Gadget Girl

by Suzanne Kamata

  We find Monet’s water lilies. I imagine diving into the cool, light-dappled water, immersing myself in indigo. I wonder if Junpei would like this painting. I wonder if Junpei likes art, or even if he likes indigo. I think it’s cool that Monet had a Japanese garden. It makes me feel like we have something in common.

  “He was going blind, you know. That’s why his paintings are so blurry. He saw the world differently, and yet his vision made things beautiful.”

  We study his blossoms for a while, then move on to Degas’s ballerinas. I don’t like the ballerinas so much. They remind me of all the things I will never be able to do. But Mom says, “Degas was going blind, too. Can you imagine? Eyesight is one of the most important tools for a visual artist.”

  Just like legs are important for dancing. Well, maybe I could dance if I tried. Some sort of spastic break dance. Or just using my arms.

  “How about this guy?” I ask in the next gallery. “Toulouse-Lautrec.” His painting is of a woman in a white wig trying to fasten a yellow ruffle onto her costume. It’s called The Clown Cha-U-Kao, which sounds sort of Japanese.

  “Well, he could see all right, but he was, uh, vertically challenged.”

  “You mean he was a midget.”

  Mom frowns. “He had a congenital calcium deficiency. He broke his legs and they never healed properly.”

  If they hadn’t been disabled, I wonder if they’d ever have been famous at all. Maybe they felt they had to prove something. But what about Mom? I know she’s trying to make me feel better about myself through her art, but is she also trying to make herself seem special?

  “Why don’t you ever sculpt normal people?” I ask her now.

  She pauses and gives me a long look. “You think you’re not normal?”

  “You know what I mean,” I mumble. Then, “Oh, forget it.” I guess this isn’t a good time to bring up Lourdes.

  Next we take a cab to the Eiffel Tower. We have to wait in a long line to go up it. There’s a Japanese tour group in front of us. They all have patches stuck to their shirts, identifying them as a group. Their leader waves a small flag. I try to eavesdrop and pick out a few Japanese words. I wonder if any of them know my father or my brother. It’s a crazy idea, I know.

  Finally, when it’s our turn, we crowd onto an elevator and go up to the second floor. To get all the way to the top you have to climb the stairs. So much for accessibility. Oh well. We go out onto the observation deck. From there we can see the city spread below—the grey rooftops, the Seine snaking through the city, the Trocadero, which looks like an eagle with wings spread from this angle, the Place de la Concorde. The wind is strong at this level, and it whips my hair. I can hear the pi-po pi-po of a distant siren, and half a dozen different languages coming from the tourists nearby. From up here, it’s easy to see that we’ve only scraped the surface of the city. There are so many places to go, so many things to do and see. We take a couple of pictures and go back down to the ground.

  “Where to next?” Mom asks.

  I’m feeling a little overwhelmed. How will we ever get to know this city in just one summer? I think we need a break. We need to regroup. “I’m a little thirsty. How about a café?”

  Mom nods slowly and gets a faraway look in her eye. “Okay. I know just the place.” And although there are half a dozen cafés within view, she packs us into another cab and we fly down the streets to a different neighborhood, Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

  We get off at the corner, in the shadow of a church tower. I recognize the name of the café—Les Deux Magots—from a movie Whitney and I saw. The green awning and cane-backed chairs look familiar, too.

  Through the window, I can see a huge vase of white lilies and waiters in black jackets and bow ties scurrying around. The weather is nice, not too hot, so we take a table outside. Mom orders a glass of wine. I go for my usual hot chocolate.

  We’re sitting there sipping, ogling all the tourists with their cameras and guidebooks, when Mom drops her next bombshell.

  “This is where I met your father.”

  “What?” I’d always thought they’d met in Japan. She told me she’d gone to Shikoku to visit the places that had inspired Isamu Noguchi. Now I’m thinking there is more to her story. Maybe there’s another version entirely.

  “He thought I was French,” Mom says. Judging by her smile, it’s a good memory.

  “What was he doing in Paris?”

  She shrugs. “Traveling. Backpacking around Europe. His parents allowed him a year of freedom before he had to start working on the family farm. This café was listed in his guidebook.”

  “So was it love at first sight?” It must have been, I think, for her to follow him back to Japan.

  Her eyes cloud over and she shakes her head. “I think it was this city that made us think we were in love. I think we were in love with Paris.”

  I look around. A couple is making out at the table next to us, their coffee going cold. Couples stroll along the sidewalk, arm in arm or holding hands. I feel a pang, like a jackknife is being dragged over my heart. Paris is for lovers, not for someone like me.

  21

  The following day is interview day. Mom’s got people from Le Figaro and Elle coming to talk to her. Also the Herald Tribune and a couple of other newspapers. But first we have breakfast in our hotel room—coffee for her, hot chocolate for me, and a basket of buttery croissants for both of us.

  “After the interviews, how about I take you shopping? Do you feel up to it?”

  I still need something to wear to the opening. “Sure.” I take a big bite of bread and watch the flakes flutter to my plate.

  I figure I’ll write some postcards and look at magazines while I’m waiting for her to finish up. I’ll just stay out of the way and no one will notice me.

  The first reporter arrives as Mom downs the last of her coffee.

  “Good luck,” I say, and retreat to my corner.

  Mom opens the door and gets all hostessy. She hustles everyone into chairs—the writer, the translator, and the photographer, and they get to it. I manage to pretty much ignore the whole conversation.

  By noon she’s finished three interviews and still has a couple to go. This is all taking longer than I expected. Anyone else would be tired, but Mom is glowing from all the attention. I guess fame is a big high.

  I’ve flipped through some French magazines and found some styles I’d like to copy, but now it looks like we won’t even get to go shopping. Plus, I’m starting to get really hungry and I’m sick of room service.

  This next interview is for some fashion magazine. The interviewer is as beautiful as a model—thin with perfect skin and a sleek black bob. She’s wearing a sort of fencing jacket, which must be the latest thing, and a pair of tight red leather pants. The very idea of trying to work my body into those clothes makes me tired.

  “Bonjour!” The woman kisses Mom like they’re long-lost friends. She acts like she’s in party mode. She looks around the room till she spots me. “Bonjour! You must be la muse!”

  My hackles go up, but I nod and force a smile. “Hello.”

  Mom gives me a look for answering in English, but this woman isn’t fazed at all. Turns out she’s fluent. “Oh, you must be so proud of your maman. She’s a genius, isn’t she? Tell me, what do you think about this show?”

  Suddenly, I can’t stand it anymore. I hate that self-satisfied look on my mother’s face, the fawning journalists, and I hate that Mom has dragged me to this place where the lights don’t even stay on. I remember something that I read in a review of her work. “To be perfectly honest, I think it’s wrong for her to appropriate the experiences of the disabled for her art. Maybe she should find her own subject.”

  There is gasping all around.

  I almost immediately regret what came out of my mouth, and yet I can’t bring myself to apologize. Not yet. So with as much dignity as I can dredge up, I grab my backpack and the manga I’m reading and limp toward the door. “Bye,” I say to Mom. Her
mouth still hangs open. “I’m going to get something to eat.”

  Once I get to the street, I’m not sure what to do. Then I spot that café across the street—our café—and I decide to pop in for some steak frites.

  Hervé is there, sweeping up broken crockery, when I walk in. He nods at me and smiles sheepishly.

  “Un accident?” I ask.

  “Oui,” he says.

  It takes me a minute to get settled, and then he’s there, at my side. “Bonjour, Aiko. What will you have today?”

  He remembered my name. “Oh. Y-you s-speak English!” Ugh. Why do I have to stutter at a moment like this? Why can’t I just be normal for once? I look down so that my hair will fall across my face, hiding my blush.

  He laughs. “Yes. I spent last summer in New York City with my cousin. I love your country.”

  His accent is so cute. I want to ask him lots of questions just to keep him talking, but all I can think of to say is, “Thanks. Your country is pretty nice, too.” I look up at him again.

  “Merci beaucoup.” He smiles. His teeth are a little crooked, but dazzlingly white. “So your mother—is she coming?”

  I shrug. “She’s busy right now. Media stuff.”

  “C’est dommage. There is so much to see and do here.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re staying for another couple of weeks.”

  Hervé nods. “Well, maybe I can take you around the city next time your mother is busy.”

  Be still my heart. “Oh! That would be great.”

  The bell above the door jingles, and Hervé looks up, taking note of the new customers.

  He gestures to my table top. “Et alors? What will you have?”

  “Uh, steak frites.” I know that my pronunciation is totally American, but he smiles, makes a note on his pad, and heads for the kitchen.

  A woman at a table near the window is staring at me. I suddenly feel naked, sitting here alone without my mom. I open my manga and try to concentrate on the story. It’s about a fisherman who becomes immortal after eating the flesh of a mermaid. I take a deep breath and dive into the pages. My mind is in this other world, this Japanese world of sea and women who can’t walk on land, when Hervé comes up behind me.

  “Ah, you like the manga,” he says, setting the plate of crisp fries and steak in front of me. “So do I.”

  I’ve heard that Japanese comics are really popular here. “Really? What have you read lately?” I ask.

  Hervé rattles off a long list. Impressive. I had no idea so many titles had been translated into French. It kind of makes me want to learn the language.

  “My dream is to become a manga artist,” I say. I’ve never voiced this to anyone except for Whitney. Being in Paris makes me feel free, somehow. I guess it’s because I know that after I leave this place I will never have to see anyone here again if I don’t want to.

  He leans in close to me and whispers, “My dream is to be an auto mechanic and participate in the Dakar road race. But don’t tell my father. He wants me to be a doctor.”

  As if on cue, his father calls from the kitchen.

  “Oui, Papa,” Hervé replies over his shoulder. “I’ll be right there.” He rolls his eyes at me.

  I smile back. Parents. They can be so exasperating. But then I feel a twinge. At least he gets to spend time with his father. I wonder what would it be like to work for your dad. I imagine crouching in the indigo fields, listening to mine call out my name. I picture us eating lunch together out of a lacquered bento box, my hands blue like his. What is it like to even have a father?

  And then I wonder about his mother. Is she the kind who stays behind the scenes and does the laundry and the cooking? Is she slender and chic like the French women on the streets, or just the tiniest bit dowdy? I picture a family for Hervé—brothers and sisters. Pets. Lots of friends. I’ve imagined so much that I feel like I know him already.

  When Hervé comes back out, it’s to wait on a young couple seated near the door. I know that he’s working, but I feel kind of disappointed when he doesn’t bother to stop by my table again to chat.

  I eat as slowly as possible. I’m not really all that hungry after the scene with my mother, but I want to sit here and watch him, and eating gives me something to do. Plus, the food is actually pretty good. I stretch out the time a little bit more with a cup of coffee. Un cafe. I’m normally a cocoa person, but it’s kind of a kiddie drink, and I don’t want Hervé to think of me as a little kid. I take tiny sips, pacing myself, so that by the time I get to the bottom the brew has gone cold.

  And then the door whooshes open and Mom enters, her hair all wild, her lipstick smeared. “There you are!” She rushes at me, traps me in a hug. “I’ve been frantic!”

  “I’m fine,” I say, feeling a little irritated. Yes, I should have told her where I was going, but I wish she would trust me enough to let me go out on my own every once in a while.

  Mom sits down in the chair next to mine and has a look at the plate on the table. There are only a few fries left. “So you’ve eaten,” she says.

  I nod.

  “You ordered in French?”

  “Mais oui.”

  She smiles. She’s about to reach over and ruffle my hair when Hervé appears, a cup of coffee on his tray. “For you, Madame.” He bows slightly.

  “Thanks for looking after my daughter, Hervé,” Mom says, as if I’m six years old and he’s the babysitter.

  He winks at me over her head. “It was no trouble.”

  “Garcon!” a woman calls out.

  Hervé excuses himself and goes back to work.

  Finally, it’s just Mom and me. I remember my outburst back in the hotel room, and I feel ashamed. “I’m sorry about what I said back there,” I say.

  Mom sips her coffee thoughtfully. “No, I’m glad you spoke up. It’s good to know what you’re thinking.” She settles her little white cup in its saucer and reaches across the table for my hands. “I believe in what I do, Aiko. Not everyone can speak out. I try to give a voice, a presence, to people who don’t know how to stand up for themselves. But I don’t want to speak for you.”

  I’ve heard this all before, and I don’t think I need to hear it again, but I let her continue.

  “If you feel so strongly about having your own voice, you should do something about it. You could tell people what it’s like to be you.”

  Yeah, I could tell them how I hated physical therapy as a child, how I once flailed so badly while trying to get away that I broke my therapist’s glasses. Or how I always got picked last for the teams and how my classmates called me names and made fun of my way of walking. But who wants to hear all these sad stories? Isn’t it way more fun to read about fire-breathing dragons and magical elixirs? Boomeranging bottle openers and wind-powered whisks? I’d rather stick to Gadget Girl.

  After Mom finishes her coffee and I polish off my fries, I reach into my backpack. A few copies of the latest issue of my comic are tucked inside. I haven’t distributed any in this city yet, haven’t found the right opportunity, but after my little exchange with Hervé, I decide to leave one on the table.

  It’s a back issue in which Chaz and Lisa/Gadget Girl are in Antarctica for the Polar Cap Festival. Chaz is there for the Polar Cap Cup, an extreme snowboarding competition. Lisa is there as a tourist and an art aficionado, snapping photos of the awesome ice sculptures along the trail—Hello Kitty, a crystalline castle, a herd of glittering deer. Plus she wants to watch Chaz. Just as Chaz has completed the first half-pipe of the race, a priestlike figure on the sidelines mutters some magic words, bringing an ice man to life. But this guy’s no Frosty the Snowman. He’s a snow golem, and he’s after Chaz! Luckily, Gadget Girl has brought along her crème brûlée torch. She’d been planning on using it to make a surprise dessert for Chaz’s victory dinner, but she whips it out early to melt the golem. There’s no butane left over for the crème brûlée, but Chaz is rescued once again.

  I wait till Mom goes back to the kitchen to talk to Hervé
’s dad, then I slide the comic under the plate so it won’t look like I forgot it, but that it was deliberately left there. And then, without a backward glance, I follow Mom out the door.

  “Ready to go shopping?” she asks.

  During the cab ride to Galeries Lafayette, which is like the Macy’s of Paris, Mom tells me that we’ll be dining with Hervé’s family tomorrow. Remembering the spilled wine and shattered glass at my first French dinner party, I’m almost surprised that I get to go along. Then again, Hervé almost sloshed coffee on my mother, and I saw him sweeping up broken dishes. Maybe we’ve got something in common besides a love of manga.

  At the department store, Mom and I drift from boutique to boutique, running our fingers over silks and cottons. She unhooks a fuchsia sundress and holds it up against me.

  “No way. No pink.” I show her a black strapless sheath.

  She shakes her head. “You’re going on fifteen, not twenty-five.”

  And I may wear a bra, but I don’t really have enough up on top yet to keep the sheath in place. She’s right. I return it to the rack.

  I nix a yellow dress with lace straps and a red dress with a sweetheart neckline and puffy sleeves. And then I find the perfect one. It’s scoop-necked and sleeveless, with tiers of wide ruffles down the front—perfect for disguising my under-developed chest. And while the soft pink version is too sweet, it also comes in indigo.

  “How about this?”

  She studies it for a moment, rubs the fabric between her fingers, and then flips up the price tag. “Okay.”

  Mission accomplished. I’ve got a dress for the opening.

  22

  While Monsieur Le Clerc’s apartment was a spastic’s nightmare, full of antique pottery and crystal wine glasses, the Brouilly’s home is a place to relax. The chairs are plump and soft and covered with faded chintz. The paintings on the wall don’t look like they cost thousands of dollars. They’re mostly replicas of those you’d find in the galleries of the Louvre.