I Am Having So Much Fun Here Without You

by Courtney Maum

  When 2:45 arrived, I made my way toward the Rue Saint André-des-Arts where the Azar Sabounjian gallery was located next to an Isabel Marant shop—the hand-drawn star accompanying her logo on the window a signifier that one had entered the kingdom of the hip.

  When I entered the gallery, the receptionist was on the phone—it was the same woman I’d spoken to the day before, still placing too much emphasis on the wrong syllables, the way we English are wont to do in French. She had endless legs and high-waisted pants, which even on a girl of her attractiveness drew an unnecessary amount of attention to her pelvic floor.

  When she hung up, irrevocably convinced from her phone call that she was English, I introduced myself in my native tongue and told her that I had an appointment with Azar. This was strike one for me—I hated when people defaulted to En-glish when I’d been speaking French, so I don’t know why I did it with her. I’d meant to be intimate, but I’d been offensive. With a little checkmark in her agenda and a perfected shrug of nonchalance, she informed me (in French) that Monsieur Sabounjian wasn’t back from lunch yet, would I like to wait for him in that highly uncomfortable chair?

  Still not back from lunch at 3 p.m., he was a Frenchman indeed. The receptionist—Alice, if I remembered from my conversation yesterday—sauntered back and forth making photocopies and pushing things about on her desk and huffing and puffing while she typed out what was meant to look like, but did not appear to actually be, work-related business.

  At 3:20 I began wondering whether or not I should go to the loo. This was a hard call to make. If I waited, I might end up waiting so long that I’d have to go while we were talking. If I went now, I might be in the toilet when he arrived, which would be worse. Tossing the magazine I’d been pretending to peruse to the far side of the bench, I stood up and casually asked where the bathrooms were. Without taking her eyes off the computer screen, Alice pointed down the hallway, informing me that it was just to the left in her insistent French.

  I walked down the hallway past a series of bondage photographs that appeared to be executed with Fruit Roll-Ups and string cheese until I found the bathroom, which was completely papered in aluminum foil. When I made it back to the reception area, I was greeted with the unfortunate sight of a handsome man in a three-piece suit sitting on the edge of Alice’s desk.

  “Richard, I presume?” he asked, tilting his head to one side. Bloody hell, I thought, reaching out to shake his hand. My hands weren’t even dry yet.

  “Shall we chat in my office, then?” He indicated the way.

  “Yes,” I stuttered. “I just need to fetch that . . .” I reached for the briefcase that I’d left beneath my chair and followed the man who held my destiny down the hall.

  Azar’s office was just what I’d expected: organized and meticulous, with two shelves showcasing a tightly curated selection of books. His desk was a massive mahogany structure with a leather top, underneath of which ran the pelt of what I hoped was an imitation panda.

  Azar walked behind his desk to a see-through swivel chair and gestured toward a stool for me to sit on. Danish in design and certainly expensive, it was nonetheless a stool, and I wondered if he also had a dunce cap for me to put on.

  “So,” he began, folding his arms on the table. “I don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Right,” I said, snapping open my briefcase to remove my portfolio and sketches. “These are some photographs of my recent work, along with press clips.” I slid the portfolio to him.

  “I’ll look at that later,” he said, pushing it to the side. “Let’s talk about Iraq.”

  “Brilliant,” I said, trying not to redden. “So I’ve got a proposition here, you could read it, or . . . ?”

  “Why don’t you just summarize?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

  “Very good,” I said, trying to sit as straight as possible on my stool. “So the idea is, it would be called WarWash, and although I know there’s not a war yet—”

  “Oh, there will be.”

  “Right, so I’m English, but I spent a lot of time in America, and the fact that they’re teaming up around something so unfounded is, you know, absurd. So the idea would be to make the installation an interactive one based upon mistakes. I’d have two washing machines, one British and one American, and I’d have certain objects that remind me of errors made in each country, both, uh, personal and governmental, that I’d wash in each respective machine, and the public would be invited to bring in objects as well. But everything would be washed in oil.”

  “Oil,” said Azar, his eyebrows lifting. “As in petroleum?”

  “Right. And behind all this, behind the platforms, there would be a hanging line where we’d dry the objects, after. I’d identify the object and the person who donated the object with hand-stamped dog tags.”

  “I see,” he said, drumming his fingers on his desk. “So they’d look like corpses?”

  “It would depend on the size of the object, of course,” I offered, “but seeing that they’d be covered in sludge, they might. Either that or, uh, fetuses.”

  “Fetuses.” He nodded, writing something down. “I see.”

  I fell silent. You couldn’t really say much after the word fetus.

  Flipping through my portfolio, he said, “I’m assuming you’ve already tried this?”

  Relieved, I said I had.

  “And nothing blew up?”

  “No,” I said, trying to sound convincing. “But you can’t dry anything. And paper makes a mess.”

  He nodded. “Do you have a materials list in there?” he asked, looking at the sheaf of papers on my lap.

  I handed him my proposal. To my horror, he began reading it out loud.

  “‘Needed: 2 washing machines, one a Whirlpool (cost: 400 €), one a Tricity Bendix (cost: 350 €). Anticipate 1 converter and 1 surge control (cost: 25 €). 2 large wicker laundry baskets (IKEA: cost p.p 9 €). 6 containers of gasoline (cost per container: 18 €). 3 packets of latex gloves (cost: 10 €). 2 large stockpots (cost p.p: 15 €). 2 wooden platforms of 10m2 (supplies from Castorama estimated at 100 €). 50 “dog” ID tags: (200 €); metal engraver (75 €); laundry line (15 €); laundry pins (5 €); nylon to create permutated version of the American and British flag (25 €); paints to create flag (40 €); black tarp (20 €).’”

  He rubbed his chin, reached for a pen and marked something on a piece of paper. Then, without glancing up at me again, he continued.

  “‘Setup: The installation requires approximately 40m2. The two washing machines are to be placed side by side, the American one on the left, the British one on the right. There should be a distance of one and a half feet between the two machines. One laundry basket should be placed on the left side of the American machine and one on the right side of the British machine, with a canister of petrol beside it. Behind the two machines will hang a fused oil-painted version of the British and American flags to be created by the artist (see drawing attached). This flag will be painted in such a way that the fact that there are two flags will become evident the farther the visitor steps away from the machines. The washing machines, laundry baskets, and oil containers will be mounted on a wooden platform. The setup should call to mind a political debate. The laundry lines will be hung to the right of the machines. Black tarp will be used underneath the drying objects, and will be cut in such a way as to recall body bags.’”

  Again, he jotted something down on his infuriating piece of paper. He was probably making out a grocery list. Could you tell my wife I’m thinking wild mushrooms and farfalle? And we’re out of double-ply toilet tissue. Thanks, Alice, you’re a doll.

  He leaned back and ran his fingers through his luxurious head of hair before picking up the last page of the proposal.

  “‘Artist’s statement,’” he continued reading. “‘This installation, tentatively entitled WarWash, is designed to highlight the senseles
sness of the American and British government’s WMD pursuits in Iraq by engaging the public in an absurd domestic act: the washing of things in oil. By selecting objects that remind the artist and the public participants of their past mistakes, the exhibit will be engaging on an intellectual, visual, and olfactory level, and should appeal to fans of artists such as Sophie Calle and Maurizio Cattelan.’”

  That was it. There was nothing else to read. Only my drawings were left, which he’d hardly glanced at.

  Azar swiveled once to the right, and then he swiveled to the left in his fancy swivel chair. Then he pushed all of my papers into a neat little pile and placed a silver paperweight in the form of a pinecone on top of the stack.

  “Very well,” he announced, nodding. He jotted down a final line, which apparently ended in an exclamation point.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  On our way out of his office, instead of turning right to take me back to my high-waisted compatriot wasting time online, he walked me around the corner to where an archway was covered with drop sheets attached to the ceiling with blue electrical tape. He unzipped a plastic makeshift door and gestured for me to walk through it. I understood what Julien meant when he’d said that Azar was “tough.” He had a back door for rejects.

  Once he’d made it through the plastic door himself, Azar reached into his blazer and pulled out a pocket flashlight.

  “We’re still working on the electric,” he said, twisting the flashlight on. “And obviously, the paint.”

  I stared around the space and said nothing. He’d examined my skill set. He’d seen my way with a brush. It was possible that he was going to ask me to touch up his decorative molding.

  “Right, so, that’s that,” he said, pulling aside the plastic and motioning for me to walk through. Back in the hallway, he brushed off some dust that had collected on his suit.

  “This space,” he said, “will be ready by the end of March.” He shook a piece of dried paint off his elbow. “Will you?”

  Without waiting for my RPM level to descend back to a normal rhythm, he continued: “Because we’ve never worked together, you’ll have to front the installation costs yourself. If it sells, though, we’ll reimburse you. That work?”

  I found myself mesmerized by his perfect teeth. I was flabbergasted. I simply couldn’t speak.

  “Fantastic,” he said, smiling. “I think this will be grand.” He reached for a card from the inside of his jacket. “Call me next week—set up a time with Alice.”

  Making a concerted effort to mask my excitement, I mentioned that my phone number and address were written on my proposal, that I didn’t have a card. He looked at me with a certain compassion and extended his hand.

  “Ah, and if you ruin my gallery, you pay for it. We’ll come up with a rider.”

  “A rider,” I repeated. “Of course.”

  Azar saw me to the door, and on the way properly introduced me to Alice, who was British, the little minx. They both told me to call if I needed any help getting supplies and wished me “Bon weekend.”

  • • •

  In a daze, I stumbled out into the pre-cocktail-hour bustle of the neighborhood, bumping into old ladies with shopping caddies and women carrying cut flowers. It had happened. He said yes. After months of feeling like I’d been cut off from an essential source of energy, I had a tiny percentage of my old self back. I felt electric. Proud and nervous. I wanted to tell Anne.

  I walked up the steep hill past one of the branches of La Sorbonne, in the direction of the Luxembourg Gardens. I was swinging my briefcase. I had bounce in my step: my afternoon was a musical, and Paris was my stage. I made it all the way to the fountains at the entrance before I realized that I simply could not contain my enthusiasm, I had to tell my wife. I took my cell phone out of my jacket and found that it was dead. I’d been using it so little recently, I hadn’t thought to charge it before I left the apartment, and now I had no way of sharing my good news with the one person who mattered. I sat down on a bench and weighed the pros and cons of stopping by our house. On one hand, I was right by it; on the other, since it wasn’t even five o’clock yet, it was doubtful that Anne would be home, especially because Camille would have already left for Bordeaux. If Anne were there, she’d be upset that I hadn’t rung before coming by. But then again, maybe she’d be moved to know how much I wanted to see her. I decided to try it. I was only a fifteen-minute walk away, and I could always leave a note. Maybe she’d agree to go to dinner with me? Maybe there was a small chance—just a tiny one—that she didn’t yet have plans?

  When I made it to our street, I stopped just outside the gate, surprised to see lights on in the kitchen. And then I saw my wife. She passed in front of the window. She was talking on the phone. Even though I had our keys on me, I still felt like the only right I had was to stand there and to observe her from outside. She was filling something up with water in the sink, nestling her cheek against her phone while she did so. Probably a vase for flowers. Unlike the slothlike state of my apartment, Anne would still be keeping an impeccable house.

  I walked up the front path, rehearsing a speech—I just got wonderful news, my cell phone has no batteries, I wanted to come by and share it—when I saw another figure pass before the window. He said something to her and she nodded, pointing somewhere in the kitchen, still talking on the phone. When the person turned around, I saw that it was Thomas. Thomas in my kitchen. On a Friday night.

  My heart started thumping wildly and my head felt squeezed. They could be working; it was entirely possible that they were working. At the court hearing, the jury had voted for the pregnant women but the winemakers had asked for a retrial, which the judge had granted. Anne had more work than ever, she’d told me that herself. But it was also one hour away from officially being Friday night, my daughter was out of town, and the man she’d made that daughter with was living elsewhere. I watched Anne walk away from the window and I felt my knees buckle. I couldn’t move. One time, when I was a child, I’d swung too high in a playground swing and fallen from a good distance onto my stomach. I remembered being facedown in the sandy dirt mix, staring at the ants there, the inside of my stomach aching and completely devoid of air.

  With the same hollowness inside me, I turned to go, certain that nothing good was going to come from my surprise visit, when I heard the door unlock behind me. “Richard?” Anne’s voice said.

  I had to force myself to turn around.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I . . .” Empty-handed, empty-headed. What a fool I was.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Sure!” I said, shrugging. “I was just in the area and had news, and—” I shoved my hand in my pocket, retrieving the evidence. “My phone died, so I couldn’t call, but I see that I, um, should have, so.”

  I let my gaze fall down her body and was mildly comforted to see that she was wearing flats.

  “I’m sorry to bother,” I repeated.

  “No,” she said, shifting her weight. “It’s just . . . a surprise. I saw Camille off, she was thrilled, as you can imagine. We have to . . . we’ll have to come up with something. This is the second time the Merciers have taken her somewhere.”

  I nodded, bobbing my whole body in time with my stupid head. “Right.”

  “Um, you can come in if you want to? We’re . . . Thomas is here.”

  “Right,” I said, still bobbing. “I noticed.”

  “We’re . . . working. Or just wrapping up, I—”

  I wasn’t listening to her. There was a ringing sound inside my head. All I could think of was that at any moment he was going to appear behind my wife, in my fucking doorway with his Big and Tall apparel and those lips and no shoes.

  “Yeah, no, I have to go, it was just that I was right by here, so, if you’re working?”

  “You said that you had news?” she asked. I watched her glanc
e behind her.

  “Oh! Um, yeah. I got . . . I pitched WarWash to a new gallery. Azar Sabounjian?”

  She raised her eyes, impressed.

  “And he took it, actually. I mean, he’s taking it. For April.”

  “Oh my God, that’s wonderful!” she said, coming down the steps. She put her arms around me and enfolded me in the smell of her, an intoxicating blend of lime and cedar that wasn’t her normal scent.

  I must have looked shell-shocked from her touch because she stepped away.

  “I’m really happy for you,” she said. “That’s marvelous.”

  “Yeah, I was kind of hoping that—” I looked down at the walkway. “It was stupid. Obviously, you had plans. I just wanted to tell you. I wanted you to know.”

  “Yeah.” She looked behind her. “With the retrial, we’ve been working such long hours, you know. We try to make it fun.”

  Don’t ask about Selena, Richard. Don’t ask about Jacques. Don’t let on that your guts are all in slipknots because you don’t know what the fuck Thomas is doing there alone.

  “You could come in, though?” she said. “We could have a glass to celebrate?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve interrupted you. Another time.”

  “We will,” she said. “This is a big one.”

  I tried to smile. “It is.”

  She smiled back at me, and I crumpled further. In the way she was holding herself, the strain of the smile on her lips, I saw that what I’d first taken for sadness was actually pity.

  I stuffed my hands in my pockets. “I like your new perfume, by the way.”

  “Oh,” she said, reddening. “Thanks.”

  I stared at her and felt my humiliation start to shift toward anger. I wanted my wife back. I wanted to go into my own house. I wanted to know what that guy was doing there. Instead, I made a pathetic salute and let myself out onto the street where not so long ago, I’d painted I LOVE NE.