Two Americans in Paris

by Ritt, Julia

  I search the bodies sprawled on the grass for you and Padd, but all the bodies appear indistinguishable from one another. I call you to figure out where you are. At first, our descriptions of our surroundings sound identical—at the Eiffel Tower with rows of trees and sand paths on either side—but then you explain that you are directly beneath the tower.

  “You’re under it?” I exclaim. “Why? Champ de Mars is over here! Meet me here.” But you say no, and ask me to meet you under the Eiffel Tower. This doesn’t make any sense to me, since we’re going to be on the Champ anyway. Essentially, you are asking me to come fetch you. Rather than have an argument, I relent and say I will come find you. I want to see you, no matter how much work it might take. It occurs to me that you may be insisting I come find you because you know I like you and you don’t want to put forth the effort to find me. The implication of this thought, though, is that you are willing to take advantage of my feelings for you. Not wanting to assign any additional flaws to your character, I push the thought aside. The situation does not have in it enough evidence to conclude decisively that you are taking advantage of me.

  Fueled by my desire to see you, I locate the path through the barricades that leads to La Tour Eiffel with hardly any trouble. Once I reach the Tower, I press past masses of tourists and center myself under it. Like the ceilings of Gothic cathedrals, the height of the Tower’s inner ceiling draws my gaze upward until I am looking straight up its full height. Between the metal crosshatches, tiny patches of the deepening blue sky are visible. For a moment, I feel as though I am alone with this behemoth icon of art and architecture, the most recognizable symbol of Paris.

  Too soon, I recall you are here, waiting for me. I pull my gaze back down and pan my eyes over the crowd. My eyes fall first on Padd, who sticks out as a tall, lean figure, and then focus on you. I wave and your eyes lock on me. As we move toward each other, I evaluate your walk—half-strut, half-mosey, like a blue ribbon stallion on vacation. After all the difficulty of locating each other, it is such a relief for us to see each other that we greet with a hug. Having your warm chest pressed to mine in greeting is such a welcome, unanticipated pleasure—this is the first time we’ve greeted each other with a hug.

  We pull back from our embrace and I feel as though my veins have been filled with an ambrosial drug. I look at you, the source of my pleasures, the person to whom I would like to give every imaginable joy, and think of the wine in my purse. I know you will be pleased to hear I have brought it. “I have wine,” I say.

  In response, you stand up straighter, your chest puffed out as if it has been filled with this unexpected treat. “Oh, well that sets the mood.”

  On the Champ, we choose a spot of lawn and sit, the scruffy grass prickly against our calves. I grab the wine from my purse and drive the corkscrew into the cork. Recalling how helpless you looked when you couldn’t uncork the wine when we last had dinner together, I twist and tug on the corkscrew. I want to give you an opportunity to help me open the wine as I helped you. “Can you do it?” I hold out the half-uncorked bottle.

  You smile and give me a cheeky, knowing glare, but take the bottle between your hands and easily free the cork.

  Since I didn’t bring any glasses, we drink directly from the bottle. The wine, a Pinot Noir, is delicious, though Padd declines to have any. I relish the knowledge that by sharing this bottle, we are also indirectly sharing saliva, which we would be directly sharing if we were ever to kiss. I know this thought makes my desire for you especially pitiable, but because actually kissing is forbidden by your commitment to your girlfriend, even the indirect contact is tantalizing to me.

  “How was your day?” you ask.

  “Quiet. I did my homework, read some Nietzsche.” I think of the conversation I imagined having with you. I decide to see what it would be like to actually have such a conversation with you. As I speak, I gesticulate to emphasize my points and focus on conveying my thoughts accurately but casually so you do not find missteps in my intellect. With any other friend I would be confident in my intelligence, but you so easily express alternant perspectives to my own I must be doubly careful about my choice of words. “Apparently we understand everything through metaphor,” I say. “Every word is a metaphor for something else. Like ‘cat’ has no meaning without the association of images of cats we attach to the word. And since we each have different associations with cats, everyone has a slightly different association with the word ‘cat,’ which means that when we talk, we’re never able to relate exactly what we mean to another person. But that’s just the nature of how we communicate, and that is all I understand about Nietzsche.” I let out a deep breath and await your response.

  You nod, “Yeah. The only Nietzsche I have read is his writing about the Übermensch, sort of like a Superman, which humanity is supposed to aspire to. Basically, he says humanity as a whole can benefit from individuals working to improve themselves.” You pause, reflecting for a moment. “I hadn’t ever thought of it that way, that by improving myself, I am also working toward bettering humanity as a whole. I don’t know how well the idea works in practice, but it’s a nice thought.”

  I find it admirable that while the narcissistic part of you would like to think your efforts to self-improve benefit for everyone, you recognize that Nietzsche may not have been right. Your questioning of a great thinker underlines your own keen mind.

  I look over at Padd. He’s hardly said a word, so I invite him into the conversation by asking him if he has read any Nietzsche. He says he hasn’t. Padd’s disinterest in our conversations makes me wonder why you brought him. From my perspective, his presence is an assurance that we do not do or say anything romantic or sexual, which may have been your reason for bringing him. He is our chaperone for the evening. In keeping with this duty, he doesn’t seem to be enjoying himself.

  Pulling my attention away from Padd, the white lights arranged around the perimeter of the Champ change to magenta, coloring the lawn a bright pink. The light is surreally beautiful and transforms your appearance. I discreetly study your magenta-tinted skin, the Tiepolo pinks highlighting your cheekbones and the Titian reds that fill the shadow beneath your fine jaw and in the crooks of your arms. After a few moments, the bright pink fades, turning to violet, lining the curves of your ears with indigo shadows. You turn your head slightly toward me, revealing tiny periwinkle pinpoints of light reflecting on your chestnut irises.

  Wanting to see you again as soon as possible, I ask if you want to meet at your place to have lunch before coming down to the Champ on Tuesday for Bastille Day.

  “Sure. That sounds great,” you say.

  The lights around the perimeter of the Champ return to their typical white. As if to continue the spectacle of light, the Eiffel Tower sparkles as it does for the first ten minutes of each evening hour, bestowing on you a pale, shimmering radiance. We finish off the bottle of wine and chat about nothing in particular, just saying things for the sake of speaking.

  When the Tour Eiffel returns to its marigold glow, we gather ourselves in preparation for departure, the grass springing up from our palms and heavy legs as we stand up.

  You say you aren’t sure how to get the RER B from here, so I offer to show you the way. “It’s on my way home,” I say, though it actually isn’t. I just want to spend a little more time with you. We wind through the streets with an unhurried gait. At the intersection of our paths, I point you toward the RER and we wave goodbye.

  As I walk home, marveling at the beauty I find in the softly lit streets, a sense of complete contentment pervades my being. I feel uplifted and absolutely, perfectly happy. I have both Paris, one of the greatest loves of my life, and you, too. As a child dreaming of France and all I might do here as an adult, never did I think I would be so lucky as to meet someone I adore so completely as you. At this moment, I feel as though the future may hold all sorts of wonders I could never have dreamed-up, although whether or not these wonders involve you is unknown to me. I know only
that the world is open and growing wider. The doors of possibility are before me and I look forward to opening them with bright eyes.

  CHAPTER 16

  She would move mountains pebble by pebble across the ocean for you

  Every molecule of my body is abuzz with a patriotic fever for France. I know it is absurd for me to be so excited about Bastille Day, but I am an unabashed Francophile. To add to my fervor, nearly all of your time will be spent in my company today. We’ll have lunch at your place and spend all day on the Champ de Mars, drinking and hanging out until fireworks explode around the Eiffel Tower. Only your roommate will see more of you.

  Part of the allure of all the time we will share today is that there may be an opportunity for me to seduce you. My box is a five-minute walk from the Champ and, especially if we are both drunk, it would be so easy for me to invite you to come home with me tonight. Sober, I do not believe this is a conceivable option, and have not cleaned my room, made my bed, or performed any other tasks in preparation for having you over. However, along with the groceries I have bought for lunch, I have bought three bottles of both beer and wine. It’s enough for Padd to eat and drink with us too, though he usually does not drink much, if at all.

  The 82 bus drops me off by the Jardin du Luxembourg.

  At your door I call you to let you know I’m here. You come plodding down the stairs and unlock the door. We greet each other and without even a glance at my heavy bag of groceries you start back up the stairs. Although I’m bursting to ask you to take my bag, as you should have done without my asking, I’m too exhausted to deal with your possible indignation about being asked to be polite. It isn’t my responsibility to teach you how to be a considerate person. You will have to learn this on your own. You may never learn it.

  To distract myself from your lack of manners, I admire the outline of your sturdy thighs and firm hockey rump beneath your gold gym shorts. A closer inspection of your clothes reveals that your shirt is old and loose and your shorts are fraying and spotted with holes. You’re wearing your pajamas. While I was awake and dressed hours ago so I could cross Paris with a heavy bag of groceries for us, you have slept in. The rational part of me would be unhappy you have done so little to contribute, but your presence has an instant calming effect on me. I foolishly feel only the pleasure I find in being close to you.

  Inside your apartment, we set about preparing lunch. Without even discussing it, I set about boiling the water for the hot dogs and you wash the dishes. The distribution of tasks between us could easily be overlooked, but in my romantic imagination I see us as a couple so familiar with each other that we share domestic duties under the comfortable force of habit.

  While we work, we chat. As you scrub a pot clean, you tell me cheese sticks to everything. “But I love cheese,” you say. “It’s better than sex.”

  “Better than sex?” I ask, incredulous. “Sex is my favorite activity. Horseback riding would be my second.”

  “Activity?” you ask, your tone disdainful.

  “Yes. What kind of sex have you been having if you think cheese is better than sex?” I know better than to pry into your sex life, but I can’t resist asking.

  You give me a sly side glance. “What you really should be asking me is what kind of cheese I’ve had.”

  I’m impressed you’re suave enough to smoothly deflect my inappropriate question. “What’s your favorite kind of cheese?”

  “Havarti. It’s similar to American. You can find it in most grocery stores in the US.”

  As I have done with nearly everything else you like, I make a mental note to find Havarti cheese when I’m back in the States. While I eat the cheese I will think of you and how much more satisfying having sex with you would be than a piece of cheese.

  My thoughts return to the food we are about to eat. “I bought enough food for Padd to eat with us if he wants. And three bottles of both beer and wine.”

  Padd is in the bedroom, so you call to him to ask him if he wants to eat with us. He says to eat without him. “It was nice of you to buy enough for him too,” you say.

  I nod, silently glad my gesture appears kind and generous while concealing my motive of having enough alcohol to get us sloshed.

  While we eat, you tell me you were talking to your dad earlier this morning.

  “Last semester I wanted to drop out of school, but my dad sat me down and made me stay.” Your voice is as level and calm as I imagine your father’s was while dealing with your rebellion. “He told me that I’m already half-way through and to just get through it.”

  I’m grateful for your father’s insistence. “It was good of him to do that.” At best, it would be difficult for you to continue to teach without a Bachelor’s degree.

  “I don’t see why I can’t just take my books and read, write on my own. There are a lot of other ways to learn—get out and experience the world. School isn’t necessarily the best place for learning.” You raise one eyebrow and shake your head, the angle of your head highlighting your cheekbones and the rugged knots lining your nose.

  Your reticence about school illustrates your On the Road-esque desire to adventure through life, gaining raw experience informed by self-taught knowledge. While I agree that there is great value in the sort of experiences the beat generation sought out, I believe there is also great value in learning from teachers at school, too. “No, but it does serve a purpose. Haven’t you learned things from Professor you never could have from some book?”

  You pause, thinking over the value of Professor’s class. “Yeah.” You nod lightly, your thoughts glimmering in the dark apple butter color of your irises.

  Finished with lunch, we tidy the kitchen. As you stack dishes in the sink, I discreetly study the curve of your biceps extending from the sleeves of your soft cotton t-shirt. I reluctantly admit to myself that your arms are slimmer than I typically find attractive, but my attraction to you isn’t lessened.

  We head into your bedroom. Padd is sitting on his bed, absorbed in a video game on his laptop. You need to shower so you gather your clothes and scamper off to the bathroom, leaving me alone with Padd. We chat about mostly small-talk things. I hardly listen, preferring to focus on the thought of you, naked, a dozen feet away from me.

  You return to the room gleaming with moisture, fresh in your cotton clothes, your head raised with confidence and self-possession like the king of your lion pride. Your body still damp, you smell like spring soil after three days of rain. The scent is a powerful aphrodisiac and I cannot withstand staying here with you in your apartment. The quarters are too close. My hot longing for you is nearly splitting me open. I ask you if you’re ready to go. You nod.

  While you gather your things you say to me, “Let’s take wine glasses! Add some class to the drinking!” I warn you the glasses will probably break, but you don’t listen. You grab three glasses from the cupboard and wrap them in towels.

  Before we leave, you stop to check your appearance in the bathroom mirror. You look into your reflection and smooth your fingers over your hairs, adjusting them so they lay on your head just so. Probably you do this to ensure your receding hairline is as unnoticeable as possible. I would prefer to ignore that you are prematurely balding because it makes you less physically attractive. Even so, seeing you check your appearance in the mirror like a vain but pretty woman is endearing.

  I follow you down the wooden staircase with Padd following behind.

  We take the 82 bus by Luxembourg, which will drop us right by the Champ de Mars. We sit side by side in the balmy heat of the bus, silently watching the narrow streets slide by.

  The bus soon stops at the head of the Champ and we descend from the bus. People have already started sitting on the lawn, but it’s mostly empty. The sun beams golden from behind the sublime height of the Eiffel Tower and sheds honeysuckle light across the emerald lawn. I ask you and Padd where you would like to sit.

  “I don’t know.” You look across the lawn. “I’m a pretty indecisive guy.
”

  “You are,” I tease. You are so go-with-the-flow and I find it adorable. I amuse myself with the thought that, just like people in love, I adore your idiosyncrasies.

  “Doesn’t matter to me where we sit,” Padd says.

  The decision of where to sit is mine, so I choose a spot close to La Tour Eiffel to give us a prime view of the fireworks.

  We lay out our blankets and sit. The Champ is rapidly filling with people. We arrived at just the right time, a stroke of good fortune I attribute to our being together.

  “Shall we have some wine?” I ask in a tone of mock-formality to offset the classlessness of the large amounts of alcohol we are about to consume. “I have Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, and Côte du Rhône.”

  “I love Chardonnay,” you say. “Also, I love that you organized everything—wine, food, place to sit, time to get here. All I have to do is enjoy it.”

  I grin. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself.” I grab the wine and corkscrew. Remembering how you teased me for having trouble opening the wine the other evening I ask, “Are you going to judge me on whether or not I can use this thing?”

  “I am.” Your eyes sparkle with the mischievous joy you find in teasing me.

  If I were better at flirting, I would play along and pretend to be unable to open the wine, bashfully asking you to help me. Instead, I avoid your promised judgment and drive the corkscrew deep into the bottle and extract the cork.

  I pour each of us a glass, releasing the wine’s redolent bouquet of grapefruit, orange, and a hint of pomegranate. We clink the glasses. You say “Cheers—” and I add, “to Bastille Day.” The wine is fruity and pleasantly dry. We drink it liberally, expectant of the two other bottles we have to drink.

  With the afternoon full before us, we share my iPod, one earbud in each of our ears. I offer to share my earbud with Padd but he declines it.