This One is Ours

by Kate O'Donnell

  ‘You are a hawker, like the guys selling cheap Eiffel Tower keyrings,’ laughs Olivier.

  I try not to be offended.

  ‘It’s not like I’m asking for much money,’ I say. ‘Not like the shops that charge double or triple the price of art and trinkets and sell them in hip stores.’

  ‘Instead you’re selling out your own work for cash.’

  ‘But what about all those paintings you’ve talked about in your parents’ house? Your family paid money for those.’

  More shrugging. More bof. ‘It’s not the same. That’s an investment. I’m just saying you’re talented. I worry you’re devaluing yourself.’

  When he says it like that, I kind of understand. But also, sitting on my high horse valuing myself won’t help me buy paper, pencils, croissants. So I just shrug. ‘Thank you for saying I’m talented.’

  Olivier holds up the new bookmarks I’ve made. ‘Where did you get this paper?’ he asks, rubbing it between his thumb and finger.

  ‘They’re offcuts from school. That’s why I’ve done these pieces so small, to get the most use out of them.’ I feel happy with my thriftiness.

  ‘But how did you get it?’

  ‘I just asked Véronique if I could have it. She was putting it in the recycling.’ I open my homemade folio and pull out some more pieces, bigger this time. ‘She let me take some of these slightly damaged sheets too, for my exhibition piece. They’ll be useful, once I decide what I’m doing.’

  I recently learned the expression faire du lèche-vitrines, which translates to ‘window shopping’. But actually, the direct translation is ‘window licking’. I immediately had to sketch a series of self-portraits of me slobbery licking (like a dog) the windows of iconic Paris shops: Chanel, Maxim’s, Ladurée.

  I show these to Olivier, and he shuffles through them with a strange expression on his face. ‘Funny,’ he says, in a that’s really not very funny voice, and tosses them back onto the rug.

  He’s also not interested in more serious conversation. ‘Did you know that by 2030 the richest one per cent will own two-thirds of global wealth?’ I ask him, and by now I’m – on the inside – begging him to have an opinion. To react!

  ‘Et alors?’ So what?

  ‘Don’t you find that staggering?’ I ask.

  He shrugs.

  I don’t say anything more, but inside I am sighing because I don’t know how to make him feel the way I do, and I don’t understand where he stands. I can’t explain, in English or French, why those numbers frighten me so much or exactly how they will impact us all, but I just feel it. Feel the fear.

  ‘It is interesting,’ he says, finally, sitting down next to me and slipping his hand into mine. ‘And you are such a good person to be worrying about these things. But let’s talk about art, instead.’

  When I’ve had enough selling for the day (a grand total of twenty-four euros – I’m happy with this!) we go to Olivier’s house. He wants to show me the art that was an investment but not a capitalist sell-out. It is the first time I’ve been there since Léon’s vernissage, and this time it feels significant. This time I am very aware of my body and less aware of the beautiful apartment.

  I feel hungry but it isn’t a mealtime, so Olivier doesn’t offer me anything to eat. The French are so strange like that. I miss snacking.

  He leads me down a hallway by the hand, waving at some paintings with his other hand. We pass the dining room I’d sat in that time, with its long table and antique chairs. Now, instead of plates of bœuf bourguignon and glasses of wine, there are piles of newspapers at one end, and a pair of abandoned (but very chic) men’s eyeglasses.

  He leads me to his bedroom and for a while we look at his books, arranged in his shelves that go up and up, filled with new and old books and knick-knacks and whatnots. We talk about the objects, about nothing in particular. Situational chitchat. I couldn’t even tell you because he leans against his desk, which is big and made of dark polished wood and has complicated legs, and the sight is too much.

  I think about sketching him there, against the backdrop of a Parisian window. His navy shirt is buttoned all the way to his throat. I can see rooftops and the kind of light that’s limping to dusk, and I feel very romantic.

  I say so, and I press against him, fitting myself between his legs. ‘Is this okay?’

  He nods. ‘Is this okay?’ he asks, as he slips his hand under my shirt.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. (And it is.)

  We lie down on the bed.

  ‘Does it feel good?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. (And it does.)

  But I’m not ready for it to go much further. I want to, but also, I don’t. ‘Je ne suis pas prête,’ I say, kissing his temple before pulling back to look at him, and have him look at me. ‘Does that bother you?’

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ he says, kissing my temple in return. ‘My little kangaroo.’

  The last of the day’s sunshine comes in the window, and we lie there together as my dreams come true.

  ‘Could you walk to Versailles?’ I ask Toby, as we get on the RER C train at l’Étoile. RER is a suburban rail, and this particular one will rocket us from the centre of town out to the famous palace – is it the most famous palace in France? Is it a château or a palais? C’est quoi la différence?

  Toby rocks with the movement of the train as it accel-erates away. ‘You mean from here?’ he says, holding on to the pole.

  I nod.

  ‘Yeah, you technically could. It would take you half a day though. But today we’ll walk from the train station up to the château, if you’re worried about getting your steps in.’ Toby laughs.

  I don’t laugh back, even though I know he is making a joke. Toby is a crowd-pleaser. I don’t not like him, but I find his jovial nature a bit irritating. I had hoped to surround myself with serious artistic people. He’s not exactly what I had in mind when I pictured my guide to France.

  I’ve missed out on some of these group activities – getting Léon to send apologies, citing a busy school day or a minor illness. Between art class, Olivier, the garden, and selling my wares up on the Belleville hill, there’s been so many other things to do! But when the exchange organisation arranged an outing for us all to the Château de Versailles, I thought I would go. Students came from all over the country and we were spending the weekend together.

  While city and suburbs flash past, I hear about rural life in France. It’s fascinating! One girl – Hollie, the red-headed art fan I met at orientation – is living in a three-hundred-year-old farmhouse. Australian Rupa lives with a host family that own a horse-riding academy, and she gets to go riding all the time.

  Another guy, the puffer-jacketed American called Dan, stands up, raises his hand and says, ‘Well, get this. There is this guy in my village, a plumber or builder or something, I forget. But I’ll never forget his name because it’s on the side of his work van. You ready? Jean-Claude Fromage!’

  The group whoops with laugher.

  Dan’s grinning his face off. ‘Can you get more clichéd?’ he asks.

  Later, I’ll tell people that the Château de Versailles is grand, stately, historic, with an opulence that is overwhelming and all-consuming. I can’t say what I actually think at the time because my mind boggles when we walk over the cobblestones up to the castle entrance. There are busloads of tourists, but I remove them from view as I take in the centuries of history.

  ‘Kings and queens walked along here,’ I say, unbelievingly, knowing my tone is irritating with wonder. I can practically hear the clop of horses’ hooves on the stone.

  ‘And plenty of servants,’ Dan shoots back.

  ‘And plenty of servants,’ I agree.

  The guide ushers us through the tour route, through vast rooms with shiny floors and rich tapestry-and-paint walls. The hall of mirrors is more than I had ever ho
ped, glittering in the light. Astonishing to think of all the work it takes to keep this place perfect for us.

  I particularly love walking through the bedrooms with tiny high beds, and I lean against the ropes to get as close as possible so I can observe the detail. I picture myself in a giant powder-blue gown with rosettes and embroidery, swishing across the stone floors in wood-and-silk slippers. I was extraordinarily beautiful and graceful in the past.

  ‘I love living history museums,’ I say to Rupa. ‘But it’s a version of the past, not a reality, isn’t it? We’re getting an idea of how it would have been. And a very sanitised version,’ I say, surprising myself with my insight.

  ‘Literally,’ she adds. ‘I mean, there weren’t flushing toilets. Or proper bathrooms. I love thinking of how bad people would have smelled back in the day.’

  ‘Gross,’ says Amelia, who is from California and whose favourite part of her exchange so far has been learning to make macarons. As yet I haven’t learned to cook anything, so I make sure to put ‘learn a few impressive recipes’ on my to-do list.

  I agree with Amelia about the grossness, but also, like Rupa, find it fascinating.

  I think about all the staff who made things work centuries ago. The distance they had to travel just to bring water or un petit café from the kitchens seems unreal.

  The grounds of Versailles are muddy and lush under the pale blue sky. A couple of birds titter around the fountain and the canal, and I imagine taking a bath in the cold water would not be pleasurable.

  Marie Antoinette’s hamlet is a highlight for me – so charming! – but Dan and Rupa snort in unison when Toby explains how the Austrian queen had ordered this village built so she could swan about with the swans and collect eggs from the chickens, watch the servants mill the grain and the bakers bake bread. A place for her to pretend she was one of the people.

  The air is different here. The sky is brighter. The smells are different too – fresher. I lie on a patch of slightly damp grass and look up. The trees stretch into the blue, shaking their new leaves cheerily.

  I draw a miniature village in the bottom corner of a page in my sketchbook – here is the church, here is the steeple – and I leave plenty of room above it for sky. I add a speck for a bird and some faint almost imperceptible pencil lines for sky dimension – cloud, light, jet streams.

  I can see why someone would build themselves a village.

  Dan and I sit together on the train back, with Hollie and Rupa opposite. I am exhausted from all the socialising and the sightseeing. He is comfortable to be with, and the girls are easy to talk to.

  ‘Did you know,’ starts Rupa, leaning in, ‘I was reading yesterday about how there was a women’s walk from Paris to Versailles in 1789. Seven thousand women marched from the city to the château—’

  ‘During the revolution?’ I interrupt.

  ‘That’s right,’ she continues. ‘They were demanding the monarchy release the bread they’d been hoarding.’

  ‘Let them eat cake!’ Hollie cries, in a very good Marie Antoinette impression.

  ‘The mob beheaded two of the queen’s bodyguards or foot soldiers or whatever. They demanded she come out and explain herself. It was a huge moment in the revolution.’

  Dan, Hollie and I are all looking at Rupa, captivated.

  ‘I dunno,’ she shrugs. ‘I just keep thinking about it.’

  Sometimes it feels as though there are things holding me back from truly understanding moments like these. Like a veil across comprehension. Sometimes I can’t stop myself thinking about other things: Olivier’s fingers in mine; a rude comment on my most recent Instagram post; my ideas for my exhibition piece.

  Now, I’m not distracted though. I look around at these new friends, and I feel like I’m present in the world like never before. ‘People en masse have more power than we realise.’

  All of a sudden, it gets warm. The temperature is in double digits on the regular, and we have a run of beautiful spring days. I dream of daffodils.

  Me and Crow decide to take a day to do a dérive together. We’ve arranged it all – I had this idea that we could walk and map the same routes in Melbourne and in Paris simultaneously. We’d take it in turns to make the choices – turn left, turn right – so we’d be exploring together in different cities.

  If it works the way I’ve hoped then I will use it for my exhibition piece.

  I have saved up my phone data so we can FaceTime the whole dérive, and Crow has done the same. I have become very smart at finding free Wi-Fi over the past week. I also haven’t looked at Instagram nearly as much.

  ‘Will we just walk until we get tired?’ Crow asks. She’s painted a row of silver dots just below her brow, following its curve. It looks amazing against her new electric blue hair.

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  Delphine wants to join us too. ‘If that doesn’t derange you,’ she adds.

  Crow laughs, an awkward I-probably-shouldn’t-laugh-at-this laugh.

  ‘Bother,’ I say, nonchalantly. ‘If that doesn’t bother us.’

  We begin at our front doors – Delphine and me outside the gate with its keypad for the long code (which I’ve long-memorised) and Crow slamming the door to her gran’s flat hard so the deadlock catches and stays shut (there’s a trick to it). Debord says we should just follow the natural – or, I guess, unnatural – lines of the urban environment. But like last time, I’ve got a secret pocket full of directions if needed.

  As we drift, we discuss philosophy and poverty, and Crow and Delphine talk politics and how to find a voice. We talk about history. I tell them a little about Olivier.

  Even though my heart leaps and my pupils dilate and my body still goes electric when I see him, I find myself wanting to see Olivier less and less. It is uncomfortable thinking. Something’s been off between us since I went to his house. It’s like we’ve run out of things to talk about.

  He takes photos of me but only posts very vague things on his Instagram. Like, I know one photo is my eye, but no-one else can tell. His feed is elusive and abstract and impersonal. Like the way he’s been acting in art class this past week.

  ‘L’amour, ça ne m’intéresse pas,’ Delphine says eventually. Love doesn’t interest me. ‘I love my parents, in the way you must love your parents. But I think they’re flawed people.’

  I realise Delphine has known her parents a lot longer than I have, but I do think she’s being harsh. We’re all flawed, really. However, I admire her confidence in her opinions. I’m less sure about where she sets the bar for loving people though.

  Delphine is more interested in the cause. ‘But I am not interested in romance. I am not even that interested in physical contact.’

  ‘I feel exactly the same,’ says Crow.

  You learn new things about people all the time. I forgot, or maybe I haven’t ever really considered, that not everyone has romantic or sexual feelings. This part of me is only just newly swirling as I’m learning what I like and what I want – but I think I always assumed this is how a person feels. I am grateful to be reminded that mine is not the only way.

  ‘Your little slips are counterproductive to the dérive,’ says Delphine, her voice cutting through my thoughts.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, my mind torn away from Olivier and this tiny flash of something like insight. I’m glad to be distracted from it.

  She gestures at my pieces of paper. ‘We have to truly let our minds go. You can’t construct a situation. We have to free ourselves from the Spectacle.’

  As we walk, unguided and unprompted, we talk about veganism. (‘I just love cheese,’ I admit.) We talk about the future. ‘If we even have a future,’ Crow says grimly.

  ‘Do you know what?’ says Delphine. ‘I think we will. I don’t know what it’s going to look like, but I know we have to make it ourselves – oh wait,’ she says, stopping in
the middle of the footpath next to a supermarket. ‘Wait one second.’ And she darts into the shop.

  On my phone I can see Crow is in a Brunswick West street, just footpath and houses and gum trees around her. I can hear a dog barking somewhere. It’s so familiar and now, suddenly, so far away.

  ‘So how long does a dérive last?’ she asks. ‘It’s going to get dark here soon and I’d better keep an eye out for Stabby Joe.’

  ‘I miss you,’ I say. It just comes out.

  Her hood obscures her face as she looks down for a moment. When she looks back up, I see a hint of her smile. Then her face returns to her normal serious expression and she adjusts her headphones. ‘I think I’ve talked to you more than I ever have before, since you’ve been away.’ Her tone is mean, but I know she doesn’t mean it. I am in love with how our friendship has grown.

  Delphine is back, and she’s pulling at my sleeve. ‘I want to show you something.’

  We go through the supermarket, and I try to film the shelves for Crow (she loves detail too) but Delphine’s keeping a good pace and I imagine all Crow is seeing is a blur.

  At the back of the shop there’s a door ajar, and Delphine raises her hand ever so slightly in a secretive kind of wave as she pulls me through. I catch a glimpse of a supermarket worker guy, but then we’re going up some metal stairs.

  I gather we’re not meant to be here. But Delphine runs up the steps with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where they’re going, whether they’re allowed to be there or not.

  On the roof of this supermarket there are rows of planter boxes filled with tomato vines taller than me, and plenty of other fruit and vegetables. ‘Are they growing food to sell downstairs in the shop?’ I ask in delighted surprise.