Parts Unknown (3 page)

“Hi,” I said tentatively to the room at large. “I just got here today, and . . .”

“Scott’s bed! You took Scott’s bed!” an elaborately tattooed American girl squealed. “You’re the one!”

“I didn’t know—they told me to take any bed . . .” I had never felt more shy in my life.

A skinny guy with darting eyes, squatting on my erstwhile mattress, glared at me. “I’ve been staying here for two months, and this is my bed, okay? You can have the top bunk.”

Apologizing, I climbed the rickety ladder and grabbed supplies from my duffel, which had been tossed up there. I made my way to the bathroom—also unisex, ack!—changed, and hastily got in bed. I could see no way of communicating with anyone in that room. They were an alien species, talking fast, smoking cigarettes, comparing itineraries. I was still so tired, but I couldn’t fall asleep. The mattress was thin and sagged hopelessly in the middle. I couldn’t get comfortable scrunched on the sides, and when I lay in the center loose springs poked me. Every time I moved, the mattress creaked ominously. At 11 pm, the lights went out, and everyone settled in, turning, muttering, snoring. In the bunk underneath, Scott was making strange noises. Was he having sex or something? I peered cautiously over the edge, my eyes adjusting to the dark. His eyes were squeezed blissfully shut. It was just him, thank god . . . oh, gross.

Chapter 2

I poked my spoon listlessly at my free breakfast Sunday morning. A cup of Nescafe next to me, a bowl of soggy muesli, and the colorful London A to Z Super Scale Street Map I’d purchased spread across the table. The A to Z’s bright streets and cheerfully labeled neighborhoods looked enticing yet offered no clue where to start. I couldn’t think. Then I remembered—the sketchbook and pencils—and it all came clear. I’d go to Trafalgar Square, do some drawing, center myself. See that Van Eyck I’d been dying to view in person. And then take it from there.

Not trusting myself to navigate London’s byzantine streets on foot yet, I made my way back to the Holborn tube station and from there, via rickety Northern Line train, two stops to Charing Cross. I counted twenty different shades of gray; I’d never seen such old buildings. San Jose was newly built compared to this place, and the history I had seen in Twyford—old clapboard houses, white-spired churches—small change in comparison to these looming edifices. History seeped through the gray bricks—Payne’s gray, blue-gray, milk-gray. So many before me had walked this way, searching too.

The rumors were true. Trafalgar Square was full of pigeons. Flapping, whirling, dive-bombing for bits of bread tossed by some Scandinavian-looking tourists. It was so loud—cars screeching around the roundabout, water spritzing from the large fountain in the square, teenage boys screaming dares to each other atop the bronze lions guarding the entrance. Two young twin girls, with pageboy haircuts and white-blonde hair, ran shrieking in total abandon, chasing after birds. Pigeons rose, flapped away, then drawn inexorably by the promise of stale bread bits, came swirling back, only to be chased again. A few drops of rain fell from an overcast sky, then the sun peeked out, blazing the girls’ hair. I pulled out my sketchbook, feeling at peace for the first time since I’d arrived. This, I knew how to deal with. I could swear that I was done with art all I wanted, but holding that pad felt like coming home.

I might be lacking by my art professors’ standards, but creating art was one the one thing I could say I truly loved, the one thing that made me feel complete. I remembered the oil painting class my mom had enrolled me in when I was eight; it was an entirely inappropriate age group but conveniently located half a mile from our house. Picture a room full of bubble-haired senior citizens, painting pastel Thomas Kincaid-esque scenes. And then me, with my always-spilling metal canisters of turpentine and my big brushes. I’d stand in front of my easel, adjusted for my small size, painting stiff-armed clowns and kittens. I still recall the thrilled look on Mom’s face when I overheard the teacher telling her, “. . . and she should consider a career in fine art.” My whole life suddenly clear on the basis of that one statement, my kindly teacher’s future plans for my small self, who only dimly understood the meaning of “career.”

Well, that idea had been a failure, but I still couldn’t wait to use my sketchbook for the first time; it had been a birthday gift from my high-school friend Kim. Inside its blue cloth cover was lovely, thick, 60-pound paper with a slightly rough surface, perfect for a pencil to grab and hold on to. Since I’d given up my foolish dreams of an art career, making art felt like a special treat, a reward to myself. Not something I could take for granted. Not something I could just
do
—it was something I had to deserve. I had made it to London—fine. I could draw, then.

Here’s how you start with an action sketch. First, draw really fast. Draw so fast with the 2H pencil that you’re not thinking, your hand is just moving, thirty seconds tops to draw body outlines composed of messy ovals, pencil lines crossing, it doesn’t matter, because by when you start using the HB pencil, your light lines will disappear behind all the shading you’ll put in next.

You’d be surprised how fast the bodies emerge, ovals becoming more solid, clothes appearing over the ovals—another thirty seconds maybe, to sketch in flowered dresses, mary jane shoes. A whole minute on my favorite part, the faces. Big child eyes, light blonde lashes almost invisible. Need to be careful to draw children’s faces differently than adults—eyes lower on face, cheeks rounder, small snub nose. Flyaway light hair, scribble scribble, now time for the HB pencil to highlight the medium darks: the shadows on the neck, the nostrils, the tops of the shoes.

Absorbed, I was dimly aware that someone had sat down next to me, but I was too intent on capturing the fleeting sense of the girls’ movement, scribbling in the dark shadows with the 2B pencil. Soon, the children would be removed by their already distracted parents, who’d tossed all their bread and were now paging eagerly through a guidebook, chattering animatedly in Swedish, or Danish, or whatever.

“That’s really good,” commented whoever was sitting next to me. I turned, startled. This guy looked like a dark-haired cousin of MacGyver, the multitalented hero of my favorite late-1980s TV show. Except, younger. Close to my age. Around his neck, he wore a heavy, serious-looking camera that looked out of place paired with his American-casual clothes—long baggy shorts, a stretched-out polo shirt.

 “Hi, thanks,” I smiled, pleased. “It’s not anything like what I usually do, but it’s kind of fun—to try something different.”

“What do you usually draw?”

“I paint, actually, in oils, and acrylics sometimes. It’s kind of embarrassing, but I paint toys mostly. Barbies. I went through this massive Hello Kitty phase.”

MacGyver laughed. “Toys! That’s funny—why toys?”

“You know, I’ve thought about this a lot. Well, first of all, they’re much easier to paint, because they don’t move. And it’s this kind of postmodern ironic thing, painting dolls as if they were real. But they’re not, they’re just this construct—the power of these toys over little girls, so that they can be passive and beautiful like Barbie, or cute and cuddly but they can’t speak and be heard, like Hello Kitty.”

“Deep thinker.”

“Tell that to my art professors; they haven’t been so impressed.”

“They should be. I can tell you’re talented.” He had a gorgeous smile. I was inordinately flattered.

“Thanks, but I’ve given it all up. Painting Gumby and doll heads—it’s over. I’m just a hack. I need to get serious about something else.”

He looked surprised. “Well, why should you give up on a talent like yours? That’s just tragic. You’re not being true to yourself.”

I cut him off with my grandma’s favorite saying. “Talent and a dollar will buy you a cup of coffee, mister.” And changed the subject. “I like your camera—is it vintage?”

 “You’re right, it’s a Canon camera.1977. It’s all manual—so it takes more time than your usual point-and-shoot thing. But it’s totally worth the effort. I’m a control freak,” he grinned. “Like, the camera has a better idea how to take a picture than I do? I don’t think so! I am in charge of this puppy.” He smacked the metal body affectionately.

“So you’re a photographer?”

He laughed, pushing his messy dark-brown hair out of his eyes. “Nah! I wish. I’m still in college. I was studying at the London School of Economics for a year, actually, and I’m just finishing up a summer working here, so I could stay in London a little longer. I’m a host at Chicago Pizza here.” He rolled his eyes. “My life’s dream. I go back to Los Angeles at the end of August. I’ll be a senior at UCLA.”

“That’s funny! I just got here, and I’m starting my junior year at Butler College at the end of the month too. I wanted to spend some time, get to know the city beforehand.”

“We’re two of a kind, then!” he smiled. “What a coincidence, huh. You’re coming as I’m going. When did you get here?”

“Yesterday. It’s been kind of rough so far. I’m staying in this scummy hostel, and I’ve already paid for three weeks there, but I don’t know if I’m going to make it. You’re the first person I’ve been able to actually talk to since I got off the plane.”

“Everything feels so strange and different, doesn’t it? I know the feeling. I grew up near Los Angeles, so I’m not a stranger to big cities or anything, but I’d never left the US before coming here. It’s like, I got here, and I was just caught up in something bigger than myself. I didn’t know how to handle it, at first. Being on my own, without knowing anyone. Starting all over.”

I punched him on the shoulder enthusiastically. “That’s exactly how I feel! How did you know?”

He almost fell off the bench in an exaggerated reaction. Suddenly we were both dissolving in laughter, for no real reason except that it felt good, and that I had someone to laugh with instead of sitting all alone.

He stuck out his hand. “Hi, I’m Josh.”

“Josh. I’m Vivian. That’s funny that the first person I really meet in London comes from near where I do. I grew up in San Jose.”

He leaned far back on the bench so that his long legs stuck out way in front of him. “Ah, San Jose,” he intoned. “Market basket of the north. The fertile valley. The place, the place . . .”

“The place where nothing ever happens,” I finished for him. “The neighborhood I grew up in—it’s pretty, and quiet, and safe. I just can’t stand it. Whenever I go back home, everything’s always the same. The same neighbors out watering their plants, driving the same cars, doing the same things. I feel like a kid again every time I go home for vacations, because whenever I go back, it’s like I never left.” I didn’t tell him about my house, about the one place that wasn’t safe.

“Well then,” he said, “let’s do something completely unlike your life in San Jose. Unless you have plans?”

“No, nothing,” I said, heart pounding, attempting to look blasé. “There’s this painting I want to see at the National Gallery. But that’s it, really.” I pulled the A-Z from my backpack. “Just me and my map.”

“Good,” said Josh, “Because it’s your lucky day. I have the day off, and I’ve got absolutely nothing to do. In fact, if I hadn’t started talking to you, I’d probably still be sitting on this same bench at dinnertime. But you’re fresh meat—it’s your first real day in London. I’m gonna give you . . .” He made some trumpeting noises. “ . . . the grand tour!” More instrumental sounds, then he stood and offered me his arm. “Mademoiselle?”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” I curtsied.

~ ~ ~

We headed toward the National Gallery’s imposing classically-columned stone entrance. “This is probably the oldest building I’ve ever been in,” I commented. “I’m such a hick.”

From the bright entry rotunda, we wandered through the rooms full of Impressionist paintings. They were beautiful, but not what I’d come to see. “This place is free, so I come here a lot,” said Josh. “Especially when it’s raining, and I need somewhere to sit and dry off. I just sit here and look at—that one, actually.” He pointed to Monet’s
The Thames Below Westminster
. “I hang till I’m ready to go out in the rain again.”

Consulting my gallery guide, I led Josh upstairs to room 56, a little room way in the back of the second floor displaying the painting I’d been dying to look at in person.

“It’s one of Jan van Eyck’s most famous works,” I instructed Josh, after staring, absorbed, at the
Portrait of Giovanni Arnolfini and His Wife
for a while. The richly dressed subjects—the merchant Giovanni Arnolfini, wearing a long fur cape, Mrs. Arnolfini in a sumptuous green dress—were looking toward each other, though not quite at each other. Their hands rested one atop the other, lightly, not clasped. A mirror in the back of the chamber reflected them in miniature; squinting closely, it looked as if there was a third person in the mirror, someone outside the borders of the canvas. “I wish I could paint like that,” I said longingly. “Look how small the painting is—and yet, all the detail. You can’t even see the brushstrokes. I heard that Van Eyck would paint with brushes with only one hair. He captured the tiniest detail.”

“Sure, sure, but are they happy?” he asked, squinting at the Arnolfinis.

“Of course! They’re married!” I said blithely.

“But no, wait,” said Josh. “She’s totally gazing at him with this complete adoration, but look at him. He’s got this look, like, whatever, I don’t care, I’m busy doing important Flemish business activities, so just go off, and have babies, and I’ll see you in a couple years.”

I glared at him. “This is one of my favorite paintings you’re talking about. And you’re ruining my whole communion with this piece!” I started laughing, but I felt a peculiar sense of loss.

“C’mon then,” Josh pulled my arm. “Let’s go! There’s all kinds of stuff I want to show you.”

We left the museum, rounded the corner onto Charing Cross Road, strolled into bustling, tourist-filled Leicester Square, dubiously eyed a pizza cart featuring toppings such as sweet corn and tuna, and looped back onto Charing Cross Road. I was drawn to the many used bookshops lining the street. “I love antique cookbooks,” I confessed, wandering inside a moldy-smelling storefront, piled high with stacks of books in no discernable order. “They’re like entering this bizarre alternate universe of complete minutiae. I’ve got this one at home from 1927. It tells you how to serve a luncheon if you don’t have a maid. The details go on for four pages. I can’t imagine it—people caring so much about protocol. Serving sandwiches only to the right from a tea cart. Like the universe would explode if you served from the left. Like, did these ladies have anything else to do?”