by Ritt, Julia
“Oh, they’re teasing you, saying you’re a pussy or something because I’m rowing the boat. But I’m very happy to row.” The sniggering men remind me that anyone who sees us would assume we’re dating. We would be any definition be dating, or at least having an affair, if it weren’t for the lack of physical intimacy.
You continue directing me, “A little to the right. A little to the left. Okay, that’s good.”
When directing me before the men sniggered at us your tone was respectful and kind, but now your tone is condescending. As I follow your instructions, your expression turns smug. I feel like a marionette dangled on strings woven through your wanton fingers. I believe you do mind being emasculated, even if on a subconscious level. “I feel like a puppet.”
Your eyes light up with amusement. “I feel like a puppeteer.”
Your shameless acknowledgement that you are behaving like a puppeteer is disrespectful and unacceptable. Out of self-respect, I cannot remain mute. I consider my next words carefully, suspecting you may not respond positively. “I think your tone is not nice.”
“I don’t think it is.”
“Could you try to be kinder, please, in directing me?”
You look away and don’t answer.
I should admonish you for your irreverence, but you are not mature enough to respond appropriately. You are twenty-one, full of bravado, a man who sees the world only in how much pleasure he may derive from one moment to the next. You are a narcissist, a Tony Stark, an Odysseus. The most important person in your life is yourself. Everyone else is secondary.
But you will not be twenty-one forever. You will grow up and you will learn that there is pleasure in caring for others, too. I do not know how long it will take you to learn this, but it will surely take years. Maybe you will never learn it. It is enormously frustrating to know that even if you were single and we were returning to the same city in the US, I would not be happy if we were dating.
Although you are imperfect, I adore you exactly as you are. As your friend, I want to help you grow, to support you in achieving your successes and console you in your failures. I want to see you happy, successful, and fulfilled. I want to see you spread your wings and soar to the fullest extent possible. You have so much to offer and if you want it, you will have my support in taking every opportunity open to you.
You inspire in me a feeling of infinite joy and unconditional love, a feeling no other person has ever given me. My love for you is rooted in me like a centuries-old oak, capable of withstanding the damage incurred by the storms of your youth and inexperience. Pure goodness lies within you, along with the great and beautiful potential you have to be a loving husband and father.
Right now, though, you’re behaving like a ruffian prince. You move backward and settle into the boat’s bottom. You hold your torso upright on your elbows, your flip flops dangling over the seat.
You continue directing me with a self-satisfied tone. “Turn to the right. A little more. You’re good.” You nod smugly.
At your every command I am increasingly irritated. I feel like a provoked cat, my hair raised on end, ready to strike with sharp, blood-drawing claws.
We nearly crash into a French family’s boat. One of the little kids splashes the oar, sending large dollops of water down your front. As we glide away the wife apologizes and calls out in French, “It’s a thing, it’s hard!” while her two young boys laugh.
“What did she say?” you ask.
“Um, it’s a thing, it’s hard!” I translate.
You sit back up in your seat and quit playing puppeteer. “I hate kids!” you sneer, but your expression turns pensive as you reevaluate your statement. “I hate spoiled little French kids.”
“I think it was an accident. I don’t think they meant to splash you.”
You are indignant and wet, nostrils flared. “I think they did. They splashed me on purpose. Little shits.”
“You could take your shirt off.” I would like you to take your shirt off.
“I could.”
“But then you would be cold.”
“Yeah.”
“It’ll dry quickly,” I assure you.
You relax a little, your tensed shoulders loosening.
“We only have about fifteen minutes left.” I eye the docked rowboats, trying to determine how long it would take to return.
Your eyes focus on me with a knowing stare. “You’re worried about the time.”
You’re right that I’m worried, but I contradict you, “No, no, we’ll be okay.” So as to not prove you are right too quickly, I continue rowing for a few more minutes, but then concede. “Okay, I kind of want to go back.” I turn the boat around and return to shore, awkwardly angling the boat alongside the dock.
“Real good job there, expert rower!” you say, mocking me.
No longer willing to put up with you, I tell you to shut up and you do. The boldness of my pushback feels phenomenal. I have power here, too. You aren’t going to abandon me if I tell you to stop being an ass. This is a solace, but it feels quite obvious, like I should have known it all along.
We get out of the boat and totter for a few steps as we readjust to solid ground.
On the bus back to central Paris, we pass a group of boys playing roller hockey. You look out at them longingly. “If I were out there, I’d be showing them up,” you say. I imagine you among them, your roller blades blazing against the pavement, your stick an extension of your limbs.
Pulling your attention away from the window, your phone rings. It’s your girlfriend. You talk to her about the weather at her sister’s wedding. The call is short. You give her curt answers and hardly ask any questions. I hear her say “I love you,” but I’m not sure if I heard correctly. In any case, if it is what she said, you don’t say it back. You just say goodbye.
You look anxiously out the window at the métro stations we’re passing. Each one is a potential escape route. The bus is increasingly crowded and you’re getting claustrophobic. I am too, but I don’t want you to leave yet. I want five, ten more minutes with you. I tell you the RER B stop is right by where I am getting off. “It’s right there, literally right there,” I say. “Much faster than any of the métros.” You still want to get off, but relent, and stay beside me.
At my stop, we squeeze through tightly packed bodies to get off the bus. At the RER B station you don’t hug me as you usually do. You just wave goodbye and disappear down the steps. I wave back and force a smile even though I’m fuming. Hugs are the only physical contact we have, for now. I feel robbed of a sacred physical intimacy that is, to me, a meager substitute for the sex you have denied me. I think ridiculous, insane things like I’ll get a hug from you next time! I’ll hug you as soon as I see you! I can’t believe he didn’t hug me goodbye even though our day together was horrible.
I tell myself to calm down and stop being foolish. Neither of us behaved well today. You were inconsiderate and I let you be. Of all the days we have spent together, today is the only day I have left your company unhappy. I comfort myself with the knowledge that tomorrow I will be on my own and may spend my time however I wish. We will see each other the day after, when the rough waters between us have calmed and been forgotten.
CHAPTER 21
A stutter of dark lightning passes over her eyes, blinding her to her rapturous mistake
For my day alone, I decide to go to the Paris zoo but get lost and end up in the Bois de Vincennes. I go with it. Children ride by on tubby Shetland ponies and couples row boats in the nearby lake. I settle onto a bench and doze off while elderly men play croquet and children squeal and run around on the playground behind me.
A dog bounds behind my bench, the vibrations waking me. A silver chain collar is sunk into his thick, chocolate-brown fur. He’s happily panting, his limbs sleek and strong. A tall, handsomely rugged man follows him. The man looks at me and I automatically think of how I like you better, even though this man is much more physically attractive. He continues
on after his dog.
I had planned to enjoy today on my own, watching pygmy owls and red pandas play and sleep. Instead, I am on this bench thinking of how you would again tease me for running into more Shetland ponies. I’m an introvert—I shouldn’t miss you. I should be relishing my time alone. Yet, I long to have you here on this bench. Even though our time together yesterday went badly, I’ve forgotten about it. Life is more fun when you’re around. Never after so many consecutive outings with anyone else have I wanted to spend even more time with them rather than be by myself.
In lieu of your presence I have your image at my disposal. Though I take pleasure in animating your body in my mind, actually spending time with you is always better. I want it to be tomorrow when we will be seeing each another.
At home in my box I write a letter to you. Tomorrow is our last day in Paris together and I always write a letter to my closest friends when I part from them. In my letter, I tell you my Paris is better for having you in it. I tell you that I believe you can change the world and that you are now among my friends for whom I would crawl over a bridge in order to save them. I’m careful to avoid saying what I dearly wish I could—how much I will miss you, how I might love you, and how I want you to do corny things like kiss me and fill my life with buttercups.
I open a large envelope and nest the pages inside with the same care as I would tuck you into bed. It will soon be in your hands. I turn off the light and quickly fall asleep.
CHAPTER 22
She is a black butterfly, her wings dotted with snow
The first rays of sun are spreading white-gold wings over the rooftops of Paris. It’s six a.m. and I’m wide awake. We have plans to go to Giverny, but since you spent most of your money on your train ticket, we can’t go until your parent’s bank transfer goes through. Giverny is among my favorite places in France and I yearn to share the experience of visiting it with you. I imagine we would take the train to Vernon and bike through the French countryside to Giverny. Upon our arrival, we savor a lunch of potato salad, Normandy beer, and a gently spiced fish soup at a local restaurant. In Monet’s garden, we stand together on the wisteria bridge. Vines twisted tightly like your soul to mine wrap the bridge’s rail. Your forearm lightly brushes against mine, the slight touch sending tingles of pleasure through my body. We look out over the pink, blue, and white water lilies while discussing how painters paint color where they see it, drawing our attention to beauty where we might not otherwise notice it.
Should going to Giverny not be possible, I intend to instead ask you to go to Chartres with me. I want to share with you the asymmetrical beauty of the cathedral’s mismatched towers and the Chartres blue of the stained glass windows. Chartres blue is a translucent indigo unlike any other in the world.
We won’t be seeing each other until the afternoon, so I busy myself with preparing for my return to America. I bundle my clothes, books, and other belongings into my suitcases and scour all the surfaces of my box until it is clean and neat.
Around noon I call you. You are in the laundromat and will be done soon, but your parent’s wire transfer hasn’t gone through yet. Going to Giverny will not be possible. I suggest we instead go to Chartres. You could use your train pass, so it would be free.
“I’m kinda tired,” you say. “Could we do nothing, but do something, but do nothing?”
Although I am disappointed, I say, “Sure.” Since I suspected you might not want to leave Paris, I have a back-up plan. “We could just take the twenty-nine bus through Paris. It goes through Opéra and Saint-Lazare. It’s supposed to be very scenic.”
“That sounds perfect!”
We arrange to meet at Bastille at two.
For the occasion of our last day in Paris together I wear my “date dress,” a red cotton number with a deep scoop neck that reveals an ample yet still sophisticated amount of cleavage. The hem falls around my mid-thigh, showing a little leg but not too much. My red ballet flats complete the ensemble.
On the other side of Paris, the Colonne de Juillet stands tall and grand in the center of the Place de la Bastille. While I wait for you, I watch a parade of buses zoom by and study the stops on line twenty-nine. The place-names are so beautiful: La Place des Vosges, Tournelles-Saint-Gilles, rue Vieille du Temple, Centre Georges Pompidou, Le Bibliothèque Nationale, Opéra.
You swoop over me with the swift power and assuredness of a young king. “Hello, stranger,” you say, your voice suave and seductive. My heart pants. “Oh, hey! A ton of buses have gone by but I haven’t seen the twenty-nine bus, so it should come soon.”
As if heeding my prediction, the bus arrives within minutes. We sit alongside each another and watch the streets stream past. The bus is stuffy and hot so we disembark at Bibliothèque Richelieu, the old National Library of France. Across from the library is a small park I had never before noticed. You gesture to the park’s entrance and ask if we can go in. I nod and follow you inside.
A large, tiered fountain burbles in the center and each of the park’s corners are bedded with flowers. Benches line the gravel-specked pathway that forms the perimeter. The tiny oasis has a delicate, airy grace. It reminds me of the small rooms in the Louvre hardly anyone ever finds but that are filled with beautiful artworks.
We sit in the grass in front of the fountain and chat. Another couple is sitting nearby, though they are a real couple, sharing tender caresses and flirty glances.
You playfully pinch my knee between your fingers. “Want to go sit on the fountain?”
I follow you like an eager puppy. We sit on the lip of the fountain, our feet dangling over the grass.
Young children run around on the lawn while their parents sit on the benches and chat.
“You know those pieces of fabric you see parents wrap their infants in? They look so much nicer than the nylon strappy things. I wonder how you wrap one. It looks complicated.” I think of how we might, one day, wrap our children in such fabric to safely and attractively fasten them to our bodies.
You shake your head. “I wouldn’t know how to wrap one.”
You let your flip flops fall to the ground. My flats dangle from my feet so I let them fall onto the grass too. You turn your body around and dip your toes in the water. I want to instantly follow your example but wait a few minutes before doing so in order to maintain an appearance of autonomy.
Water runs from the mouths of bronze heads mounted above us, sprinkling us with droplets. I immerse my feet in the chilly water. The fountain basin is lined with algae so I don’t put my legs in any further. I flick my fingers through the water to occupy them. My fingers yearn to be all over you: rubbing the inner circle of your knee, caressing your spine, cupping the round of your shoulder.
You look up at the series of large bronze infants posing along the central tier of the fountain. “Are those cherubs?”
“I think they’re putti. I can never remember what the singular word for putti is. It’s not puta, because that means whore in Spanish, and it’s not pute because that means prostitute in French. I can ask Professor.”
“You can,” you nod.
I turn around and swing my legs back and forth to dry my feet. You turn around too and slip off the fountain. You sit cross-legged on the grass, your back to me. Unable to resist rejoining you, I slip off the lip of the fountain and seat myself alongside you. There are few activities so liberating as doing something but doing nothing and I cannot imagine another person with whom I would prefer to do it.
The afternoon light is warm, the atmosphere relaxed, and my mind basks in the freedom to think of nothing at all. But as always, my mind drifts to the thought of you, and I recall my final activity before I fell asleep last night. “Oh, I wrote you a letter!”
The entire composition of your body instantly changes. You’re excited, your face alert, your back straighter, your chest puffed out. “Can I have it now?”
“No. I’ll give it to you before we part this evening. Remind me to give it to you.”
&nb
sp; “I can’t promise I’ll remember,” you warn me.
I know too well that you are often absentminded, but you’re too excited about the letter to forget. “You’ll remember.”
Ready for the next leg of our journey to nowhere in particular, we return to the bus. At the end of the line we disembark before Gare Saint-Lazare. Although the station’s insides now hum with the life of modern travel, I prefer to see it as Monet did. In his paintings, the stations is a hub of the Industrial Revolution’s coal-fed locomotives that puffed clouds of soft charcoal-gray smoke.
“So what’s the plan for lunch?” you ask. “Are we going to get the ingredients at your place and go to my place, or eat at your place?”
Because you so enjoyed the Indian dish I made the evening we went to Versailles, we are going to have it again this afternoon, preferably chez moi. Your reticence about coming home with me on Bastille Day concerned me because it illustrated you do not trust me. I cannot blame you for this. My lust is like a ravenous bear I constantly struggle to control. But if our friendship is to continue Stateside, I must regain your trust. I have decided that the best way of doing this is by having you come home with me again. This time, though, I will not attempt to seduce you. This way, you’ll know that even if we are alone in a small space, I will not encroach on your space. For my plan to work, though, you have to willingly spend the afternoon at my place. I respond to your question nonchalantly. “I thought we would just go to my place and make the food there. I mean, that seems easier. We can go to your place if you want to.”
“We can go to your place,” you say, to my relief.
Inside my box you stand at my window looking out over our city. The silhouette of your body forms a sinuous line over the Haussmannian buildings that follow the curve of the Seine to Notre Dame.
I smile, enjoying the sight of you, my dearest of all. The pleasure I feel makes me want to give you pleasure as well. “You can see Notre Dame from my window.” I guide your gaze to its towers that look like tiny rabbit ears against the soft blue sky.