Shameless

by Nina Lemay

  “I need to pass the class, Emmanuel.”

  He sighs and sits down again, his hands on his thighs.

  “So. What is this about? Just spit it out, ‘Annah, don’t waste time. You want me to pass you without you ever showing up? Or what, you’re going to go to the school board and tell them I raped you?”

  His words are like a slap. I sit up straight, the remaining fog of the hangover knocked right out of my head. “Is that what you think I’m going to do?”

  “Well, I don’t see another way out of this situation. But if I pass you like that, I might get fired. Just so you know.”

  “I was never—why would you think I would do such a thing?” I blather.

  “Didn’t you just say so yourself, about a hundred times—you’re a terrible person and you deserve whatever awful thing happens to you?”

  “I’m not going to tell anyone anything,” I say. My gaze doesn’t leave his face, gauging his reaction.

  He sighs and runs his hands through his hair. “Then what do you want?”

  “I… I want the camera back. I want to learn how to use it.”

  He gives me a look I can’t read, careful and apprehensive—but the corners of his lips turn up, unmistakably. He’s weighing the risks. Evaluating, in his mind, just how crazy I am and how far I’ll go to ruin his life if he says no.

  He must decide I’d go pretty far. Because he says yes.

  The camera is a cold, metallic weight in my hands, its sharp edge pressing into the bridge of my nose as I peer through the viewfinder. Still, after all this time fiddling with the lens and adjusting this and that, the camera keeps quavering in my shaky hands. Because I’m too aware of Emmanuel’s arms reaching around me, his left hand holding the camera in place, his right hand over mine, guiding my fingers.

  I smell metal, leather and lavender. His breath tickles the side of my neck.

  “…like this, ‘Annah. See how that’s zoomed in now? This way you will have a perfectly focused, clear photo, even in all this sunlight.”

  He guides the pad of my index finger to the cold round button at the top of the camera and presses down. The shutter clicks.

  “The trick is to forget color exists. You’re only working with black and white. That means shadow and light, and sharpness, and contrast, are what matters most.”

  I mutter something under my breath, to the effect of “this is stupid and why bother when you can snap an HD shot in two seconds with your phone.” He pretends he hadn’t heard.

  “It’s a challenge, yes. But when you get the hang of it, it’s like day and night. You’ll never look at your phone camera the same way again.”

  He shows me filters. He explains about texture and contrast. “Just unfocus your eyes. Squint. You’ll see the contrast of shadow and light, your perfect shot.”

  I lower the camera and he takes his hands away. “All right, your turn.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Take my picture.” He sits up straight and stretches his neck, smiles like for a school photo. “Go on.”

  I try to do everything he showed me. I fumble with the lens. I squint, trying to find the interplay of shadow and light.

  He has light skin and dark hair, and his eyes look dark today, forest green verging on brown. His eyebrows are deep dark arches, and barely-there stubble shades his chin and jaw. In the bright sun, I can see the shadows lurking under his eyes, in the inner corners. You can tell he didn’t sleep, I think. Because of me.

  I think oh, what the hell and press the button. The shutter clicks. I take two more to be sure, and he takes the camera from me.

  “This sucks,” I say. “You can’t even preview.”

  He rolls his eyes subtly. “That’s half the pleasure. Do you always have to know how everything will turn out? How boring would that be?”

  “That would be pretty nice, actually,” I say tartly.

  “You have no sense of adventure.”

  “I’m practical.”

  “That’s what I meant.”

  He raises the camera and before I can protest, I hear the click, then another and another. My eyes fly wide open, my hand shoots up to cover my face, but he just keeps snapping away.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’ll see whose turn out better. And I’ll grade you.”

  My mood sours. As if on cue, a cloud goes over the sun, dampening the brilliant light.

  “Where do you develop them?”

  “The drugstore next to where I live sends them out.”

  He shakes his head.

  “Go ahead, judge me,” I say. “I’m not a purist, I’m the hoi polloi, entrusting her precious work to a min-wage guy at the photo counter.”

  But he’s smiling. “You just don’t get it, do you.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “This isn’t supposed to be a chore. It’s an art form. You’re in the art program, so I assume you at least marginally like the process. Drawing, or painting, or whatever you do.”

  “Painting mostly,” I say, with reluctance. “But I do a bit of both.”

  “I wish I could see your work,” he says carefully.

  “You can just stop by the art department. They put up the works of all the 200-and up-level classes in the halls. It’s all there.”

  “I don’t want to see what’s all there. I want to see what you do for yourself.”

  When I don’t answer, he catches on. “I’m overstepping.”

  “Yes, you’re overstepping.”

  He gives a discreet sigh and launches into an explanation about film development, what to use and where to buy it in bulk if I don’t want to pay the exorbitant prices at the campus store. I nod along.

  “I’m boring you to death.”

  My head snaps up. “Hmm?”

  “Your eyes are glazing over like a maple donut.”

  “Sorry.” I swallow. “Actually, I could go for one of those right now.”

  “Really? You can keep it down?”

  I must turn crimson with embarrassment, because he goes on, without missing a beat.

  “Look, how about I drive us down to the city for some food? Or are you still not convinced it’s safe to get in a car with me?”

  “I’m fine,” I mutter.

  “So is that a yes or a no?”

  When I look up, he’s smiling.

  Oh, fuck it.

  “It’s a yes. But only because I haven’t eaten anything in like twenty-four hours and I’m starving. No ulterior motives.”

  He laughs softly. “Good enough.”

  I’d never admit it in a million years, not to myself and least of all to him, but I’m a bit apprehensive about getting in the car with him anyway. Although maybe not for the reasons he thinks. When the shiny new Audi beeps in greeting and flashes its cool bluish headlights, my heart jumps.

  Did he drive me here last night? Was I passed out on the back seat like some drunken tramp? Did I throw up in his car?

  I wait for him to get in before climbing into the passenger seat. Pale beige leather. Sparkling clean, no empty Coke cans or greasy fast-food wrappers or cigarette butts, like every other car I’ve been in. I wiggle in the seat, settling in—I can stretch my legs comfortably in front of me.

  We drive into the city, bathed in the late-afternoon sunshine. We go past the downtown area; I catch a glimpse of one of the towers of my university, but he drives on, up Ste-Catherine, past the seedy parts, past the Village, until we’re in the Plateau neighborhood—trendy hipster clubbing district, French edition. Everything about the lovely, narrow streets we navigate screams France rather than Canada: spiraling staircases covered in thick, luscious ivy, ornate gables and turrets painted wild colors that light up in the sun, yellow, robin’s egg blue, crimson, pale pink, orange and green. I find myself reaching for the camera stashed on the seat next to me. While we wait at a light, I snap a few pictures.

  I don’t look at Emmanuel, but he chuckles and I feel myself blush, happy that I’m facing away and he c
an’t see me.

  Here’s to hoping the pictures don’t suck.

  I take one more, and he can’t help it any longer.

  “Lens cap,” he says.

  I wish I could fall through the bottom of the car and disappear.

  He parks the car by an intersection, but leaves the engine running. Then he tells me to guard the car in case the ticket people show up, and under my astonished gaze, gets out and sprints across the street—red light be damned. I see him enter a store and emerge a few minutes later carrying a bottle of wine in each hand.

  “Whoa, whoa,” I say. “Didn’t we say no ulterior motives?”

  “Motives?” He blinks innocently. “I’m taking us to a really good little restaurant I know, and it’s a bring your own wine. So I thought I’d, you know… bring my own wine.”

  “And the other bottle?”

  “That’s for my own private use.” He holds my gaze with an innocent expression. “Now who’s presumptuous?”

  I decide not to answer that. “What’s a ‘bring your own wine’? I mean, I get what it is,” I blush slightly. “But, um, back home you can’t do that.”

  I hadn’t meant to tell him that. The last thing I want is for him to think I’m some kind of hick from small-town Minnesota.

  Even though that’s exactly what I am. All the more reason.

  He doesn’t seem to notice my slip, or just doesn’t let on.

  “Well, I’d love to wine and dine you in a classy joint with waiters in tuxedos who pour a $200 Chateau De Whatever… but we decided no ulterior motives. So a $20 SAQ bottle will have to do.”

  My face is on fire. “The $20 SAQ bottle is just fine. The most expensive wine I’ve ever had was Chateau de Dépanneur. A whopping ten bucks for a liter.”

  “Wow, she knows what a dépanneur is. And you’ve switched to metric. I’d say you’re assimilating okay.”

  His eyes crinkle when he smiles, but not in an old way—in a hot way. I kind of wish he didn’t stop. It makes him look more real, more human. And less, well, perfect.

  “Everything here is in French,” I say, defensive. “And I did take it for a whole three years in middle school. I know all the days of the week. And even most months of the year.”

  “You need to spend less time in the tourist trap district,” he says, “and more time on the Plateau. Or better yet, go out of town. En région. No one thirty minutes outside of Montreal speaks a word of English.”

  “It can’t be that bad.”

  “Who says it’s bad?”

  He turns onto another green, narrow residential street and pulls into a parking spot—a legit one, I hope. This time he turns off the engine and takes the key out of the ignition.

  “I should take you down to Quebec City someday,” he says softly, more to himself than to me. But we both freeze, stricken by the words. The silence in the car, now that the engine and the soft hum of the jazz on the radio are gone, is thick enough to cut.

  “I mean, if you like the Plateau, you’d like it there. Beautiful place.”

  “I’ve never been.” I don’t know why I say that. I entwine my fingers together till my knuckles go white.

  He clears his throat. “Sorry, ‘Annah. Should have asked you earlier, but…”

  “It’s okay,” I blurt.

  “…do you have any restrictions? Food-wise, I mean, are you allergic to things or vegan or you just really can’t stand anchovies?”

  Feeling dumber than a box of stoned freshmen, I shake my head. “Uh, no. Nothing like that.”

  “So you like unpretentious French food?”

  “I thought that was, like, an oxymoron.” I giggle a little, more with nervousness than anything else. “But I’m open to finding out.”

  This is the strangest date of my entire life.

  Try as I might not to think of it as a date, to catch myself whenever my mind strays in the direction of the D-word, it’s kind of hard. The most sophisticated, fancy date I’ve ever been on isn’t even a real date. The cognitive dissonance is just too much.

  The restaurant is tucked away on the corner of two residential streets, blink and you’ll miss it. I hesitate in the door only to realize Emmanuel is holding it open for me. Awkwardly, I step in.

  The place is tiny. It looks like the space used to be an apartment: the room we find ourselves in bears a suspicious resemblance to a living room, with an arched entryway leading to another, smaller room. The walls are all painted different bright colors, potted plants hang from the ceiling, leaves and flowers brushing my hair as I pass by. The place is peppered with small round bistro tables with white tablecloths and mismatched vintage chairs.

  A waiter comes to greet us, and to my surprise, he shakes hands with Emmanuel before giving him a hug like they’re long-lost friends. Then he lets Emmanuel go and encases me in a hug in turn as I stand there stiffly, my arms pressed to my sides. I feel my face warm. This French touchy-feeliness can get weird sometimes, especially for the uninitiated.

  They exchange a few words before the guy turns to me and asks me something in rapid-fire Quebecois-accented French.

  “Uh, that’s ‘Annah,” Emmanuel says in English. “She’s a…” he cuts himself off. “She just moved from the States.”

  I gulp. I realize he was about to say I’m a student, but that would have opened the door to any number of questions neither of us wanted to answer.

  “Fantastique!” the guy’s smile widens. “This is actually the first time he brings anyone here with him, and I’ve known him since before he moved to Montreal for the first time. You must be really special.”

  Wow. Typical Quebecois tact. I chew on the inside of my bottom lip, wondering if I should say something.

  The guy is utterly oblivious. “So. Where did you two meet?” I can’t tell if it’s directed at me or at Emmanuel.

  We exchange a glance. What could he possibly answer? She’s my student? Oh, I saw her spinning around a pole one night and, you know, one thing led to another?

  But what he says is like a punch square in the solar plexus.

  “Oh, that. We’re not actually a couple.”

  I’m rooted to the floor.

  The waiter-guy’s smile fades. “Oh. Sorry to hear, just thought you looked cute together.”

  “So, you have a place for two?”

  “Well, it’s Friday and we’re going to be packed. But for you and your non-date, I think I can manage something.”

  He leads us through the large room, to the smaller one in the back. Emmanuel goes after him, clutching the wine bottle to his chest, and I follow in his footsteps. One foot in front of the other. My legs feel like a wooden puppet’s.

  If I had any pride, I’d just take off.

  Then again… when was this supposed to become a date? That was never the deal. I have no moral right to be upset.

  But when Emmanuel pulls out the chair for me, gallantly, and takes a seat across from me with that easy smile like nothing happened… something inside me won’t stop stinging. We’re on the terrasse, the patio in the back of the restaurant, under an awning dripping with ivy. The air smells like flowers; little antique lanterns line the walls, filling the space with soft orange light. The waiter guy uncorks our wine bottle and pours a few splashes into each gigantic crystal glass.

  “Well, ‘Annah, santé,” Emmanuel says and holds up his glass. The wine catches the light, a dark ruby. Like an automaton, I pick up my glass, clink it against his.

  “My name starts with an H,” I say.

  “Hmm?”

  “You keep dropping the H. It’s not cute anymore. If my parents wanted to name me Anna, they would have named me Anna. If I wanted to be called Anna, I would have had my name legally changed. Until then, it’s H-annah. Like it or not.”

  “Sorry.” He looks more amused than sorry.

  “And when there is no H, you add it there for whatever reason!” I say, getting fired up.

  “I do not!” he protested.

  “Yes, you do.
When a word starts with an A or an E, you add an H before it. So it’s ‘Annah, but Halicia.”

  He chuckles.

  “It’s just weird! Stop doing it!”

  “Hey, I’m not criticizing your French, am I?” he’s laughing.

  “That’s because there’s nothing to criticize.”

  “Exactly. And notice, I’m not giving you a hard time. In fact, I’m going out of my way to speak English to you…”

  “You do teach in an English university,” I point out. And instantly regret it, because at the reminder, his smile fades a little. “So, you know, speaking English decently is the least you can do.”

  “This is such a nice evening, let’s not drag the centuries-old linguistic question into it,” he says, and tops off my wine glass. I take a sip. The wine really is good. Not Chateau de Bodega.

  “Like it?”

  “It’s nice. What’s the catch? Did you roofie it?”

  “Hannah.” He looks exasperated. “Not funny.”

  “At least you remember to get my name right.”

  He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling again. “Drink up. They threw out the cork, so we have this whole bottle to work our way through.”

  I take a sizable gulp of wine and nearly sputter.

  “Don’t gulp it like that. Enjoy it. God… Les Américains.”

  After we’re done with our plates of tiny filet mignon and balsamic vegetables, we finish the last drops from the bottle and head out. It’s gotten dark and when we emerge onto St-Denis Street, it’s starting to fill with clubgoers lining up in front of their venues of choice. Loud music blares from some of the terraces: jazz, live bands. A guy at an intersection is playing the violin. He’s about seventy, shirtless and with a scraggly white beard sticking out in all directions, but he plays like he should be in the Symphonic Orchestra.

  I put a two-dollar coin in the hat in front of him.

  “You don’t love this city?” Emmanuel asks softly—so softly I don’t even realize he’s talking to me at first. “Not even a little?”

  “I never said that,” I say. “It’s different from back home. That’s kind of why I came here.”

  “And did it disappoint?”