“You’re afraid of me.”
“I am.” My honesty made me feel better.
“Then let’s not go to your hotel. Let’s not go to my place. Where should we go?” All of this in a calm, quiet voice that was musical.
“Let’s go to the Musée d’Art Moderne,” I suggested.
“You said that very well,” she said.
“Thank you. I’ve been practicing.” I looked at the clouds. “There’s a taxi stand over there or we could walk over to the river.”
“Or we could get on this bus,” she said, nodding toward a bus just half a block away.
“This bus here?”
“Oui.”
I put money on the table and we boarded the bus. Like a couple of kids, we went straight to the back. The bus moved before we were settled and we lost our balance. Victoire held on to my hand and I fell laughing into the seat beside her. We were still laughing when I thought I heard someone call my name.
“Kevin? Kevin Pace?”
The moderately high yet raspy voice attached to my name was female, familiar but not readily identifiable, though in less time than it takes to make a mistake, the face behind the voice was all too clear. The grating voice belonged to Melissa Lowry, not truly a neighbor, but close enough to annoy like a neighbor. I had gone months without seeing her and yet here she was in Paris. She was a professor of sociology at Brown, no more than an acquaintance, but familiar enough that I dropped Victoire’s soft hand. I felt the young woman sink, if not into the seat, certainly into herself, and so I too sank.
“Kevin Pace, what are you doing here?” Melissa Lowry asked.
“Taking the bus,” I said.
Melissa Lowry looked at Victoire. “And who is your friend?”
“Victoire, this is Melissa Lowry, a neighbor from back home. Melissa, this is Victoire.” I realized that I didn’t know Victoire’s last name and when I looked at her, as if to find it, Victoire looked all of seventeen years old. I turned back to Melissa, perhaps a little quickly, and said, “Victoire is a watercolorist.”
“I’m sure she is,” Melissa Lowry said.
“We’re on our way to the Musée d’Art Moderne,” I said, but my accent suffered from the stress so that even I could hear it. I said it as if going there suggested innocence, like going to temple or church.
“Well, I hope you enjoy it,” Melissa Lowry said and turned back around in her seat.
Victoire would not look at my eyes and if she had I would have had a difficult time holding them. I didn’t know whether I had hurt her or embarrassed her or disappointed her. I had certainly disappointed myself. Worse, now I was afraid. Finally, however, I collected myself. I imagined linen newly stretched over bars and my fear dissipated. I nudged Victoire gently and when she glanced at me, I nodded toward the back of Melissa Lowry’s head and whispered. “Boudin.”
This made Victoire laugh. I laughed, too, and felt immediately better, better still when I could see that our laughter confused Melissa Lowry, perhaps even caused her a modicum of discomposure.
We rose to exit at the Musée des Égouts de Paris. I even said a happy good-bye to Melissa Lowry as I passed. I never saw her face. In fact, I don’t think I ever saw Melissa Lowry’s face again.
We crossed the Seine on the Pont de l’Alma. We stopped in the middle and looked down at the water and over at the gaudy vessels of the Bateaux-Mouches.
“We should take a boat ride,” I said.
“That is for tourists,” she said.
“I am a tourist.”
“You are not a tourist. You are with a young, beautiful French girl.” She bounced away. I should have felt the residual sting of that embarrassment on the bus, but I did not. I felt light.
In the museum, we stood quietly then sat quietly for a very long time in front of Picasso’s Le pigeon aux petits pois. I of course loved the yellows and the small places of mustard and it thrilled me when Victoire calmly found the peas and then the dove.
Some ten years later the painting would be stolen by a man who simply shattered a window and entered the museum. I wondered when I learned of the theft how I might have seen the painting that day with Victoire and, more, I wondered how I might have viewed my hours with that young woman. The interesting thing about the work was that I did not love it. The interesting thing about the woman was that I did.
“What shall we look at now?” she asked, still staring at the Picasso.
We walked into a large room with works by Metzinger and Lhote and I was nonplussed, the way artists can be unmoved by art, a feeling that always made me a little sad, a little ashamed.
But then Victoire began to step from marble tile to marble tile, a dance between the cracks. “I think this floor is beautiful,” she said. “Et regarde le banc simple blanc.”
I looked at the bench. It was three faces of a rectangular box. It was simple. It was the most beautiful thing in the room.
She ran and sat on it, placed her palms flat against it. “Who do you think made it?” she asked.
“I wish I knew,” I said and I meant it.
House
I was chopping carrots for the salad when Linda came in with sacks of groceries. She hoisted them onto the counter.
“Any more in the car?” I asked.
“Four.”
“I’ll get them.” I dried my hands on a towel and made eye contact with April as she entered the kitchen. I went out to the car and grabbed two bags and brought them inside. April had taken over chopping the carrots. Linda was putting away the groceries and they were not speaking. Will rode up on his bicycle as I closed the back of the station wagon.
“Hey, kiddo.”
“Let me take one of those.”
“Thanks. How was school?”
“What do you think I’m going to say?”
“Fine,” I said.
“Fine,” he repeated. “This is where you say, ‘Is it always simply fine?’”
“As a matter of fact.” I held the door open for him. “Doesn’t anything interesting ever happen at that school?”
“Nope.”
“The gym teacher has never been caught spying on girls through a hole in the shower wall?”
“Never caught,” he laughed.
April was done with the salad and sitting at the counter with a glass of water. “Hey, twerp,” she said to her brother.
“Original,” Will said.
April put her glass down a little heavily, leaned forward slightly, her arm on the counter.
“You okay, honey?” Linda asked.
“I’m fine,” April said. She sat up and breathed deeply, deliberately. “I’ll be right back.”
“She doesn’t look good,” Linda said when April was out of the room.
“Understatement,” Will said.
“Is she all right?” Linda asked. “She seems really nervous lately.”
“She’s always nervous,” Will said. “Hormones.”
I gave Will a brief glance, wondering if he knew what I knew, but it was clear he didn’t. “That’s enough, Will.”
“I’m just saying, it must be tough becoming a woman and all.” Will took glasses from the cabinet and took them to the table.
“Maybe I should go check on her,” Linda said.
“I’ll go,” I said. This came as a surprise to Linda and she gave me something just shy of a sidelong glance.
By the time I made my way down the hall, April was out of the bathroom and in her room sitting on her bed. I sat beside her. “Pretty rough?” I asked.
“The last two days.”
“Let me ask you, did you take a test or go to the doctor? I mean, are you sure you’re pregnant?” I put my arm around her.
“I’m sure.”
“You need to see a doctor.”
“I’m not keeping it. I’m sixteen years old.”
I paused to listen for footsteps in the hall. I saw the neighbor’s cat walk across the roof outside April’s window. “I really hate that cat,” I said.
&n
bsp; “Me too,” April said.
“Think hard about this, sweetheart.” I gave her shoulder a squeeze.
“You haven’t told her, have you?”
“I haven’t, but I really need to, April.”
“Please, don’t.”
“April.”
“Please, Dad.”
“She’s going to have to know eventually.”
“Why?”
“Because she has to, that’s why. She’s your mother.”
April held my hand. And though it was only seconds before Will shouted out for us to come to the table, that moment felt luxurious, orchestrated. Her hand was still a child’s hand, still my child’s hand. I slid my thumb across her knuckles.
“Are you guys coming?” Will called.
“On our way,” I said.
We arrived at the table to find Will and Linda already serving themselves.
“Everything okay?” Linda asked.
“Everything’s fine,” April said.
Linda looked at me. It was an accusing look that I didn’t understand and yet I did. Perhaps she suspected somehow that April was pregnant, a mother’s intuition. Perhaps she was simply jealous that I was somehow at that moment closer to our daughter than she was. Certainly she was aware that there was a secret, something, in the air.
“Feeling better?” Linda asked.
“Fine, I’m fine. Allergies, I think. I was feeling a bit dizzy.”
“I was congested today too,” I said.
Linda smiled and nodded, but it was not a pleasant smile. “There is a change in the weather,” she said.
1979
The walk away from the grave was silent and blank. It seemed that all color had left the world. Richard and I couldn’t speak; we wouldn’t speak. But the Bummer just wouldn’t shut up, even though he was apparently on alert. He kept us off the road in the trees.
“That was some shit, wasn’t it?” His voice was just above a whisper. “Soldiers, man, these fucking soldiers. They’ll shoot anybody. They like to shoot. That ammonia we smelled, .223 rounds, M16s like my baby right here, the only powder that stinks like that. I shouldn’t say stink. It’s not a bad smell. I feel sorry for that man back there. Little girl like that. I got a little sister back home. She’s a nurse now, lives in Virginia. Probably not a very good nurse. She was never very smart. Watch out for snakes out here. There are some really nasty ones. The coral snakes don’t get upset easily and they’re not up this high anyway. But those vipers. Some of them jump. Ever seen a snake jump?”
“Shut the fuck up,” I said.
“Excuse me?” he said.
“I said shut the fuck up.”
“Do you know who could be in this bush? I’m the one who’s going to keep you breathing.”
“Get us killed,” Richard said.
“And who the hell is Carlos?” I asked.
“Do you still want my help?” he asked, in a steady, soft voice, seemingly, ironically, sincere. “Do you still want your brother?” He tilted his head as he looked at Richard’s face.
Richard’s shoulders sagged. “Yes.”
“Good, now if you girls will just follow me.” We fell in behind him, moving quickly and keeping low. “Keep your eyes open.”
“Bummer, who is Carlos?” I asked.
“He’s my contact.”
“Contact? What the fuck is a contact?”
We came to the trail that had led us to the road where the Bummer broke into a trot. We ran all the way back to the car. I started to fall in behind the wheel, but the Bummer stopped me.
“I want him to drive,” he said.
“Why?” Richard asked.
“I like the way you drive. And I don’t like him.” He cut me a hard look. Strange, even in the moment, I found the look almost comical and I must have smiled slightly because he said, “What’s so funny?”
I looked at his rifle. “Nothing.”
Back in the cantina. For the first time I realized the place was windowless. The same bartender served us the same beer.
The Bummer sat across from us. He drummed on the table with his thumbs. “I hate that my cooler is empty. This donkey piss they serve in here will kill you.” He laughed and took a pull on his bottle. He scratched at the label with a nail. “Regia,” he read. “What’s that Spanish for?”
“Royal, maybe,” Richard said, half interested.
“No, dumbshit, it means donkey piss. I just told you that.” The Bummer stopped, listened. “Shit.”
“What is it?” Richard asked.
“Company.”
The door was pulled open and loud voices came in before the soldiers. The uniformed men were sloppy and boisterous, stomping mud off their boots and laughing. The Bummer watched them conspicuously.
“Be cool,” he said. “This ain’t nothing.”
“Do you think—” I started a question.
“Shut up.” The Bummer shoved his rifle under the table and laid it gently on the floor.
The bartender didn’t seem surprised to see the soldiers, but he wasn’t pleased by their presence. He had much the same manner as he had had with the Bummer. He served them at the bar, but didn’t laugh with them. Two of the soldiers sat in the other booth. A soldier looked over from the bar and made eye contact with me and I of course looked away. He nudged the man next to him, said something, and then walked across the room.
The Bummer picked him up halfway and tossed up a big wave. “Hola,” he said. “Cómo estás?”
“Americans,” the man said.
“Yep,” the Bummer said.
“And you, you are the one they call Bummer.”
The Bummer winked at us. “I’m famous.” To the soldier, “That’s me.”
“And who are these men?”
“Friends.”
“Why are you out here?”
“We’re tourists.”
The soldier’s eyes stayed on us. Something in his physical attitude must have spoken to the others because they stopped talking and looked our way. The soldier at our table looked back at the Bummer, paused a beat, and then laughed. “Este es el Bummer,” he said loudly. He smiled at us and returned to the bar. I was both drawn to and repulsed by the olive drab color of their presence and of a sudden I was aware that the only bright color in the place was the remaining neon letters of the beer sign. I couldn’t help but enter into an analysis of the color, how to make it, it helped me relax. Olive drab. Cadmium orange and halo blue or perhaps ocher with gray, maybe Payne’s gray. Thunder rumbled far off.
“What are you doing?” Richard asked.
“What?”
“You keep staring at those soldiers and they’re going to come back over here,” he said.
“Your girlfriend is nervous,” the Bummer said to me.
The door opened again and I could hear the rain. A white guy came stomping through the doorway, shaking off a poncho. He was dressed in cowboy boots, jeans, and a loud pink polo shirt. He looked around confidently and nodded to the soldiers, who seemed to not care about him at all; at least they were not surprised to see him. He looked over and saw the Bummer, smiled broadly.
“Amigo,” he said with an accent worse than mine. “Bummer, imagine finding you here.” He spoke English with what I thought was a German accent. He fell easily onto the bench next to the Bummer. He carried a fat ring-binder notebook that he put on the table. After an awkward silence the man said, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your comrades?”
“Comrades, this is Carlos. Ricky and Kurt.”
“I take it Carlos is not your real name,” Richard said.
“I hope that Ricky is not yours,” he said. “Real names are no good when there’s a war going on.”
“This is Carlos, the one we’ve been looking for?”
The Bummer nodded.
“So, do your thing,” Richard said. “Ask him about my brother.”
“Brother?” Carlos said.
“You want a beer?” the Bummer asked.
>
“I’m all right,” Carlos said. “Brother?”
“Ricky here is looking for his brother. He came down here to score drugs and turned up missing, as they say.”
“So he wants to look at the book?”
“The book?” Richard said.
“Two hundred,” Carlos said.
“What?” Richard looked at me and then back at the man.
“American dollars. And that’s a special for you because you’re a friend of the Bummer.”
“He’s not my friend,” Richard said. “And I don’t have any money with me and what the fuck are you talking about?”
“No money, no book.” Carlos draped his arm over his notebook.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I asked. “What’s a notebook have to do with anything?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Carlos said. “No money. Doesn’t mean we can’t have a party.”
He called back to the bartender, “Señor, el whiskey, por favor!”
Even after a few shots of what passed for whiskey it would have been a cliché to claim that the scene was surreal; it would also have been a lie. The loud soldiers, all of that khaki, the muddy boot prints on the floor, the cold fire, the grunting, laughing, and shouting. It was real enough, not at all dreamlike, though plenty strange. I kept expecting the colors of the place to be different from home, but none were. The people were the same color as the people at home. The furniture was the same color. Even the spider monkeys in the trees were the color of dogs, collies and pit bulls from Baltimore Avenue. And yet we stood out like we were painted cobalt blue. I kept seeing the tiny dead girl, her lost brother, her distraught father. I knew that this country was ready to explode but I had no idea what that meant exactly, how it would look. Little things and big things, bad things happen in singular moments, in singularly real places, not points on a map, not in regions.
“So, what are you? German?” I asked Carlos.
“Dutch.”
“How did you come to be here?”
“I take pictures,” he said. “I’m a photojournalist.”
“For a newspaper?” Richard asked.
“Freelance,” he said.
I smiled, didn’t quite laugh, but Carlos saw my reaction.
So Much Blue Page 8