by Ziv Amit
The Orsay Museum
Adam
“Of course the guard at the entrance wouldn’t let me take the bouquet of flowers in with me, who brings a bouquet of flowers with them to a museum?” To tell you the truth, I didn’t have the guts to walk around the city holding a bouquet of flowers, let alone stand in line for the museum with it and try to pass it through security. But I enjoy imagining doing it. I’m walking around the halls making believe that I’m holding a bouquet of flowers and that all the visitors are following me with their eyes, trying to guess who the bouquet is for, I hope she’ll accept my imaginary bouquet when I find her.
I pass through the darkened halls and the paintings and the sea of visitors, clenching my fist, not to drop the flowers. I stop every so often and try to look carefully at the people in the hall, look behind me, maybe I walked by too fast and missed my woman?
“She’s definitely here,” I whisper to myself wishfully, deep down I know the idea of searching for her is hopeless, but deeper down I want to believe that I’ll manage to find her here. “She has to be here, holding a pamphlet and looking through it like the other tourists are doing.” I’m trying to concentrate on the search, but it’s not easy. There are loads of tiny women here, wandering around on their own and waiting for the right man to walk over with the right bouquet, but none of them is my Little One.
After a long while I take a seat for a few minutes on a bench situated at the center of a hall, hold my head between my hands and let the thoughts rest for a bit, the breath too. A few tourists are standing in front of me, staring at a large painting hanging on the wall. Up until now I haven’t looked at any of the paintings, only at the people. But I need a little rest and so I find myself looking at the painting. Two men and a woman are having a picnic in a forest. I find it strange that the men are dressed and the woman isn’t, it’s also strange for a woman to sit between two men, as if she can’t manage to choose between them. I would have taken one of the men out of the painting and sent him off to find his own woman. Who’s the artist that painted this? What did he know about love?
“What do you know about love?” I silently whisper to myself and the woman in a light suit sitting on the bench next to me looks over, trying to understand if I was talking to her. I indicate with my hand that I wasn’t and I give her an apologetic look, then I put my head back between my hands and continue to stare at the painting and at the tourists passing by in front of it.
Maybe I should wait on this bench until The Little One shows up? I’ll sit on the bench and look at everyone who comes near, until I see a tiny woman wearing brown shoes, standing with her back to me and looking at the painting, concentrating as if she wanted to enter the canvas and become one with it. I float through fantasies for a few moments, imagining her right in front of me so I can go and hug her, but the reality is three elderly tourists standing and taking photos.
“You have to keep looking, she’s not here.” I slowly rise from the bench and continue to wander the large hallways, not before I give the painting one last glance. A tiny woman in a floral dress is standing with her back to me in front of the painting, looking at the characters in the forest, for a moment I’m filled with hope, but it’s not my woman.
“I’m not giving up, I’m continuing the search,” I encourage myself, despite knowing it doesn’t make sense and I don’t stand a chance, I’ll continue on the streets and the alleyways, I want to be romantic, I want to find her so badly and apologize to her as nicely as possible. She has to be wandering around somewhere in this city, she’s definitely not at the hotel.
Hotel, Room 314, Noon
Kate
The sound of a message from my smartphone startles me. I slowly sit up in the now messy bed. The room is still tidy, but I feel better when it’s not overly tidy, when there’s life in it. I look out the window, it’s daylight outside, though it seems a few hours have passed since I went to sleep.
“Finally he’s interested in my existence,” I recall why I woke up and I get the smartphone out of my bag, look at it and realize The Beauty has sent me a message. I smile to myself and answer her, The Tall One isn’t really interested in me and he’s not bothering to message me or look for me.
The bathroom mirror presents a woman with messy hair, sheet marks on the cheek and crumpled clothes. I take off the blouse and skirt and remain standing in front of the mirror in this morning’s lacey black underwear and bra, checking out the woman in front of me with relish, despite my imperfect tummy. “So I didn’t really get to use you in the end,” I tell my underwear and bra, “I wonder how you’d look in the photos.” I grab the bra with both my hands and squeeze my breasts upwards, squishing them into round balls. I make-believe that I’m wearing a push-up bra and I raise my chin up seductively, posing in the mirror and changing positions according to an imaginary photographer’s instructions. “Wait, hold on,” I tell my breasts and I run barefoot to my bag which is by the front door, get the new lipstick out and return to the mirror. “Now look and concentrate,” I get my face closer to the little round makeup mirror and carefully apply the shiny red lipstick on my lips, keeping an immaculate line, straighten my back and press my lips together, like the woman from the club did after she got laid.
“Well, what do you think?” I proudly ask my nipples as I stand smilingly with my back straight, “what, is the bra bothering you? You can’t see? Bad bra, shame on you bra, it’s not nice to get in the nipples’ way,” I grab the bra cups and pull my nipples out and upwards so that they stick out like little cones. “Well, can you see now? What do you think? Nice, isn’t it?” I ask them and get excited by the movements of my shiny red lips. “What, you want some too? You perverted freaks, shame on you, who taught you that?” I affectionately tell my nipples off and get situated in front of the mirror again. I take the lipstick wand out and start gently painting my nipples in bright red, “I hope this lipstick comes off easily,” I mumble to them, “otherwise, I think we’ll have a difficult time explaining some things, I mean,” I shed all responsibility off of myself, “you’ll have a difficult time explaining some things.”
I like the way the lipstick wand feels on my nipples and I paint them slowly, pleasured by the touch as well as seeing the two bright red erected circles sticking out of the black bra. I give myself a satisfied look and then remember something else. “Wait, we’re not done yet,” I tell the woman in the mirror and I run barefoot to the room, lean down into the closet, grab the red boots out and swiftly put them on.
I slowly walk back to the bathroom wearing the red boots, as if I were an erotic film star making a dramatic entrance onto a film set. I make sure to move my hips with every step, looking at myself in the mirror, grabbing my breasts roughly and moving to the sounds of an imaginary strip club song, all the while turning my body and my lips towards an imaginary photographer. Moving and dancing, changing poses in front of the mirror, smiling and making seductive sounds, enjoying my acting in front of the photographer, I’ll keep doing it till he’s satisfied.
“Now coffee,” I tell myself with red lips.
I wait for the coffee kettle to boil and in the meantime I wander around the little room with my red boots, my miniscule lacey underwear, my black lacey bra with two bright red erupting nipples, and my blood-red lips. I make believe I’m a call girl in a thriller, waiting for the detective to come and do his job, walking back and forth in the room with perky breasts and a smile and thanking my lucky stars for the wall-to-wall carpet. “I’m so thankful for this carpet,” I tell myself, without it the downstairs guests would have probably made a noise complaint and sent someone from reception over to check what’s going on. “You see,” I explain to my boots, “this hotel knows a thing or two about creating the right atmosphere for a thriller, they know they can’t ruin a good take by knocking on the door.”
The cup of coffee is warm in my hand and I don’t yet want to part from the role of the call girl in t
he movie, I walk over to the window very slowly, after all I’m still wearing high heels and holding a cup of coffee. I like looking downstairs at the street through the window, watching the people as they rush. I recall the balcony from last night’s party and smile to myself as I think about the strange scenario. I imagine myself standing here with another woman, drinking coffee and gossiping about the street below, looking at the woman who’s sitting on the bench and watching us, inviting her to come upstairs. You wouldn’t have actually gone upstairs were they to invite you, you wouldn’t have had the guts to do so. Without The Beauty you would have ended up staying on that bench up until now, I wonder if they saw me and spoke about me yesterday.
I look at the man who’s standing across the street from the hotel, waiting and checking his watch, and I’m thinking that if he only looks up he’ll see me through the window, half naked and perky breasted. I like that thought and I get closer to the window, till my breasts touch the cold glass. The icy contact startles me and my nipples but I don’t move back, I keep them pressed against the glass, I look at the man and send him a telepathic invitation to look up.
“I’d enjoy being photographed,” I whisper to myself, this feeling of exposure arouses me. The man hasn’t spotted me yet, he’s looking to the side of the street and I notice a woman in a red jacket approaching him and they lightly kiss. I enjoy watching them hold hands and walk along the street, and I part company from them with a smile.
I disconnect from the cold glass window and see two round red marks smeared on the surface where my nipples had just been, and I smile to myself. “Look what you’ve done,” I tell them off, “Now housekeeping’s going to have their work cut out for them, and who knows what they might think about what happened here.” Suddenly I look at the front door and wonder what would happen if The Tall One were to walk in right now and see me like this, standing in the middle of the room, dressed like a call girl from some cheap detective thriller, cup of coffee in hand and a surprised look on my face. The thought makes me laugh and I can’t contain myself. “Imagine his look as he stands by the door,” I laugh with my nipples, “and that’s after he called me a whore yesterday morning, if he hasn’t run away yet, he surely will now.”
I can’t stop laughing and I find myself having to put the cup of coffee down and sit on the bed, it’s a pleasant laughter, liberating, cleansing, helping the body and the breath finely blend everything together.
“That’s enough, now go shower,” I jokingly tell off my red nipples one last time, as I take the boots off and loosen the bra clasp, tossing it on the messy bed, “a shower and then another cup of coffee.”
A Café in the Latin Quarter, Afternoon
Adam
“I need a coffee.” I also need a rest from all the museums. I walk past a café in the street and go in. It’s a small café with an olden-day atmosphere, little round Formica tables painted red, sticking out over the black floor, reminding me of play balls.
“Coffee please.” Coffee and a cheesecake and something chocolaty and tasty, I stand by the counter and choose with my eyes, point with my hand, then I walk over to a red table and place the jacket that’s been hanging on my arm on a nearby chair, as if it’s going to keep me company.
I was certain I’d find The Little One at the bridge by the river, she always gets so excited by wedding dresses. While I was crossing the bridge I saw them flittering about and walking around proudly, as though they were the white sails of a ship. I hastened over there, imagining her in my mind’s eye standing by them, excited by the white dresses, wiping away a tear and unable to walk away. But despite having walked around through all the smiling women and the men standing at their sides, I couldn’t find The Little One. Maybe she was there earlier and had already left?
“What am I going to do about not having the guts to call her?” My eyes survey the café and the waiter who’s preparing my order, this entire search is hopeless. Romantic in a movie kind of way, but hopeless.
“You only prefer to look for her on foot because you don’t really want to find her,” the waiter tells me as he brings over the coffee and cakes, “you’re just scared of rejection.”
He doesn’t really say that, he just looks at me and smiles politely, but I have a feeling that if he were able to read my thoughts, that’s what he would tell me.
“Thank you,” I tell him and smile back, wondering if he really is able to read my thoughts.
“He’s right.” It’s hard for me to admit, but he’s right, I explain to the jacket on the seat next to me. I’m scared of finding her, I’m scared of hearing what she has to say to me, I’m really scared that she won’t forgive me.
“You’re not thinking right,” the waiter tells me as he walks over to a nearby table, “you need to buy her a present, she’ll forgive you.”
He doesn’t really say that either, but I drink my coffee and observe the couple sitting on the other side of the café. The man is sitting with a hopeful smile in front of the woman, his hands crossed under his chin, while the woman in front of him is gently opening a little present, wrapped in green paper with yellow flowers, smiling at her man with every corner she unfolds. “The waiter’s right, I have to buy her a present,” I tell myself and take a bite out of the cheesecake, thinking about white flittering brides.
I return to looking at the couple, feeling like I’m jealous of them, I would have liked to sit like that at a café with my Little One, instead of the jacket that’s keeping me company. “You have to get over your fear and call her,” reality reminds me. I know that’s what I need to do, but I can’t call her. I’ll look for a present for her, I’ll find her after I get her a present. The kind of present like I used to get her, one that will say, “I’m sorry I was so mean to you, I love you so much and I was heartbroken when you left me, it was difficult for me to forgive, please forgive me.”
“Go already,” the waiter tells me, “go and find a present for her, you still have a chance, she’s waiting for you.” He doesn’t really say that, he’s actually thanking me for my payment, and I still want to hug him with gratitude for the exchange of words we had in my mind. I go out to the street and continue wandering around the city without a specific direction, but with a specific objective, not before I look back at the café I had just left. One open present, laying on green wrapping paper with yellow flowers, and one kissing couple, sitting at a café.
Another Café, Afternoon
Kate
“I can’t be late on them again,” I hasten my steps, I feel so bad, I don’t want to be “that foreigner who’s always late and tardy.” But I am a foreigner and therefore missed my metro stop, had to find the way to the other direction and got a little lost. Now I’m walking at a fast pace through all the people who are out on the street, looking at my smartphone, checking the time as well as the address of the café that The Beauty sent me.
I compare the address on my phone to the signs on the street, lifting my head to see the names written above the cafés, making sure I’m at the right place, this is the place. I’m breathless and a little bit sweaty, having walked fast with my coat on, but I managed to make it on time.
“What now?” I ask myself embarrassedly, “Should I go in?” I can’t spot them on the street among all the passers-by, not even when I turn around trying to look in all directions, trying my best to look thoroughly up to the end of the street. I walk closer to the front door of the café and try to peek inside, try to see if they’re there without being overly noticed and without blocking the entrance.
A few youngsters are sitting by some tables, connected by their conversation, one woman is sitting with her back to me occupied with her smartphone, two older men are sitting side by side drinking beer, and a waiter holding a white dish towel is slowly polishing glasses and placing them on the counter. They’re not in there. “They’re probably a little bit delayed.” I’m pleased with myself for not having been late, I
can calm my breath down instead of barging in on them off the street like an apologetic, breathless and sweaty tornado.
“Sorry for being late,” I feel someone touching my shoulder, I turn around and lift my gaze and see the photographer standing in front of me, I smile at him embarrassedly and deliberate whether to present my hand for a shake or my cheek for a traditional kiss or maybe hug him, it seems that he too is momentarily thinking whether to hug me or make do with a handshake, and he eventually goes for a handshake and a smile. “Where’s The Beauty?” I think to myself.
I try to phrase the question of why he’s on his own in my mind, but he answers me before I even get to ask.
“The Beauty is running late, she asked me to come meet you here and she’ll join us shortly.”
I smile at him embarrassedly, realizing that we’re going to be alone, at least for a few minutes.
“Shall we go in?” he gestures with his hand and I follow him into the café, allowing him to place his arm on my waist with a light touch of ownership.
“So how have you been enjoying your vacation so far?” he asks a polite question in order to cut the awkward silence between us as we sit there waiting for our coffees and croissants to arrive. I should really stop it with all these croissants, I’ll start looking like one soon. “Do you think he’ll want to shoot a croissant wearing a black lacey outfit?” I let my thoughts wander and giggle to myself as I try to imagine the photographer at his studio, shooting a gigantic croissant dressed in a lacey outfit the size of a tent, with lights flashing all around them. His question takes me away from my thoughts and brings me back to the café and to the man sitting in front of me.