by Rich Horton
Tourists
by Rammel Chan
We meet at the Louvre. We aren’t crowding La Jaconde, like the rest of the locals. We are looking at Landscape near Rhenen: Cows Grazing and a Shepherd Playing the Flute.
I speak first. I say, “I like this one because it looks like the cows are listening.”
In French or English or German or whatever, I’m not sure, he says, “Oh, of course they are. They’re people, too.”
His way of speaking is strange. It is neither an accent nor a dialect. It is foreign and fluent. Too fluent. I understand him perfectly, but I am not sure what I hear.
I say, “You’re an American?”
In English or French or Italian or whatever, he says, “No.”
He lifts up a finger and in German or Portuguese or whatever, says, “Ten guesses.”
We walk about the Museum, passing the locals and the local tourists. My fingers graze his. His skin is pop rocks. He is dressed in an Asiatic: shaved head, broad furrowed forehead, black eyes behind circular clear glasses. I am dressed as French as I can with brown curls, pursed lips, cashmere turtleneck, long wool coat. I am trying not to look like a Tourist.
On Rue de Rivoli, he extracts two cigarettes from a case that is both old and new. I say, “You’re from Tokyo?” He shakes his head. It is my tenth guess. He smiles and his broad face makes a continent of lines that are borders to countries he is not from.
In Japanese or Spanish or Farsi or whatever, he says, “Do you know many languages?” He places the cigarette in my mouth. We are close now. He folds his hands over the match. I wrap my hands around his and lean in. His skin is static. He smells of sandalwood and fire-coals and night.
I say, “I studied one or two in school.”
In Danish or Yiddish or whatever, he says, “And where did you go to school?”
I cough. Deep and hard. The cigarette is poison. His smile grows wider.
As confidently and coyly as I can, I say, “Ten guesses.”
He smiles wider. He knows I’m new. To Paris. To smoking. To talking. To myself. He takes a guess. In a puff of smoke like steam being released from a pressure valve he says the name of a school that couldn’t possibly be the name of any school. He is exactly right.
How could he have known? Had I revealed something in the stupid way I talked about art? Is something malfunctioning in my translator? His face anticipates my concession. He believes he has me. My face reveals nothing. At once, my anxiety at being caught fades as electricity fills my spines. What exhilaration! Through his saying the name of my school, I now know where he’s from. I now know what he is.
But I am out of guesses.
I hear the voice of the Advisor echo in my head. In Yrrgz-ai, he says, “Never reveal yourself to anyone. You may encounter each other out there, but still do not reveal yourself. Revealing yourself, even in a small way to each other, is a danger to the entire Tour.”
There must only be thousands of us altogether, hundreds in Europe, perhaps only half a dozen in the city. And I found one!
Maybe.
I say, “Sorry, what?” I feign offense.
His smile disappears. His brow furrows. He was positive he knew. The continent of his face transforms from disappointment to confusion to amusement.
In Azerbaijani or whatever, he says, “A joke. A bad one. Forgive me.”
In Welsh or whatever, he says, “Are you hungry?”
I nod. He takes my hand. His skin crackles like a Bastille Day sparkler. The sky above the Seine is the blue you imagine when you first heard them call it the Blues.
• • •
Our hands are oily with doner kebab as we stroll along Rue de Turbigo. The seams in his dress are clear to me now. The follicles of his beard are planted on his face with purpose. His eyes are obsidian marbles. His skin effervesces as though something were aching to come out.
We exchange alibis. I explain how I am in Paris for work. He says he is, too. I ask how he enjoys it and he explains how he wishes he were home for the holidays. I say, “I would not miss this opportunity to be here.”
“What do you do?” he says in Norwegian or whatever.
I do not have this part of my biography.
So, I say, “I translate French literature.”
“To what?” he says in Latvian or whatever.
“To whatever.” I say.
He laughs and it is wonderful.
We discard our garbage and hold hands toward Place de la République. His skin is mint. I recite my fictional history to him as we walk. I tell him I am Canadian. But my family was formerly from France. Surname Macron. “Like the president!” I say.
He recites his prepared history. He tells me his family was from Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia. But his mother lives in America now. His father lives in South Africa. And he now resides in London.
I play my part. Wide mouthed, I tug at his coat. “But I said England!” I say.
In Tagalog or whatever, he says, “That’s where I live, that’s not where I’m from.” Here he makes a wink.
I am stopped. Where we are from—where I am from—a wink is an offensive gesture. It is a sign of hostility. It is anti-polite. It is perverse. He would be embarrassed to do it. I am uneased by the gesture, but also by what it means. It occurs to me that if he knows the name of my school then he must suspect where I am from, but if he is a creature who winks, well, then he must not be what I think he is.
His face reveals nothing. To him it is as if nothing has happened.
He looks at me intrigued. I become aware of how apparent my confusion must be because he is staring. He is trying to glean something from my face. My mind is star-flushed like hyperspatial tunnels.
In Hindi or whatever, he says, “We are close to my hotel. Would you like to come with me?”
I am re-orienting. I assure myself that I am not yet revealed. I may not know what he is, but likewise he is still trying to learn what I am. If he is a Tourist like me, then perhaps his wink is intended to trick me to reveal myself, just as with the name of my school. Perhaps he is a local and the wink is innocent. Perhaps my dress is so adept a camouflage that he thinks I am a local, too, and he is trying to find someone to copulate with for the night. This happens, I hear. And yet but still, it would be better than if he were a local agent My hearts pound like six drums in my chest. If he is a local agent, he may be employed at clandestinely finding Tourists, and he is trying to trick me so he can catch me.
“There are others,” he says in Afrikaans or whatever, “like us. At the hotel.”
The voice of the Advisor echoes in my ears. In Yrrgz-ai, he says, “To tour is a privilege not afforded all sentients. Do not trust anyone. Anyone. Use the translator to buy food. To find shelter. To recite your alibis. Hide amongst them as perfectly as possible. If ever you are caught by a local agent, for your safety and the safety of the Tour, all other Tourists will be recalled immediately and no Tourists will be allowed to return to this planet for one hundred cycles.”
“What do you mean like us?” I say.
“More orphans. Lonely orphan children from across the world who must work away from home on Christmas,” he says in Hungarian or whatever. “They’re probably all drinking at the hotel already. Do you want to come with me to meet them?”
On Rue de Turbigo, under the Blues of the sky, I say nothing. I scan his broad face looking for some sign of deceit, hoping for none. I could reject him and leave him now and spend the rest of the Tour alone. The idea drops into my stomach like a rock into a well. My loneliness in the city had begun to congeal. Visiting Paris is thrilling; her beauty is unparalleled throughout the universe. But here the gravity is different. The single sun rises and falls too quickly. Being in this local form, far from others of my kind, has fueled a new anxiety in me. In seven rotations, prior to tonight, I have spoken little more than six words to any sentient soul.
My brow furrows. He must be a Tourist. His way of speaking is too odd. His skin is white noise and seltzer. Ben
eath their almond shape his eyes are blacker than onyx. This is no black of Paris, France, or Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, or Toronto, Canada. These are the black of space.
In Bantu or whatever, he says, “Am I being too forward?”
I let out a breath. I decide that whatever he may be, I do not care. I wish to meet others. Why bother traveling the universe to only get to know yourself? If he is a local agent looking for Tourists, well, I shall remain one step ahead of him.
I nod. “Yeah. Let’s go,” I say cheerily.
I look into the black of his eyes and I wink. His face reveals nothing, but behind his eyes his reaction is a firework.
• • •
The hotel is a beautiful vintage building on Rue Yves Toudic.
A blanket of quiet descends over the table as he and I join the four. Sudden introductions commence: Tony, Isabella, Sylvia, and Julian. Four curled mouths of smiles and soft ropey handshakes. The six of us are the only guests in the hotel bar this evening. They each kiss and embrace the man who brought me here. His name is a song on their lips.
The noise of their greeting each is like an orchestra tuning instruments of French, of Urdu, of Croatian, of Belarussian, of English, of Flemish, of Portuguese, of Toisanese, of Swahili, of Dutch, of Vietnamese, of Khmer, of Bantu, of Pashto, of . . . whatever.
I sit between the man who brought me here and Tony who, in Bosnian or whatever, tells me he is from Chicago. “That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it!” His laugh is a thousand suns. I am not certain what is funny, but his joy is a virus, and I laugh, too. Tony is dressed in a chubby Rwandese, with tight hair, a festive sweater, and blue jeans.
In Pashto or whatever, the one called Sylvia says to me, “Your outfit is lovely.”
I suspect she means my local form, but just in case I bring my hand to my sweater and I say, “It is cashmere, thank you.” Sylvia is dressed in a pale, older Breton, a brown cardigan, and tortoise-shell glasses that magnify and make clear the obsidian of her eyes.
In Albanian or whatever, she says, “How long have you been in Paris?”
I say, “Seven days.”
“This is called Bordeaux, you have to try it,” the one called Isabella says in German or Basque or whatever. To a waiter, she says, “Can we get another glass?” Isabella is dressed in a fit caramel-colored Latin in fashionable gym-wear.
The waiter brings a glass in the shape of a singularity. Isabella fills it halfway with purple liquid. As she pours, under her breath, she says to me, “It’s the best thing the locals ever made.” A pause.
“Pardon?” the one called Julian says in Scots-Gaelic or whatever.
“The French, Julian. The best thing the French ever made.” Isabella says unapologetically in Cantonese or whatever.
Julian eases further into his chair and his quiet. He is dressed in a gaunt, deliriously handsome Florentine with cufflinks and wool suit to match. His face is hawkish and with it he stares at me. “Are you having a safe trip, Mademoiselle?” Julian says to me in French or whatever.
I say, “I am. Thank you.”
“How did you meet our mutual friend?” Julian says to me in French or whatever. He indicates the man who brought me here.
I look around. The others watch me. I say, “We were looking at the same painting. Cows Grazing and a Shepherd Playing the Flute.”
“Landscape near Rhenen.” Julian says in French or whatever.
“It looks like the cows are listening to music.”
He studies my face. Something unfriendly begins to appear in the way he is looking. His eyes are so black they could be nothing. My anxiety like an old friend returns. Have I been caught? A moment ago I was sure these were Tourists, and now his gaze gives me pause to question. Are they locals imitating Tourists?
“Are you French?” he says.
“I’m from Canada, but my family is from France.”
“Mmm, that’s why you seem so familiar but different.”
“Yes. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”
Tony chuckles, but does not smile. A seriousness tightens around the table. The four others sit in quiet audience as I am spontaneously interrogated by this hawkish man.
“But you speak French very well.”
“Thank you.”
“You speak fluently with no accent. Did you speak French in your home in Canada?”
“We spoke a little because of my grandmother, but I studied languages in school.”
His mouth twists into a smile. In Uzbek or whatever, with equal parts amusement and accusation, he says, “You seem very French. She seems like she could be local.”
The noise in the room is pulled out of the air like a magic trick. He suspects me of being a local? If my anxiety had saved room in my chest I would laugh. Instinctively, I suddenly wish to radiate my true self to them, dissolve my dress and show them my true form, to shout in Yrrgz-ai and tell them, no, I am a Tourist, too! I am one of you! My mouth opens to clarify.
And then I catch myself.
This may be a trick! Like the wink and the name of my school. Everything said to me so far could mean what it means or mean something else. How can I be certain who they are if we only communicate in allusion and insinuation? How I despise communicating this way with lips and teeth and tongue! Fickle spoken language! I wish to know for certain!
My face remains blank, my eyes unblinking. I force a smile.
“Thank you,” I say. “I take that as a compliment.”
With his nothing-eyes fixed on me, from his jacket pocket Julian retrieves a cigarette case that could be old or new. He takes out one cigarette.
Sylvia feigns a laugh, “Let’s look at her passport to be sure!” she says in Sumatrese or whatever,
Isabella rolls her eyes, “She wants to see how old you are,” she says teasingly in Slovak or whatever. The table laughs a little too hard, trying to return to the good humor of before. Save for Julian whose face is stone.
He continues to scan me. The blinking Christmas lights behind me echo in the black mirror of his eyes. “That won’t solve anything,” Julian says in Basque or whatever. “We’ll never know for certain.”
How can I know for certain?
The man I am with whose skin is champagne defuses the tension with a yawn. “Oh, I trust her,” he says smilingly in Hungarian or whatever. “Listen to the way she talks. She’s just another lost wandering soul like us.”
“That’s good enough for me.” Tony bellows in Visaya or whatever.
“Me, too.” Isabella says in Juba or whatever.
“Yes,” Sylvia says in Estonian or whatever, “and to be perfectly frank, Julian, you’re being rude.”
Julian presses a finger to his face and leans into his hand. He is unconvinced, but for the moment their consensus forces him to let it go. “Excuse me,” he says as he rises to have his cigarette. As he saunters through the lobby doors I am suddenly aware that my hearts are again clamoring.
The others ease into a warm, but reserved smile. In this reprieve, I abashedly bring the glass of purple liquid to my mouth. It is a small swallow of solace. It tastes like a hug. It is sour and bitter and sweet like life itself. I look at Isabella. “Bordeaux,” Isabella says in Khmer or whatever, “best thing the locals have ever done.”
“Pardon? Don’t you mean the French,” Sylvia says in Hebrew or whatever. She imitates Julian, and at that Tony bellows into a laughter that is a sunrise.
The man who brought me here leans in. “Julian used to be an Advisor,” he says in Quechua or whatever. His candidness surprises me. “He’s so used to following the rules that he can’t help his saltiness when young ones like us reveal ourselves.”
I am tempted again to speak openly. I desperately wish to do so but I remain cautious. I put steel in my spines. This may still be a trick. I feign confusion.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“No need to lie anymore, child,” Sylvia says in Kazakh or whatever.
“He does this all the time. He was rud
e to me for three rotations.” Tony says in Burmese or whatever, “Once Julian gets to know you, he can be a great deal of fun.” He brings the wine to his lips, “He has one really good joke.” At this the others laugh. I sip my wine.
I say, “He’s not rude, he just doesn’t believe I’m from Canada, which I understand. You know, they used to call me Joan of Arc in school, I was so—”
The man who brought me here leans closer to me. In Laotian or whatever he says, “You don’t have to pretend anymore.” His whisper in my ear brings the sun to my chest. Perhaps it is the wine. He smells of cedar and snowfall and torchlight embers. His skin is ocean spray.
I force a laugh and sip my wine. “Pretend what?” I say.
“She’s still scared.” Sylvia says in Spanish or whatever.
Isabella downs her singularity of purple liquid and calls to the waiter, “One more bottle of the 2010, please.”
The waiter approaches the table with the bottle and the key and the curt smile of a girl working on a holiday. In clear natural French, Isabella says to me, “Did you come in by the hyperspatial tunnels or did you take a slipstream skyship?”
“I don’t . . . know . . . what you mean.”
A disquiet blossoms at the table, not only from me, but also from the others. What is Isabella thinking speaking of such things in front of a local? What would this poor girl do on hearing these words? Would she find it so suspect that she would do something terrible? The voice of the Advisor echoes in my mind, in Yrrgz-ai, “Even locals not employed by the government will call their betters to inform on you, speak nothing odd to them.”