In the Bag (20 page)
Nothing.
I deleted the message without sending it and went upstairs to bed.
I
t was Mom’s idea to spend the afternoon at the Louvre. I was glad to go because at least if we were looking at paintings, we wouldn’t have to talk to each other. I was in one of those moods where everything Mom said seemed like a criticism of me, which made me respond in some bratty-assed way, and so on and so on, ad nauseam.
Let’s face it. The let’s-all-pack-our-worst-underwear-so-the-only-guy-I’ve-ever-been-even-mildly-interested-in-will-see-my-crappy-undies thing was
her
idea. And maybe she didn’t mean to ruin my life. But that wasn’t the point. She
did
ruin it, whether she meant to or not. And to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure she
didn’t
want to ruin my life and keep me from having a boyfriend. Just because she hated men on account of one guy who didn’t practice safe sex and got her preggers in Paris didn’t mean that
I
never wanted to have sex. If I thought about it too much, I would completely lash out at her, and that wouldn’t be good for either of us.
So I was fine with her idea of going to the Louvre. I thought maybe looking at art might help me get my mind off the disaster with Webb.
But it was just the opposite.
When we got back to Solange’s apartment, I told Mom I wanted to check e-mail while she made dinner. Of course Webb hadn’t written to me. (Why
would
he?) But I had something I needed to tell him.
Fr: CocoChi@com
To: Webbn@com
Subject: How life imitates art and vice versa
Hi Webb. If I’m tired, you must be wiped out. I hope you didn’t fall asleep on the train and wake up in Italy. I also hope you can forgive me for not offering to give you more money. I totally should’ve paid for half of your train fare. I know those tickets weren’t cheap. And it was so great of you to make the trip to see little old me. ; )
Oh brother. I deleted that last sentence and started a new paragraph.
My mom and I spent the afternoon at the Louvre. I was too tired to see straight, but Mom really wanted to go. I’m glad we did because there was one painting that looked exactly like how I felt the whole time we (meaning you and I) were together. The painting is by Jean-Antoine Watteau. It’s called Pierrot. It’s a picture of a guy wearing a ridiculous white clown costume. Or maybe it’s a bunny suit. I’m not sure, but anyway, it’s a ridiculous costume made even worse by a pair of silly, floppy, ribbon-tied shoes. The guy looks like he might’ve been smiling earlier, but now the smile is gone and he’s left standing there, looking and feeling ridiculous, like he’s in a play and he just realized he’s forgotten his lines. Or, like he’s at a party, and he thought it was a costume party so he suited up in this weird-ass costume only to realize it’s not a costume party. And now all he can do is just stand there like an idiot dressed in a rabbit suit.
I think the reason this painting stopped me in my tracks is because that’s exactly how I felt with you: like a freakin’ clown. I couldn’t string a noun and a verb together to save my life. I just felt like the worst and bitchiest version of myself. Does that make any sense at all?
I reread the message. No, it didn’t make any sense at all. I deleted it without sending and went back to the apartment.
I
couldn’t help it. I called Daisy again that night after we got back from dinner.
“I realize I’m violating every rule of courtship known to man by calling you a second time today, but I have to read you the review of the show in today’s
El País,
” I began.
“I’m dying to hear it,” she said.
I could hear some commotion in the background. “Am I interrupting something?” I asked.
“No, no,” she said. “I’m just making dinner.”
“I can call back later.”
“No need,” she said. “I can cook and talk. Read me the review, please.”
“Okay,” I said, then cleared my throat dramatically. “
Love in the Postdigital Age
opened last night at the Crystal Palace in Retiro Park—”
“Wait,” she interrupted. “Why is this review written in English if it’s in a Spanish newspaper?”
“I had it translated by someone here at the hotel,” I said. “May I continue?”
“Please do.”
I cleared my throat again. “The exhibit, intended to showcase how modern technology has changed the art of romance, does so through an array of interactive artwork that employs late twentieth- and early twenty-first-century gadgetry. Farewell to love letters inked on parchment paper. Hello, love text messages, e-mails, and cell phone serenades. In all, more than a hundred computer monitors—many modeled to look like human faces—combine to demonstrate how technology is reshaping the concept of love. Among the highlights of the show is
Spin the Cell Phone,
an interactive piece by Canadian artist/gamer Tad Nordent who invites viewers to ‘play’ his exhibit much as young lovers now play the dating field. Also of note is
PorNOgraphy
by Juan Tomás Alvarez, which juxtaposes images of the artist’s life partner alongside pornographic pictures of unknown women that attempt, through clever digital effects, to erode the image of the beloved.”
I heard something crash on the other end of the line. “Are you still there?” I asked.
“Sorry,” Daisy said. “I dropped a pan. But I’m glad someone explained that pornography thing to me. I didn’t get it. Keep reading, please.”
“Okay, I’m going to skim some of this, including the bit about the ‘impressive exhibit design.’ ”
“No, read it,” she insisted.
“No, no. This is the part I want you to hear. ‘Underscoring the theme of love’s altered state in our postmodern world were the trays of warm cookies and buttery tarts served to guests, who couldn’t help but feel—’ ”
“You’re making this up,” she said, giggling.
“I’m not,” I reported. “Listen. ‘One couldn’t help but feel a certain wistfulness for a simpler age when people had time to bake, and when romance could begin with something as humble as paper, pen, and a postage stamp. A postage
what
?’ ”
“Is that really what it says?”
“I never lie about reviews,” I assured her. “And something else. Remember those protesters we saw when we were leaving the park?”
“Yeah. What was that about?”
“Listen to this,” I said. “It’s a sidebar to the story. ‘Cinco por Cinco, a small but increasingly visible group of Amish extremists—”
“Amish extremists? Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”
“I’m not so sure,” I said. “We have lots of Amish in Missouri. They’re pretty extreme. No electricity. No insurance. No marrying or socializing outside their community.”
“Different strokes for different folks,” she said. “Keep reading.”
“Cinco por Cinco, a small but increasingly visible group of Amish extremists, has vowed to demonstrate in front of Retiro Park while the exhibit is in place. The members of Cinco por Cinco believe the Internet is Satan’s toy and that it represents the single biggest threat to faithful love. The stated goal of the group is to rid the world of electronic communication, beginning with the Internet, and return to a simpler predigital era, where hands were used to sew, quilt, cook, farm, and pray. The group has threatened to use low-tech terrorist means to achieve their goals. Until then, the members vow to fast on water and uncooked rolled oats.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said. “They’re freaks. It’s a cult, isn’t it? Full of people who can’t think for themselves and—”
She paused. I knew she was remembering my sister.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I just thought you’d be interested to hear that.”
“Yes, thank you. So how are you?”
“Fine. Did you get any sleep today?” I asked.
“A little on the plane,” she said. “My daughter was in one of her moods. So we spent the day at the Louvre. At least we wouldn’t have to talk to each other.” She laughed. “See what a great parent I am?”
“I forced my son to drink a beer at dinner tonight,” I admitted. “And it was the worst beer I’ve ever had in my life. It tasted like dirty socks.”
She laughed harder. I could hear whatever she was cooking sizzling in the pan. I wished I were right there. I wished we were face-to-face.
“There should be awards for parents like us,” she said. “I mean, really. Leaving a sick child alone in a foreign country? Some mama grizzly I am.”
“Well, I lost my son for most of the day,” I confessed. “I had no idea where he was. For hours.”
“Do you realize,” she replied, “that our children are the ones who’ll decide what nursing homes we go to? They’ll be our caregivers. Our guardians. How terrifying is that?”
“Very. Would it be annoying if I called you again tomorrow?” I asked.
“Terribly annoying,” she said.
“Hmm. I just might have to risk it.”
“You better,” she said.
“I’m glad you gave me your phone number.”
I was saying anything just to keep her on the line. It had been years since I’d felt like this. I needed to hear her voice to believe she was real.
“I’m glad you asked,” she said softly. Then her voice rose. “Oh, wait! I have to tell you something funny. That line in the review about romance beginning with something as humble as paper and pen? Get this. On the flight from Chicago, some creep wrote me a secret admirer note and stuck it in my purse when I wasn’t looking. How do you like
that
? And here’s the kicker. The guy was traveling with his wife or girlfriend.”
I
was too critical. I could hear it in Andrew’s voice.
“How do you know the guy was married?” he asked. “Or that he had a girlfriend?”
“I forget,” I said, immediately regretting having told him. “It was something he wrote in the note about not traveling alone.”
“That could mean a lot of things,” Andrew said quickly.
Why was he defending the guy? Was it to make the point that I was too quick to criticize? He didn’t know me well enough to point out my character flaws.
Breathe,
Nancy would say
. Stop thinking like this. Stop taking it personally. Are you angry at him?
No.
Your parents?
No
. Then who are you angry with?
Nobody!
Breathe.
Solange’s cell phone started ringing.
“Oops, I need to go,” I said. “Can we talk another time?”
“Sure,” he said. “Good-bye.”
I had to dump out the contents of my purse to find Solange’s cell phone. “Hello?” I said on the fifth chirp.
“Hello yourself,” Solange said. “Am I waking you?”
“For your information,” I said, “I haven’t been to sleep since I saw you.”
Solange insisted on hearing a tick-tock of my entire evening and morning with Andrew.
“Very nice,” she said when I finished. “Can I tell you what Andrew’s reputation is in the small world of European museum curators?”
“Oh, God,” I moaned. “That bad?”
“He is the nicest man on earth,” Solange stated. “Several years ago when I first thought about hiring him to design a show for me, I checked his references. I could not find one person who had even a so-so comment about him. Everyone adores Andrew—from board members to executive directors to custodians. He does excellent work and has no ego. A masterpiece of a man.”
I smiled to myself.
I was right. He was nice.
“So why isn’t he married?” I asked.
“I could ask the same of you,” Solange said. “Maybe because you are both workaholics. Or single parents. Or because you waste your time on . . . what was that idiot’s name? Dick?”
“Chuck,” I said. “But never mind him. Does Andrew pick up women at every show, like he did me?”
“You seemed to enjoy it,” Solange said. “But I am not calling to talk about you. Or Andrew. I am wondering about Coco. Is she feeling better?”
“Yes and no,” I said. “Physically she’s fine. I think it was just jet lag. But she’s in a mood. Something must be going on back home. She’s down at that Internet place again right now.”
“Let her use my cell phone,” Solange said. “It has Internet capabilities. She can e-mail her friends from the apartment.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am sure. And then take the phone back to Chicago with you. Save it for your next trip here. Phones are inexpensive in Europe. It is not like the States. Here we buy cheap phones and then use phone cards.”
