Graduates in Wonderland (14 page)

I've made my decision, though, and I know that part of this fresh start has to be a refusal to dwell on things. So, moving on.

I'm heading to Wisconsin for a while to work on my French in a rent-­free environment before flying to Paris. Rosabelle and Buster are both getting ready to move to Argentina for a year, so we're all moving out soon. We drank champagne for hours yesterday evening celebrating our impending departure. The highlight was Rosabelle lying faceup, spread-­eagle on the floor. “I loved this apartment! Why do we have to let it go? We had to search
so hard
for you, little apartment!”

One month left to go here, but New York has already started to feel like a memory: walking in flip-­flops down brownstone-­lined streets, working in a white air-­conditioned space with film images flickering on the Chelsea gallery walls, riding in a 1930s elevator at the nonprofit, smoking in the midday heat, sitting on rocks by the East River at sunset.

All my love,

Meant for Other Things

MAY 8

Jess to Rachel

Last night Astrid and I stayed out really late and ended up at our favorite all-­night duck restaurant, which we used to eat at all the time before we moved into separate apartments. While we were there, I was thinking about how great it was that finally we had our favorite go-­to places when Astrid told me that she's ready to leave Beijing.

She said she wants to return to the United States for law school. She's tired of the language barrier, of not understanding most of what's going on around her, of feeling slightly adrift. She kept repeating that she's ready to return to real life. I don't feel any of these things. For me, this is real life. Life back in the States—­that's what's imaginary to me now.

I can't fathom leaving Beijing after having worked so hard to begin a life here. Because Astrid and I came here together, it feels like if she leaves, I'm truly choosing Beijing, and this spur-­of-­the-­moment decision suddenly becomes a real life choice. And as Astrid wraps up her life here, I'm finally realizing that this is a finite experience: At some point it will end for me too. I wonder what's going to eventually pull me away from China.

Since I'm now fully committed to staying, I have resumed Mandarin lessons during my lunch break with a girl about our age named Karen. She gave me my Chinese name: Jie Si Ke. (I know that this looks kind of like my American name, but actually, using Chinese tones two, four, and three, it sounds like
Gee-­eh suh kaaaah.)
Karen is thrilled that I am attracted to Chinese men—­so many Chinese-­American women claim they aren't. I want to shake Chinese girls who say this and yell, “How can you say shit like that? If your mom had thought that, you would not have been born!”

Karen often invites me to dinner with her and her boyfriend, and each time there is a new bachelor waiting for me. Seriously. So far there's been an American, a German, and last week, a Chinese guy who is in the military. I haven't actually been on any dates with them, but sometimes the Chinese army guy and I text in rudimentary Mandarin. I don't think our exchanges about my favorite fruit are building the foundation of a romance, but even so, a Chinese coworker informed me that if I date him, we have to register our relationship with the government because he is in the army. Also, he's actually forbidden to marry a foreigner.

What? Sometimes I forget what a strange place China is and then I realize YouTube and Facebook are blocked on the Internet and the thought enters my mind that the Chinese government is reading these very e-mails.

I'm also beginning to really question how the skills I use on a regular basis will ever be applicable to any other job, even though I do enjoy working at the magazine. You know what I've learned so far this month? If you want to get into shape after pregnancy, don't torture yourself by Google image searching “Gwyneth Paltrow.” Also, kids love pandas.

Sometimes on deadline I stay late, sitting with our non-­English-­speaking Chinese designer, Echo (self-­named). She and I have reverted to pictographs to communicate, in which I draw elaborate layouts involving stick children and boxes for text. We argue heatedly about colors and fonts and then she gives me a big fake smile at the end of the conversation and says she'll take care of it.

Victoria and I have a running joke about how we are afraid that Echo is going to smother us in our sleep.

In an eerily uncanny coincidence, Victoria has just sent me an e-mail telling me she “wants to talk to me in private” after we put this issue to bed. This is terrifying. What does she want?

Maybe she wants me to stop spending work hours writing to you?

I can't believe you're really leaving New York. Everyone is on the move. I remember sleeping on your couch in that apartment before I flew to Beijing—­and now as you leave, Astrid's headed back to the United States.

Love,

Jie Si Ke

P.S. My passport arrived with a new visa pasted inside. It says I got it in Mongolia. If anybody asks, that's where I was last month. I mean, that's where I was last month.

MAY 25

Rachel to Jess

Big news. I never thought I'd be writing a sentence like this to you, but a few days ago I opened my mailbox and there was a check from an insurance company for ten thousand dollars.

I have to open mail now by kind of clawing at it while using my teeth, so it was all wrinkly and a little wet, but there it was. At first I thought it was one of those Publishers Clearing House–type things, like, in tiny type, “enter to win” and then, enormously, “$10,000!” But when I thought it over, I realized it was from the pickup truck guy's insurance company, and part of the check had already been signed over to my lawyer's firm.

But I was still so confused about why I had this check. At first I thought it was for my medical bills, but I looked through them and they were all paid in full. Then I thought maybe it was some kind of trap, like if I accepted this check, it would only turn out to be worth one cent because there was a decimal place error.

So I called my lawyer and asked him if it was hush money.

Long story short, he's been negotiating with them for “pain and suffering” money on my behalf, and this escaped me in my Vicodin haze. He has been e-mailing me ever since, but my e-mail filtered them into the spam folder.

So that's how I endorsed an insurance check today for ten thousand dollars. I keep looking at my bank balance and blinking hard. The legal fight, such as it was, was quick and painless, except for the scars on my face and legs and my hand brace.

It's kind of unbelievable that this is how things turned out. It seems like my time in New York was created to let me experience every possible human emotion, from the very worst to the very best. Depressive episodes on the subway, unrequited crushes in Fort Greene, bleeding on the street, healing in the springtime. Now I'm ready to move on.

Even though I'm starting something new, I'm glad that you'll still be in China. I like to imagine you waking up in Beijing, on your way to work in the busy, chaotic city as I start unpacking my belongings looking out over my new quiet courtyard in Paris.

Paris and a full bank account. I feel rich. Blessed. Broken. Zsa Zsa Gabor? Elizabeth Taylor?

Okay, okay—­truthfully, I thanked the universe, but I did not tell Claudia this. She told me not to blame the universe—­but can't I thank it for gifts?

Meanwhile, it's warm here today just as June finally approaches. I'm sitting in our living room full of boxes, writing this. It feels like you've been in New York with me. In case you were wondering, you live inside my computer, where you emerge with messages from time to time.

Tuesday was my last day at work. Sally and I spent the day secretly sipping a bottle of cheap white wine, and then went out to a diner. Sally's one of those New Yorkers who wasn't born here but will never ever leave. Like the guy who calls me Dimples, or the French girl who works at my coffee shop. For some reason, I find this very comforting.

Yesterday was also my last day with Claudia. I'll admit it: I cried. She was like, “You are ready! Go forth into the world! Go do amazing things, it is time!” And instead of my usual extended internal monologue, I just thought: “Well, maybe it is.”

I'm going to miss Rosabelle a lot, but not her insane cleanliness standards. I know that the second I live somewhere without her, I will immediately get mice. I'm okay with that, as long as I don't have to clean the stovetop fourteen times a day.

But it's going to be weird to be without her. I'm going to leave my best friend in New York, who sat with me in the emergency room and in tiki bars, baked countless cookies, and walked with me in Fort Greene Park. Rosabelle will always be New York for me.

Buster went back to Chicago before meeting Rosabelle in Argentina next week. Here is what our good-­bye looked like:

Me: So, uh, see you later, Buster.

Buster: Yeah, um. Bye.

That was my easiest good-­bye. It's strange—­I am suddenly sad to leave this great city, but then again, if someone said, “Oh, you love New York now? Here's an opportunity to stay here for two more years!” I would swim across the ocean to Paris rather than accept their offer.

Like so many of the other women here, I arrived thinking I was exceptional in that moderately precocious, moderately well-­educated, moderately good-­looking way, and was immediately swept under the rug. New York is full of girls like me, being ignored and full of rage and confusion about why.

But once you get over yourself, it is a place full of chance and surprise. You simply have to take your ego out of the equation.

I can't believe I won't be coming back here.

So now, ten thousand dollars richer and with all my belongings in boxes, I am ready for Paris and ready to immerse myself in film. Also, I'm starting to think that money is the first thing a writer needs. Maybe the
only
thing a writer needs.

Before I head to Paris, I'm reverting back to the college years and taking summer break in Milwaukee just like the old days.

And yet everything is starting now....I can feel it.

Love,

Rach

MAY 26

Jess to Rachel

First of all, writers are notoriously broke! Haven't you ever read Hemingway or George Orwell or Charles Bukowski or ANYTHING EVER? And second of all, that money—­Jesus Christ, that is a lot of money to suddenly get! Although if you go off of those writers' precedents, you are going to definitely spend all of that money on booze and women and possibly horse races.

That's really exciting, though! I know it's money for damages, but I feel like saying congratulations! So, congrats! Did you know that now you could buy six thousand bowls of Chinese noodles?

Well, you're leaving New York and it's Astrid's final week in Beijing. Last night she threw an over-­the-­top going-­away party in a Chinese courtyard with an open piano where our friends played songs for her. She wore a long, flowing green dress and fluttered from group to group.

At around 3 
A.M
., we snuck off alone to revisit the old tables where we used to sit with Maxwell before he left. We laughed a lot, but it was also sad. I think in the past Astrid would have tried to make me come back to the United States with her, but she now understands that I need to stay in China. For the first time in our relationship, I don't know when I'm going to see her again.

All I know is that I'm definitely staying here for a little longer. Last week, I finally had my dreaded mystery meeting with Victoria. We went for dim sum, and she told me that she was quitting the magazine.

My first reaction was to feel sad, and then abandoned. As in, how could you do this to us? We were just getting to be good friends and we both cared about our little family magazine so much and now she's leaving it and me? I felt sad to lose her, although her decision has nothing to do with me. She wants to move back to New York—­is there a rule that when one New Yorker leaves, another one has to take her place?

During our lunch, I was so distracted by all of the above feelings that it didn't even occur to me what this meant. She finally had to spell it out.

“So, do you want my job?”

I was surprised—­but it's finally sinking in. Do I want to be the managing editor and have final say on every decision regarding the magazine? Do I want a pay raise? Do I want to drink coffee out of a mug that says “Boss”?

You know I do. She leaves in two weeks, and I'll be taking her job, if upper management allows.

Suddenly, without Astrid here and with the news of Victoria's departure, I really feel like I'm on this adventure alone now. It's exciting but it's also starting to feel increasingly lonely.

You'll be home by the time you read this. You better write me, because we have important things to cover before you leave for France. For instance, can you arrange a stopover in Beijing en route to Paris and perhaps during this stopover, bring me a bra from America that fits? Every single one here is so tight that it doubles as a corset.

Keep me posted.

All my love,

Jess

Three Months Later

SEPTEMBER 7

Rachel to Jess

I'M IN PARIS!!!!!

I'm in Paris. I keep saying this to myself. Not out loud, though. It still feels like a strange dream. I'm writing this from a café around the corner from my house and am surrounded by retired men smoking heavy cigars. They are the only people around in the middle of an afternoon on a Tuesday.

In the cab from the airport to the city, I stared out the window: first at naked women on billboards, and then at the open-­air markets, before reaching a grand boulevard with lots of identical white mansions. Finally, my driver pulled up to my building, on a street so narrow that cars park halfway up the sidewalk. My landlady had left a key for me under the mat, and I giddily sprinted through a courtyard to see my studio apartment. The floors are wooden and there's a bed on a loft upstairs. It's just beneath the eaves, so I have to duck to get into it. I flopped down on the bed and stared at the angled ceiling that was one foot from my face. Then, I immediately started sneezing, so I suspect a cat used to live here, but I don't care. I am in Paris. I am not in my nursery in New York anymore.

The downstairs has huge windows that open out onto the courtyard. Initially, I loved this, but actually it means that my neighbors can see directly into my apartment. Unless I'm sitting at the small desk in the tiny loft, everyone can see me eating cereal in my underwear. Yesterday, I was repeatedly trying to shove my giant suitcase into a small closest and eventually resorted to kicking it as hard as I could when I looked up to see a French couple peering in from the courtyard.

Even though, like New York, Paris has loud traffic and filthy streets, there are also little neighborhoods that are quiet and residential pockets tucked away down little streets right next to huge monuments like the Bastille. I can't hear any street noise from my apartment, just the footfalls of my neighbors and their light bickering (but since it is in French, they still seem charming). Every day, I walk by a little old lady in my courtyard who always seems to be pruning her tomato plant.

I live in the Marais, which is on the Right Bank of the Seine. The older buildings in the Marais are built with beige-­gold brick, and have huge ancient windows. Down the main street near my house, there are cafés with awnings—­it's true, just like the Parisian stereotypes—­as well as bakeries. Oh my God, the bakeries! I'm trying to limit myself to one almond croissant per day, but resistance is futile.

Right now it just started drizzling and the Frenchmen at the café are glaring up at the sky and the waiter is glaring at me. My impression that I could order one latte and stay at a café writing all day was disproven yesterday when, after half an hour, a waiter walked by and slipped the bill on my table. When I paid, he took away my coffee, my spoon, the sugar, and my tablecloth. So much for Hemingway, who made it seem in his stories like you could sit here forever and not be bothered.

Now everybody is darting around with their umbrellas and it reminds me so much of an Impressionist painting. Are you rolling your eyes right now? But it does!

Soon, I'll be taking cinema classes with a group of about a hundred other students, mostly French students. You know the stereotype of French people being aloof? Now imagine French graduate students studying film. I'm a little anxious about it. I still have a few more ­Xanax left from my time in New York. I don't know yet if I will need them, but it's comforting to know I have them in case of a panic ­attack.

Today I went to an appointment with my new research advisor for my film program at the Sorbonne. Except I showed up forty-­five minutes late; I'm still so confused about Paris's curvy streets and metro strikes. My supervisor, Pierre, has a very French manner: He keeps a totally stone-­cold face even while listening to jokes, and laughs only after you are finished.

I haven't had a conversation in French in years, unless you count my French exam, and in front of Pierre, I rambled on and on in broken French, trying to get a read on him until I trailed off into a spiral of misconjugated verbs. Finally, he sits up and responds after I've managed to stop myself from talking.

“Rachelle, the first thing you have to know about French academia is that you are the only one worried about your thesis in August, more than a year before it's due.

“The second thing you need to know is that you are in France. Relax a little.”

Then Pierre rather bluntly suggested that I work on my French. Agreed.

We then discussed the parameters of my project, which are not coincidentally also reflected in my life: the haunting of the younger self, or “the younger double.” That is, when in a film a character comes face-­to-­face with him-­ or herself as a child.

If I came face-­to-­face with myself as a child, this is what I would say: “Rachel, start working on your French
now
. And a hard-­on is not a kind of hammer, so stop pretending that you know what it is at slumber parties. Also, invent Facebook.”

I thought about this on the walk home, among other things. My younger self did always love Paris. While walking past the ruins of a medieval church, I realized that I'd anticipated finally arriving in Paris for so long and, now that I'm here, I feel deliriously happy but also a little lonely. This city must be shared! Come and explore Paris with me! We will discover Chinese-­French restaurants and I will show you where
Sabrina
took place, and we will drink sweet minty tea at Middle Eastern cafés.

I know so much is going to happen here, but I don't know how. It feels like Paris is full of so many adventures just waiting to be had.

For now, I'm waiting for the rain to stop before I venture out again.

Love,

Rachelle

SEPTEMBER 12

Jess to Rachel

WHERE ARE YOU NOW

I THINK I AM DERHIKNKER THAN I HEVE EHVER BEEN

SPANSH BAR PARYT

I JUST KISSED A 41-­YEAR-­ODL. DANIEL CRAIG! DANEIL CRAG!

OH GOD. OH GOD. MY HEAD. ACHES. GOING TO GO THROW UP. SERIOUSLY GOING TO [PUKEKWJFS. I HEVER DRIVE THINK MUCH!

THIS IS WHAT I REMEMBER ABOUT PARIS:

SMELLS LIKE URINE

XOX

SEPTEMBER 12

Later that day

Rachel to Jess

JESS!

When he was our age, we were five. Hahaha.

More details, fewer capital letters, please.

R

SEPTEMBER 13

Jess to Rachel

Oh God. Oh God. Why? Why. So hungover.

My hangover is infinitely worse because I live in a country where you can't drink the tap water. Just lying in bed, thirsty, licking my parched lips, dreaming of water, trying to will water to appear in my bedroom. I finally dragged myself out of bed to run into a corner shop and bought three gallons of bottled water. And a box of cookies. And something called Pejoy, which are sweet, crunchy breadsticks covered in dark chocolate mousse.

Whatever, you'd like it.

I get drunk so rarely these days and this is why. THIS IS WHY.

And it was sangria. I got that drunk on sangria.

Here is what I remember.

I met this guy at a Spanish bar with Victoria because all of my other friends were at a party I was not invited to: George's housewarming. I remember talking to a Canadian expat who told me that I “spoke English surprisingly good for a Chinese girl.” Then he asked how long had I been studying English. As I was replying, “I'm an American,
jackass,
” a man, who'd overheard the exchange, interrupted. In an English accent he said, “No, but how
does
a Yankee speak English so well?”

And that's how I met Ray. I get to say he looks like Daniel Craig, because I secretly thought it while we were talking and then Victoria grabbed my arm and whispered into my ear, “What's with James Bond?” Vindicated.

I just remember finding out his age and being surprised. I've never dated outside my age group before and it confuses me to be attracted to somebody who was born when the Beatles were still together. He was born before the first moon landing. And he was
ten
when Post-­its were invented. Of course, I only know this because I figured out what year he was born (1967) and have been trying to put that into context.

We continued arguing about inconsequential things. I remember feeling my face and body turn bright red from the alcohol and after a particularly heated debate about who spoke Chinese better, I remember shouting, “I'll call you when I'm forty!” as I went off in search of more sangria.

Remember how you once told a group of people we'd just met that you wished you could follow me around, apologizing for all the tactless things I say? I really wished you had been there to do that.

I pushed my luck and made another joke about Ray being old. Then he found out I worked for a family expat magazine.

Ray: “See, you're such a baby that you only report on babies.” I couldn't come up with a good rebuttal. While lying in bed just now, I came up with a great one. Here it is:

“Go pick on someone your own age.” Right? Right?

So there.

Anyway, he's English. Why do Englishmen have so much sway over me? It's not just the stupid accent...is it? I hope I am not this vapid. Evidence seems to support this theory, though, despite the huge differences in personality among them. Why do I have a feeling they have ruined me for all other men?

But Ray's the complete opposite of George. If George was a hilarious, sweet schoolboy who has a few more years of growing up to do, then Ray is a sexy man who smells like aftershave and is also kind of mean. He is probably also the guy who used to pick on the Georges of the world. He always seems to be sort of leaning back with a satisfied expression on his face.

At 2 
A.M
., the bar began to empty, and when I stepped into the bathroom I saw that my skin had become even more fiery red from the alcohol and my eyes were bloodshot. Not a good look.

I waved good-­bye to Victoria, but when I headed out into the street to hail a cab, Ray appeared from nowhere, grabbed me back, pulled me toward him, and kissed me. Then he placed his card into my coat pocket and said, “I'll see you next weekend.”

Only older men have the confidence to be this aggressive. I hate that it's working. But it's working.

After my physical ambivalence toward George, the electricity I felt with Ray was all the more potent.

Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, and George Clooney are all older than forty.

Rach, what do I do, what do I do? Is this completely pointless?

But I must not think about this now. Tomorrow begins a busy week at the magazine before we go to print. It is also Victoria's last week and I need to hire my replacement since I am officially taking her job as managing editor. I sifted through a stack of applications, but it feels strange to be in charge of someone else's future. Especially when I'm nursing a hangover.

I just checked and right now, it's evening in Paris. I imagine tree-­lined streets and accordion music. I imagine girls wearing scarves, sitting with their long legs crossed over each other, rows of high heels and red lipstick. They drink wine with pursed lips and say things like, “
Sacre bleu!
” I want to be sitting there with you! I want to visit you so much—­I have a feeling that Beijing and Paris are complete opposites in many ways.

Right now, I can see flocks of Chinese women also carrying umbrellas, even though it's sunny and hot. Chinese women want their skin as white as possible. Whereas Westerners lie in any patch of sunlight they can find, Asian women run from it like vampires fleeing their imminent death.

Which is exactly what I did when I stepped into the bright light this morning.

Love,

Jess

P.S. Just remembered best part of Beijing. McDonald's delivers here. I could have gorged on a delicious mixture of fat and preservatives to restore my sad hungover body, rather than stale chocolate breadsticks. Does Paris have this wonderful service??

P.P.S. Oh God—­the Big Mac was invented the year Ray was born.

SEPTEMBER 18

Rachel to Jess

What, did you just Google “people in their early forties”? And then “things that were invented in 1967”? You don't need water. You need to close your computer and get out of your apartment!

First of all, it's very French to have an older lover (think of
Le Divorce
), so it's like you're actually being very Parisian in Beijing. No French maître d' ever makes the American mistake of asking, “And what will your daughter be having, sir?” They always err on the side of assuming that it is a May-­December romance.

I know I can't stop you from pursuing something that's already begun in your mind, but my advice is to tread carefully. It's suspicious that a good-­looking, witty, employed older man is single, isn't it? Or am I just being too cynical? What's happening with Ray now?

I've officially begun my film studies program here. But I did not get off to a very good start. The first class I went to was an exercise in humiliation. The professor looks around the room, crammed full of students.

Professor (in French) says, “No, no, no. No. Maximum of ten people in this class. There must be fifty of you here. I shall decide who belongs. Please state your name and what you think
the plasticity of cinema
means, and how it applies to your proposed thesis subject.”

She turns to me, front and center. “Go on, mademoiselle.”

At this point, I was still processing the sentence containing “maximum of ten people.” What I said is untranslatable, but roughly, it went something like this:

“Me? Oh. Oh no, sorry, is hard. Plasticity...quality of plastic. Form. My thesis is un-­in-­determinable?” At this point, I was trying to think of the conjugation of “is” into “will be” and was totally stumped, as I felt fifty pairs of French eyes on me.