to find a place at a reasonable price. It would really be ideal if I could stay here for a few more months. I put on the outfit I use for my professors. Perfect ponytail, which makes me look like a dynamic and healthy young woman, jeans, white blouse and navy blue ballerina shoes. It’d be impossible not to take me seriously.
I ring the doorbell, wearing my most sincere smile. The door opens and I direct my smile towards the other person. He looks at me curiously.
“I’m here to see Mr. Delmonte…”
“Evidently,” he says, opening the door. “Come on in.”
He leads me through the solemn front hall. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m standing in the middle of the living room. I’m not in my element here. I feel like I’m one of those girls from the makeover shows who are scrutinized by passers-by. He looks right at me. He enjoys my discomfort. He, however, could fit right in anywhere he went.
“Is your father here?”
“You can find him at Père Lachaise.”
“Maybe tomorrow would be a better day?”
“I’m afraid not.”
The conversation isn’t off to a great start. Yet I feel I have to go on.
“When can I come see him?”
“I’m afraid it’s not possible.”
For crying out loud! Why do I have to deal with this guy? Is he dumb or does he just want to make me feel uncomfortable?
“Maybe he’ll…”
“He’s dead, Mademoiselle. He’s been buried in the Père Lachaise cemetery for over ten years.”
I’m embarrassed. And full of hatred for him. I don’t know which feeling is stronger. He’s obviously enjoying this. He keeps looking at me, as if he finds my embarassement even more delightful. I’m completely red, no doubt about it. I want to explode. How can he be so cruel? I want to leave, it’s too much. I turn, furious, when he places his hand on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. You are so amusing when you play the role of the model student….I didn’t introduce myself. Charles Delmonte.”
He holds out his hand, confident, and I stare at it stupidly as it takes my own. I look at him, surprised. So he’s my landlord. The multimillionaire that everyone speaks of so reverently. He asks me to sit down on a red velvet chaise lounge. I stammer:
“I’m Emma, Lexie’s cousin, I’m a student…”
“I know, Mademoiselle Maugham. I was wondering when you were going to come visit me. Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes…”
I don’t know what to say. I’m still very embarssed and strangely troubled. It’s all this red…and this man. His quaint manners and his way of acting like he was twenty years older than me. He hands me a glass that looks like white wine and sits down next to me. I’ve almost calmed down. At least, I no longer have to deal with him looking at me.
But he looms near me, our bodies don’t touch but we’re close enough that I can feel his warmth. I can’t concentrate, it’s too hot. And I’m thirsty. I swallow down the entire glass. It’s too sweet to be truly refreshing, but not bad.
Oh no, I think he’s choking. I whack him on the back with all of my might. He’s coughing, unable to breathe…how terrible, I’m killing my multimillionaire landlord!
“Stop, Emma, please! Stop hitting me, I’m not that kind of guy!”
I misunderstood. He was choking alright, but with laughter. I watch as he catches his breath.
“Excuse me. I didn’t know that I was dealing with someone who loves Château d'Yquem so much.”
Note for later: Google this famous Château. In the meantime, I decide to laugh politely. Let’s get back to our objective: make a good impression on the landlord, however old and seductive he seems.
“So you’re a student? What are you studying?”
“Sociology. I’m working on a thesis on feminism. Actually on feminisms. I’d like to study the differences between feminist perspectives in the US and France.”
“That’s fascinating,” he says, without a drop of irony.
I’m dreaming: he really finds this interesting! Or he’s so used to high society that he acts like he’s interested in everything? I opt for the first explanation, which helps me unclench my jaw a little. I enjoy the fact that I’m next to such an incredibly handsome and rich man who thinks my research is interesting. Really, it’s not that crazy after all.
“But what about you, Emma, do you consider yourself a feminist?”
He has something else to say about it! If he didn’t care at all, he would have stopped at 'fascinating', but he clearly wants to talk about it more. Perhaps he’s not the uneducated rich kid I had assumed he was. I decide to turn towards him a little. Our knees brush. It’s slightly awkward, but I really have no choice if I want to look at him while I speak. It just seems like the right thing to do.
“Maybe it seems a little outdated to you, but yes, I’m a feminist. I’d consider myself to be devoutely feminist.”
I put all of the confidence I can muster into this little sentence. Our knees are touching now. I don’t know if it’s the wine or the pleasure of discussing a subject that I’m so dedicated to, but I am on fire. His eyes hypnotize me. I press my knee against his. I look at his lips. I think, at that very moment, that I could kiss him. But he goes on:
“Would you say that it’s because of your feminist leanings that you dress yourself in potato sacks?”
5. Disillusionment
What a
jerk! What an idiot! How could I have thought for a single moment that this arrogant beefcake would be interested in anything but his hairdo? I really have lost my mind. And to think that I was even considering kissing him! I’m going to have seriously pull myself together here. I came to Paris to study, not to flirt with guys and especially not to play the fool for some jaded millionaire. He started messing with my mind the moment I stepped foot into his apartment. First with his deceased father, then with the wine…and for that matter, what does Google have to say about this Château?
No way, it can’t be! But that’s the name he mentioned: Château d'Yquem. Apparently, this white wine, which I thought was too sweet, is considered by connoisseurs to be one of the greatest wines in the world. I must be dreaming! One bottle costs from 200 to several thousand Euro! I understand now why he laughed after seeing me gulp the glass down, like some kind of soda. At the same time, it serves him right! That should teach him to make fun of me.
I can’t calm down after I leave his house. I shouldn’t have gotten so upset. He is who he is, but he’s still my landlord. An accommodating landlord who doesn’t make me pay rent…I feel awful. I’ll start looking for a room on Monday. Or maybe I could apologize, just to buy a little time…oh no way, that must be the white wine talking! I can’t believe I was just thinking about apologizing! After being humiliated in such a horrible way! I’m sure he was thinking about making some sort of snide remark from the get-go. And there I was, naively thinking that he wanted to know more about my studies. What an idiot! And his little smirk, when he said that! He was proud of himself, you could tell! I could have slapped him, I think. Reduce my entire life’s work to my choice of wardrobe. First of all, clothes have nothing to do with it. And besides, what did he mean? Dress myself in potato sacks? Why, because I don’t wear Chanel suits to school? Big deal! I don’t know what world he lives in, but I’ve never seen anyone get dressed up to go to the university cafeteria. Except for Manon, of course. But she’s an extraterrestrial. For real! What do I care if he doesn’t like my clothes? After all, I’m worth more than that. I’m not superficial like the women who he usually meets, that’s what it really comes down to…
I’ll sleep on it, I’ll see things more clearly tomorrow.
I don’t want to leave the house. I've bought enough food to stay inside for the entire weekend, but I’ll have to poke my nose outside on Monday. I’ll leave early to make sure I don’t run into him. In the meantime, I better get to work! Finally, a good opportunity to dive into my books. It’s perfect. Except I can’t stop thinking about that humiliating moment…when I’m not dreaming of it. My Parisian life must really be boring if I’m obsessing like this over a fifteen minute conversation.
But it sounds like he's having a party at his house. That night, while doing the dishes, I hear women laughing and the clinks of crystal glassware. The gentleman is hosting a little get-together. He must be entertaining the bimbos with his stories about his badly dressed neighbor. I hate them all. I have a hard time falling asleep with a pillow over my head.
6. An apparition
Monday, 5:45 am. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten up this early since I came to Paris. I even wonder if there’s a law prohibiting people from getting up early in the capital, since the city doesn’t seem to wake up until after 9:30 am. A hasty ponytail, my “potato sack” uniform, my books and there I am in the corridor. While frantically digging through my bag looking for my keys, a warm voice greets me.
“Bonjour.”
I turn around, ready to attack whoever is ruining my perfect plan for morning solitude. I can’t. I'm petrified with admiration. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful woman. It’s the type of person I’d like to be when I ‘grow up’. A cross between Rita Hayworth from Gilda and Catherine Zeta-Jones from Intolerable Cruelty. She’s wearing a red evening dress and high heels, yet looks so natural that it makes me doubt for a moment what time it is. She smiles at me kindly.
I’m fascinated by her hair, which falls in sultry curls over her nude shoulders. Voluptuous. That’s what it is, this woman emanates voluptuousness. Sex. She’s leaving my neighbor’s house. We wait for the elevator, side by side. It’s a ridiculous picture. My sneakers and her high heels, my head only reaches the height of her armpits. I would laugh if I wasn’t so mortified and disturbed. After what seemed like an endless descent, she disappears in a split second and leaves a trail of perfume in her wake. I stand dazed on the sidewalk.
“She’s a prostitute!”
Manon announces her final verdict after hearing my description.
“No, she had a really classy vibe to her. Not the type to be a prostitute, in my opinion.”
“You know, there are high-class prostitutes in Paris, you just need to be able to afford them.”
I wonder how she knows about the economics of the sex industry, but I refrain from asking.
“No, really, I don’t think so.”
“It bothers you that your billionaire uses prostitutes, doesn’t it?”
“He can do what he wants, I don’t care! It’s just that I don’t think that’s his type and I really didn’t get that kind of impression from her.”
“In any case, he must have screwed this Rita, right?”
“You can be so vulgar! But whatever, sure, I can’t see why he wouldn’t have.”
“Ah, he gets bored, the pig! On Friday, he does this knee thing. On Saturday, he has a party and on Sunday, he spends the night with Rita the crypto-prostitute…”
“Honestly I think I was the one who pressed my knee against his…”
“There you go!”
“But I had been drinking!”
“One glass! Are you kidding me? You like this guy!”
“Yeah, I liked him! Until he made fun of me and gave me a reality check. Which I thank him for. I could have wasted my time on him.”
“Sometimes you really seem repressed! Even if this guy is a bit of a jerk, it wouldn’t do you any harm to get laid…” She stops herself suddenly and looks at me with a curious expression.
“Sorry, I always forget you’re American. But don’t tell me you’re a virgin?” She said the word ‘virgin’ as if she was saying ‘coprophagous’, with a mixture of surprise and a hint of disgust. I reassure her that it’s not the case.
“No, it’s just that I’m not feeling this Delmonte, let’s talk about something else.”
Luckily Mathieu arrives, which puts an end to this annoying conversation.
While Mathieu tells us about his fascinating seminar on pre-Socratic philosophy, I daydream about my sex life. No, despite how seriously I took my studies during high school, I’m not a virgin. I started getting interested in sex when I was about 17 years old. Everyone was talking about it. Some girls at school thought it was the gateway to depravation and the way to ruin your life. Others were absolutely committed to doing it before they got to college. Personally, I wasn’t sure. As I usually did, I asked my father for advice. “Sleep with a boy? Sure, of course you can, if you want to. Just make sure you use protection.”
I soon decided to find out more for myself. I told my plan to a childhood friend who agreed to experiment with me. After two attempts, one painful, the other annoying, we decided that we knew enough. Then I poured all of my passion into something I knew would be more relevant, meaning my studies. No, I’m not a virgin. But I'm not that experienced, either.
I’m not at all against the idea of 'getting laid', as Manon said, it’s just that I didn’t think the opportunity comes along every 5 minutes.
And then, I must admit that until recently, I never truly desired any man in particular. But that’s all ancient history.
I push open the heavy door of the building at 8:00 pm. No luck, Delmonte is getting into the elevator and holds the door for me. I have no choice but to join him. This space never seemed so cramped before. I stare at my feet.
“Are you still upset, Emma?”
I grumble in lieu of a response.
&
nbsp; “You really are touchy! I’m sorry, I didn’t want to offend you, I was joking. I thought that there was something between us, but I must have been mistaken…”
The door opens, I sidle into my room after croaking out an inaudible ‘bonsoir’.
‘Something between us’? What did that mean? He must have noticed I was upset and tried to make fun of me again. Or else maybe he truly was attracted to me? In any case, he said he was sorry, at least that’s something. That means that he’s not going to throw me out onto the street. It also means that he cares about my feelings. At least, I think so. If I had the courage, I’d ask him. But that would probably give him a good opportunity to make fun of me again…Manon was right: I’m too repressed. After all, what do I have to lose if I go ask him? Would I look ridiculous? At the point where I’m at right now…I decide what I’m going to do. I’ll take a shower to get my courage up and then go knock on his door. I’m not going to beat around the bush and I’m going to ask him what’s going on between us. After all, we’re both adults.
7. Brief encounters
"Oh, Emma! I didn’t know you were planning on stopping by…”
“Yes, I kind of decided on a whim…I just wanted to be a friendly neighbor,” I say, nearly choking.
“If I had known…”
“It must be a bad time, you have guests…”
“Yes, we’re having a business meeting, sorry.”
“Oh well, maybe another…?”
He doesn’t let me finish my sentence. With a confident movement, he grabs me by the waist and holds me against him. His lips press against mine, almost brutally. I lose my bearings. While he holds me firmly against him, I feel his tongue slide into my mouth and meet my tongue. I don’t want this to ever end. His hand runs along my back, down my jeans. My entire body is alert, waiting for his next movement, his next bold move. I feel his penis through the fabric of his pants, I squeeze my muscles tighter. I’m ready for anything.