by F. G. Gerson
“Nicolas, can I ask you something?”
“But of course, Lynn.”
“Why do you dislike me?”
Ha! I caught him off guard and straight in the jaw. He smiles clumsily. “You’re wrong. I don’t dislike you.”
“You act like I’m the plague descending on Paris!”
“I’m trying to protect Muriel’s interests.”
“You really think I’m that bad?”
“Actually…” Suddenly, there’s something warmer about his smile. “I don’t know anymore. You have…good ideas.”
That’s it, Lynn! That’s it, keep it going.
“You know, we should talk,” I propose.
“We should. You’re right.”
“I mean, now.”
“Now?”
“Take me away from here.”
“You’re not enjoying yourself?”
“Why, are you?”
“Well,” he said mysteriously. “I know a place….”
Step #8:
Never put love in the equation for success. Love is a freak number.
Nothing happened!
Not a thing.
Nada!
Not even a kiss.
Because…
Mmm? He doesn’t like me?
And, oh look, the sun’s rising. It’s so…God! I can still hear the music in my head and I want to dance, all alone in my suite.
I feel so giddy, and for no reason at all, because nothing happened! And nothing will ever happen, unfortunately.
So, what is it? Can you explain that to me? What is the nature of this magic spark? One minute, I’m like, life is good, Nicolas is gorgeous, I could totally do him, no big deal. And a minute later, I’m lying all alone on my bed, feeling like I want to destroy my entire room. I want to throw the TV set through the window and then jump to ease the pain.
Argh!
As if things were not complicated enough.
I can’t keep up.
Be logical!
Act your age!
Hmm…maybe instead of doing that I’ll just phone room service and ask for a nice cup of relaxing herbal tea and a BLT.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Oh, Nicolas, Nicolas, NICOLAS! What have you done to me? I’m thirteen again. I’m going through the biggest crush of my entire life. I want to write about it in my secret journal, if I had a secret journal. I want to write your name, surround it with little hearts and hide it under my bed.
I want to dress up for you.
I want you to look at me.
I want you to listen to a love song and think of me.
I want to talk to you. I want to tell you everything about me.
I want to leave silly messages on your answering machine.
I want to stalk you.
I want to kidnap you.
I want to tie you up in my bedroom and then I want to…I want to…
That’s it! Screw room service. I’m jumping through the window.
Oh, but wait! Before I do that, I need to tell you about last night.
We escaped Kazo’s (you know…) together.
“I know a place…” he said mysteriously.
“What kind of place?”
“You know, a place where we should go. A very special place, for me.”
“Your favorite place?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“I’d love to see your favorite place,” I said.
“It’s a quiet place. Nothing fancy. We can take a taxi.”
“Can’t we walk?”
He smiles. “Walking is fine. I used to love walking.” He told me he used to cross Paris, dreaming of the future.
I told him I had been a keen walker, too, but didn’t tell him that I still take those long walks to the Riverdale Dam on Sundays, or that I still gaze at the waterfall and dream of the future just like he did.
“Everything was so easy when I was young,” Nicolas said. I think he was a bit drunk, or just very tired. Whatever it was, I felt as if we could open up to each other.
We discovered that we have a lot in common.
1. He liked to walk and I like to walk. (As I already mentioned.)
2. Breakfast is definitely our favorite meal.
3. We both love Christmas but (4. we always get disappointed once we’ve opened our gifts.)
5. We want to be Buddhists but (6. we don’t know how to start.)
7. We prefer the mountains to the sea.
8. Apple and cinnamon is the best flavor for a muffin. Well…muffins are not very popular in France, but we agreed that (9. the best dessert ever is an apple-and-cinnamon pie.)
10. We prefer red wine to white,
11. coffee to tea,
12. morning to evening,
13. sweet to salted,
14. green to blue,
15. “Mary’s in India” is the best Dido song.
Oops! Wait a minute! A guy that likes Dido has to be gay, hasn’t he?
“Is it true that you’re…”
“What?”
“Well, you know, gay?”
“Who told you that?”
“Not that I’m judging you. It’s perfectly all right to be gay. Gay is normal. Gay is even more normal than not gay, if you see what I mean. Aren’t we all gay, anyway?”
“Aren’t we all gay? That sounds like somebody I know. Did Muriel tell you that I was gay?”
“She might have mentioned something along those lines.”
“Do I look gay to you?”
“No! I mean, yes, you know. Nicolas…whatever you are, just be yourself.” I sounded like an ad for running shoes.
“Not everybody is gay, Lynn.”
What did he mean? I needed to know. I stopped walking.
“I’m not gay, all right?” he says.
“Really?”
So…I needed more clarification.
“Do you mean not gay in a French way?”
“No, I mean not gay in an international way!” Nicolas looked a little pissed.
“Oh…Not that I thought that you looked gay, anyway,” I offered feebly.
We live in such confusing times.
Nicolas rolled his eyes. “Here we are,” he said as we arrived at a small canal.
I immediately recognized the place. Massoud drove past here. It’s the romantic version of Paris I liked so much and it’s also Nicolas’s favorite place. That’s one more thing!
16. The canal is our favorite place in Paris.
“I grew up here,” Nicolas tells me. “It still feels very special for me.”
It’s so romantic to walk along the river. It smells of spring. The deep dark water runs quietly. Small café terraces are packed with young people. There is a light atmosphere and lots of music.
Well, that’s the Paris you dream about. The way I dreamed about it anyway. The city of love. I felt like joining the crowd of one of the cafés. I told him.
“First, I’m taking you to my special place.”
We stopped in front of a tiny restaurant set in a very old house trapped between two huge modern buildings. It looked strange. It looked like a piece of the past trying to resist being squashed by the present.
“Look at that, Restaurant l’Escargot.” Nicolas smiled proudly.
I had no idea why he brought me there, because the restaurant was closed and it looked as if it had been abandoned for a long time.
He invited me to take a peek inside. We stuck our faces to the windows and I could see a very cozy little space.
“It’s been closed for three years now,” Nicolas explained.
“You thought they would reopen it just for us?”
“No, of course not. That’s where I grew up. In that restaurant.”
He sounded very emotional.
“My parents used to run it.”
“Oh…”
“I know, it’s very unfashionable.”
“No, no, Nicolas. It’s…it’s great.”
I tried to sou
nd earnest, but I must have come across as sarcastic because he looked really disappointed.
“Nicolas, I’m so happy that you brought me here.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Hey, look at me. It’s a very nice place.” I wanted him to know I meant what I was saying.
“It’s all right, Lynn. It’s not like I’m ashamed of it. I love this place.”
“Why should you be ashamed?”
“It’s something I tend to keep to myself. People in this business can be quite…pretentious.”
Did I sound pretentious? He brought me to his special place and I made him feel awkward about it.
“I don’t judge you, Nicolas. You know…everyone has their own secrets. I do.”
“Really? Like what?”
Like…you were right, I don’t deserve to be here. No, can’t say that. Better to stay mysterious.
“Oh, Nicolas, a woman’s secrets are very personal,” I said, and gave what I hoped was a sly smile.
He pointed at L’Escargot.
“I showed you one of my secrets. Now you show me yours.”
So much for mysterious. Okay, what can I say? “Well, I didn’t really grow up in New York.”
He looks at me blankly. He needs more.
“I grew up in a place called Red Hill, Connecticut, with my dad, and if you repeat it to anybody, I’ll kill you.”
“So we’re both trying to hide our past, in a way.”
17. We both try to hide our past.
He pulled the restaurant door, as if routinely checking it was well locked. “My parents still want me to take over the business. They haven’t given up on me yet.”
“They must be proud of you. You have such an amazing job at Muriel B.”
“No, they’re actually not proud at all. They think that one day I will give up this fashion nonsense and take over the restaurant. That’s why they haven’t sold it yet.”
18. We’re big disappointments to our parents.
“It’s a nice place,” I tell him. And I mean it.
“You think so?”
“It needs a serious cleanup.”
“Running a restaurant is hard work.”
“I’m sure you’d be a great restaurateur.”
Hey, as far as I’m concerned, he’d be a great anything.
We settled in a tiny bar just beside L’Escargot. A brass band was playing engaging old tunes. We drank red wine out of tumblers. The walls were covered in old posters advertising concerts that took place years and years ago. Everything was protected by a thick layer of mixed brown fat and dust.
I didn’t mention it, but I saw a huge beetle doing its daily slalom exercise between the glasses and disappearing under one of the tables.
The bar was crowded with young French people. Everybody was drunk or getting drunk and their lips were all blue and purple from the liters of cheap red wine being gulped down.
Nicolas’s lips turned purple red, too. Who would have thought that would make them look even better.
“When I was in that kitchen,” he said, “helping my dad, I thought, when I grow up, I’ll never peel a potato again.” He laughed. “Now all I remember is how simple and nice life was in that kitchen.”
“And how everything became complicated and disturbing. I know the feeling,” I said.
19. We long for the simplicity of the past.
Suddenly a disturbing thought popped into my head. “You love her, don’t you?” I said suddenly.
“Who? Muriel?”
“You’re so…” I made a face to show how completely fascinated he looked. Why else would he go against his parents if not for love?
“I don’t love her. I admire her,” he admitted. “She’s impossible sometimes. Most of the time. But she’s something special.”
He suddenly looked all dreamy and distant, as if she was so special to him it actually called for more wine and introspection. If he didn’t love her, he truly cared for her, far beyond his job description.
“What about you, Lynn?” he asked, coming back from his own little world.
“What about me?”
“Why did you come to work for her?”
I shrug. “Paris. Fashion. Fame. You know, the usual.”
“I don’t believe there is anything usual about you,” he said.
“And exactly what do you mean by that?”
“You know, the way you handle things.”
“Like?”
He looked very embarrassed. He drank some more wine and said, “Like that kiss.”
That kiss. I stare at him blankly, unable to think of something clever to say.
“The kiss! The one you gave me.”
“Ah! That kiss! Which one? There were…two, I think.” My power of speech had returned.
“Both, really.”
“Well, you’ve clearly established that they were meaningless.” I smiled at him.
“Were they?”
“Why? Did you think about them?” This time I was the one needing some more wine.
“Maybe,” he said thoughtfully.
“Did you think about them a lot?”
“Could have.”
“And what did you think about them?”
“I…don’t know. It was confusing.”
“Confusing?”
“And intriguing.”
“Definitely intriguing.” I could feel the blush rushing to my cheeks. Please, God, let him think it’s the wine.
“It made me wonder…”
“What?”
“If—”
“Êtes-vous américains?” the lady sitting next to me interrupted.
Damn!
I turned and realized that she was no lady. She had huge hands and she seriously needed a shave. She would always need a shave.
“No, I’m American,” I said. “He is French.”
“Êtes-vous des amoureux? Elle comprend pas, hein? Lovers?”
“Non, non, seulement des collègues,” Nicolas answered her—I mean him.
“You look like lovers,” he/she pronounced.
I blushed so much that the room turned red with the glow from my face. The drag queen leaned over to speak into my ear.
“The young man, he is in love with you,” and he/she blinked at me as if it was a done deal. “And you are a lucky girl, because he is like an angel. Comme un ange!”
God, don’t I know!
“What did she say?” Nicolas asked when the drag queen went back to her own conversation.
“She said…she said we make a handsome couple. Ha ha ha!”
He blushed, too, I swear, he blushed!
We were the last ones to leave the bar. I asked if we could walk back to the hotel. Nicolas said that it would be quite a long walk, but that was exactly what I was after. Quite a long walk. A long, long, long walk. A walk that would take us forever.
I told him about my childhood. I told him about growing up away from Jodie. And it felt good to talk about the real me, the girl that used to hold daisies under her chin, and if they shone yellow on your skin, it meant that you were in love.
The girl that used to hide in Jodie’s room and pretend to be locked into the tower of a castle, waiting for Prince Charming to come and free her.
But the prince never came, no matter how long she waited. He was too busy playing video games at the mall, I guess.
We fell silent. We were getting closer to my hotel and I was getting anxious. Should we part? Should I ask him to come up to share a bag of peanuts from the minibar, and a bottle of champagne and my bed?
We stopped in front of the Georges V.
I was about to say something, but he stopped me.
“I want to tell you…”
Yes, yes!
“I was wrong and I’m sorry. I think you are great.”
Mmm?
“You’re great for Muriel B, I mean. And…”
And?
“I think we all made up our minds about you. And…”
Okay
…And?
We looked at each other. Oh, yes, we were getting closer. My lips were almost reaching their ultimate goal when…he kissed me. On one cheek and then the other. Like a brother or my best gay friend.
That was so…gay.
Then he made a funny face, turned his back to me and walked away. That was it. All I ended up with was a lousy pair of kisses on the cheek and red-purple lips from cheap wine.
“Hey, it’s Lynn,” I say on the phone.
“What’s wrong with you? Do they ever sleep in freaking Paris?”
“We kissed!”
“Goddamn it!” Delia wakes up in a flash. “Is he a good kisser? It’s very important that he be a good kisser.”
“It’s hard to say, I kind of stole our first kiss. But we just spent the night together.”
“God, you’re fast!”
“I mean, we went on a date. Nothing definite happened!” Okay, maybe it wasn’t exactly a date in the traditional sense, but it still counts.
“Oh. False alarm, then. I’ll go back to sleep and you call me back after you do him!”
“Delia!”
She sighed but I could hear the squeak of her bed as she sat up. “Okay! A date! Did he walk you home?”
“Yes.”
“Did he kiss you?”
“Yes…”
“No, no, no! You don’t sound right. Where did he kiss you?”
Delia knows me too well.
“On the cheek. But it was quite close to my lips.”
“Uh-huh…”
“Delia! I said almost on my lips! A very, very erotic cheek kiss!”
“Yeah…anything else?”
Sometimes I forget why I’m friends with Delia.
“No!”
“I thought all those French guys were sex maniacs.”
“No, he’s not a maniac, he is…charming. Yeah, he is so-o fucking charming.”
I spent my childhood waiting for a guy just like him. Now I knew why he couldn’t come: he was busy peeling potatoes in L’Escargot.
“Do you think he could be the One?” I hear Delia ask.