Plum Blossoms in Paris

by Sarah Hina

  I check his profile—the satisfied smile, the confident jut of his chin—and know that it’s a crock. He has everything planned. For it is also human nature to want to impress someone you like, and especially in your hometown. As a tour guide, I have no doubt, Mathieu knows what the perfect Parisian day will entail. I frown, twisted by the wretchedly novel idea that I am not the first to experience it with him. I raise my chin and iron out my sweaterto shake off the sooty shards of cynicism. I don’t want to make a room in my heart for suspicion. Not this early. My heart is full.

  We flounder, if not uncomfortably, for conversation, too occupied with glancing at one another from these come-to-me corners of our eyes. I make a happy cocktail of my self-restraint as I watch desire build in his eyes like a wave chasing the break. We are disgustingly pleased with ourselves. If we notice other people, it is only to feel sorry for them.

  April in Paris has come late this year.

  “So tell me why you are here.”

  “Right now? With you?”

  “No, in Paris. What is it that you are running from?” It is asked lightly, but with a probing undercurrent.

  I clear my throat. “You caught me. I’m running from the law.”

  Isn’t that the standard movie-line answer?

  Smiling, he accepts my hedge. “I see. What did you do back in Ohio?” He pronounces “Ohio” the way we sang it in a grade school song: with a raised emphasis on the “hi,” like the state is peopled by Walmart greeters. “Theft? Murder? Campaigning for John Kerry?”

  Funny. I cover my mouth and turn with confessional solemnity. “Worse. I slipped at a restaurant and called ‘Freedom fries’ French fries. Then I washed them down with a glass of merlot. All in front of my grandpa’s buddies from the local chapter of the A.F.A.R.T.—you heard of them?” I think rapidly. “Americans For the Abstract Reinvention of Tyranny? Yeah, they’re small now, but they’re planning an Orwellian takeover as soon as one of them figures out how to work a computer.”

  Mathieu laughs, saying, “Yet it was an unforgivable offense, particularly toward the French.”

  “You’re not a fan of French—oops, I mean ‘Freedom’—fries?”

  “Mmm. Nor merlot.”

  “And American jingoism?” I add lightly.

  Mathieu doesn’t answer right away, so I explain, “Jingoism—it’s like patriotism run amok.”

  He nods absently. “Yes. An American specialty.”

  Sobered, I nod my assent. Strange how I should poke at my own country, but that I turn snippy and defensive when an outsider agrees with me. There’s always a forked road to navigate, and pride is a less treacherous path than honesty. “We are loud with our patriotism, I admit. But we also have the eyes of the world watching us, so it is easy to trip and fall.” I shrug and glance over at him. “Besides, France is easily as patriotic. It just manifests itself in different ways here.”

  Mathieu releases my hand and, mixing his stereotypes, starts gesturing like a Hot-Blooded Italian. “Yes, it does. Like not invading foreign countries that have done nothing to us. Like not isolating ourselves from the rest of the world by flaunting environmental treaties. Like not having a president too simple-minded to articulate a coherent thought without the help of tutors, yet who says, ‘Bring it on,’ like a cowboy drunk with power. Like not forgetting about the poor in our country, and making sure that everyone has health insurance. Like—”

  “Touché.” So much for the language barrier. I turn and grasp his hand with both of mine, pressing upon him my urgency. “Let’s not—yet. Okay?”

  He runs his free hand through his hair. “I apologize. It is difficult for me. As you said, the eyes of the world are on you, and everyone knows America’s”—he smiles wryly—“indiscretions.” He clasps my hand more tightly. “But they are not your indiscretions. I should not direct my frustrations toward you.”

  “But you will,” I murmur, a little sadly. We carry the weight of our countries on our shoulders. And America is always the heavy.

  Mathieu pulls eagerly on my hand as we enter a square whosemuted loveliness smooths our foray into raucous politics. In spite of the idea behind our walk today, I have only had eyes for Mathieu. But now I admire the exquisite lamppost at the center of the square, and the slender trees encircling it, which extend nerves of branches that must cast film noir shadows at night, when the bulbs incandesce into a tight galaxy of luminous moons. There are cars parked near small boutiques, but otherwise, the square is tranquil and nearly deserted. The white buildings framing the symmetrical sides are five stories high with white shutters—Parisians seem suspicious of height and color—and are just high enough to block out the sun. A small, nervous dog (there are no other kinds here) relieves itself on the far curb, in no hurry as its owner, a smartly dressed older woman (there are no other kinds here), removes a compact from her purse and dusts her nose.

  “It’s lovely,” I sigh, content to stop and stare. But Mathieu and his plan pull me toward the far corner of the square and through a small Roman archway. An ancient doorway boasting the ubiquitous brass plaque confronts us. “What’s this?” I ask.

  “It’s the Musée Delacroix,” he announces, opening the door.

  “Oh.”

  I must admit some disappointment. From what I remember of the Orsay and Louvre, I was not taken with Delacroix.

  Mathieu laughs and, sensing my hesitation, waves me through. “Nobody can understand France, or Paris, without appreciating Delacroix. Baudelaire hailed him as the father of French modernity.”

  “Oh.”

  I will not let him know that the name Baudelaire means as little to me as Proust, or Balzac. They should mean something, but American education extends only so far, grazing the surface of world literature and history with the same level of introspection that a hand skimming the water outside its boat understands the ocean below. I was a biochem and evolutionary biology double-major incollege, so there were whole buildings on campus never ventured into. Hey, I was busy. Liberal arts majors were the floating people who spent too much time in coffee shops. But I am beginning to realize that survival in France requires a balls-out, intellectual vigilance, a kind of Greek ambition for understanding everything. The French, you see, love their history, and their coffee shops … and their historical coffee shops.

  Mathieu and I argue over the entrance fee to the museum. I insist, a little shrilly, on paying for my ticket, which he protests with a bereaved look and sigh, like we’ve segued into a comfortable middle age. I win, though I feel no satisfaction at his emasculation. I don’t know why he shouldn’t pay, but he shouldn’t. Clutching my little prize, Mathieu leads us into the first gallery, which includes a biographical perspective on Delacroix’s life.

  We part ways and move silently around the exhibit—I, learning that Delacroix established himself in this modest home and workshop in order to be closer to the St. Sulpice church, where he was responsible for painting the acclaimed interior frescoes. It is noted that he died here too, a grim fact echoed by our funereal footsteps on the hardwood floor. I check Mathieu from the corner of my eye and discover that he is doing the same. I am the first to turn away, humming a little nothing song to myself, footsteps dissolving into notes. We are the only visitors inside the museum, which makes us pleasantly self-conscious, but which imbues the paintings with an abandoned, and lonely, affect. I feign interest in some sketches, and when I turn around again, Mathieu stands riveted before a small painting. He motions to me. I approach with a small, perplexed smile.

  “Look at this,” he whispers, clasping my arm above the elbow. “What do you think?”

  What do I think? It is a study for a later painting. In it, a bare-chested man pinions a naked woman with his knee, his lefthand shackling her elbow while his right angles a dagger across the white flute of her throat. Her breasts strain provocatively against his bind as her mouth assumes an expression of what may be (1) sexual ecstasy; (2) mortal anguish; or, in some perverse world, (3) both. Personally,
I’m going with the second interpretation because she is clearly a lamb for his slaughter. Nice composition, though: beautiful use of color and dynamism, blah, blah, blah. But what do I think?

  I wrinkle my nose. “Not my thing.”

  “But it is beautiful!”

  I wiggle free from his grasp. “Beautiful? Sure, if rape and murder are beautiful, then Delacroix is the Picasso of the genre.”

  Mathieu frowns. “But you are viewing this with no filter. You must remove yourself from the subject matter to admire the skill and genius that brought it to life.”

  “Must I? Because what bothered me about Delacroix before,” I argue, my voice quickening, “is that he takes too much pleasure in his brutality. So many of his works are gorgeously rendered, in that high romantic style, that they’re morally ambiguous. He almost argues for these atrocities because he ravishes the viewer with color and vitality.”

  Mathieu shifts his weight. “But you cannot look at art from a moralist’s perspective.”

  “I’m not a Puritan, in spite of what you think of America. This isn’t about my personal squeamishness with violence or sexuality. I’m talking about an artist’s motivation. Why did he paint it? What moved him? Was he after some kind of objective truth? These questions are important to me.”

  “But art is personal interpretation. Why should I care about the artist’s motivation if I discover something different? I like the sharply executed angles of his composition and how the colors pulse with energy, foreshadowing the impressionists to come. Thepeople in it are myths—they mean nothing to me.” He smiles to blunt the sharpness of his words and falls back on his heels. “And Picasso would be flattered by your comparison. He was a great admirer of Delacroix.”

  I see his point of view. But … “Of course art is personal. I agree with that. And it’s highly emotional. Which is why the artist must tread carefully. Which of our instincts does he want to inflame? What am I supposed to think about a guy who paints death with such sensuality?”

  “But life is sensual. Death should be no different.” He grins. “As for the dead artist? He means as little to me as the dead turtle does to you.”

  That sounds clever, but not right.

  “But turtle tissue doesn’t lie, Mathieu. You can call this a myth if that makes you feel better, probably because the victim has been pinned between a man’s idea of climax and death. Because I wonder how you’d feel if it were a contemporary painting or photograph of a woman’s murder, so artfully rendered. It might affect you differently.”

  Mathieu stares at me, but I cannot read him. Finally, he says, “But that is something, yes? To experience discomfort and revulsion and sympathy, to be reminded of all facets of our humanity, in reaction to a painting by a man who drew his last breaths before we drew our first. Delacroix has achieved the only immortality that is relevant. He has succeeded in—what is the expression—?” He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “Stirring you up.”

  “That he has,” I say, shivering and brushing my ear against my shoulder. The tension broken, we both walk easily into the next room. “Maybe I just don’t want to admit to myself that I can be captivated by such ugliness. It’s like slowing to look at a car wreck, or those women who watch Lifetime movies back home.”

  Mathieu lifts an eyebrow.

  I laugh and shake my head. “Sorry—Lifetime is a television station that plays movies with titles like”—I pounce upon the first drivel that comes to mind—“The Black Widow Murders … or … A Wife’s Charge to Keep” He laughs incredulously, but little does he know about the dregs of American cable. “Basically, think of any heinous act someone might commit, and Lifetime will manipulate it into a two-hour melodrama where victimhood is equated with sainthood.”

  I halt in front of a charcoal drawing inspired by Delacroix’s trip to Morocco. “Not that it’s a fair comparison to your Delacroix,” I admit. “It’s just that his art reminds me of our baser instinct to turn tragedy into a gaudy entertainment.” I turn my attention to the small portrait before me. “But not this. This is lovely.”

  “Yes, this is Orphan Girl in a Cemetery. The final painting hangs in the Louvre.” Mathieu pauses for my reaction, his fingers hanging on his chin.

  The girl, just shy of womanhood, is captured in profile as she looks across her bared shoulder, the strong, dark features of her face a study of tension and wonderment. Hair swept back into a loose chignon, her eyes latch on to something looming out of frame, the generous, downward curving mouth startled into parting. I misspoke earlier: she is not lovely, but aggressively striking, for there is a peasant’s strength drawn in the shock of eyebrow, the tendons jutting from her neck thickly and unprettily, the sloping brow angled like a shield ready for battle. Her history is written on her face, and it has not been easy. She is exoticism. She is romanticism. She is mystery, my orphan girl.

  I look sidelong at Mathieu. “What do you think she’s looking at?”

  “I have often wondered.” He clasps his hands behind his back, almost like he is stopping himself from touching her. “This has always been my favorite work of Delacroix’s. My mom brought me to the Louvre when I was a boy, whenever she felt guilty about something. Her restlessness inevitably got the better of her, andshe would leave me in one of the big rooms, with instructions not to move, while she went for a smoke, or a fuck.” He is silent for a beat, staring at the girl, while I swallow my shock.

  He picks up the thread, his smile turning black. “But I always drifted toward Delacroix’s Orphan Girl. I do not suppose I was aware of the symbolism. But I felt for her abandonment. And I always wanted to know what put that possessed look on her face. I tried to believe that it was something good—my childish form of denial, I imagine. But I could never quite convince myself of it.” Mathieu turns to me. “Now I have you to satisfy my curiosity.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “Why me?” I ask, lost.

  “She is you,” he says, motioning to the portrait.

  I look at the painting, baffled by his certainty. The orphan girl and I share a dark boldness and solemnity to our features, but there are countless points of departure. Our noses are nothing alike. She looks short and, to my one credit, has a neck like a tree trunk, whereas mine is slender and long. Her visible eye is enormous, like a Japanese anime figure. Her skin, though rendered in charcoal, achieves luminosity in the movie of my mind, and her expression is haunted. In short, she looks like a tragic heroine about to be swatted by the hand of fate. Whereas I am an American girl-woman who wears my aura of privilege as casually as my Gap jeans. There is really no comparison.

  And while I hate to disappoint Mathieu’s sense of destiny, this notion that I am the manifestation of his boyish desire for this girl’s—and his mother’s—understanding, I have no idea what she’s looking at. I doubt Delacroix knew.

  “I think you’re mistaken,” is all I say, a little embarrassed for him.

  He chuckles to lighten the mood. “I did not mean to makeyou uncomfortable. It was simply an observation. Perhaps it is the seriousness of your expression.” He grabs my hand, and we walk away, orphaning her once more. “I think she may have traveled with supplemental oxygen too.”

  I stop and put my hands on my hips, while he keeps walking. “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”

  “No,” he tosses back. “Some things are worth remembering.”

  “So why were you so eager to get away from me on the train?”

  Having conquered Delacroix, we are walking at a good click. I feel reckless. The man is falling for me. He likes our little spats, the missteps, and the drawing together again, like any dance of seduction. He walks rapidly, challenging me to keep up with his longer strides. Romance is a game for him: not a brutish tug-of-war, but a grand chess match. He will not suffer boredom.

  So I have set upon this strategy of saying whatever springs to mind, partly to engage him, and partly because it is my own game, and a novel one for so
meone conditioned to playing defense. My fledgling metamorphosis from this morning has not been forgotten; I’m merely stretching my wings, sharing some green space. After all, Paris has plenty to spare. Like her leaves thrilling to their autumn ballet, I, too, am spilling new colors.

  “Eager to get away from you?”

  “You bolted from that train, without ever looking back. I was so certain you’d at least look back.” I don’t try to suppress a reproach from dimpling my voice. It had hurt me that he hadn’t looked back. I just didn’t know it until now.

  “I saw you looking. I knew you were there.” Triumph is carvedinto his profile. He sensed his kingly power over my little pawn, even at that larval stage of our relationship.

  “How did you know?”

  Slowing, Mathieu turns toward me. We are walking toward the Luxembourg Gardens. I know because it has been my home this past week, and I can see the palace, stationed like a planet in the sky, off to the right. “Because there are mirrors at the front of the car. I saw your eyes watching me while I stepped off.” He smiles with more alacrity than I’d like. “I saw your shoulders slump, and your mouth twist downward, like a disappointed child’s.” He mimes my woebegone look too skillfully.

  Looking away, I remark, “And yet you left me there, disappointed.”

  Mathieu laughs, swinging my hand with careless bravado. “What was I to do? I had an appointment to attend to, and I knew you were on vacation.” He shrugs. “I had just gotten out of a relationship. I was not eager to jump into something based solely on a pair of lapis blue eyes and an adorable insecurity.”