Hungry Woman in Paris (30 page)

I knocked on Henry’s door, hoping I was not so drunk that I was bothering his neighbor. He opened the door wearing an apron
and nothing else. When I walked in he had his small table set up for dinner. He made me sit and put a chef’s hat on my head.
Henry had cooked for me. He had prepared duck
à l’orange
and made
macarons
from scratch. I must have been drunk, because I started to cry. Henry put his hands on my face.

“Why are you crying, silly girl?” he said with his cute little accent. I was so embarrassed to admit to him that I was so
touched because this was the first time someone had acknowledged an accomplishment by making me dinner. When I told him he
didn’t believe me.

“You’re joking,” he said, dismissing my claim. I insisted that it was true.

“What about Chef Sauber? He cooked for you,” he said, pouring the sauce on my duck.

I turned to him. “How did you hear… ?”

“Little Henry knows everything because he has many ears and many mouths and many tongues,” he said. I took a bite of the duck
and complimented Henry, trying to change the subject.

“What about Mohammed—did he make couscous for you?” Henry continued.

“Did you keep track of all my lovers?” I asked.

“I don’t need to; I already know you’re my kind of girl,” he replied.

“And what kind of girl is that?”

“One with an appetite.” He poured red wine and I tried to stop him because I had already had too many glasses of champagne.

“Come now, this is a celebration, Miss Canela. Let me make a fuss, my little gourmand,” he insisted until I decided, Why not?
I’m already going to hell.

“You should do a
stage,
Canela,” Henry suggested.

“Henry, I have no money. I maxed out my credit cards and spent all my savings and I don’t have rich relatives,” I went on.

“Maybe I can get you a
stage
where they actually pay you—not a lot, but enough to get by until you can prove yourself or get a better job. Would you consider
staying if I got you a job?”

“Hmmm… I don’t know… Maybe… But I’m not a good cook.”

“Of course you are. Now you’re a perfectionist, but you can cook. I know you can. Your sauce and stuffing today were delicious,
actually.”

“Honestly?” I looked up to see how sincere he was being. He knew he didn’t have to lie to get sex from me.

“Canela, you have the talent to be a chef, and a good one. Now it’s up to you to decide whether you want to work to be a great
one.” Henry’s voice was so sincere, I had to turn away so he wouldn’t see me blushing.

“Maybe I could work at a Mexican restaurant… ,” I said, imagining myself working at a Tex-Mex restaurant, since that’s
mostly what they had in Paris. I could actually see myself in a kitchen, speaking Spanish and slinging tortillas onto plates.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe I could do that for a while until I got a job as a writer for an American newspaper or
found a way to write for a tourist paper in English.

“You know, I might know some people. I’ll make some calls,” Henry said, bringing me back to reality.

“Henry, I have to decide tomorrow what I am going to do,” I said.

“Fair enough. Give me a day to change your mind,” he requested. I was so drunk I think I fell asleep at the dining table.

“Canela, get up. I have something to show you,” Henry said, waking me up in the middle of the night. I woke up hoping it wasn’t
an erection he was talking about. “Look at the moon.” He pointed through the window. It was a full moon looking perfectly
beautiful, with the Mona Lisa smiling in it.

“It’s a lovers’ moon. We have to go make love under it and all our dreams will come true,” Henry exclaimed like Peter Pan.
We put on trench coats quickly and went to Pont Neuf to kiss under the moon. He put his hands through my trench coat and caressed
my naked body. My nipples were already hard from the cold. We kissed as a large boat passed under the bridge. We leaned in
to watch another small boat pass by. Henry got behind me and lifted my trench coat. He penetrated me and I laughed when my
derriere was exposed to the cold.

“You like it?” Henry asked, not sure if I was laughing at him.

“I love it,” I said, half-giggling. We stared up at the moon, her light massaging our skin, kissing us with her rays of light.

“The moon loves Paris more than any other city in the world,” Henry bragged. “So many poems written to her and lovers making
love to her, she always comes to Paris dressed like a queen.” Henry said all this in between loud breaths and humps.

“It’s the same moon I made love to back in Los Angeles,” I interjected, not convinced that his romantic observations had been
authentically inspired by me. For all I knew this was his routine, his M.O. every full moon. The moon was the same, but never
the woman, you know. Oh God, I’m so jaded. How many women would kill to be in this same position, pun intended?

“Ah, but Paris to the moon is the shortest ride. You can go there at the same time you French-kiss,” he said, kissing me,
then dying in my arms. Minutes later Henry recovered from la petite mort and we headed back to his apartment just as the sun
was rising.

Henry stopped at a farmers’ market and picked out fresh fruit and vegetables, fish, and a baguette. I was surprised to find
mangoes out of season and all sorts of tiny fruit I had never seen before. He had no translation duties that day and spent
the morning making me an English breakfast. He was so sweet to cook for me that I didn’t have the heart to tell him I didn’t
care too much for it. It didn’t matter—he could tell by the way I ate.

“I love that about you; you can’t lie,” Henry chuckled.

“Oh, you’ll hate that real soon,” I warned him.

He kissed me lovingly and took my hand. “Let me show you the Paris no one will take you to see.

For the next twelve hours we challenged ourselves to have sex in all the tourist places in Paris. I would take mental pictures
of all the sights as he penetrated me, and I knew I would never forget him or the hidden places for lovers in Paris. We almost
got caught in the bathroom at the Louvre. It was so exciting, the idea of getting caught in a men’s bathroom by security guards.
Would I negotiate my way out of it or would I just say, “Handcuff me,” half-dressed?

Henry took me dancing at Barrio Latino in the Bastille to show me I could be as Latina as I wanted to be in Paris. He surprised
me with a few dance moves and I knew he had probably dated a lot of black women to dance like he did. He bought me drinks
and told me dirty stories about doing it in the bathroom. We sat at the bar discussing what I loved about being Mexican. Yes,
France may be the culinary capital of the world, but what kind of a world would it be if Mexico had never produced chocolate
or vanilla or salsa or tequila? He poured me more tequila and I quickly forgot all the reasons why I yearned to go back to
the United States.

At the end of the night Henry reminded me why I couldn’t leave Paris: “It’s the most beautiful city in the world!”

“Henry, there is more to life than Paris. I have to go back to the U.S.; it’s my home,” I said, sincerely calling it
home
for the first time. People say if you hate America you should leave it, but I think you have to leave it to love it again.

“Canela, you can start a whole new life here. You can finally have the life you want,” Henry declared. “With me.” I rolled
my eyes, dismissing him. Henry saw me and quickly interjected, “Look, I know you have no reason to believe me since I didn’t
treat you so well at the beginning.”

“What do you mean? I thought we were just having fun and that we meant nothing to each other,” I replied. I was proud of myself
because I could say that out loud and mean it. When I first had sex with Henry, I’ll admit, I was hooked into him and wanted
something more than sex. Now that I knew how to ride his roller coaster I could sit back a happy passenger, knowing it was
just temporary.

“Canela, you know I care about you!” I was so touched by Henry’s sincerity that I wanted to kiss him, but I held off, knowing
that I couldn’t lead him on or fool myself into thinking anything serious could develop between us. Instead I studied his
funny pale face.

“If I stay here I will always be an immigrant. I will always be treated like an outsider, and I’ve already been through that.
As bad as the U.S. is, I still like it better than France. I’m a Latina and I want to live in a country where I feel I belong
and in a city where I get some respect.”

“It’s not that bad,” Henry interjected.

“Need I remind you, you are a white male—” I said, about to give him a lecture, until he cut me off.

“Fine. Go back to your lousy country and have a nice life.” Henry tried to be funny, but he was too hurt to make either one
of us laugh.

“Yeah, it’s fucked up what the U.S. is doing… but I have to go back and try to do something about it… even if I
can’t make a difference.”

That night Henry cooked for me and we had sex one last time, but it was more of a release for him. I was still sore from our
sexual tour of Paris.

Henry was kind enough to go with me to the airport. I began to cry when I saw the Eiffel Tower and the merry-go-round from
the taxi window. To keep myself from crying I sucked on a mango. I ate it because I knew I couldn’t take it with me on the
airplane. I thought about all the beautiful things I was going to miss about Paris, the roasted chickens and the aroma-filled
street named Belles-Feuilles, the crepes by the metro stop, the fresh bread at the corner of my street, the
macarons
and the chocolate at Maison du Chocolat on place de Victor Hugo. It was mostly the food I was going to miss. I was certainly
not going to miss the dog poop or the urine stains everywhere, which looked like Rorschach tests revealing to me my miserable
existence in Paris. I definitely would not miss the wannabe model hostesses at the few fancy restaurants I got to go to, or
the anorexic waitresses laughing at me for asking for tea as my aperitif, or the arrogant waiters sick of American tourists
practically throwing the menu at me and rolling their eyes because my French sucked. Still, I started crying. How could living
in Paris have made me so miserable? No, wait—Paris didn’t make me miserable. I’d left Los Angeles and the United States so
I wouldn’t be miserable under the leadership of an idiot, but I’d arrived and was leaving the same miserable person.

I shook my head. No, I wasn’t the same miserable person. I’d come to Paris already dead. I was leaving Paris almost alive.
Henry and Le Coq Rouge had revived me and awakened my senses. I was alive again… Maybe I should take medication, like
my mother has been insisting, so I won’t be so cynical and pessimistic and I can finally replace my urine-stained glasses
for pretty rose-colored ones and see
la vie en rose
wherever I go. Maybe it will help me. I don’t want to leave Paris feeling this way. If Luna were here she would be so happy
to have finally seen Paris.

I shouldn’t have thought of Luna, because I couldn’t stop crying after that. Henry misinterpreted my crying and held my hand
and said, “We could turn around.”

“No, it’s… It’s nothing… Los Angeles… I have to go home,” I told him, trying to be strong. I decided my last
hours in Paris were going to be happy ones, even if it killed me. I was going to be happy because I was at least alive to
enjoy Paris on Luna’s behalf.

At the airport Henry walked with me to the security gate and embraced me, not wanting to let go. “I could fall in love with
you,” confessed Henry. “I hope you can come back soon.” Then he kissed me.

“I don’t know if I’m ever coming back,” I told him, then kissed him good-bye on the cheek. Henry was a man I could love and
love madly, but all great loves end in tragedy or sometimes they end in marriage; and that’s the tragedy.

I
landed at the airport and almost cried when I saw a Latino mayor welcoming me to Los Angeles on a large billboard. My little
sister Rosie picked me up at the airport, and as we rode in her car I could tell life had changed while I’d been gone. There
were many more Spanish stations on the radio and reggaetón was the hottest thing on the charts. Rosie was hooked on it and
played Daddy Yankee, Zion, and Calle 13 the whole ride to her house. Rosie had invited me to stay in her guest bedroom as
long as I needed to. I didn’t want her to tell my mother or any other family members that I had returned. She swore she would
not tell anyone and that she would not gossip about it either, so it wouldn’t get to my Tía Bonifacia. Only when I was ready
was I going to go over to my parents’ house and confront my mother about the letter.

I assumed that since I had been away and had abandoned my apartment, all my belongings had either been thrown out or donated.
I had only two suitcases and my LV purse to my name. It felt liberating to know I had so few belongings and no money.

I borrowed money from Rosie and bought a new outfit to wear to Rosemary’s wedding. I didn’t want to go alone to her wedding,
but I’d promised I would be there.