Searching for Tina Turner

by Jacqueline E. Luckett

  A group of pedestrians moves against the stoplight and across the wide boulevard. Lena loves that Parisians take jaywalking as seriously as they do their coffee. Couples hold hands, smooch, discreetly pat each other’s bottoms. “Paris makes you want to be in love, makes you do things you may later regret.”

  “You. Not me, honey. I haven’t done anything I haven’t wanted to do. Bruce has been fine company.” Cheryl rattles her newly acquired—thanks to Bruce—wide gold bangles. “And besides, Bruce is worried that his boy Harmon is too attached.”

  “I’ve finally made some sense of the rues and boulevards. It feels like I belong here.” Lena draws an invisible line with her finger on the map to point the way from Boulevard Saint-Germain, where they stand, to the museum at the Luxembourg Gardens. The streets converge at odd angles; at every corner a new rue or avenue sprouts, like tree limbs, in different directions. “Harmon genuinely cares. And that’s more important than what he has or what he can give. If it’s meant to be, it will.”

  The museum is separated from the rue de Vaugirard by stairs and a ten-foot wrought iron fence with gold-tipped spikes. Oversized, cloth posters below the sculpted pediment announce the exhibit. Rows and rows of trees jut out behind the building and offer a glimpse of the park beyond. Inside the small gallery, the walls of two rooms are covered with Matisse pieces. The rooms are big enough to accommodate the fifty or so people milling around and small enough to get close to the art and see the brush strokes, the thickness of the paint, a hint of an original pencil sketch.

  The exhibit pays homage to Matisse’s friendship and correspondence with artist André Rouveyre, who influenced Matisse’s creativity in the latter part of his life. Display boxes are filled with the men’s original letters. In the middle of the first room, glass cases enclose letters and drawings by both artists. Matisse’s envelopes are works of art covered with endearments and sketches of abstract leaves from the tree of life in the chapel at Vence.

  “These two artists inspired each other to greater heights.” Cheryl loops her finger in the direction of the letters.

  “We should… correspond. That’s what they used to say.”

  “That’s what email is for.” Cheryl waves Lena forward. “No one writes letters anymore.”

  “I still have the letters Randall wrote to me before we were married.” The letters were still tied with the ribbon from the first bouquet of flowers (the second time around) he gave her for no other reason than he wanted to.

  “Well, that bit of ‘correspondence’ should go right into the trash.”

  “Sometimes letters communicate what can be hard to say in person.”

  “I say what’s on my mind,” Cheryl declares. They move with the crowd into the next room. “Like, for instance, this: for me this little fling with Bruce is just that, a fling. I don’t expect anything more from him than what I’ve gotten. He’s fun and funny and a big spender. Now I’ve got a friend in Chicago.”

  In the second room one wall is devoted to “Jazz,” twenty vibrant canvases, each one twelve by sixteen inches, working with the same musical theme. Cheryl stops in front of two canvases of the 1947 piece: the stark black silhouette of a man falling through a deep blue field of golden starbursts, an elephant balancing on a ball behind slashes of red.

  “You compartmentalize,” Lena says. “Work. Relationships. Just like men.”

  “And I’m proud of it! But I insist on having fun while I’m doing it. I’m determined not to form any connections that have the slightest chance of becoming anything more.” Cheryl nudges Lena. “But you, sister girl—you are a one-man woman. You were that way with Harmon when you dated the first time around, and you were that way for all those years with Randall. So, I’m asking you—how does it feel to be in love with two men at the same time?”

  “I’m not sure what being in love means anymore. I won’t lie; I have feelings for Harmon—maybe love, maybe gratitude. There’s a gentleness about him that makes him attractive.” Lena moves to the black-and-white charcoal sketches, like first drafts of a novel, that Matisse created for the Vence chapel. “I love the memory of Randall, but I’m disappointed in the present him. I love the present Harmon, but I’m disappointed in the memory.”

  Cheryl points back to the varying canvases of “Jazz.” “The work in this collection is different from what Matisse had done in the past. He always used bold colors and these abstracts still carry his love for color, but they are new interpretations of what he felt. It’s artistic evolution. Rouveyre helped him to understand the need to incorporate old ideas into new images and let go of the past.” Cheryl paces back and forth between paintings to emphasize her words. “Since I believe that art imitates life, and I’m your friend, I want to remind you that Tina Turner finally made choices based on putting herself first. You’re no good to anybody if you can’t do that. Tina figured it out, and maybe that’s what you’re here to learn.”

  They study the rhythm, the preparation, and implications of Matisse’s work in light of what Cheryl has said. Harmon’s declaration was not surprising. His attention and affection feel like more than lust. “I wanted this affair to be the first time that love and commitment were not my priority.”

  “And, I might add, isn’t that a bit risky for a woman over fifty?” Cheryl teases, mocking Lena’s own words.

  Lena presses her purse for her book, past the point of writing her thoughts in the margins. There is no longer any reason to compare her predicament. They stop in to the museum’s gift shop, its shelves and counters stacked with art books and mementos of the exhibit. Beyond the gift shop window a queue extends down the stairs and around the side of the building. Paris is chilly but bright, its trees are fading from green to gold, and Lena is glad to be alive.

  Randall’s love meant security, but when it came down to the two of them sitting across from one another, listening to the rain scratch against the window that stormy night, none of it amounted to the kind of love that should have kept them together. Maybe, if she had been more open. But maybe is just a cake that’s all eaten up; if wishes were fishes and fishes could fly…

  While Cheryl decides which art books she cannot live without, Lena waits on the museum steps. She has picked the same card for Camille and Kendrick and jots the same note to them: “The next time I come to Paris, you’re coming with me—even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming. You’ll love it, and I can’t wait to share this city with my two favorite people.” Her postcards to Lulu and Bobbie tell them how fabulous Paris is. She will spray Annick Goutal on Lulu’s card when she returns to the hotel. The last postcard, a black silhouette tumbling through blue space and yellow stars, she addresses to herself. On the left side she scrawls her note in capital letters, “ME… THAT’S WHAT LOVE HAS TO DO WITH… EVERYTHING!!”

  Chapter 32

  Harmon’s body is longer than the silk-covered couch. He sleeps, arms folded atop his chest, head on the armrest at one end, feet dangling over the cushioned edge of the other. Lena has come to learn a few of his habits: he catnaps in the late afternoon; he rarely gets into bed before midnight and then without TV, lights, or noise.

  Lena tiptoes around the suite, stops to take in the fragrance of the rubrum lilies. Since the concierge discovered they are her favorites, the room has been full of the fresh flowers every other day. Today he has added a spray of a flaxen, star-shaped flower that Lena reminds herself to ask the name of. She smiles at the attention to detail and reminds herself to tell Harmon to be generous when the time comes to tip.

  Who can she talk to, she wonders? Who can she tell how strong she feels, not so much loved—in a way she hasn’t been in a while—but cared about for who she is, not what she can do, and that makes her feel secure. Her cell phone comes alive to a perky ring tone. Harmon grumbles and turns onto his side before she closes the bathroom door behind her. The phone screen flashes Randall’s photo for the second time in five days.

  Lena turns the bathtub faucets, pours all of the bath oi
l into the tub, and drops her clothes onto the floor. In the tub, the slow-running water and bubbles envelop her; the fragrance of the sweet gardenia soap makes her think of Lulu. Her mother would be delighted if she could see her baby girl stepping out on her own. Or almost. One touch of the recall button on her phone makes it easy to call Randall back.

  “Why haven’t you answered my messages, Lena?” Caller ID eliminates the need for a proper, kinder greeting.

  “I’m…” Lena takes a second to adjust to the realization that she doesn’t have to report in or make excuses.

  “How are you?” Manners restored, Randall goes on without her response. “I’m in Brussels.”

  Close but far away. Her stomach tightens, and she wishes for the thick pink liquid in her suitcase to coat her insides against the acid building there. Getting it might awaken Harmon, and then what would she do? Her heart says to chitchat, to inquire: Did the CEO position come through? Why are you in Brussels? Do you miss me? Do I miss you?

  “What do you want, Randall?”

  “Camille told me you’re in Nice. I have to be in Paris, tonight. Have dinner with me. I can make reservations for your flight, and I’ll pay for your ticket and a night at the Crillon.”

  The elegant five-star hotel is where Lena told him she wanted to stay on their next visit to Paris. From a distance the hotel looked like an extension of the Louvre or an official building meant to house government offices. As they approached the historic Place de la Concorde, where the Jardin des Tuileries ends and the Champs-Élysées begins, they discovered that the building was not what they thought, but rather the famous Hôtel de Crillon. They stood near the fountain of sculpted black bodies with gold turbans and watched the doormen help guests from a line of Bentleys, Maybachs, and other expensive cars neither had seen before. Once inside the landmark hotel, they strolled from the lobby—the floor a marbled black-and-white checkerboard—to the bar. The hotel smelled like money, like extravagance, like someplace Lena wanted to be.

  “Let’s see. The last time I saw you, Randall, you snarled at me.” Lena’s voice is a loud whisper she prays Harmon cannot hear. “For months you schemed to keep most of what we had on your side of the balance sheet, now you happen to be in Brussels, and you conveniently have to be in Paris, and you want to have dinner with me?”

  Randall chuckles in the playful way she hasn’t heard in a long time. “Put that way, my proposition does seem a little farfetched. But what have you got to lose?”

  “I already lost it,” Lena whispers, “and one dinner in Paris isn’t going to make up for that.” The soft spot is still there. Eight months since she slept with Randall, eight months since they shared the same bed. Two months, more or less, since they signed their settlement paper. Since she saw the look she never wants to see in his eyes again. Lena kicks the faucet with her foot to stop the water from spilling over the side. The overflow drain gurgles as it sucks up the excess.

  Perhaps she is more like that damn Kimchee than she realized. Perhaps that is why she couldn’t stand the cat. One day, during what she now thinks of as her foggy time, Lena drove past the grocery store, the yoga studio, the library where she volunteered and parked at the Berkeley Marina to watch the waves crash against the abandoned pier. When she came home from her pretend errands, she found Kimchee strolling across the kitchen counter, tail lifted high, as if the granite were his path to glory. He continued around the counter until he got to the spot where he wanted to jump down. His eyes dared Lena to say a word.

  At this moment, Lena feels like she understands that uppity cat. She feels like looking Randall in the eye and daring him to accept her as she is right now, this day, in a hotel room with a man—not him—who claims to love and appreciate her as much or more than he once did. This is her territory. She will not be intimidated by his smile, by the eyebrow that lifts when she walks into a room, by the curve of his lips as they turn from frown to smile. She will not be seduced by his lavish lure. She will strut into that restaurant, if only for the effect.

  “I’m in Paris. Tell me where and what time, and I’ll meet you.”

  f f f

  The bathroom door swings open.

  “I’m not going to lie. I heard you talking, heard you say his name. So I listened. That’s the problem with being a light sleeper.” Harmon closes the toilet seat and sits on top of it. His face is unreadable.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Harmon pauses, his hands folded across his chest. His eyes reflect his thoughts, like the winning attorney he is, of what her last words to Randall mean.

  “What does he want?”

  “To have dinner.”

  “And if I asked you not to go?”

  “I’ve been honest, Harmon. I’m still not used to saying no to him.”

  She lays her phone on the floor and steps out of the tub, extending her arm for one of the plush towels from the counter rack. With her back to Harmon, Lena wraps the towel around her, covering her body from the top of her breasts to her mid thigh so that passion cannot take over where logic should.

  “How did he know you were here?” Harmon stands and paces from the tub to the toilet and back. His voice is steady, like a probing drill.

  “We have children together, Harmon. Camille and Kendrick know where I am. Camille told him.”

  He asks his next question, again the strategic litigator who never asks compound questions: “How did he know you were in Paris?”

  “He knew I was in France. It’s a crazy coincidence that he’s in Paris.”

  “What does he want?”

  “He didn’t say.” And she didn’t ask. Old habits die hard.

  Harmon walks out of the room.

  “It’s dinner, Harmon. Nothing more.”

  “Like we had dinner that first night in Nice?”

  “That’s not fair.” Lena shakes her head no and reaches for his arm. He pulls away and heads for the desk where the ring sits in its open pouch.

  “I was serious when I bought this. I’m serious now. Think about that when you see him. Your ex is no fool.” He grabs the room key, slips into his sandals, and walks to the door. “I’m going downstairs to the bar, and I’m going to stay there until you’re gone. I’m going to get drunk. I’m going to hope you remember whose bed you’ve been sleeping in for the last eleven days. But don’t worry, I won’t give away your little secret rendezvous.” The door slams behind him, but he speaks loud enough for her and everyone else on the floor to hear. “But, I might reconsider my damn theory of fate.”

  f f f

  Randall is casually elegant in a tan suede jacket and what looks like a silk shirt underneath. Lena can’t tell if he is thinner or heavier than the last time she saw him. She wonders if this were a picture, how she would photograph it. She would call it “Things I Don’t Know about the Man I Used to Love” and cover it with question marks: Are his clothes new? Does he play new jazz or old on the CD player in his car? Has he slept with another woman as she has with another man? Did he enjoy it? Did her ghost linger at the foot of the bed as his has? Another corner full of z’s: has he thought more about the surgery to correct his snoring? Has he cut back on the three cups of coffee that get his thoughts started in the morning? Who takes his shirts to the cleaners?

  “Hey, Randall.”

  To her surprise he rises to greet her with a bear hug and a grin. His look is sheepish and tentative. “I ordered for you. Pouilly-Fuissé is a good substitute for those chardonnays you love.”

  “Actually, I’m into Bordeaux these days.” His surprise is obvious. Lena motions to the waiter and asks for his recommendation and ignores Randall scanning her face in a way that makes her want to blush.

  The waiter sets a glass in front of Lena with as much flourish as Randall used to present her with gifts. She sniffs the wine, sips, and lets it linger on her tongue the way Harmon does with the first taste from a new bottle.

  “Why are you in Paris?”

  “I’m here with Cheryl and a couple of…
friends.” Lena watches Randall’s effort not to criticize her friend cut lines on his otherwise smooth face. “I enjoy Cheryl’s company. I always have.”

  “It’s been a long time since we were in Paris, and if I’m not mistaken it was about this same time of the year.”

  The second time Lena and Randall came to Paris they held hands and strolled the Seine at midnight so they could see a full Paris moon. He’d held her close, slipped his hands in her pants, and made her want him to do more. They’d made love that night in a way that they never had before or since then; laughed long and hard the next morning, made love again and a baby. When she miscarried, Randall promised to bring her back to Paris, to re-create that night, but they never returned.

  Randall is pensive in the way that Lena has forgotten. Two people who, two months ago, could barely stand to be in the same room together, who fought over money and all the possessions they had accumulated and acted as if they had never been in love, didn’t have children together whom they adored. The same bitter taste that crept onto her tongue during those sessions is there now. It spoils the desire for food. When the waiter presents the menus, Lena orders a small fish entrée, a salad, no appetizer. Randall’s appetite is hearty enough for salad, oysters, and a complicated-sounding entrée.

  “Knock, knock,” he prompts her like she once did long ago, and she obliges with the proper response.

  “Who’s there?”

  “TIDA’s new CEO.” Randall slides his hand across the table to hold hers. His touch is different. Understated. Foreign. Now she finds herself comparing Randall to Harmon instead of the other way around.

  “I wanted you to be the first to know.”

  “Not afraid I’ll ask for more money, are you? Is this”—her voice falls into the singsong inflection that Randall used to admire, her open arms indicate the beautiful restaurant around her—“another one of your bribes? Did you call Sharon?”