by Anita Heiss
‘This is normal,’ she said flippantly.
I thought back to my own opening at the musée but couldn’t remember the same background murmurs during our presentation.
After the speeches were over, Canelle insisted I have dinner with her in Bastille. I was starving and needed to eat so agreed without much thought.
‘Un rue Delambre,’ she told the driver, as I climbed into the cab seat behind her.
‘This is … how you say … my local. You must have the calamari and ravioli,’ she advised. Seeing as her advice was usually spot on, I knew to take it.
Sitting in Bistrot du Dôme with Canelle, I joked with the waiters in their funny ties with pictures of Donald Duck and pigs on them. Canelle and I talked fashion. She suggested I could get some of Paris’ best and most affordable bling from a store at the Metro station Châtelet–Les Halles. While she wrote down the exact location of the store I should check out, I became anxious about going to see Ames. I’d become more than interested in the great sex we’d been having. I needed to see him.
As I waved Canelle goodbye, I hailed a cab and headed towards his apartment. I felt a sense of adventure in my plan to surprise him with a print I’d had Lauren send me. I wanted Ames to have some Aboriginal art in his flat for inspiration, so Lauren had selected one of Gordon Hookey’s more controversial works: Sacred nation, scared nation, indoctrination. I knew that Ames would appreciate the politics behind it. I’d been carrying the cylinder it was packed in around with me with all night and had almost forgotten it twice: once at the embassy cloak check and then in the restaurant.
I climbed two steps at a time to his apartment. It wasn’t ladylike but demonstrative of my eagerness to get to his door and eventually into his bed. When I arrived, the glossy grey door was ajar – unusual but not alarming. I felt even more adventurous as I pushed it gently, hoping not to make any sound for maximum surprise impact.
Ames’ sound system was blaring out the Yannick Noah CD we’d bought in the Latin Quarter. Ames liked the ex-tennis player who now worked to improve the lives of underprivileged children. I liked the reggae sounds myself, but the player was louder than usual and the only light came from a lamp in one corner of his living room. Ames wasn’t to be seen though. I imagined he’d raced home and into the shower.
Kicking off my shoes and peeling off my dress, I made my way towards the bathroom, ready to join him immediately. I pushed open the door wearing only my bra and French knickers and yelled, ‘Surprise!’
But the surprise was on me. Ames was in the bath with another woman. Not really a woman. Rather, a female who looked so young and thin it was hard to believe she’d even reached puberty. My thoughts were like short sentences. Flashes of what my eyes didn’t want to see. Ames. Teenager. Bubbles. Bath. My Ames in the bath with a teenager. The man who I had let into my heart and my bed who was supposed to be into me, was now into someone else, literally.
I felt an immediate shiver of shock and cold as I stood there, half-naked with the cylinder in my hand. I imagined bludgeoning them both into a coma with it, but dropped it instead as a hot rush came over me – the kind of hot-flush Mum had told me happened during menopause.
‘Libby,’ Ames said, eventually. ‘This is not what you think it is.’
My head was screaming, WHAT THE FUUUCCCKKK!!!
‘Are you naked?’ I accused.
‘Oui,’ he said, without hesitation.
‘Are you in the bath with another woman, I mean female?’ I felt like Caro in a court of law cross-examining a defendant.
‘Um, oui.’
‘Are you cheating on me?’
‘This is not cheating,’ he said, looking at the girl then me. ‘This is … this is what we do. We make love because it is good for our bodies and our minds and our creativity.’
I stood stunned for a minute, trying to comprehend what I was seeing and hearing. They both looked back, stunned also, probably because I hadn’t left immediately. But I was stuck, my feet would not move and time had stood still while I tried to fathom how I had met yet another man with the cheating gene.
I stared down at them. While there were masses of bubbles, I assumed she was fully attached to his baguette. She looked familiar and it annoyed me trying to recognise that face, and then it hit me. She had lips like Jodi Uptown and memories of Peter and Moree came flooding back. Andy and his eyes on the woman at the Wilin Centre flashed before me. It had happened again. Whenever I trusted and I believed, I got fucked over.
I was furious and couldn’t think of the French translation of bastard to shout at him. I didn’t think imbecile was strong enough, so I just said, with as much venom as I could muster, ‘Le prick!’
I threw my dress on quickly and stormed out of the flat as Ames struggled to get out the bath, and the pre-pubescent was squealing something I couldn’t decipher. I was determined Ames would not see me cry. I had cried my fair share with the last two bastards and I was determined that I would not cry over another man again. Caro was right. What had I been thinking?
I headed to the nearest bar, already planning my demise through too many glasses of wine. I called Canelle but got her voicemail and didn’t leave a message. I tried as hard as I could not to weep but a lone, dignified tear ran down my cheek.
I skolled my first glass of wine and took a few minutes to stare into the second glass. I thought about Maria Teresa from Woman Times Seven. Was my life becoming that of Shirley MacLaine? Was I now supposed to have revenge-sex like Maria Teresa did when she found her husband in bed with another woman?
I sat at the bar scribbling in my Moleskine, trying to write through what had happened. I wrote about Ames and called him every single name I could think of in English and French and the odd Spanish word I’d learnt when studying at the CIT.
I ordered another wine and another and got progressively drunker as my disappointment and anger turned into homesickness. I missed Lauren, Denise and Caro. I looked at my watch and it was almost midnight, making it 8 am in Canberra. I was drunk enough not to care about the cost of the call and dialled Lauren’s mobile.
‘Lauren Lucas,’ she answered. The tears fell unwillingly at the mere sound of my tidda’s voice. ‘Hello, this is Lauren.’
I swallowed hard and fast before she hung up thinking the call was a prank.
‘It’s me,’ I said with an emotional slur. ‘Libby.’
‘Oh my god, Libs, how are you? It’s so good to hear from you. What are you doing right now? Where are you?’ Lauren rattled off enough questions to give me time to compose myself.
‘I’m in a bar. I’m a bit drunk.’ I looked around to see if anyone was listening but no-one seemed to notice I was even there.
‘Good girl. I’m glad you’re having fun.’ Lauren sounded genuinely happy for me.
I couldn’t speak.
‘Libs? What’s wrong? Are you okay?’ Lauren’s happy voice turned quickly to concern.
I still couldn’t speak. I forced a lump down my throat.
‘Libby, please, you’re making me worry. What’s wrong?’ Lauren’s voice was gentle, nurturing.
‘I hate men,’ I said through gritted teeth, trying to contain my anger and remain dignified in a public place. ‘All they ever do is hurt me.’
‘What happened? Where’s that nude writer dude?’ I could hear Lauren become more protective of her tidda a long way away.
‘He’s in the bath with someone else?’ I said, as if it were normal.
‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘I just walked in and found him with someone else.’ I took another mouthful of wine. ‘I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Sis, I’m so sorry, I wish I were there. Do you want me to get on a plane? I can be there in twenty-four hours. Tell me, I can do it.’
‘No, don’t be silly, you can’t do that.’ I noticed a couple walk into the bar cuddling and it felt like someone punched me in the stomach again.
‘Libs,
I know the pain, I’ve been there. And I only got through it because of you. I’m a plane ride away. I have leave. Emma won’t mind.’
‘Don’t tell Emma. Don’t tell anyone,’ I said half-aggressively. ‘I’m embarrassed.’
The last thing I wanted was everyone back home knowing I’d managed to geographically relocate my inability to have a normal relationship.
‘Why are you embarrassed? You didn’t do anything, he’s the idiot, moron, loser, dropkick who should be embarrassed for letting you go. And so cruelly.’
Just hearing Lauren’s words made me feel better. Friends always knew the right things to say, and in situations like these it meant saying as much horrible and nasty stuff about the offender as possible.
‘You are a strong, capable, intelligent, gorgeous woman. You are too good to be treated so poorly.’
And of course, the positive words in relation to myself also helped.
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Actually, just talking to you has made me feel much better, but I better go now, this is going to be costing me a fortune, and when I wake up tomorrow sober, my hangover will multiply at the thought of my phone bill.’
Lauren laughed. ‘Okay, sis. Email me if you need anything and I can always call you back or we can Skype.’
‘Okay, gotta go, keep this to yourself but say hello to everyone, okay, and Wyatt.’
I pressed ‘end’ and put the phone back in my bag.
I was still in shock. I hardly knew Ames, and I had told myself that I didn’t want a relationship, that I never wanted another boyfriend. And this was the reason why. I had let myself get swept up into the bullshit around romantic Paris and poetry and Frenchmen with accents and good politics. I should’ve known better.
Why hadn’t I learned and accepted that I was never going to be happy with a man or have any decent, normal sense of romance? I hated the universe at that moment: she was a fucking bitch and I didn’t deserve what she was doing to me.
My mobile beeped.
There were more words but I didn’t want to read them. I deleted the message before it could do any more damage to my head, my self-esteem or my heart. I deleted his number from my phone. There were never going to be any more second chances with me. No man was worth that: French, Black, nude, revolutionary or otherwise.
I pushed any thought of Ames to the darkest recesses of my memory with the other losers and hoped they all had fun keeping each other company.
Weeks later I was still angry and sad about Ames. My low moments were compounded by the fact that October was around the corner and the countdown to returning home had started. My love-life only added to the depressing thoughts I had about leaving Paris and heading back to a comparatively boring Canberra.
I knew I would never be the same after my life in France. Although I’d felt lonely at times, I loved the way I lived in the French capital. I knew it would be hard to go back to the NAG, although I remained committed to the work I did there. And I missed the girls terribly.
All in all though, my life was amazing in Paris. I had grown so much as a woman since arriving. I had met my French-Caribbean soul-twin in Canelle. I’d seen Sorina shine in her craft really quickly and I was proud to have been part of a community effort to help her cement her life and feel secure in this somewhat insecure country. She was blossoming as a woman with new-found self-esteem and also as a designer, busy filling orders for her bags.
I had learned a lesson from my experience with Ames, but I had no intention of forgiving him, ever. Until one morning over coffee when Canelle gave me a dose of her worldly wisdom.
‘Unforgiveness,’ she said, ‘according to the writer Debbie Ford, “is the poison you drink every day hoping that the other person will die”.’
I didn’t want Ames to die, but clearly the toxic feeling of carrying bitterness would only kill me emotionally.
‘I like that quote,’ is all I said as I burned it into my brain.
‘Yes, it is a good one, but it does not help the pain, for that we must shop. After work, I will take you to one of my favourite areas. It is a surprise!’ Canelle got up, kissed me on both cheeks and added, ‘This is not a dress rehearsal, Elizabeth, this is life. We must move on quickly from the misery and find happiness again.’
I spent the afternoon keeping myself extraordinarily busy doing an audit of the musée library with the aim of building up the Indigenous collection and keeping Ames out of my thoughts. The library space was dark – mirroring the rest of the museum – and I had convinced myself that I was going to need glasses by the end of my placement.
Nevertheless, I liked how it looked and it was a peaceful place to work. There were five massive lampshades atop one length of bookcase. A huge square table sat about three metres square with three wooden sculptures in the middle of it. I imagined a great feast of French food on the table as I thought about what I might eat for dinner that night.
The collections were divided into permanent exhibition resources, temporary exhibition resources and so on. There was a substantial collection of art magazines from across the world and I started getting ideas of how we could develop our library space and catalogue back at the NAG.
I spoke to the librarian about helping to build up the musée’s Indigenous-Australian library collection, adding to the exhibition catalogues from across Europe. I made a list of some Australian art journals that the library could subscribe to. I emailed the Institute of Aboriginal Development Press, Magabala Books and Aboriginal Studies Press to get an update on any art-related books they’d published.
Then I began trawling through the musée’s own collection of Indigenous material, which contained numerous French translations of art books and related works, some authored by Aboriginal writers, others by Europeans. I tried not to get bogged down in the ‘typical’ looking books they had, but rather focused on what was missing. I started my own inventory so I could look at filling the gaps and cull anything in the present collection that was inappropriate or outdated if necessary.
The musée’s catalogue included Yirribana (AGNSW), Culture Warriors (NGA), Peinture Aborigène Contemporaire, L’Art Indigène de l’Australie Catalogue – Musée du Quai Branly: Le Temps du Rêve (2008), Wati – Les Hommes de Loi – The Law Men (2002), Problematic (2005). I would need to send the list back to Emma and Lauren to see what might be missing.
At 6 pm I met Canelle at the staff entrance and we headed towards one of her favourite areas: Les Halles. We boarded the train to do my much-needed retail therapy and help my continually evolving wardrobe.
As we sat down, we saw two women at the end of the carriage wearing burqas, fussing over three children. An elderly couple sitting opposite the women were tut-tutting and shaking their heads in disapproval of the attire. I could make out enough of their French to know what they were saying: we were in France, people don’t approve of burqas here, they should go home if they wanted to dress like that.
I shook my head in disgust. I had to ask Canelle what she thought about the current push in France, and other parts of Europe, to ban the religious item. She was onto the issue without much provocation at all.
‘As a feminist, in defence of women’s rights, I always thought the French were progressive and that we didn’t live behind or support awful traditions like slavery but wanted to make people’s lives better. People come first. This is what I thought. But I cannot believe we have done this with the burqa.’ She seemed as bewildered and upset as I was about the issue.
‘This wouldn’t happen in Australia,’ I said, but didn’t completely believe myself. I knew that only weeks ago in Sydney a Lebanese-Muslim had painted a mural in a public place saying ‘Ban the Burqa’.
‘Really?’ Canelle was surprised.
I was desperate to defend the most banal level of rights in Australia. ‘Yes, and there’s no real logic to it in a rational society. Nuns used to wear full tunics they could hide guns under. And while feminists argue that the veil is oppressive to
women and a symbol of men’s power over us, what about women who choose to wear the veil?’
Canelle agreed. ‘Yes, women who live in supposedly free countries and choose to wear the burqa to announce their faith or identity and so forth, where are their rights?’
‘Exactly! Civilisations grow and change, or they are supposed to, but today I think France has demonstrated its archaic values. And if they were going to legislate on fashion related to ideology or religion, then why not on offensive t-shirts with swastikas and so forth? The Nazis were one of the most destructive ideological cults in history!’
‘I know. They banned the swastika in Germany, so why not across Europe or the world even?’ Canelle looked shattered to be living in a country that had such narrow views of the world. ‘And if we thought about all the things that women do to please men, we’d ban high heels, v-neck tops, backless dresses. Women may choose to wear those things for themselves, but at the end of the day, we all know much of it is about appealing to men. And that’s okay because we are allowed to exercise our rights to do it. And we assert our right to dress to make a statement about our identity as a woman by choosing what we wear.’
‘To me it’s just like how footy fans wear the colours of their club: it asserts their identity in that area.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Canelle was nodding as she spoke.
‘Personally though, I think there’s a health issue. I can’t imagine that it’s good, I mean, that black polyester in the heat. I don’t know if my normal deodorant could cope with that.’
Canelle stood up suddenly, laughing. ‘This is our stop. We will be happy now, Elizabeth, okay? It is time to put politics aside and shop for a while.’
‘Oui,’ I said, as she led me through the crowd of people up to the street.
‘This is my favourite place to shop.’ Canelle’s eyes were sparkling as they scanned the area. ‘It is very much a Black hip-hop area and used to be a red-light district. It is not so much now because it is being gentrified.’