Searching for Tina Turner (36 page)

“I’m on a mission.” She likes that he talks to her. Remembers when conversation between her and Kendrick came easily.

“What kind of mission?” He raps the cigarette pack in his breast pocket. This is a no-smoking car. Between the time Cheryl
bought the first pack of cigarettes and now she has smoked almost a pack herself. If it didn’t kill, she’d keep it up.

“I’m going to the Tina Turner concert.” Lena taps Tina’s autobiography. “And afterwards I’m going to walk right up to her
and ask her to autograph this.” Only Cheryl, Bobbie, and almost Lulu have heard her phrase her goal so bluntly. Even with
Harmon she’d beat around the bush. Lena fingers the disposable camera. If Lulu could see her now, she’d be thrilled.

f   f   f

“You’re doing what, Lena?” Lulu acted as if her daughter said that she was going to the moon to eat cheese.

When Lena explained that she and Cheryl were going to the south of France to see Tina Turner, nothing but the fact that her
daughter was traveling without a man shocked Lulu. “I would never do such a thing!”

“This is my life now, remember?” She held back tears so that Lulu wouldn’t worry. “I’ll be gone for a little over three weeks.”
She couldn’t bring herself to the whole truth, made it more Cheryl’s idea than hers. Didn’t want Lulu to toss negative vibes
her way. Doing her passive-aggressive “No you can’t, but you’ll sure do great” speech. So she left it at that and figured
she would tell Lulu when and if she ever found Tina Turner. Lulu never asked another question about the trip, but she bought
Lena eight packets of gum, chewable indigestion tablets, a small package of travel toilet paper, two disposable cameras, a
journal, and ten travel-sized packets of detergent.

f   f   f

Nice’s station resembles an open-air warehouse filled with trains and people moving in all directions at the same time. Men,
women, and children hurry to disembark or board before the trains depart. Overhead signs flash arrivals and departures in
military time: 19:00. There are no porters to assist passengers with luggage or directions or translations. Heaving her suitcase
onto its wheels, she winds her way through the crowd and down the stairway.

The domed buildings that face the station are older than those facing the sea. Waning daylight does nothing to daunt the crowds
milling in and around the station so late in the day. Still no black faces; no yellow or brown faces, either. That was the
fun of being in Paris. Of being with Harmon, Bruce, and Cheryl. They made their own community.

Lena waves her hand at a taxi when she reaches the short queue. There was a time when panic, fear of the unknown, would have
stiffened her arms and legs, held her tongue in place. Nice is familiar and comfortable. This is the gift, she knows, both
Harmon and Cheryl have given her: new perspective on her dream and understanding of the power of doing this alone. That she
could leave them and continue on her own makes her understand how far she’s come.

The cab driver asks where she is from. He digs America. New York is groovy and he has heard that all the women in California
are beautiful. He points to a small U.S. flag pasted on the inside of his sun visor where a mirror should be. His heavily
accented conversation is full of slang. “Radical.” The driver makes it sound like three separate words. Rah. Dee. Call. “I
must be slick with the flag, ya know. Many French people don’t like zuh U.S. these days.”

He adjusts the rearview mirror so that she can see his smiling eyes and tells her she is a beautiful, sexy American black.
“I could make passionate love with you.” He says, even as his wedding band gleams in the lights, that he would be more than
happy to show her the wonderful clubs in Nice that play the wonderful American jazz.

“Not interested. Just take me straight to the Hotel de la Mer. Now.”

f   f   f

“Be careful, madame, these steps are a bit awkward. You must take them one step at a time.” The bellman lugs Lena’s bag up
a short flight of stairs. John Henry used to say that: take one step at a time.

Funny, she thinks, her father would come into her thoughts now as time beats its rhythm against her shoulder. Two days to
Tina. Saturday mornings she loved to watch John Henry lather menthol foam over his chin and cheeks. Like a trumpet-less Dizzy
Gillespie, her father puffed his cheeks, dragged his metal razor across his smooth skin, and took his time answering Lena’s
questions. John Henry would smile. “One step at a time, baby girl. One step at a time.”

The hotel room is as big as the first one she shared with Cheryl. Lena splurged on accommodations, and while the room is by
no means the four- or five-star space she would have if Randall—or Harmon, as he’d proved in Paris—had been around, it is
just what she hoped for. Cozy.

Lena reaches for the phone while she calculates the six-hour time difference. Bobbie answers after four rings, her voice alert.

“Bobbie, somewhere outside my hotel the sun hasn’t set, the Mediterranean is a color you can’t imagine, and there are palm
trees swaying over pebbled beaches.” A sliding-glass door opens onto a small porch and the rocky side of a vine-covered hill.
There isn’t a view, but in the morning there will be light and possibly the distant crash of waves. She plops onto the middle
of the queen-sized bed, tests the firm mattress with her hand, and settles against the four fluffy pillows at the head of
the bed.

“I don’t need poetry at this time of the morning. Why the hell haven’t I heard from you in two weeks? Don’t tell me you got
laid.”

“Did that and more.” Lena holds the phone away from her ear to keep Bobbie’s scream from harming her eardrum and describes
the last two weeks. She cannot believe them herself.

“Accept it as the gift it is. Fate.”

“Harmon said that, too.”

“And how about Randall? You still thinking of him? I know you are.”

Lena recounts Randall’s visit to Paris, the dinner, and his provocative invitation. Bobbie screams into Lena’s ear again,
when she tells him she kept the expensive bracelet he bought for her. Without bothering to control her glee, her satisfaction,
Lena describes what his face must have looked like—or better yet, the shade of red it must have turned when he read her message.

“I’m learning not to let anyone divert me from my course.”

“I could have told you that.”

“I couldn’t have done it without Tina. I couldn’t have done it without you. I hope, one day, to do the same for you.”

“Must be the guilt for all those years I beat up on you.” Bobbie’s laugh is loud on the other end of the phone. In the background,
a woman’s voice, Lulu’s voice, asks Bobbie who is on the phone.

“Is that Lulu?”

“Surprise! I’m in California. Been here over a week. Don’t ask. Don’t lecture. She had a doctor’s appointment.” Bobbie mumbles
into the phone, but Lena is unable to understand what her sister is saying. Bobbie’s voice resumes its normal tone. “Pass
me that sponge.”

“What are you doing? What time is it there?”

“Perfect timing. We’re cleaning the bathroom.”

“What!” Lena shouts.

“I’m standing in the tub, washing it down. I’m practically naked, and I don’t have time to talk because Lulu has a list of
things for me to do.”

“That’s not true, Bobbie,” Lulu shouts. “I don’t have a list. Besides, your sister doesn’t clean as well as you, Lena!”

“I’ll call you later,” Bobbie says. Lena loves her sister and is glad that for once she is around to take on some of the more
tedious tasks in their mother’s life.

“You okay?”

“I can think of better things to do.”

“Does Lulu need anything? And why
are
you practically naked?” Lena asks. The idea of her sister standing in her underwear in their mother’s tub has just hit her.
Bobbie hated undressing in front of anyone when she was young.

“Because the tub is
dirty
, Lena. The shower stall is
dirty
, the tile is
dirty
,” Bobbie snaps.

“It’s not that bad,” Lulu shouts again.

“Because,” Bobbie continues, “I don’t want to get my clothes wet. Because Lulu has a hard time bending over to clean the tub.”

“I just wanted to say a quick hi before I grab a bite to eat.”

“Hi,” Bobbie snaps. “Just call me when you find Tina.”

“Definitely. But I have something else I’ve got to do first.”

f   f   f

Chez Gérard, a restaurant the clerk at the front desk recommended, is not far from the hotel. The weather report predicted
the rain typical for this early in October. Yet, this evening the air is dry, the wind brisk, and the streets bustle with
motorcycles, cars, and people.

Lena heads for the bar and waits for one of the two men behind it to take her order. The bartender is friendly, fluent in
English, and, she thinks, barely twenty-one.

“A kir royale, s’il vous plaît. With a lime twist.” She asks his name, and he tells her: Armand. The restaurant is crowded.
Three couples sit snuggled close at the bar. A woman reading a magazine sits alone two stools over from Lena. The overhead
fixtures cast glowing cones of light over every stool.

“I am studying to be a teacher of the English language,” he says, passing Lena a bowl of green olives. Armand leans onto the
counter and flashes a smile. His biceps are taut, and she can see through his long-sleeved shirt that they are bigger than
her neck. Lena laughs. This man is barely older than Kendrick.

“I’m so thankful to hear English,” says the woman two stools over. Her accent is distinctly British. “Armand is the only reason
I come here.” The woman points to Armand and titters delicately into her cupped palm. “He keeps an eye on me, makes sure I
don’t get hassled. I secretly lust for him.”

“Looking is all I can handle right now,” Lena says. The two fall into easy conversation, first about the magazine the woman,
Margery, reads, then about her life. She is fluent in French and is writing a torrid novel in that language about her ex-husband,
his lousy attitude, and his new home in the English countryside. She came to Nice to escape him and the gossip that surrounded
their divorce and the homely woman he chose to replace her. Lena muffles a laugh with her hand—as sweet as she is, some might
call Margery homely, too.

“And what, may I ask, brings you to this part of France?” Margery grins. “Or to this bar. You’re really quite lovely. All
alone are you?”

“Alone. By choice.” She holds her hand up. The American gesture is foreign to Margery. Lena explains its meaning and shows
Margery all the different ways to slap high five: high to low, low to high, and more. “I’m not a good writer,” Lena explains.
Pictures would be her way of telling her ex-husband’s story. Pictures that showed the shock on his face when he understood
that she would not be returning the expensive bracelet he bought for her. Pictures of him cursing as he read her last text
message.

“Join us,” Lena says to a tall, imposing man eyeing the stool between her and Margery. His suit is crumpled, his receding
hairline uneven. He orders in French with a German accent. Once Armand places his food in front of him, he slices his plate-sized
pizza into bite-sized chunks. “Allow me to buy the both of you another drink.”

“Either you haven’t eaten all day or that pizza is tastier than it looks,” she says.

“Both,” he says through his full mouth.

“Do you come here a lot?” Lena flushes at what sounds like flirting. “I’m not trying to pick you up; I’m practicing good conversation…
I mean, do you eat here often?”

The man looks Lena up and down, hinting that picking him up might not be a bad idea. “The bar is comfortable for a good quick
meal. Very few Americans come here.”

“But”—another British woman one stool over offers her opinion—“the pizza is good. The tarte citron is better.”

The man stuffs more pizza into his mouth, which Lena takes as his endorsement. He pushes away his plate and nurses his beer.
“I enjoy this place. I come here at least once or twice a week.” He points to his waistline. “I’d come more often, but since
all I ever eat is the pizza my waistline would be bigger than it already is if I ate here more often.”

Armand stops in front of Lena, leaning against the bar. His lips are thick and moist. “I might do that,” she says to his grinning
face. “Come here more often, that is.”

“I am here from Wednesday to Sunday.” He smiles again, exposing even, white teeth.

“Bonsoir,” she says to Armand, Margery, and the German man whose name she forgot to ask.

f   f   f

It would be nice to have someone to tell that she stepped out on her own. “Hello, stars. Hello, moon. I did it!” Lena sticks
the earplugs of her MP3 player in her ears, zips her jacket, and heads back to her hotel. Tina’s “Open Arms” comes in right
on cue:

Whatever life throws at you

Your friend is here

Lena smiles at the thought of Cheryl and the image of the old guy, the eavesdropper, from the Magical Café. Although she’s
sure that this evening is not the context of his comment, he was right: timing is everything.

T
his time around, Villefranche-sur-Mer looks as if someone took a giant ice cream scoop out of the hillside and allowed buildings
to replace what nature used to cover. Hotels and homes with terraces offer their owners views of the Mediterranean and the
yachts docked in the harbor.

The main street is full of boutiques. Lena tries to put herself in Tina’s head. Does she need new clothes or sexy underwear
or porcelain platters to place on her tables or counters? If she were a famous and easily recognizable person, Lena would
send bodyguards or personal shoppers to scan the boutiques before entering to browse. Or perhaps Tina might enjoy the adoration
of her fans. Or perhaps she may roam unnoticed, like Lena. She studies faces for a hint of brown to see if Tina is hidden
beneath a scarf or visor and follows a petite woman with a full head of hair and shapely legs. The woman, green eyed and tanned
face, turns around when Lena calls out “Miss Turner?” and glares.