by Ritt, Julia
“Yeah, they’re out there on the street, barely pubescent, doing stuff you normally see eighteen-year olds doing, mackin’ on each other, thinking they’re all grown up,” I say.
“My first time was when I was sixteen,” you say. “My dad walked in on us, and he walked back out and closed the door and knocked. I was like ‘Dad.’”
I picture your firm white rump pulsing atop your tiny teen girlfriend and your irritation at being interrupted, “Dad” gritted through your teeth. “Yeah, that’s pretty normal. I was eighteen when I lost mine.”
“That’s a little on the older side,” you say.
“It is,” I agree.
“I was seventeen,” Lady says. She pauses and then says something I never thought I’d hear her say. “I’ve never had an orgasm.”
“What, seriously? Never?” I ask, flabbergasted.
She shakes her head, “Never.”
“How old are you?” you ask her.
“Twenty-seven,” she says.
“You might want to work on that. It’s one of those life experiences you don’t want to miss out on,” you advise.
“By the end of the summer, we’ll get you an orgasm!” I tell Lady, raising my arm toward her for emphasis. “We’ll go to Pigalle and get you a . . .” I glance at you, thinking it would be tacky to reveal the contents of my sex-toy drawer to you so soon after having met you. I mouth to Lady “a rabbit.” “I know what to get. It’s one of my summer goals, we’ll get you an orgasm!”
“It’s a plan!” she says, all for it.
“That’s a weird goal to have,” you say.
“Maybe,” I shrug.
I finish my gin tonic and excuse myself to use the bathroom. The excitement of your company wares off for a moment and I realize I’m not feeling well. My system is flooded with stress hormones and adrenaline, which has the side effect of giving me an upset stomach. I put my hand over my queasy abdomen and think of my slightly embarrassing place of peace, a field of tall green grass with a single unicorn. The image calms me, but I’m not sure I’ll make it through the evening.
I return to Lady’s bed and put on an overall pleasant humor, not wanting anyone—especially you—to suspect there is anything wrong.
Lady studies the map, attempting to find a McDo near where bands will be playing. “I know there’s a McDo right by Parmentier, just a stop away from République, which is where a lot of the music is going on.”
“You know Paris by where McDonalds is?” I tease.
“Yes! Who cares about music? We want cheeseburgers! When you drink, you either have sex or eat,” she says.
We pick up our bags and slip on our shoes, preparing to leave.
Lady and Raven take the tiny elevator, filled to capacity by their slender bodies, leaving us to take the stairs.
“I’m glad I came. Thank you for inviting me,” you say. “It’s so nice to just have drinks and intelligent conversation.”
“Yes, I know, isn’t it? We talked a lot about sex,” I point out.
“Ha, yeah, that was great.”
You grab the stair railing and start down the navy velvet steps. I follow behind you.
Without precedent you incline your head toward me and ask, “When is your birthday?”
“September sixteenth.”
“Ah, my mother’s birthday is September fourteenth. You’re in good company!”
“I’m sure I am.”
We gather outside Lady’s building. Raven explains she must leave us. Her aunt is visiting and it would be seen as impolite for her to return too late. We say goodbye to her and she strides away down the sidewalk.
On the métro we sit on the fuzzy seats, I by Lady and you on my left with an aisle between us.
I discreetly whisper into Lady’s pink-rimmed ear, “I have an upset stomach. I’m too overexcited, I think.”
“Awe, are you going to be ok?” she whispers back, her cheeks a flush of scarlet.
“Yes, I think so. We’ll see.”
I look over at you, so glad to have you with me, but disappointed that the physical discomfort I am experiencing is putting a damper on the evening, at least for me.
We emerge from the métro at Parmentier. Hipster youths sing along to AC/DC and Led Zeppelin songs pulsing from woofers outside a café. Paris is booming with an excitement and energy diametrically opposed to the typical nighttime peacefulness.
Directly ahead of us McDonald’s artificial light glows like a beacon. “McDo really is right there!” I exclaim.
We each order Big Macs with fries. I take unusually small bites of my burger. Although I normally eat like there is a monster in my stomach that needs to be fed, I have little appetite.
“So what will you two be up to after AUP?” you ask. This summer is your last semester, right?”
“I’ll be going to grad school at Emerson to study publishing and writing,” I say.
“Where is Emerson?” you ask.
“Boston. But I have a really good friend in NYC who I visit pretty often.”
Lady nods and swallows a bite of her burger. “I’ll be at LSE, the London School of Economics, this fall. I’m studying European law.”
“Cool. Sounds like you’ve got it figured out. You don’t want to travel a bit or work right after undergrad?” You raise your eyebrow inquisitively.
Lady perks up as if she’s remembered something. “I’m also applying to do Roots and Shoots, Jane Goodall’s organization, in Tanzania this Fall. If they accept me, I’ll go to LSE next year.”
“You’ll get into Roots and Shoots, for sure,” I say. “I can’t really afford to travel or work, though I’d like to. Before I could get a publishing job, I need some more internship experience, and you have to do them for free. My parents can’t help support me while I do internships, so I have to borrow money for grad school to support myself while I do internships. It’s not ideal. It’s just how it is.”
You nod and finish off the last of your fries. I excuse myself to use the bathroom before we leave and realize my stomach feels worse, not better. While I wash my hands, I silently argue with myself about whether it would be better to go home or stay and try to enjoy Fête de la Musique. Although the thought of dancing the night way around the city with you is enticing, I decide my personal health is more important.
I meet you and Lady outside. The breeze is refreshing and classic rock music is thumping nearby. We cross the street on our way to République, but I stop you outside the métro. “You guys can go, but I decided that I’m going to go home.”
“Oh no, really? No, no we will cure you first. We’ll find a Pharmacie,” Lady insists.
“No, painkillers don’t really help this,” I say. “I just need some tea and to rest.”
“You’re not feeling well?” you ask. I nod. “I’ll bring you home, if you want me to,” you say.
“No, that’s okay, I’ll be alright. It’s very nice of you to offer, though.”
“You know, I’ll just go home too then,” Lady says.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that! Stay, enjoy Fête de la Musique.”
“Actually, I’m going to meet up with some friends, so I’ll just join you on the metro,” you say.
We descend into the métro and hang onto the silver poles on the train.
I study the métro map, determining where each of us will switch lines. “So you get off at Réamur-Sebastopol, I get off at like Opéra, and Lady gets off at Havre-Caumartin,” I say.
“You mean you get off at Opéra?” you say.
“Yeah.” No one has ever had the audacity to correct my language. Normally I am the one correcting my friend’s grammar. Your assumption of this role simultaneously irritates me and endears you to me.
“It’s so nice just to drink and have good conversation.” You tilt your head back in rhapsody. “Don’t think at all that you ruined my night. It was great.”
The train jostles and your arm brushes against mine, sending aphrodisiacal tingles through my system.
&nbs
p; “It was my pleasure.” I am so glad you enjoyed this evening, as I hoped you would, but I am offended you would suggest I may have been concerned I ruined your evening. However, my feelings for you are already unnaturally strong and override my otherwise good senses, causing me to write-off your lack of tact as mere immaturity.
“Most guys my age just want to get drunk and fuck bitches,” you say. My shocked reaction to your blunt honesty shows on my face. You notice. “Excuse my language.”
“No, I totally get it,” I say.
“So, I’m supposed to go get my roommate and bring him out, but I’m going to leave him at home,” you say. “There are some girls at Saint-Denis I’m going to meet up with.”
I wish you a fun time and we say goodbye. As soon as I am sure you are out of earshot I turn to Lady to talk about you. “See? He’s choosing to go hang out with girls. He behaves like he’s single.”
“Yeah, he does. He’s nice, but I can’t believe he brought a half-drunk bottle of beer. And nothing to share!”
I grimace, struggling to rationalize your bad manners. “That is pretty bad. I should have told him to bring something. Sometimes guys don’t think about that stuff.”
“Don’t worry about it. Totally not your fault.”
The train pulls into Opéra, where I am getting off. “Bye darling!”
“Bye! I hope you feel better sweetie!” she says.
“Thank you!”
On line 13 I pull down a seat, relieved to know when I get off I will be home.
“Bonjour mademoiselle. Ça va? Hello? Do you speak Engleesh?” A young man attempts to get my attention by waving his arm in my face and asking me a variety of questions in Franglish. I stare straight ahead, ignoring him completely. His cracked-out friend sitting across from me is wan and his eyes are spacey. Dreadlocks spread from his head like petrified octopus tentacles and he giggles at me. My mouth remains firmly shut and my expression blank. Dealing with unwanted male attention is a part of life here for young, attractive women and I quickly learned the best response is no response. Several minutes pass and they stand up, preparing to get off. The drugged friend places his hand on the round of my head and drags his fingers off as he descends from the train. The gesture doesn’t bother me. I’m just glad they’re no longer on the train.
In my tiny room I make myself some ginger tea and sip it slowly. Its warmth and sweet-spiciness calms my digestive system. I think of you gallivanting among the stone buildings and dancing to techno music with other girls. I am angry with myself for getting so wired I’ve made myself physically unwell, though I now know to not let it happen again. I’m not surprised I’ve made a mistake. Although I generally succeed academically and have good relationships with my friends and family, romance has never worked out the way I wanted it to. Nearly everyone I have ever liked has rejected me. The only person to ever return my feelings, my ex-boyfriend, ended up rejecting me, too. His manner of ending our short, intense relationship left my heart in shards. I subsisted on a diet of Entenmann’s cakes and wouldn’t leave my bed except for class. I was convinced no one else would ever return my feelings, until I realized it’s pointless to think that way.
After going over and over the dilemma in my head, I finally conclude that it’s ok if I screw up sometimes. I am only twenty years old, after all. I will see you soon in class, providing me with the opportunity to invite you to do a nearly infinite number of activities. The only question is whether you will say yes.
CHAPTER 3
She is an incandescently happy cat, curled up and asleep
On my way out of the métro stop of the Louvre, where we are having class this afternoon, I pass a woman with caramel skin and a stroke of thick onyx hair. She sways with her violin as she draws her bow across its strings. Her violin case lies open before her, dotted with coins. Her simple, exquisite beauty, both in her appearance and in her musical talent, strikes me as a fitting reception to the Louvre.
As I walk through the Carousel du Louvre toward our classmates gathered at the information desk I wonder how we should greet each other. Should anyone else in the class know we’ve seen each other outside of class? My question illustrates my fixation on a simple question with an easy answer. When I see you, I should smile and say “Hi”. It’s not actually a big deal at all, but I second-guess myself. I have never wanted to befriend someone so much as you and do not want to make any missteps.
I join our classmates. We make eye contact briefly, barely acknowledging our newfound acquaintance. I puff “Hey” under my breath so softly my lips barely part. My lack of certainty in how to greet you has resulted in my hardly greeting you at all. I am upset with myself for not being more confident, but remind myself that if we become closer friends, I will become increasingly self-assured and natural in my interactions with you.
Professor arrives and leads us to the room of Rococo paintings, a paradise for lovers of feminine fashion like myself. The most common scenes are of gorgeous, wooded parks in which bright-eyed gentlemen seduce rosy-cheeked women wearing corseted silk gowns colored powder blue, lemon chiffon, or pastry pink. The brushwork is soft and well-blended, intensifying the eroticism of the paintings’ subjects.
Before looking at any individual painting Professor gives a brief overview of the cultural context of the Rococo period. “After the death of Louis XIV in 1714 the nobility migrated to Paris and built townhouses in Le Marais. The women hosted salons where the aristocracy would gather and have witty, intellectual conversations. The art is designed to fit this setting.” To segue into a discussion about Rococo art specifically Professor asks us a series of questions. “What are the defining elements of the Rococo?” he asks.
“The use of color,” I say.
“What do you mean by that?” he asks.
I draw my answer from the paintings around us. “All of the pastels, paler colors, a typically ‘feminine’ palette.”
“Yes. What other commonalities are there in Rococo art?” he asks.
“The scale is fairly small,” I say.
While Professor addresses further questions to the rest of the class, I reflect on my readiness to respond to his questions. I am rarely so responsive to the teacher’s questions in the other classes I have taken at AUP. My steady flow of confident answers to Professor’s questions serve a dual purpose: they remind not only Professor of my intelligence and aptitude for the class material, but also you.
My every move and every word is measured by how you may perceive it. Not only am I more forthcoming and self-assured than I usually am in my dialogue with Professor, I also stand up straighter and study the art more intently, presenting for your pleasure what I hope is the most attractive version of myself. A consummate multitasker, I also keep sight of you from my peripheral vision. You observe each artwork thoughtfully, engaging with it on your own for a few moments while Professor lectures.
Professor situates us in front of Watteau’s The Pilgrimage to Cythera in which a group of couples robed in soft pastels beneath the boughs of a towering tree are preparing to embark on a lover’s voyage. Tiny putti frolic in the skyline. “This painting is in the book, isn’t it?” Professor asks. We aren’t sure. “If it isn’t, it should be,” he nods. “It’s one of the most famous paintings of the Rococo period. Watteau was a Flemish painter who came from the Flemish tradition established by Rubens. These lovers are going to Cythera, the island of love, Aphrodite’s island. Men are doing things to get the love of the ladies. They play instruments, sing songs, become lovers and suitors. They say ‘Come on, let’s go to Cythera.’ The putti are Baroque—see how tiny and frilly they are.” He traces his fingers over their chubby, fluttering bodies. “Watteau is interested in how light moves over the folds of the dress. There is a softness to the brushwork. It’s sensual and intimate. The brush on the canvas becomes a metaphor for a dandy’s touch on female bodies.”
A thin woman with curly hair protruding from her head like frayed telephone wires interrupts Professor for a moment.
“You’re a great teacher,” she tells him. “These guys don’t know how lucky they are.”
He smiles, “Thank you.”
The woman smiles back and walks away.
Continuing on, Professor turns to The Shepherd’s Presents by Boucher. The painting is composed of little Rococo ladies cheerfully shearing their cutesy sheep while a naughty shepherd boy observes, his arm slung lackadaisically over a tree limb.
“The wealthy aristocracy wanted to be like the shepherds,” Professor says. “They found the shepherd’s peaceful life of protecting sheep in nature alluring so they built these little shepherd’s paradises. If you have all the money in the world there is nothing more fun than to shear sheep. Real shepherds didn’t live like that, hah, but these would be the idyllic version. Marie Antoinette’s domain is an excellent example, very well-preserved.”
In between Professor’s lecture I turn my gaze to the glossy slats of wood set in geometrical patterns across the floor, scuffed by millions of shoes. I focus on your feet, careful to steal glimpses while you are unaware. Your feet are subtly tanned, the hair on them deep bronze, and your sandal’s soles are worn, embedded with the dirt of your transcontinental expeditions. The most interesting aspect of your feet, though, is your sorely bruised pinky toe—surely there’s a story there. I find your bruised toe almost beautiful, its color like a tiny sphere of violent midnight shaded with royal purples and superhero blues.
Lest you notice my focus on your feet, I study everyone’s. Your friend whose frame is similar to yours, who I think of as your Frame-twin, is wearing pants and sneakers. Another of our male classmate’s sandals are one size too big and fraying at the edges, earning him the nickname Sloppy Sandals. Pig Face has chunky calves and wears olive flip-flops. Most of the girls wear ballet flats and have tan, slender feet.
Professor brings us to a painting of Mme. Boucher posing as an odalisque, her fleshy bottom and plump thighs sprawled over plush marine blue velvet. “You could never just paint your wife nude. Proper women were not to pose nude. She looks French but he calls it Odalisque. If she’s an odalisque, then it’s okay; my wife’s showing her butt.” He underlines her bare bum with his hand. “Boucher is a naughty painter. It’s sex—that’s what they all want. There are different set-ups for what is seductive and what is permitted.”