Gadget Girl

by Suzanne Kamata

  “Well, I-I don’t know. My mom is kind of protective.” Then again, maybe that would work in my favor. She knows and trusts Etienne. She seems to trust Hervé. Maybe if she thinks of him as a guardian, my big brother in Paris, she’ll let me go someplace with him. “Actually, I would love to see Paris with you,” I say. “But keep in mind that I’m not too good with stairs.”

  He laughs again, flashing those white teeth. “Great! What would you like to see? The Eiffel Tower?”

  “Mom and I went there our third day in Paris…” But it might be romantic at night, with all those lights.

  “Hmmm. Have you been to the Louvre?”

  “Well, yes.” I wouldn’t mind going there again, if it was with Hervé.

  “The Moulin Rouge?”

  Okay, I haven’t been there yet. I remember Lautrec’s showgirls and Delight Hubbard. Whitney would love to hear all about the cabaret, and maybe I can find some inspiration for Gadget Girl in Paris in their kicks and costumes. “Yeah, that would be fun,” I say. “Let me check with my mother.”

  “D’accord.” And then he’s off to the kitchen.

  Just then Mom comes into the café. She spots me and joins me at the table. Hervé pops over to take her order—un café, as usual. When he brings the coffee, I make my big announcement: “Hervé’s going to take me to the Moulin Rouge.”

  Mom’s jaw drops. “Pardon?”

  Hervé bows again. “Oui. If it’s okay with you, Madame.”

  Her forehead is wrinkled. It’s taking some time to process this, I can tell. “Well, you know, my daughter…”

  “It’s okay,” Hervé says quickly. “We won’t be climbing any stairs.”

  Mom bites her lip. “Maybe we could all go together?” she says.

  Hervé raises his eyebrows. I frown.

  “Mom,” I say under my breath. “You let Whitney and me do things together without parents. Think of all those times you dropped us off at the mall, or the movie theater.”

  “Well, okay,” she says with a sigh. “But you’re taking my cell phone. And you’ll come back to the hotel as soon as the show’s over.”

  Back in our room, she starts fretting again. “Are you sure about this, Aiko?”

  Maybe she thinks I’m too young to go out with a guy. This kind of thing has never come up before, so we’ve never had to discuss it.

  “It’s not a date,” I say, thinking this will set her at ease. “He’s just offering to show me around as a friend. Like a brother.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. You underestimate yourself, Aiko. You’re a beautiful, interesting girl.”

  Of course she’d say that. She’s my mother. And while it’s nice to hear these things once in a while, my alleged charms are not helping my case. It’s time to beg. “Please, Mom. I really want to go. It’ll be a once-in-a-lifetime experience. And remember Delight Hubbard? That girl from our town? Maybe I’ll get to see her on stage!”

  Finally, she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and says. “Okay.”

  I dig through my suitcase, trying to find something to wear. According to my guidebook, the Moulin Rouge has a dress code. They won’t allow tourists in jeans.

  The swirly gypsy skirt I packed is totally wrong, as is the cotton sundress. The only thing that might work is my new indigo dress. I lay it out on the bed.

  My left arm starts jerking. Maybe Mom is right. Maybe I’m not ready to go out with a hot guy, in a foreign city, on my own. Even if it’s not a date. What if something goes wrong? What if I knock over his water glass? What if I fall down?

  I figure a bath will calm me. I fill up the tub and climb in for a soak. The water feels good on my legs. I lay with my neck against the porcelain until I begin to feel peaceful again, or at least more excited than nervous. When I’m toweled off, all damp and fragrant, I go back into the bedroom.

  “You can borrow this necklace,” Mom says. She’s laid out her rhinestone choker against my dress.

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you want to wear a little mascara? Some lip gloss?”

  Although some girls at my school wear makeup, she’s always harping about “natural beauty.” She doesn’t usually let me out of the house with anything on my face except sunscreen. I guess I’m finally old enough for glamour.

  “Would you help me?” I ask her.

  She smiles. “Sure. And how do you want to do your hair?”

  I pull the dress over my head and sit down in front of the mirror. I keep my arms at my side while Mom paints my face. She strokes my eyelashes with the mascara wand, dabs away stray black blots with a cotton swab, and powders my cheeks with pink. This is what girls do, I think as she brushes out my hair and styles it into a chignon. They sit in front of mirrors on the night of school dances and make themselves look beautiful.

  “Close your eyes,” Mom says.

  After I shut them, she gently strokes color on my eyelids, and then she steps back. “Okay. Take a look.”

  I do. The girl in the mirror is a stranger. She looks at least a couple of years older than me, and ten times more sophisticated. “Wow. I hardly recognize myself.”

  She kisses me on top of the head, reminding me that I’m still her little girl. “You look great.”

  “Well, Mom, if the sculpting thing doesn’t work out, I guess you could pursue a career as a makeup artist.”

  She laughs, then reaches for her purse and takes out a handful of euros. “The Moulin Rouge is expensive, and I don’t think Hervé is making a big salary down at the café. You should at least offer to pay your own way.”

  “Okay.” I tuck the bills into my wallet, and put that into my macramé bag.

  “Wait a minute,” Mom says. “You need something a little more elegant for an evening on the town.” She rummages through her half-unpacked suitcase and comes up with a black satin bag decorated with tiny beads. It’s attached to a long, thin silk cord that I can loop over my shoulder. “Take this,” she says.

  The shoes are another problem. This dress would look killer with high heels, but I can’t wear anything but flats. My braces would be the best bet—they’d keep my legs firm and steady—but of course they’d look hideous with these clothes. Most of the time, like at school, I’d rather take a risk and opt for normal footwear. No way am I wearing orthopedic support for my night on the town. I slip my feet into a pair of black Mary Janes and I’m ready to roll.

  25

  At quarter to six, there’s a knock on the door.

  “Go ahead. Answer it,” Mom says.

  Suddenly, my stomach is doing somersaults. It’s only Hervé, the waiter, I tell myself. Mom’s friend’s son. Kind, gentle, just-a-friend Hervé. No need to be nervous. I swing open the door and there he is.

  He’s wearing a black turtleneck and black pants—and cologne. In a word, he is gorgeous. Plus, he smells great. I put my right hand on the doorjamb to steady myself.

  When he sees me, he puts his palm over his heart. “Ooh, la la! You look beautiful.”

  I imagine that he is about to kiss my hand, or sweep me off my feet. I forget, for just a moment, that there is anyone else in the room.

  “Don’t forget the cell phone,” Mom says, breaking the magic. “And you, Hervé, take good care of my daughter.”

  “Oui, Madame. You can count on me.”

  She follows us down to the lobby and outside to the curb where we climb into a waiting cab. I worry that I will have to bar her from the taxi, but she finally steps back and waves. “Have a good time!”

  How embarrassing. From her behavior, anyone could tell that this is my first time out with a boy. If only she could be a little bit more casual. At least she didn’t try to get into the car.

  On the short ride to the theatre, he points out the illuminated white dome of Sacre Coeur and the long barges ferrying tourists down the Seine in the moonlight.

  The red windmill at the entrance to the Moulin Rouge is all aglow as well. A crowd is moving toward the neon lights. The cab driver pulls up to the
sidewalk. I wonder if I should offer to pay for the ride, but before I can get the words out of my mouth, Hervé hands him some money and ushers me out of the car, into the flow of tourists in jackets and gowns. I can feel his fingers brushing lightly against my back.

  We go through the doors, into a chamber with rows of long tables lit with tiny lamps. A waiter shows us to our seats at a table up near the stage.

  All around me people are speaking English with various accents. I pick out a Southern drawl, Australian intonation, Brit-speak and a Midwestern twang. It’s as if we’re not in France at all anymore. I feel vulnerable again.

  “Are you okay?” Hervé asks, reminding me that I’m not invisible here. My discomfort must show.

  “Yes,” I say, straightening my posture. “Hey, is this your first time here, too?”

  He smiles and nods. “Le Moulin Rouge is for tourists. We Parisians don’t come here.”

  “A girl from my school is a dancer here,” I tell him. “Her name’s Delight Hubbard.”

  Of course Hervé has never heard of her. The cabaret is collectively famous. The girls have to blend in. Back in the day, there were a few women who stood out—La Goulue, and Jane Avril, those cancan dancers that Toulouse-Lautrec immortalized in his art, and Yvette Guilbert, who later became a famous fortune teller. (I’ve been reading up on this.)

  “It’s very difficult to become a member of the Moulin Rouge,” Hervé says. “The girls must be just the right height and have just the right proportions. Also, they must be very—how do you say—?” He contorts his arms, drawing stares from the New Englanders at our left.

  “Flexible,” I say, helping him out.

  “Oui, c’est ca.”

  His deep voice makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand on end. I decide that I will tune out all of the tourists and concentrate on listening to him. With his words, I am firmly back in France.

  A waiter comes around with a menu. There are several courses to choose from, including the Toulouse-Lautrec selection. The painter was a gourmet. Not only did he paint women and horses, but also he concocted recipes. A man after Raoul’s heart, I think. They would have gotten along well.

  I opt for the Norwegian smoked salmon followed by braised sea bream and chocolate entremets. I have no idea what “entremets” are, but if it’s chocolate, it has to be good, right? Hervé goes for the Belle Epoque menu—foie gras with figs as a starter, a main course consisting of rack of lamb, and a cocoa sorbet for dessert. I have a feeling that after this evening I will be too stuffed to eat anything at the café for the rest of the week. I’ll have to come up with another excuse to see Hervé.

  Once the hall has filled up, the lights go down and an emcee appears on the stage. And then it’s showtime! Music blares, and dancers with feathered headdresses fill the stage. They move in sync, and yes, their bodies are all the same. It would be impossible to pick Delight Hubbard out of this troupe of look-alike women.

  Their breasts are perfect—firm and rounded. I try not to think about my own bust. Their legs scissor and kick with seemingly no effort. I try not to think about my own legs. And though I scan for Asian or multi-culti faces, there are none that I can see. I look across at Hervé, who is clearly enraptured. Of course. These women are beautiful. And they are nothing like me.

  I want to flee. Coming here was a bad idea. I’d rather be alone than surrounded by beautiful bodies. But, as the show gets underway, I forget about my own body and get caught up in the spectacle—the splendor of rhinestones and feathers, the cartwheels, the red-white-and-blue skirts, the women dressed like pink peacocks, the Shetland ponies which are trotted onstage on leashes. And then, the big water tank in which a fat snake wriggles and writhes. A dancer dives into the aquarium and swims with the serpent. It’s like nothing I could have imagined.

  Meanwhile, Hervé and I gorge ourselves on gourmet dishes.

  “Want to try some of my foie gras?” He scoops a bit onto his fork and lofts it across the table. I lean forward and take a bite. Mmm. It’s rich and creamy, soft enough to melt in my mouth.

  I’m too embarrassed to feed him a bite of smoked salmon, especially with the American tourists sitting at our elbows, but I cut a little piece with my knife and put it on his plate.

  In between the second and third courses, Hervé goes to the restroom. I take advantage of his absence to whip out my phone. I figure I’ll dash off a quick message to Whitney. For all I know, she’s still out in the WiFi-less woods, but it’s worth a try. And then, while I’m at it, I send another text message, to Raoul: “Dining on foie gras and sea bream. How is my plant? Wish you were here.” By the time Hervé gets back to the table, the phone is safely tucked away.

  When the bill arrives, I pull out the euros that Mom gave me. Hervé doesn’t refuse. He tucks the bills into the black leather folder along with his own money, and hands it over to the waiter. Okay, so this means we’re really just friends. It’s not a date. If he wanted me to be his girlfriend, he would have paid, right? Isn’t that the way it goes in movies?

  We stay in our seats until the last encore, and then rise to go find a taxi back to the hotel.

  “That was great, wasn’t it?” I say to Hervé over my shoulder.

  He follows behind me. I can feel his breath on my neck. “Yes, but I wouldn’t want to get in the water with that boa constrictor.”

  We are in a slow-moving line, almost to the entrance, when I suddenly step the wrong way and find myself… falling. I have just enough time to register surprise, shame, and a fear of being trampled. But before I reach the ground, someone catches me.

  “What happened?” an American woman’s voice asks. “Did she faint?”

  “Give her room!” a man’s voice shouts.

  “Are you okay?” another voice asks. (This one sounds Australian.)

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, still flustered. There are arms around my waist, helping me get back onto my feet. When I am steady, I turn to find myself in Hervé’s embrace.

  No one has ever caught me before. No one, except my mother, that is. I’m used to falling, used to being embarrassed in public. I’m the princess of pratfalls. I’ve picked myself up off the floor plenty of times. But here I am, caught, by a French god. I don’t know what to say other than “merci beaucoup.”

  He doesn’t let me go right away. “It was my pleasure,” he says.

  We are quiet in the cab on the way back to the hotel. My mind is filled with all the sights and sounds of the evening—the feathers, the rhinestones, the snake wriggling in the tank—and with the feel of Hervé’s arms around me. He made me feel so safe, so protected. I know that he’s just playing the part of big brother, but I can’t help wondering what it would be like to stay in his arms. To sway in them, to dance. To kiss him.

  When we arrive at the hotel, Hervé gets out first. He opens the door and holds out his hand. I take it and descend to the curb. I reach for my beaded bag. “I’ll pay the driver this time,” I say.

  “Non, non, non.” He hands the driver some money and ushers me to the door of the hotel. He walks me all the way back to our room, one hand lightly at my back.

  “I had a great time, Hervé. Thank you.”

  “Me, too,” he says. “Do you want me to help you with la distribution tomorrow? And maybe we could do a little sightseeing? I can take you someplace not so… touristy.”

  “Yeah, that would be cool.” I say.

  “Around three p.m., then? After I finish my work at the café?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tres bien.” He leans in and his cheek brushes my right cheek, and then my left cheek. “Bonne nuit,” he says. “Sweet dreams.”

  His cologne is now faint, but it still makes me swoon. This time it has nothing to do with muscles or balance. Even so, I manage to stay upright. In fact, I’m almost floating.

  When I open the door, I find Mom sitting by the window, a book open in her lap. Her head and shoulders droop, her mouth is in a pout. She looks lonely. For a second I feel bad
for having abandoned her during our mother-daughter trip. “Did you have a good time?” she asks me.

  “Yes. Hervé is really… nice.” I’d rather keep my feelings about him to myself right now. But I sit down on the edge of the bed and tell her about the show—the can-can girls, the swimming snake.

  She smiles a little and hooks a strand of stray hair over my ear.

  “You know, it’s too bad that Raoul didn’t come with us,” I say. “I know he says that he doesn’t like to travel much, but I think he’d really like this place. The food, the music…”

  The sadness in her eyes seems to fade just then, and I see that she misses him. I’m pretty sure that she even loves him.

  “Hey, maybe you could invite him to come over,” I say. “He might be able to get a cheap flight at the last minute on standby or something. I know he’d really love to see your show.”

  She nods slowly, as if she’s trying the idea out. “Maybe.”

  I feel her thoughts shifting to Raoul, and it comes as a relief. I put on my pajamas and lay in bed thinking of Hervé holding me until I fall asleep.

  26

  By now, Mom’s sculptures have been lifted out of their crates, released from blankets and bubble wrap, and positioned strategically around the gallery. Interviews have been published. Invitations have been sent to art collectors and celebrities. Preparations are complete for tonight’s opening.

  After Mom’s show has been launched, she won’t have to hang around so much. She’s promised the gallery owners that she’ll pop in a few times over the next couple of weeks, and of course she wants to see visitors’ reactions to her work, but she’ll be free to venture outside Paris. We can see a little bit more of the country while we’re on this side of the pond.

  On the one hand, I want to see more: Chateaux! The wild white horses and Gypsy camps of Camargue! Euro-Disney! And, of course, I want to go to Lourdes.

  On the other hand, I want to spend time in Paris with a certain French waiter. My days with Hervé are numbered, I know. At the end of the month, Mom and I will head back to Michigan, back to my old life. I’m hoping that we’ll keep in touch via e-mail, but it won’t be quite the same as sitting next to him, close enough to breathe in his cologne.