Sorry to ask, Ibrahim said, but are you really David Bowie?
The man with the bouffant hairstyle smiled.
At the end of the night, someone threw up over his own moccasins. After Le Tigre left him to close up, Ibrahim cleaned the floor up with some paper napkins doused in dishwashing liquid and a moldy mop.
* * *
—
ALL WEEK, IBRAHIM thought about what Bowie had said to him. He had the potential—but what did he have the potential for? It seemed clear that if his estranged father or deceased mother could start over, they would not have chosen to have him again. The one thing he was sure of being was the worst mistake of two people’s lives. He should never really have been here. Scoring a perfect grade-point average got him a pig’s head on the door. Breaking an old man’s fall he was taken for a pickpocket. Reciting Rilke by heart—he was still a clown. As long as they saw his face, he was always going to be the wrong person, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. His hand was trembling as he dialed the number he’d memorized off the man with the bushy eyebrows that night. He did not wait for a hello as he recited:
You wanted greater yet, but love
forces all of us down to the ground.
Sorrow bends powerfully, but an arc never returns
to its starting point without a reason.
She was good. She guessed Schiller. It was Hölderlin.
Listening more closely this time, Ibrahim heard her voice quiver. She was trying to hold it in, but it made her excitement only more pronounced. Although she was somebody and he was nobody, it was his game to play once he realized, however improbably, that she was just as lonely as he was. An old woman could want nothing more than to be treated the way he would treat her: like a teenage girl. She was Marlene Dietrich and, just like him, she had no one. He wanted to impress her each time, but sometimes her needs were much less fussy than he could have anticipated. Once she asked him to describe what he saw out of his window. Ibrahim did not have a window, but he closed his eyes for her, and described all that he saw in his head. The pavement was still damp for there had been an early-morning shower, he told Marlene. There was a neat mound of fallen leaves collated invisibly by road sweepers. A woman in a mackintosh was crossing the street, although the pedestrian sign had yet to come on.
I can see it, Bogie, she said. He heard her voice catch. I can see it all.
* * *
—
ON THE THIRD Sunday, she told him he was the only person she’d talked to in a long time who treated her like she was a real person. He wanted to laugh, to tell her that was his whole life. That can hardly be helped, he said instead. Who wants to talk to you like a real person when you’ve become a sordid figment of the cultural imagination? That’s what a goddess is in our century, Marlene. A face that can circulate outside of time.
She was quiet. Poof, he said, and she laughed.
He could make her laugh, he thought. He could.
* * *
—
ON THE FOURTH Sunday, Marlene said she wanted him to try her cooking. This caught Ibrahim dreadfully off guard. He had never expected or experienced this: a woman who wanted to cook for him. To his shame, tears came to his eyes. He dashed them off the back of his hand. He would leave her to rot. Let a famous hag find herself a new plaything. It was pathetic—how she was desperate enough to listen to him. He’d told no one, not even Le Tigre, about the phone calls. He’d wanted it to be something he could have for himself, but he felt certain now that no one would believe him if he told them anyway.
I hope you like meat, he heard her say.
He took a deep breath. I love meat, he said.
She gave him the address of her building, 12 avenue Montaigne. He was not allowed to see her, of course; she had not entertained a single visitor in years and she could not make an exception for him, he must understand. I understand fully, he said. There is only one image of you for me. This seemed to please her, and she told him to wait across the street till he saw a Chinese maid in a pink uniform come outside of the building with a bowl of pot-au-feu, in about an hour. He waited for three hours on avenue Montaigne, first across the street, along the odd-numbered side, and then when he was chased off by a doorman, on her even-numbered side, till he was chased off by another doorman, too.
Hiding in a phone booth down the street, he kept an eye out on the building till finally he saw a petite Asian girl come through the revolving door. She was in a pastel-pink uniform, just as Marlene had said, but she was not holding a bowl of stew. Slung over her shoulder was an expensive-looking coat, which appeared to be made from white fur. He could not tell if her face ought to be considered beautiful or ugly. Her single-lidded eyes made her look melancholic, or was it her thin but precise lips? He followed her at a distance as she walked down the street in white canvas shoes with a brisk stride. Was she unique, or was it just her juxtaposition against this environment?
Turning on the corner, she walked into a consignment store.
The Chinese girl went straight to the counter. Ibrahim stood behind a hat stand, twirling it slowly, looking at her through fedoras and boaters. She placed the coat carefully on the counter. The owner of the consignment store raised an eyebrow when she saw the designer label. She looked at the Chinese girl and shook her head.
Take this away, the shop owner said. The nerve!
The Chinese girl looked puzzled.
Whose coat did you slip off a rack when no one was looking?
No, the Chinese girl protested, a gift!
Thief, the woman said, get out of my shop before I call the police.
Ibrahim stepped out from behind the hat stand.
You have no right to talk to her like that, he said.
The shop owner looked stunned for a moment. Then she regained her composure and said: I knew it was bad news when you walked in one after the other, you’re in this together! What do you want? What do you want? I don’t keep big bills here!
Ibrahim swept the coat off the counter and put his arm around the girl’s shoulder, hightailing her toward the door. Come on, he said. When the shop owner saw that he was not armed, she turned to her telephone. I’d like to report a scam, she said. Two foreigners.
Ibrahim knocked over the hat stand. The shop owner screamed.
He took his time to pick up a trilby with a kingfisher-blue feather that had fallen to his feet, setting it on his head and turning to look at the Chinese girl full in the face. What had he thought he would find on her—surprise, fascination? She stared at him, blank and appraising, with no expression. The shop owner was giving the police her address.
Ibrahim bent to pick up a cream wool beret.
He arranged the beret on the Chinese girl’s head, as if to outflank her aloofness with comic timing. She did not stop him. Ibrahim opened the door for her with a flourish. She stepped through it, graceless but nimble, just as he would have liked her to. The shop owner slammed the phone down, charging out of her shop, and they began at the same time to run. He kept one hand on the trilby on his head and tried to take her hand with the other, but she shook him off. Afraid she could not keep up with his pace, he slowed down, but she sped up.
Running down the main thoroughfare, he spotted a movie house. Here, Ibrahim said. They’ll never think to look for us in here.
She followed him into the same compartment of the revolving door. What do you think you are doing, she turned to him in soft, disdainful French, out of breath. When he did not answer, she said: You are maker of problems.
He said: But what would life be without problems?
She stopped pushing through the revolving door to glare at him, making a scoffing sound at the back of her throat. The door stopped turning. Someone entered the partition behind, and they were conducted through the carousel, into the mirrored lobby. They caught sight of their reflection. Both of them
still had their hats on. Hers was askew. Very casually, she regarded herself in the mirror. Then she reached out, solemn and unsmiling, to rearrange the cream beret on her head as if it were completely natural that she should do so. She did not look at him. Ibrahim could not stop watching her. The coat was still over his arm. He held it out for her, and without hesitation she slid into it, one arm and then the other. The beret went perfectly.
The ticket lobby was quite empty.
Ibrahim went up to the box office to ask if there was a picture playing. A matinee had started fifteen minutes ago. Ibrahim paid for two tickets. She watched him with grim suspicion.
Popcorn? he asked.
What is popcorn? she said.
He should have liked to kiss the back of her hand.
Anna Karina has nothing on you, he said.
She said: Who is Anna Karina?
12
On weekdays, Bébé was a clockwork spring wound just tightly enough for the day, nothing more nothing less. Waking at five thirty cut it fine. The walk to the station was twenty minutes, and the commute from her dormitory to the Ministry just under two hours.
She reached the Ministry at eight.
Aside from the forty-five-minute lunch break, she worked steadily on her feet, scrubbing out toilet bowls, mopping floors, emptying bins, polishing mirrors, refilling liquid soap, hand towels, and toilet paper. Bébé was careful to ensure the floor was clean but never wet, lest a bureaucrat should slip in low heels. There were feedback cards attached to the two bathrooms she was in charge of, with a number to call if they were not found to be in tip-top condition. Bébé found this insulting. She would have done the best job she could even if there were no feedback cards and no one to call.
At six thirty her shift ended.
Long subway ride back, quick soap down in the dorm’s communal shower, take-out falafel or blanched noodles on the dirty stove in the kitchenette, stretching out exhausted on the bunk bed. Most of the women in the dorm were accredited Tunisian guest workers who worked in a textile factory in Saint Denis. At night, Bébé watched them lay down their prayer mats in the same direction, by the sides of their beds. They prayed, some saying the words, some singing beautifully, some with a scarf thrown over their heads, some in a full white shroud that exposed only the face. After prayers, they were garrulous or listless, painting their nails in bright colors or writing letters on onion-skin-thin paper, chatting or bickering, sleeping or singing, a prayer or a pop song Bébé could not tell which, but with them she felt safe.
On Saturdays, Bébé went for her French lessons at the immigrant activity center. She had been promoted to an intermediate course. Of late the pro bono human-rights lawyer had been encouraging her to enroll for a housekeeping diploma or a dressmaking course, whose cost the SCDS would subsidize. But I already know how to clean and to sew, Bébé said to the lawyer. The lawyer explained there would be more possible employment opportunities for her in the future, the more she upgraded her skills certifiably.
Sundays she kept house for the rich old woman.
She endeavored to do every small thing well: selecting the choicest blooms, collating receipts neatly although the old woman never asked to see them, and would round up whatever sum she quoted her to the nearest ten. Being sent out on errands around the well-kept streets of the 8th arrondissement had been Bébé’s favorite part of the week, but now on Sundays there was Ibrahim.
* * *
—
BEFORE IBRAHIM, BÉBÉ had never allowed herself to enjoy the city as she walked through it, because she thought it was painfully clear that she was not in Paris for leisure. She knew her place, and should act in accordance with that knowledge. She held her head highest when she was in her maid uniform. Because no one had to guess at who or what she was, she could be.
With Ibrahim, although people stared more at the two of them together, she felt at ease.
He took her to all the things in Paris she would have found embarrassing to go alone to, or perhaps even with another Chinese person. He took her to the base of the Eiffel Tower, though they did not pay to go up. He took her to the Nôtre Dame cathedral, and she asked him why the gargoyles were so ugly. He did not know why. She wanted to tell him that in China there were fierce stone lions outside of houses to scare away evil spirits. Life isn’t fair, she would have said if she had the words. Gargoyles must frown, but cherubs get to smile forever. He took her to the Marché aux Puces de St.-Ouen, where she was curious about bearskin rugs with the bear’s head still on, Christian tapestries, war medals. He took her to museums. She thought the Louvre was boring, but she was awed by the huge arched skylight windows of the Musée d’Orsay. When she finished browsing all the things on the walls of one of the halls, she circled back to Manet’s Olympia. I like this, she said to Ibrahim. What do you like about it? he asked. She looked at him as if he were asking a stupid question, and then she looked at the painting again. She turned to him. I like her face, she said.
* * *
—
IBRAHIM INVITED HER to a gig at his workplace one Friday night.
She had not understood what a gig was. He explained it to her.
Bébé showed up at La Java in her swan coat. She refused to give it up to the attendant at the coat check. Ibrahim met her at the counter and seated her at the bar. She soon saw that everyone was in jeans or short skirts, and she felt very silly. She grew embarrassed in her coat, which had a pelty odor she’d tried to hide in free perfume samples from the department store, but she was determined to carry it well. How exciting to be in the midst of a clutch of breezy, boozing Parisians who were all waiting for the performance to begin. When Ibrahim joined her, he passed her a Negroni he’d made. It was deep orange and she’d never tasted anything like it. Bittersweet, she said. He smiled at her and introduced her to Le Tigre. Ouah, Le Tigre said, this your chick? Just a friend, Ibrahim said. Don’t worry, love, Le Tigre turned to Bébé, he hasn’t brought anyone else here yet. Bébé turned quite red.
A woman with a deep voice and a guitar took to the stage.
Bébé understood little to nothing of the lyrics, a noun here, an adjective there, but she could tap her foot to the beat. Ibrahim slipped her a tiny pill in his palm. She looked to him. He showed her the one on his tongue, dissolving round its edges. She looked at him, unsure. Trust me, he said. Although she was not sure if she believed him, she was happy that he said that, and she put the pill in her mouth. Half an hour later all the lights in the room exploded into slow comet tails. The bass felt like it was coming from inside her body. Frissons, she kept saying, frissons. All the bass lines were flowing out of her chest. She took his hand and put his palm over her heart to let him feel just what she meant. He moved his hand away to her shoulder. She was feeling lighter than she had in years. When the gig was over, she climbed on a table. No one stopped her. They cheered her on. Soft hands braided her hair into two plaits. Someone arranged her arms in a Communist pose. Then they wanted to hear a Chinese revolutionary anthem. She sang for them in a clear alto 我的中国心. How many times had she parroted the song in school in Taishan without considering the words, following the vigorous melody blindly. Only in Paris could she begin to understand the words. Being alive was so often about this sort of foolishness. Why? The beautiful people were calling, Bravo.
Girl, someone shouted, make a baby with me!
A messy-haired man with a camera was pointing a camera at her.
Bébé tried to say to him, You have to ask before you take someone’s picture, but the words rolled around hopelessly like marbles in her mouth. She had to find a way to tell him, to tell them all the story that everyone back in her village knew: someone’s great-great-grandmother had died under a willow tree after a photograph was made of her for the first time.
But her words were too garbled, and it was too late. The messy-haired man was snapping away before Ibrahim went up to him and
pulled him away from her. Ibrahim put an arm around Bébé’s shoulder, and she knew that if he was near then everything would be all right.
* * *
—
WHAT BÉBÉ LIKED best about Ibrahim was this: Sometimes she would ask him something, or he would ask her something, and they would laugh or be quiet, for they both recognized there was no way to answer the question. Because they did not have nearly enough language between them, they could see so much more clearly where words were bound to fail. That did not stop them from listening to the question and thinking about the answer with care, each watching the other’s face even if nothing would be said out loud.
How did you end up in Paris? he asked.
Why do you have this—? she asked. (She did not know the word for scar.)
What does it feel like for a girl? he asked.
Is life really nothing without problems? she asked.
What was it like where you were from? he asked.
* * *
—
HOW ABOUT THE time she pushed a mulberry into her nostril by the river, and she couldn’t breathe? She stuck a finger in to try to get it out, but that only lodged the tiny fruit farther up, so she pinched her nose to squish it, blowing out magic purple pulp?
Or earlier—at the dump, poking around for scraps of cloth to fashion a doll with, unraveling a pink cloth swathed around a bundle. Seeing the baby girl within, quite freshly dead, she dropped it. For weeks she saw that tiny bluish face, the curly umbilical cord. Over and over she wished she’d been able to pretend it was just a rag doll so she could wrap it back up before she left, but it was too late.
Delayed Rays of a Star Page 26