“She was.”
“What happened?”
“She became my ex-girlfriend.”
At first, I worry that my answer might make her angry again, but she just grins at me and goes back to flicking. “Okay, guess you don’t want to talk about it.”
She’s right. I do not want to talk about Martine.
“Oh, now, this one I like!” She’s turning the photo around so I can see it — the elderly couple, holding hands. I lean on the table to join her in looking.
“Really? You like that one?”
She makes a face at me, as if to ask if I’m being serious. “Yeah, it’s great. The way the Louvre is out of focus, like their love for each other makes a famous museum seem irrelevant.” She says this like she thinks that’s what I was trying to capture. I’m about to correct her and tell her all the ways in which the photo is failing the assignment Monsieur Deschamps has given me, when …
I see it. I see them. The way they hold hands lightly, secure in themselves, neither one fearing the other will suddenly leave, run away. My own hands instinctively flex, remembering how Martine would hold on to my hand so tightly my fingers would tingle with pins and needles for a long time after she let go. Serena has a point — I may not have intended to capture the moment, but I would be a fool to ignore it.
“You have a good eye,” Serena tells me. I have to clench the muscles in my jaw to keep from smiling too broadly.
“So do you, to see so much meaning,” I tell her, trying not to sound surprised that there is more substance to her than I expected. I should not be so quick to judge people, simply because they’re from America! And if Serena can find this much meaning in my work, then … “Maybe you’d like to come with me to my favorite art gallery. The street photography — it is magnifique. And it is currently running an exhibition of work by Noémie Dugarry. You may not have heard of her, but she is amazing.”
Serena looks at her watch, realizes she’s not wearing one, then reaches into her jacket for her cell phone. I see a folded piece of paper, which I know is a copy of her itinerary. I feel a twinge of disappointment. I barely know this American girl, and a good portion of our interaction has been strained — yet, I want her to be as excited by the exhibit as I am.
“Trust me.” I’m actually leaning across the table while talking. “Her work will show you why so many people love this city. And” — I gesture at the camera she was so keen to look through just now — “you clearly have an appreciation for photography. I really think you’ll like it.”
She looks at her phone, then at the piece of paper. Then she gives me a wary smile. “If you promise we can go straight to Shakespeare and Company afterward — remember, there’s something I need to get — then sure. Why not?”
*
13H10
Unlike the Louvre, there are no tourists in the Maison de la Photographie on rue des Saint-Pères. In fact, the only other person here is the owner, behind the counter — a man in a tatty tweed jacket that looks like it has never been washed. (Smells like it, too.)
The place is so deserted, the running commentary I am giving Serena on the Dugarry display sounds as though it’s coming through speakers. My voice rebounds off the walls and, ordinarily, I’d cringe at the volume. But I can’t help talking about how much I like her work, how much she inspired me when I first started thinking that photography was what I wanted to do. “Look at this,” I say, pointing to a photo of a tired-looking mother watching her toddler chasing a runaway tennis ball in a playground. The mother’s out of focus, the youngster’s in sharp focus and the yellow tennis ball is the only flash of color in the black-and-white image (as if the parent is watching her own childhood run away, while her present becomes drab, colorless). “This is just a park in some random part of Paris, and yet — to me — this is a shot that could only be taken here. It is the people who make a city … does that make sense?” She nods, and her eyes light with amusement at how passionately I am speaking. I feel the need to deflect. “You know, it probably wasn’t a good idea for me to come here. Duggary’s work is so far ahead of mine, simple and beautiful in its composition that it makes me a little bit angry. No matter how hard I try, I can’t quite capture the truth the way that she does.”
“Maybe it’s Paris,” Serena says. “Maybe you’re too close to it to really see its truth? Sometimes, when something is right there in front of you, you end up seeing through it, you know what I mean? Like, how I totally noticed what was going on in that photo of the old couple before you did.”
I snort, look at the ground. It seems she saw through me and knew instantly that all the stuff going on in that photograph was not my intention.
“You might be right,” I concede. “Even a great city like this, you can take it for granted if it’s around you every day. You forget to see it. It is amazing, non?” I wonder if, subconsciously, I am thinking about Martine here — how my heart suddenly seemed to just … forget how passionate we were for each other.
“I revise my earlier comment,” she says. “You do talk. Must be your American half, huh?”
I smile through my annoyance because I’m not all that annoyed. “If we’re talking about photography, art, you will start wanting me to shut up. I have a lot to say. I just wish that I could produce the kind of work that people want to talk about.”
She points at the camera around my neck — it’s starting to feel a little bit heavy to me now. “Hey, it might have been an accident, but still — there was heart in that shot of the old couple. It’s not like you can’t do it.”
“Fantastic,” I mumble, looking back to the exhibit. “Now I must hope for more accidents.”
There is a sudden flare of light that almost gives me a heart attack, a red-green glare like graffiti on my vision.
“No photos!” the owner calls out, in French. Serena lets the hand holding her phone drop to her side, raising her other hand in what I think is supposed to be an apology — but her expression is not sorry at all.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” she tells me. “The photos are great. I see why you like this place so much. But do you mind if we get going? I need to reconfigure my itinerary for the rest of the day.”
She’s looking at me with an energy that makes me vow to intervene if she tries to order any more espressos.
I lead her out of the gallery and back onto the street. The icy December wind is blade-sharp, and we both pull our coats tighter around ourselves. On the street, a taxi begins to slow down, mistaking us for fares. It speeds up and drives on by when my hands go into my pockets. On its side is an ad for a supermarket chain, with what looks like three generations of relatives around a dining table — the point apparently being that dinnertime is extra important for families in late December.
Maybe it is. But I know for a fact that, while there will be three generations of family sitting around our Christmas table this year, the scene will not be quite so happy.
Serena is staring at me — well, she’s staring at the picture of me that she has on her phone. She turns the screen around so I can see it. “I know I’m not a real photographer,” she says, “but I think this is pretty nice. I’d gotten so used to seeing you look serious and scowly that, when a real smile broke through and stayed there, I just … had an urge to capture it.”
I look at the photo. There’s me, almost in profile, staring at Noémie Dugarry’s work but not seeing it, the corner of my mouth just starting to rise, because at that second I was imagining sneaking up on people and taking their pictures.
I find myself agreeing with her — it is a good photo. And it makes me wonder … how long has it been since I’ve smiled like that?
~ CHAPTER FIVE ~
SERENA
1:46 p.m.
As I lock my phone to put it back in my coat pocket, I see that it’s now 1:46 p.m.! And the only thing I’ve crossed off my itinerary is the
Louvre. I’m almost regretting eating, even though that crêpe was the best thing I’ve eaten in, I don’t know, maybe forever.
I should have broken away from Jean-Luc when we left the Louvre, but he looked so keen to show me his gallery, so certain that I’d have a reaction to the photos there, that I didn’t have the heart to tell him no. And I did like the photos that were on display — I will admit that — this Noémie Dugarry lady is some kind of genius. But now, the only way I will catch up with my itinerary is if I somehow get my hands on a time machine.
“Hey, can you tell me which Metro station I need to get to Shakespeare and Company?” I ask him.
“It is not far,” he says, gesturing that I should follow him down the street. “You don’t need the Metro.”
He has his back to me, so he doesn’t notice that I throw up my hands. “It’ll be faster to take the Metro, though, right?”
“The tunnels do not have the Seine.” I don’t know if it’s his accent that makes him sound like he’s constantly disapproving or if he finds my wanting a convenient, fast method of travel offensive.
“I am certain,” he goes on, “that your parents took a walk along the river.”
I catch up to my “guide,” grateful for my sneakers, even though I’ve caught him giving them a snooty look on more than one occasion since we left his dorm. But I don’t care, because I’ve done a lot of walking already today, and my feet aren’t telling me to quit it. Comfort over fashion — always. “Oh, they did more than that. They took a tour boat — my dad told me. It’s just that I have a very specific list of places that I need to see and get pictures of, and I’m losing time.”
He grins at me, turning and walking away — I hope in the direction of the bookstore! “Just for you, we walk fast!”
*
Jean-Luc is gesturing as we walk along the broad stone walkway on the banks of the Seine. I know from my guidebooks that it’s called Quai Saint-Michel. Notre-Dame Cathedral looms on the other side of the river, very grand and very gothic. Even ghostly, because it’s shrouded in the fog. “You must be happy you get to see this?”
It’s hard to tell if he’s asking me a question or instructing me on how to feel. I mean, the cathedral does look great and all — and I have no idea how people pulled off building something like that nearly a thousand years ago — but it’s hard for me to appreciate its architecture when all I can think about is: Will I ever get to Shakespeare and Company?
Aaaand now Jean-Luc has stopped, falling back to take a photo of … something. I think it’s one of the cars crawling along the street — traffic in this part of Paris is almost as bad as Midtown Manhattan. He’s even crouching, and a hot flush of embarrassment swells in my face (the feeling so sharp I almost wince). It’s as if I’m the local and he’s the tourist, discovering the city for the first time.
“Hey!” I call out, digging through my brain for the words for “my friend.” I think it’s — “Mon frère! What is the French word for ‘itinerary’?”
He’s laughing now — and I don’t know why, but when he does, it makes me want to go over to him and kick him with my orange sneakers, right into the river he was so keen to walk along.
“What’s so funny?”
He straightens up and walks over to me, still cracking up. “I did not know I had an American sister.”
I will my face not to catch fire. The blush is equal parts embarrassment — of course “frère” is French for “brother”! — and fury, because, damn it, I hate being behind schedule!
I shove my hands into my pockets, so that my anger doesn’t get the better of me. It’s been so long since I really and truly yelled at someone, I’m not entirely sure what I’d do. Wave my arms? Pull at my hair? I just don’t know …
I don’t know what to do with these feelings.
What’s worse, the corner of my itinerary — which lost all meaning an hour ago — cuts at my bare fingers. I left my gloves in my suitcase, like an idiot. Everything’s going wrong! “Not that I’m trying to rush you or get in your way, but I’d like to keep moving — I have the bookstore, then Montmartre, the Arc de Triomphe, and the Champs-Élysées —”
He just looks at me. “This is too much for one day, non? Even with those terrible shoes, your feet will blister. And, believe me, you will regret this trip if you do not get to really see Paris.”
I don’t know if I’m just too tired to argue with him, or if he’s talked about seeing Paris so much today that he’s finally gotten through to me, but I’m starting to think he might have a point. When we were in the Louvre, I was starting to feel a little frustrated moving from one piece of art to the next so quickly. It’s all well and good ticking off sights on a piece of paper, but that’s not the same as really experiencing them, is it? Mom and Dad had a whole honeymoon here, and maybe that’s why it meant so much to them — they would have had time to wander, they would have stopped, sat and talked. They would have held hands as they let this most romantic of cities become a part of them, of their connection. They didn’t come back from Paris with just a bunch of photos. They came back with memories that, years later, they still talked about — remembering how they felt, what they said to each other.
What will I talk about when I’m older? How will I describe my time in Paris to people? I’ll be able to say where I was and what I did, and I’ll have the photographs to prove it — prove that I was here — but what will I say to anyone who asks me, how was Paris?
What if my only answer to that question is to hand them my phone and say, “Take a look”?
I don’t want that. I want to go home and feel like Paris is a special place to me, too. And Jean-Luc is right, it is people who make a city. It would be nice to experience a strange city with someone, even if that someone’s a stranger.
“You’re right,” I tell him, taking out my pen — which feels more like an ax that I’m about to take to my itinerary. “I’ll just pick, like, the top five or so and make sure I hit them. Five spots should give me enough material for the scrapbook.”
“Scrapbook?” he asks. He sounds like he wants to hear more about it, but I’m too busy putting lines through certain places, question marks beside others. I’m sure that, if I had asked her, Mom would have told me which sights were her favorites, but I never asked her. What if I’m crossing off something that Mom considers essential?
The only thing I will absolutely not cross off, though:
“The Eiffel Tower. Whatever else happens, I have to be at the Eiffel Tower for ten p.m. — what?”
Jean-Luc’s got another one of his faces on — not snooty this time but definitely concerned about something. “You have a ticket, yes? I am not certain, but … I think tonight, there’s a big firework and light show. For the winter season. Very expensive, very, uh …” He clicks his fingers, searching for the English.
I skip to the end. “They’re sold out? Oh, don’t worry about that. I have my ticket” — and my sister’s and mom’s — “which I booked ages ago.” I don’t tell him about how stressful it was, booking these tickets. The light show seemed to make the Eiffel Tower more popular than ever, and the website said that every day in December only had three or four tickets left. I’m sure it’ll be great, and everything, but I’m not here for a light show! I tuck my itinerary under one arm, then use the other to rummage in my cross-body bag to prove it. I fumble around a little but feel only my guidebook and maps, the empty clear plastic folder that I kept my Louvre tickets in … but not the one that has my tickets for the tower. I kneel down so I can dig deeper, but just because I can now see into my bag does not mean the tickets will suddenly be there.
Actually, they are gone.
A memory comes to me — turbulence early in the flight, right around the time we were flying over Newfoundland. The plane shaking like it was having a seizure, and my tote bag … it was under my seat, and I noticed at the end of the flight that
it was … upside down? It was knocked over by the turbulence … My tickets to the tower must have fallen out! Oh God, are they still on the plane? Can I head back to the airport and pick them up? No, that’s crazy — my plane is probably heading back to New York by now. And it would have been cleaned right after we deboarded, which means that probably a member of the airline crew picked them up. Maybe they have them right now. Maybe they’re thinking, “Why not? Free trip!” Could I head them off at the tower, explain the situation and ask for my tickets back?
You’re being crazy, Serena. The tickets don’t even have your name on them, so how are you going to prove they’re yours?
My eyes sting with tears of fury. Of all the disasters I’ve suffered today, this is the absolute worst!
Jean-Luc has one hand at the back of his neck, like he’s very uncomfortable watching me get emotional. “What’s wrong?”
I look at him, shaking my head. “They’re gone,” I say, staggering to my feet. “The tickets. The tickets I’ve had for months.”
Jean-Luc looks sincerely upset for me. “I am sorry this has happened.”
I had to get to the Eiffel Tower. Dad really wanted to take a trip up to the top, but they never made it. It was the one thing he never got to show my mom, the one thing … My heart feels like it’s trying to crawl up out of my mouth so it can go for a swim in the Seine. My belly churns like I might throw up, my fists clench, and I feel like I could quite happily stomp on my cross-body bag, reducing all the useless itineraries inside it to the trash that they are at this point. The great day I had planned for (what’s left of) my family has been reduced to me, stranded in Paris, kind-of sort-of abandoned by said family and unable to do the one thing on my itinerary that I absolutely, positively did not want to miss.
I stagger over to a bench facing the Seine and put my face in my palms. Why didn’t I think to double-check my bag as I left the plane?
I feel Jean-Luc take a seat next to me. His hand falls lightly on my shoulder.
Kiss Me in Paris Page 5