by Ritt, Julia
So as to not be caught staring at you, I eye you from the periphery of my vision. You are one among a tightly packed group of people tip-toeing to see the immense silver organ and grand Corinthian columns in the Chapelle Royale. Your forehead is perfectly smooth like the inside of an almond, your nose slim, the inside of your lips tinted with the violet-red translucence of pomegranate seeds.
Stepping back from the mass of people, I feel small and insignificant. A giant could stride from room to room without needing to stoop, but to feel at home he would need to be accustomed to opulence. Nearly every surface is covered in multicolored marble, the stair railings dark chocolate, the stout balusters cinnamon brown, the plasters clay red and capped with gilded ionic capitals. Even the walls and floors are patterned in strong geometries of olive and red-brown marble.
“I like it,” Professor says, nodding as he surveys the room. “I’m impressed.” He draws the class around him and explains that the interior incorporates Italianate motifs, which are by their nature theatrical. All of the rooms are theatrical setups for the games the nobility were required to play if they desired power.
We follow Professor through the château packed shoulder-to-shoulder with people. The rooms are wallpapered with richly pigmented brocades and adorned by large mirrors framed with gilded woodwork, their surfaces distorting the many bodies ambling by. Wavy-glass windows, each pane no larger than a man’s hand, look out onto the immaculately landscaped grounds. The beds are fitted with thick, brocaded silk to match the high canopies whose edges are trimmed with heavy gold fringe. Bouquets of lavender-gray ostrich plumes cap the four posts of the king’s bed.
“Louis XIV couldn’t just go to bed,” Professor says. “He had fourteen people in here: one to remove his day clothes, another to put on his nightgown, and so forth. There was no privacy, no peace, but he had complete control over the aristocrats, keeping them busy doing mundane tasks for him so they didn’t have time to plot to kill him.” Professor half-smiles, amused by Louis XIV’s ridiculous yet effective plots, and then directs our attention to the paintings of mythological scenes on the ceiling. “The paintings are tricks, made to look like sculptures, sculptures made to look like paintings. It’s about oohing and aahing the eye. The Baroque masterpiece Las Meninas also used mirrors and screens, illusions to trick the eye. It’s one of the most famous paintings in art history. Does anyone know who painted it?”
Although I wouldn’t normally offer an answer, I feel more comfortable in Professor’s class than I do in most others. “Velázquez,” I say confidently.
“Yes.” Professor nods, his eyes widened slightly, seemingly impressed.
From the corner of my eye I see your eyes on me. To you, I am now the girl who knows her art history and can speak with you about literature. We will be fast friends for sure, but I am determined to have more than your friendship. I’ll stop at nothing until we are talking intimately about anything and everything into the wee hours of the night, our speech silenced only when you press the hot weight of your body against mine.
We step into The Hall of Mirrors. Warm light pools down the hallway through the tall, arched windows and twinkles through the teardrop crystals of the chandeliers reflected on the wall of mirrors struck through with brass bars. I evaluate my appearance in the mirrors, wondering what you might think of me. My red A-line dress shows off my long legs, which are toned from my tri-weekly runs. I love to eat too, though, so I’m not skinny. Something like “shapely” but not quite “curvy.” My irises are sea-green and with the help of mascara, my eyelashes are thick and dark. I like to think my eyes convey sharpness and strength, though right now they look wide-eyed and excited. My light brown hair is a short, shaggy mess. After an especially tough semester last fall, I rewarded myself by getting my long, heavy hair shorn off into a pixie cut. I’m growing it out now. I make a mental note to my hair cut into a bob as soon as possible. I have every intention of seducing you.
“These mirrors, at the time, would be the equivalent of us walking into a room with three dimensional landscapes projected onto them.” Professor motions his hand as if projecting images onto the mirrors. “It was amazing, unbelievable. Many of them had never even seen a mirror, so to see this much was stupefying.” Professor walks over to a window. “The garden is intentionally tilted so it looks very close to you, but really it would take two hours to go all the way to the end.”
“Two hours?” one student asks.
“Yes, about that,” Professor says. “It’s just a trick of landscaping that it looks so close. When we get out there you’ll see. Down to the far right is Marie Antoinette’s domain, which is an aristocratic version of a shepherd’s haven with quaint little houses and sheep.” He cups one of his hands as if over the roofs of the picturesque houses and fancy animal sheds. “It’s quite nice. I recommend it.”
“Could you walk to it?” I ask, thinking of visiting it later this summer. Perhaps I’ll even take you there with me.
“You could, but there’s also a little trolley that goes there,” Professor says.
We leave the exquisite theater of light behind and descend into the neatly organized outdoor rooms of Les Jardins de Versailles.
At the summit of the gardens we look out over the extreme perfection of razed tree limbs that form blade-sharp lines to the left and right of the horizon-line. Down the central aisle runs a long rectangular plot of well-groomed grass followed by a rectangular lake sprinkled with little boats whose rowers splash ripples through its glassy surface. Puffy, lilac-gray clouds are gathered along the otherwise azure blue sky.
I hold myself back from you, harnessing the hot loops of lust burgeoning within me. Seducing men has never come naturally to me, but I have learned enough to know that if I wish to seduce you, I must not overburden you with my presence. I must flash and shimmer in your line of sight like a flighty hummingbird, alluring and just beyond your reach.
So that I may appear busy, I walk over to Professor to ask him if he received the e-mail I recently sent to him.
“Did you send it to my regular account or my school one?” Professor asks, moving his hand as if between the two alternatives.
I shake my head, “I’m not sure. I just responded to the last email you sent me.”
“No, then I haven’t checked it yet. But I will, thank you.”
Satisfied, I mingle with the rest of the class while they talk among themselves and admire the milk-white marble statues of Greek gods and goddesses lined along the high walls of emerald greenery.
The pause in Professor’s lecturing allows me time to reflect on how overjoyed I am to have you here. I can hardly believe it. We’ve had several weeks of class already and I have hardly noticed you until now. Even just an hour ago I thought you were a relatively average young man who enjoyed adventure and beer. Your appearance deceived me and only in speaking to you have you become so special to me. It is, in part, because your appearance deceived me that I find you so attractive. There is almost no pretension in the expression of your intelligence, allowing you to be receptive to ideas that come from outside yourself. The ideas you encounter will broaden your knowledge and reinforce your intellectual power, a power you handle humbly and with humor. You are the embodiment of my ideal partner. I want to draw my lips along the robust nape of your neck, slip my fingers beneath your soft cotton clothes and pull them away. I don’t even know your name but I hardly care. I move toward you to initiate conversation, saying anything just to say something. My words are little nothings, offered to you like folded paper doves who conceal beneath their wings the weight of my desire.
“So, do you like being in Paris?” I ask.
“Yeah, so far I do.”
“What have you done so far that you’ve really enjoyed?”
“On days when we don’t have class, I sit in Musée d’Orsay and read or write.” You gesture as if to the museum’s low bench seats. “I’m writing a novel.”
“I love Musée d’Orsay,” I say, thinking of
how we might go there together soon. “I like their collection better than the Louvre’s, I think. What’s your novel about?”
“I don’t tell people . . . fifteen minutes in and you’ll be bored of my explaining.”
I know your suggestion that I would be bored is merely an excuse to keep the content of your novel private. I would never be bored by you. The thought of having your attention for fifteen minutes is thrilling. Though I’m longing to know the story you believe is worth writing about, I tuck the subject away for later.
Beneath your cool, laidback manner I sense you are interested in me. Yet you avoid standing too close, answer my questions but do not ask questions in return. Your body language, though subtle, conveys a conscious hesitation in your interactions with me. Men are supposed to be more forward when they meet a young, pretty girl who shares their interests so passionately. Perhaps you have a girlfriend. I can’t be sure, of course, but it seems the likeliest reason for your reservation. I’ve never gone after someone in a relationship before. It’s not just against my morals, it also seems like a bad idea—inserting yourself into someone else’s problems and becoming one of their problems, too. Despite my basic understanding of right and wrong, logic is finding no place in my mind. If you are in a relationship, I’ll work around that. I’m drawn to you like one magnet impelled to another, obeying the laws of science.
We come to the corner of Le Bassin du Miroir, a glassy, perfectly rectangular lake rimmed with grass. Professor gestures to the basin’s features as he speaks. “André le Nôtre, who was hired by Louis XIV to design the gardens, is focused on illustrating man’s control over nature, perfecting the geometrical lines of everything, whereas in England, landscape designer William Kent emphasized the natural flow of nature, with dainty little flowing waterfalls where elves might have frolicked. In England, that was okay, but that would never have been okay in France.” Professor shakes his head and smiles, thinking of how silly little free-flowing waterfalls would be to the French. “The water is perfectly flat so it acts as a mirror.” He moves his hand in a straight line to emphasize the water’s glassy surface that perfectly reflects the surrounding statuary and shrubbery. “It’s another trick to please the eye and then they put classicized free-standing sculpture around it. It’s all about signage. Can you tell which statues are derived from the Greeks and which are Roman?”
“The urns are more Greek, aren’t they?” I venture.
“And the dramatic poses of the human figures make them Roman-inspired,” Pig Face adds.
“Yes, good,” Professor says. He gestures as though beginning to give a follow-up point but is cut short, his attention drawn to a fit groundskeeper with salt-and-pepper hair pushing a lawnmower along the grass edging the lake. His aim and focus is so intent that he has clearly mowed the lawns of Versailles for decades; he is as much a figure here as the neoclassical statues and dramatic, opulent rooms. The mower’s whirring blade trims the thick grass and lops the blooms off of tiny purple clovers. “Goodbye, flowers,” Professor says.
The entry to our next site, the Colonnade, is blocked by an iron gate so we plant ourselves outside of it and peer in through the bars. The Colonnade, all pure white marble, blazes in the sunlight.
“Which Roman emperor designed a colonnade like this?” Professor asks.
I notice Mermaid opening her mouth hesitatingly. “Hadrian?” she answers.
“Yes,” Professor says. “Hadrian decorated his villa with sculpture and architectural elements just because they looked nice, purely for aesthetic purposes. Louis XIV is drawing from that.” He turns his gaze from the art and sees we are restless and fatigued. “Alright, that’s enough for today.”
Several students stay to enjoy more of Versailles while the rest of us stroll back through the outdoor rooms.
Now that class is over, I must know I will see you again. We need to have longer, more intimate discussions and also, I hope, kiss to still one another’s speech. I comb through the things you said on the train earlier and recall you expressed an interest in going to the ballet. Seeing a ballet together would be so romantic. We could wander the streets of Paris afterward, searching for the perfect glass of red wine, somehow ending up chez moi in a puddle of silk and skin.
On our way up the long, shallow steps leading to the palace I align my stride with yours. “You want to go see the Russian ballet or something, right?” I ask, trying to sound as relaxed as possible.
“Yeah.” Your tone of voice conveys only a casual interest, but it’s enough for me.
“We should go.” I tense, my entire body awaiting your response with trepidation.
You nod. “Yeah, we could go.”
The tension of awaiting your response melts in an instant and pure glee rushes through my bloodstream like a honey-soaked river. “I don’t know about Russian ballet, but we could definitely do Opéra or Bastille.”
“Sure.”
Now that our plans are settled I turn our conversation again to literature. “Have you read any Beckett? I bet you would love his work.”
“I have,” you nod. “Recently I read Endgame and loved it. I’ve been meaning to read more of him.”
“Endgame . . . is that the one with the people in pots?”
“No, the woman who lives in a garbage can.”
I am almost giddy with amusement—an outsider’s ear would find our conversation so bizarre, but to us, the living conditions of Beckett’s characters are a natural part of the literary world. “Oh, yes, I must have read it at some point, but I don’t remember it very well. Beckett’s Trilogy is considered his best, but it’s also the most difficult.”
“Trilogy?”
“Yes, Malloy, Malone Dies, and The Unnamable. There are also YouTube videos you should watch for Not I and Play. Truly horrific to watch but you definitely should if you can sit through them.”
“It’s so hard to meet someone who reads.” You look to me, your gaze weighted with gratitude for having met me.
Your observation strikes me with fresh flutters of joy. “I know.”
We walk together to the RER station, mulling over our own thoughts. I picture your twelve thousand books, the contents of many of them piled beneath your sorrel brows. Among all the pupils of your professor you were the chosen recipient of his extensive literature collection. I am hardly alone in finding you magnificent.
On the train inbound to central Paris, you plop yourself across from me, naturally bonding us within the grove of seats, but throw your left leg onto the seat, adjusting your body away from me.
An acid-bright poster on the platform advertises the soon-to-be-released film Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen.
“Look, Transformers!” I exclaim. I hope to take you with me to see it.
“Eh, Transformers,” you say. “My girlfriend’s brother really loved those growing up, but not my girlfriend.” At hearing you mention your girlfriend, I panic. There is a potentially impenetrable obstacle in our having a summer-in-Paris romance. My panic must be showing on my face, because you repeat, “Yeah . . . my girlfriend.” You nod slowly as if confirming your last statement not only with me, but with yourself, saying “girlfriend” with a wistful tone as if she were distant from you not only physically, but emotionally, someone who no longer causes you the happiness she once did.
I pretend not to hear. I am conflicted about the prospect of becoming “the other woman,” but I push my feelings aside. I can’t deal with them right now. “Megan Fox, she’s in it. She’s hot.”
“Uh yeah, she’s super hot.” A wave of sex ripples through you, your eyes wide as if to take in the full impact of your mental image of her. Changing the subject, you ask, “So what do you do in Paris?”
“I go horseback riding with AUP’s equestrian club sometimes.”
“I’ve never been horseback riding. I would like to try it.” You lean forward slightly, your gaze meeting mine.
“You should come with us! We ride on Fridays.”
A lull in
our conversation prompts you to talk over the back of your seat to the rest of our class. You repeat your fist-fight story, seeking attention from a different group of students. The large, red-headed girl who heard your story the first time rolls her eyes. I ignore that, though. Instead, I re-imagine your immediate punch, testosterone zipping through your hot, fast body, the thin trail of blood drying crimson on your white knuckles.
The train pulls toward Invalides and with each passing métro station the time in which we have to exchange phone numbers shrinks.
“So . . . Opéra . . .” I say, hoping you will ask for my number.
“I should probably have your phone number,” you say without further prompt. “I don’t have—just give me yours and I’ll call you.”
I give it to you and stare at my phone, waiting for it to ring. After a few moments, your number runs across the bottom, reminding me I don’t have a name to link to the number. I squirm with embarrassment, for I know you probably do know my name, considering Professor says it all the time. So I have to ask, “What is your name?”
You give me a snarky look, half-smiling and lifting one eyebrow, but give it to me. “Should I ask what yours is, just to even it out?” you ask cheekily.
“Sure,” I say, spelling it out.
The train rolls into métro Invalides and we gather ourselves to emerge en masse onto the platform.
“So are you doing anything this afternoon?” I ask.
“I’m up to lots of stuff.” You bounce a little, your body moving lightly as if you are so busy there is no one activity that ever holds your attention for long. “Are you doing anything tomorrow?”
“Yes! Horseback riding.”
“Ah, horseback riding. I’ll call you in the afternoon. Will that work? Scare the horses?” you ask with a bright grin.
Wrapped up in your magnetic effect on me, I accidentally walk with you to the turnstiles that shepherd people through to connecting trains. “Oops! I’m going out here. Bye!” I wave to you.