by Ritt, Julia
We move across the room to Boucher’s portrait of Mme. de Pompadour fashionably dressed in a gown of tawny gold silk with a deep décolletage. She rests her dainty hand on a Rococo piano with gilded details. You observe Mme. de Pompadour attentively, your eyes intently focused on the softly gilded fabric and furniture framing the soft, powder white curve of Mme de Pompadour’s neck.
“During the Rococo period, the aristocracy hosted salons in their townhouses in Paris. As hostesses, women came to have much more power and intellectual authority than they had previously,” Professor says. “We tend to think that throughout history men have always had more power than women, but there were periods when women had more power than in others. How can we see that Madame de Pompadour is being shown as intellectual?”
“She’s playing the piano,” Mermaid says.
“But she’s not really playing it, she’s looking away!” I retort.
“Yes, it would be too heavy to paint her actually playing,” Professor says. “The eighteenth century was also the period of the Enlightenment. Can anyone explain what that means?” Professor nods to you, inviting you to answer.
All eyes are on you as you step forward and begin to speak. “Well, from what I know from literature, it was a period where a lot of work was being done in the sciences, advocating reason. They were searching for knowledge.”
While you speak I look between you and Professor, who is the model for the kind of man I hope you will one day become. He is mature in the expression of his intelligence and his social interactions. Even so, your raw, unrefined brilliance is so incredibly sexy to me. Your potential for growth on every level is enormous. I daydream about running off with you into a Rococo painting. We would wear luxurious, pastel-hued silks and velvets and spend hours shearing fluffy sheep. Just before we tire of our sheep you pull a tuft of wool from my hair, gazing at me intently with your warm chestnut eyes as you do so. My cheeks flush a bright pink and I look away, pretending to be shy. At the moment just before I return your gaze, my rosebud-tinted lips parted just slightly, the plot of our Rococo story ends, as Rococo paintings are all about the prelude to sex, but my imagination continues on.
At the end of class, Professor leans against a wall near the exit from the Sully wing, preparing to hand back our short essays on the metaphor of light and Saint-Chapelle. The assignment was optional, though Professor strongly encouraged us to write one for practice. Since it wasn’t mandatory and also because I wrote an essay on Saint-Chapelle and the Gothic for Professor last semester, I didn’t write another. Even so, I still feel like an awful student for not having written even more.
“The essays were okay, but many of you are just spitting information out,” Professor says. “Especially for the midterm, you need to use the factual information in your notes to make larger points. Remember, points not pieces.”
While Professor hands out our papers I move closer to you. “Are you still interested in going to the library?”
“Is that where you’re going now?”
“Yes.” My heels are ready to jump from my shoes. My entire body is vibrating with anxiety, fervently hoping you will say you will come with me.
You notice how eager I am to leave. “Can you wait until—” You point to the rumpled papers dispersing from Professor’s hands.
All of my anxiety flows away like air from a balloon. “Yes.”
Once you have collected your paper, we break away from our classmates and ride down the escalator with Professor.
“It was so weird, that woman who came up to you to compliment you on your teaching,” you say to Professor.
Professor raises his eyebrows and looks taken aback.
“No, no, the lady was right!” I say. “You’re an amazing teacher and we should know how lucky we are to have you! It wasn’t weird at all.” I shoot you a dirty look to let you know your comment was inappropriate.
“Thank you.” Professor smiles, his eyes filled with gratitude. “So have you been enjoying the class?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “I like it even more than your class last Spring. There’s nothing like learning about the artworks directly in front of them.”
Following my lead, you are complimentary as well. “It’s different from any other class I’ve taken. It’s nice to get out of the classroom. And learning about the visual art that was being created simultaneously to the literature that was being written has added a lot of depth to my knowledge.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” Professor says. Are you enjoying the summer here?”
“Yes! I’ve wanted to live here since I was seven, so being here is a dream come true. I’ve never longed to be back in the States. Do you miss New York?” I ask.
“Sometimes.” He gestures as if between the two cities. “But they’re so different. I do think that in Paris, you always feel rich no matter how much money you have, but in New York, no matter how much money you have, you always feel poor.”
“That’s so true!” I say. “I feel like a queen here but a total pauper in New York.”
We’ve reached the end of the escalator, and Professor is off to bike through Paris, so we say goodbye to him. We are on our way to the métro.
Now that we are on our own I initiate a conversation about books. “So what kinds of literature do you like?”
“I’m really into the beat generation.”
“That’s the sixties and seventies, isn’t it?”
“Late fifties through the sixties.”
I think of the novel you are yourself writing and still want to know more about it. “What is your novel about? I know you said I would be bored, but I would listen.”
“That’s admirable of you, but I haven’t even told my mother yet.” You look to me with a cheeky grin. “She’d never forgive me if I told someone else first.”
Even though I know you’re bluffing, I play along anyway. “Oh, well you should tell her, because I would like to hear about it.”
On the métro we stand, holding onto the silver poles.
“I want to see the new Transformers movie, but I can’t seem to find anyone who wants to go with me,” you say.
“I want to see it!” I exclaim. You have no response to my desire to see the film. Even so, I remain hopeful you will say yes when I invite you to see it with me.
At La Tour Maubourg we ride up the escalators to the street, you behind me. I’m wearing tight, black jeans and wonder if you are secretly admiring my curves. Out on the street it’s warm and humid, prompting me to inform you that “French deodorant just doesn’t work.” As soon as I’ve spoken I realize how embarrassingly unattractive my comment is.
“I’m glad I brought mine from the states!”
“I brought mine too, but I ran out so I had to buy French deodorant. In the stores they have a lot of it, a whole wall. The French do use it, contrary to the stereotype. It just doesn’t work very well.”
As we walk down rue de Grenelle toward Bosquet I admire the flat facades and fine masonry of Paris’ buildings. Walking with you down these streets that I walk down every day gives me a fuller appreciation for them because I perceive you to be as grateful to be here as I am. I am quickly learning that even the most banal experiences I share with you are richer than those I experience alone or even with my other friends.
It occurs to me that despite the intensity of my desire for you, I still know very little about you. I decide to find out more. “So what part of Paris are you living in?”
“On rue Saint-Jacques, in the fifth.”
“Really? I lived right off Saint-Jacques my first year here,” I say with a grin. “I loved it! The fifth is my favorite part of Paris. So many young people live there, intellectuals, students.”
“Where do you live now?” you ask.
“In a box in the seventh by Invalides. It’s closer to AUP.”
“A box?”
“Yes, I call it my box because it’s so small. It’s like nine square meters or so—very small.” I move my h
ands around me to create an impression of my box’s tininess.
“I live with a roommate,” you say. “I nicknamed him Paddington Bear, Padd for short. He won’t do the dishes. His family is privileged and he’s pretty sheltered. We make a lot of dishes with cheese, noodles that stick to the pan, and he just leaves them in the sink and doesn’t do them. So when I want to eat something, I have to do them.”
“Well, you’ll have to talk to him about it or put up with doing his dishes.”
“Yeah, I guess.” You change the subject. “He’s never been kissed.”
“Never?”
“Never, and he hadn’t ever had a drink before he came here either.”
“Wow. Good he’s got you to corrupt him,” I say with a teasing smile. You smile back, your gaze briefly meeting mine.
We pass the Ferrari dealership, the cars gleaming like sleek black jaguars trapped behind panes of glass, reminding me we’re close to the library. If I want to invite you to do something with me this weekend, I should do so now. “Are you doing anything on Saturday?”
“Yes. I’m going to Vienna. My aunt lives there. One of my cousins is getting married.”
Since you won’t be free on Saturday as I had hoped, I will have to devise a new plan for inviting you to spend time with me. “A wedding. That sounds like fun.”
“Yeah, it kinda does. I’m looking for a baby beret to give to my niece. I haven’t seen any yet.”
“There are a ton of touristy shops along rue de Rivoli,” I advise. “They should have baby berets, though I can’t say I’ve ever seen one.”
At the entrance to the library I scan my student card to unlock the door, since you forgot yours at home.
Going about my librarian duties, I gather a large stack of magazines and press them to my chest as I mount the stairs to the periodical section from which I can see the entire ground floor. I take my time putting each one its place on the shelf, periodically scanning the narrow rows of bookshelves, waiting for you to appear. While working my way through a second stack of scholarly journals I begin to wonder if you sat down in the basement and began to read each book, one by one.
After I have placed each magazine in its designated slot I return to the ground floor, carefully guarding each step of my red ballet shoes down the narrow yellow stairs. On my way down I look up and there you are, ascending the basement staircase, always making me wait for you a little longer than I can stand. The strain of carrying the two thick poetry books you have found emphasizes the bold round of your shoulders and curve of your biceps. Just this image was worth waiting for.
“Hey!” I greet you.
“Hey. It’s like a maze down there . . .” You look a little overwhelmed, though you did manage to find what you were looking for.
I slip behind the front desk and quietly address the library lady whose name I can never remember. “Hi. Um, my friend forgot his AUP card at home so I was wondering if it would be alright if he checked out some books with my card.”
“Normally we are not allowed to do that,” she says. My heart thumps like a rabbit foot for fear you might not be able to leave the library with poetry I so dearly wish you to have. “One time we did and this one girl forgot to bring the books back, and it was a mess. I’ll do it this one time, but just so you know you are responsible for the books. Just this one time,” she repeats.
“That’s okay, I know.” I look up at you. “I trust you! I know approximately where you live.” I make a circular motion with my hand. “I see you in class every day . . .”
The library lady checks out your books on my card. I have no qualms about allowing you to borrow books under my name. The books you chose will be read and appreciated far more than if they sat unread here.
You tuck the books into your backpack. I stand upright, picturing myself as your perfect book-lender. “I’ll see you tomorrow!” I say with a bright smile.
“Bye!”
The glass door clinks shut behind you.
CHAPTER 4
She is a bolt of power blue silk
Professor warned us on the first day of class that if we were to arrive late to the Louvre we would never find the class. “The museum is just too big,” he said. I took it as a challenge, not making special plans to be late one day but knowing I would be. As it happens, I spent five minutes longer than usual perfecting my eyeliner and lipstick, which I don’t usually wear. No one from our class is around our meeting place, the information desk. I set off to hunt for my classmates in the wings of Neoclassical art, armed with my memory of the Louvre map.
The rooms of Rococo art are empty of our class gathered around Professor, as are the wings of Neoclassical art, which is the subject of today’s class. I head to the enormous murals by Charles Le Brun, whose work foreshadows Neoclassical art, and find our class seated on long benches between them. I sit on the edge of one of the benches and twist my torso around to look for you among our peers. A bloom of happiness unfurls inside me when I see your chestnut-haired head and slender, compact form clothed in soft cotton. While Professor lectures, I keep the thought of you behind me at the forefront of my mind, envisioning the broad curve of your back sloped over as you move your gaze between your notepad and the paintings around us.
“These are about masculinity reasserting itself.” Professor gestures to the paintings of men waving swords at each other in the heat of battle. “How can we see that?”
“The palette is darker,” I say. The war scenes are filled with dark bay horses, deep crimson capes, and gold-scaled armor.
“The scale is huge, too,” Sloppy Sandals says.
Professor commends our answers and, as an aside, points out that Le Brun’s paintings are not very good. They’re kind of messy looking, like Le Brun never bothered to plan out the composition.
We head downstairs to the Grand Gallerie, which displays the work of Neoclassical masters, mainly that of Jacques-Louis David and Ingres, against a rich burgundy wall. While we walk around the gallery you run your fingers over your auburn mustache and down the corners of your lips into the groomed facial hair on your chin. It’s a habit of yours. I noticed you doing it yesterday, too. I find your habit endearing, for it is unique to you and my knowledge of it makes me feel a little closer to you.
Professor lectures about David’s The Oath of the Horatii and then leads us down the hall to show us to Delacroix’s Death of Sardanapalus and Massacre at Chios. Delacroix is a master of color. He tints the clouds with soft russets and pale oranges in Massacre at Chios and in Death of Sardanapalus there is a wash of azure along the forehead of an alarmed horse and a flush of aqua along the arm of a supple female nude. “Delacroix creates space and action and emotional intensity,” Professor says. “His specialty is sexualized violence. Death of Sardanapalus was seen as a little much, so he tones it down with his Algerian women painting.”
The richness of color and high drama of Delacroix’s work makes looking at his paintings like looking through the lens of a mind calibrated for exotic, sumptuous beauty. I imagine seeing you through Delacroix’s eyes. My hands wet with paint, I rim your inner ears with sheer plum. Press my fingers to your lips with raspberry pink. Trace the edge of my fingernail along the branches of your thick veins with pale turquoise and teal. Arc my thumbs over the swooping curve of your shoulder blades with almond white. Shadow the strong girth of your thighs with brick red. Just before I’m finished, you lean into me and I can’t resist ruining my work. All the colors blend mercilessly.
Professor turns away from the art and advises us on what he expects from us on tomorrow’s midterm. “The exam is open-note, but I want you to use that to your advantage. Master the material and cite it confidently.” He holds his hand before him as if clutching a globe. “Know your pieces, make your points. Have a good argument that is fully supported. You should be acting as young art historians, making convincing, well-supported arguments about art history.”
Having prepped us for our exam, Professor releases us. I approach y
ou, secretly irritated that I always have to initiate conversation. By now it’s clear to me I am far more invested in our friendship than you. Although I would not admit it, I enjoy the challenge involved in arranging to spend time with you, especially the sense of accomplishment when I am successful.
“Hey! What are you doing on Friday?” I ask you. “That’s when we go horseback riding.”
“I’m going to Vienna, like I told you earlier,” you say. “I would, but . . .”
“Oh. I didn’t realize you were leaving so soon. We’ll go some other time.”
“Yeah, sure. I’m worried about what time my train is getting back on Monday. It’s an all-night train and it should get back by nine a.m., but you never know. I want to be sure I get back on time for the midterm. I need to tell Professor, just so he knows.”
I quicken my pace to yours as you catch up to Professor. We hurry down long, stone steps and along the hall of Ancient Greek and Roman sculptures of perfectly proportioned, exquisitely beautiful human bodies. To admire them is ameliorating and uplifting, but my eyes are on you. Although these sculptures are attractive, they are cold and unchanging. You are so warm and full of life.
You step into stride with Professor and greet him with a casual “Hey.” As you talk to him about your weekend trip, I sense you are grateful to have an excuse to talk to him. Perhaps you look up to him and see him, as I do, as the model for the kind of man you would like to become.
We say goodbye to Professor and turn toward the métro. Inside the station you split from my side to take line one direction Château de Vincennes. I’m off to the library so will be taking line one as well but in the opposite direction.
“Have fun in Vienna!” I wave.
“Thanks! Bye!” You wave back.
I watch for you to emerge on the other side of the tracks. Your train comes first, and you vanish.