Plum Blossoms in Paris (9 page)

I have watched the Sunday talk shows here in France, and while I cannot decipher what the panelists are saying, I knowthis: it’s kind of like cable news, but without the bitch slapping. It makes me uncomfortable to witness such embarrassing displays of mutual respect. There is something preternaturally competitive in the American spirit that fashions discourse as blood sport. The French seem to regard the political and philosophical (which have a manner of colluding here more than anywhere else) the way some Americans practice religion: with strict devotion and spiritual reverence. We common-sense Yanks don’t like to feel inferior to a group of people suspected to be smarter than us and, worse, uppity about it. Americans, in spite of Jesus’ counsel, don’t do modest, and we certainly aren’t beholden to pipsqueak, past-their-prime countries whom we—and they really oughtn’t forget this!—helped liberate and resurrect with the Marshall Plan.

So we come to France (after England, before Italy), expecting them to roll out the red carpet, receiving us in perfect English, and with the same frantic smiles on their faces that greet us at Red Lobster back home. If they don’t, we revolt. And when we get back home, we grouse to sympathetic friends, “I don’t know why they think they’re so
above
everything … the food’s not
that
great.” And the legend of the Rude French as some monolithic whole (like the Hot-blooded Italian, the Pragmatic German) endures. I am not immune: see
Chapter 3
.

But Mathieu is looking at me, and it is plain that I am not paying him proper attention. Or he cannot decipher what
homoerotic
means, which is a shame because I was on a roll.

“Anyway.” I smile apologetically. “Where are we going today?”

He leans in and kisses me. His lips are soft and gentle, yet could easily break me. I hesitate, then kiss him back. Our mouths are the only flesh of our bodies to touch, like leggy chromosomes meeting at their spindle. My eyes open, and he is looking at me. Into me. Flustered, I pull away. But my lips still tingle. He has revived them, and they’re shuddering spectacularly, like two wings of a hummingbird.

He smiles and murmurs, “You were a million miles away. I wanted you to return to me.”

I shuffle, looking down at my Keds. I didn’t kiss Andy until our third date. By then, I knew his position on the junior varsity basketball team, that he almost died in a neighbor’s swimming pool at the age of three, and that his favorite movie was
The Godfather
. Parts one and two, of course.

“What’s your last name, Mathieu?” I ask.

He laughs harshly, twisting away to stare down the street. After a moment, he looks back at me. “Does it matter?”

I consider this. What do I know of Mathieu? That he likes his baguettes—a lot. That his mother just died. That he has a romantic streak in him as fiery and limbic as Andy’s ambition. That he likes to surprise me.

That my mouth, awakened, is busy protesting the absence of his lips.

Bewildered, I take his hand in my own, looking down at the snarl of fingers inventing new, complex attachments. He has long, elegant hands, which an obtuse observer might call effeminate. They are simply well cared for. His nails almost look polished, half moons forming at the bases. Mine are jagged and irregular. He doesn’t notice the nails, too occupied with caressing the shiver of skin over my pulse point with his thumb. The little vein is quickening.

I look at him and grin violently. “Do you promise never to tell me your last name?”

“What do we need of names? Besides,” he says into my ear, “I would rather call you
mon petit chou
.” He brings my wrist to his mouth and presses his lips to my blood.

It is hard to argue with the French. No matter what they say, it sounds inspired. I had no idea what he called me, except that it was “my little” something. Which, as I’ve put forth, has got tobe a good thing. We start walking, arms twined like licorice, and feet floating. And so we pirouette and jeté, like the eponymous character in
An American in Paris
might, toward our unknown destination, the early morning’s prescriptive caution outmatched by a lovely momentum.

That night, after consulting the French-English dictionary in my hotel room, I discovered that
chou
means “cabbage.”

Mon dieu!
I mean, really. Think of what he’d call me if he didn’t like me.

W
e start with the sights of Paris, because we are visual creatures, bamboozled by color and form, the rapturous anesthetics of the lesser senses. While we cannot escape biology, Mathieu argues, we are not hostage to its showier inclinations, which, I imagine, was the pointed joke of his earlier appearance. I also assume from his tone that we will not venture anywhere near the Moulin Rouge. He informs me, as we stroll down the Rue des Écoles toward Luxembourg Gardens, that he has not planned this day out, that he has no expectations for it. It is his intention to embrace a series of fortunate accidents and respond to them; this to that, to this again. We will walk with the wind at our backs.

I check his profile—the satisfied smile, the confident jut of his chin—and know that it’s a crock. He has everything planned. For it is also human nature to want to impress someone you like, and especially in your hometown. As a tour guide, I have no doubt, Mathieu knows what the perfect Parisian day will entail. I frown, twisted by the wretchedly novel idea that I am not the first to experience it with him. I raise my chin and iron out my sweaterto shake off the sooty shards of cynicism. I don’t want to make a room in my heart for suspicion. Not this early. My heart is full.

We flounder, if not uncomfortably, for conversation, too occupied with glancing at one another from these come-to-me corners of our eyes. I make a happy cocktail of my self-restraint as I watch desire build in his eyes like a wave chasing the break. We are disgustingly pleased with ourselves. If we notice other people, it is only to feel sorry for them.

April in Paris has come late this year.

“So tell me why you are here.”

“Right now? With you?”

“No, in Paris. What is it that you are running from?” It is asked lightly, but with a probing undercurrent.

I clear my throat. “You caught me. I’m running from the law.”

Isn’t that the standard movie-line answer?

Smiling, he accepts my hedge. “I see. What did you do back in Ohio?” He pronounces “Ohio” the way we sang it in a grade school song: with a raised emphasis on the “hi,” like the state is peopled by Walmart greeters. “Theft? Murder? Campaigning for John Kerry?”

Funny. I cover my mouth and turn with confessional solemnity. “Worse. I slipped at a restaurant and called ‘Freedom fries’ French fries. Then I washed them down with a glass of merlot. All in front of my grandpa’s buddies from the local chapter of the A.F.A.R.T.—you heard of them?” I think rapidly. “Americans For the Abstract Reinvention of Tyranny? Yeah, they’re small now, but they’re planning an Orwellian takeover as soon as one of them figures out how to work a computer.”

Mathieu laughs, saying, “Yet it
was
an unforgivable offense, particularly toward the French.”

“You’re not a fan of French—oops, I mean ‘Freedom’—fries?”

“Mmm. Nor merlot.”

“And American jingoism?” I add lightly.

Mathieu doesn’t answer right away, so I explain, “Jingoism—it’s like patriotism run amok.”

He nods absently. “Yes. An American specialty.”

Sobered, I nod my assent. Strange how I should poke at my own country, but that I turn snippy and defensive when an outsider agrees with me. There’s always a forked road to navigate, and pride is a less treacherous path than honesty. “We are loud with our patriotism, I admit. But we also have the eyes of the world watching us, so it is easy to trip and fall.” I shrug and glance over at him. “Besides, France is easily as patriotic. It just manifests itself in different ways here.”

Mathieu releases my hand and, mixing his stereotypes, starts gesturing like a Hot-Blooded Italian. “Yes, it does. Like not invading foreign countries that have done nothing to us. Like not isolating ourselves from the rest of the world by flaunting environmental treaties. Like not having a president too simple-minded to articulate a coherent thought without the help of tutors, yet who says, ‘Bring it on,’ like a cowboy drunk with power. Like not forgetting about the poor in our country, and making sure that everyone has health insurance. Like—”

“Touché.” So much for the language barrier. I turn and grasp his hand with both of mine, pressing upon him my urgency. “Let’s not—yet. Okay?”

He runs his free hand through his hair. “I apologize. It is difficult for me. As you said, the eyes of the world are on you, and everyone knows America’s”—he smiles wryly—“indiscretions.” He clasps my hand more tightly. “But they are not your indiscretions. I should not direct my frustrations toward you.”

“But you will,” I murmur, a little sadly. We carry the weight of our countries on our shoulders. And America is always the heavy.

Mathieu pulls eagerly on my hand as we enter a square whosemuted loveliness smooths our foray into raucous politics. In spite of the idea behind our walk today, I have only had eyes for Mathieu. But now I admire the exquisite lamppost at the center of the square, and the slender trees encircling it, which extend nerves of branches that must cast film noir shadows at night, when the bulbs incandesce into a tight galaxy of luminous moons. There are cars parked near small boutiques, but otherwise, the square is tranquil and nearly deserted. The white buildings framing the symmetrical sides are five stories high with white shutters—Parisians seem suspicious of height and color—and are just high enough to block out the sun. A small, nervous dog (there are no other kinds here) relieves itself on the far curb, in no hurry as its owner, a smartly dressed older woman (there are no other kinds here), removes a compact from her purse and dusts her nose.

“It’s lovely,” I sigh, content to stop and stare. But Mathieu and his plan pull me toward the far corner of the square and through a small Roman archway. An ancient doorway boasting the ubiquitous brass plaque confronts us. “What’s this?” I ask.

“It’s the
Musée Delacroix
,” he announces, opening the door.

“Oh.”

I must admit some disappointment. From what I remember of the Orsay and Louvre, I was not taken with Delacroix.

Mathieu laughs and, sensing my hesitation, waves me through. “Nobody can understand France, or Paris, without appreciating Delacroix. Baudelaire hailed him as the father of French modernity.”

“Oh.”

I will not let him know that the name
Baudelaire
means as little to me as
Proust
, or
Balzac
. They should mean something, but American education extends only so far, grazing the surface of world literature and history with the same level of introspection that a hand skimming the water outside its boat understands the ocean below. I was a biochem and evolutionary biology double-major incollege, so there were whole buildings on campus never ventured into. Hey, I was busy. Liberal arts majors were the floating people who spent too much time in coffee shops. But I am beginning to realize that survival in France requires a balls-out, intellectual vigilance, a kind of Greek ambition for understanding everything. The French, you see, love their history, and their coffee shops … and their historical coffee shops.

Mathieu and I argue over the entrance fee to the museum. I insist, a little shrilly, on paying for my ticket, which he protests with a bereaved look and sigh, like we’ve segued into a comfortable middle age. I win, though I feel no satisfaction at his emasculation. I don’t know why he shouldn’t pay, but he shouldn’t. Clutching my little prize, Mathieu leads us into the first gallery, which includes a biographical perspective on Delacroix’s life.

We part ways and move silently around the exhibit—I, learning that Delacroix established himself in this modest home and workshop in order to be closer to the St. Sulpice church, where he was responsible for painting the acclaimed interior frescoes. It is noted that he died here too, a grim fact echoed by our funereal footsteps on the hardwood floor. I check Mathieu from the corner of my eye and discover that he is doing the same. I am the first to turn away, humming a little nothing song to myself, footsteps dissolving into notes. We are the only visitors inside the museum, which makes us pleasantly self-conscious, but which imbues the paintings with an abandoned, and lonely, affect. I feign interest in some sketches, and when I turn around again, Mathieu stands riveted before a small painting. He motions to me. I approach with a small, perplexed smile.

“Look at this,” he whispers, clasping my arm above the elbow. “What do you think?”

What do I think? It is a study for a later painting. In it, a bare-chested man pinions a naked woman with his knee, his lefthand shackling her elbow while his right angles a dagger across the white flute of her throat. Her breasts strain provocatively against his bind as her mouth assumes an expression of what may be (1) sexual ecstasy; (2) mortal anguish; or, in some perverse world, (3) both. Personally, I’m going with the second interpretation because she is clearly a lamb for his slaughter. Nice composition, though: beautiful use of color and dynamism, blah, blah, blah. But what do I think?

I wrinkle my nose. “Not my thing.”

“But it is beautiful!”

I wiggle free from his grasp. “Beautiful? Sure, if rape and murder are beautiful, then Delacroix is the Picasso of the genre.”

Mathieu frowns. “But you are viewing this with no filter. You must remove yourself from the subject matter to admire the skill and genius that brought it to life.”

“Must I? Because what bothered me about Delacroix before,” I argue, my voice quickening, “is that he takes too much pleasure in his brutality. So many of his works are gorgeously rendered, in that high romantic style, that they’re morally ambiguous. He almost argues for these atrocities because he ravishes the viewer with color and vitality.”

Mathieu shifts his weight. “But you cannot look at art from a moralist’s perspective.”