Valentine's Day
Excerpt from FRANCE (LOVE)
No, Claude doesn't want me here. Why am I even with her tonight of all nights? I didn't even know it was Valentine's Day. I don't want to ruin their Valentine's Day dinner. I hate this silly day. Did they even have a dinner planned before?
It doesn't seem like it. The two of us walk together in the sunset along the Seine and she continues calling him on his mobile to leave messages as goofy characters, things like,
"(Clears throat) Yes, pardon me, Mr. Jowarsky, I'm calling on behalf of Ms. Camille Bonnaire, who would just love to have the pleasure of your company tonight at the So and So Brasserie, where your reservation is at nine."
She'll hang up and shake her head. He is ignoring her.
"I don't know why he is so mad at me. He's always telling me I'm such a bad girl. I don't know why. I feel bad leaving you alone like this tonight with no friends."
Wes and Dave were stressed out by Paris, and the interpersonal situation was starting to feel too tense, so they left this morning for Fontainebleau, the little forest town just south. They'll wait for me there and tidy up Putamama.
"Don't. Don't worry about me. I can sit on that monument and stare for hours at French people on bikes." I really can.
"You sure you don't mind?"
"I'm sure. Please, go find him and go have a nice evening."
I really do want them to go out to dinner and work this thing out. I don't want to be the guy that ruins Valentine's Day. I think it's a stupid day anyway. I'm not one of those people that gets lonely on holidays. Not yet anyway.
She tries to call him again, reaches him, and sets a time. We kiss on the cheek and she waves goodbye . All over the city, men hurry along with bouquets of roses in their hands under the bathing red streetlights.
I also want them to work this thing out so she'll stop talking about how claustrophobic their relationship is. It's starting to feel that way to me too, like a game where every turn offers up some kind of disaster and the players have to solve a series of complex riddles to escape to the next level, which is even worse than the one before.
There are echoes of Maria in the mirror, me behind her, our bodies moving against each other in the still warm room, with the raging snow outside. The pleasure on her face seemed so private, like it was just for her, though we were as together as two people can be. It would be nice to scoot over and share this Parisian street light with her.
No, I should move forward. I don't care if I'm alone tonight. It's better that way. I just want to sit at the intersection of Boulevard St. Martin and Boulevard Voltaire and watch all the polka-dotted and petty-coated women rush home, glancing down at their watches. I want to find that couple that was kissing in the dark and see if they're still there. They probably are. I just want to applaud them, this crazy, creepy, unwanted spectator on the other side of the street, full of gratitude and respect. Well done. Carry on. I'll be here.
You beautiful lovers! There's no illusion! It is as clear as day and plain as night. I want the world for you, strangers. I'm so glad you've found someone who you can ravage and be ravaged by around a dark corner. I'm so charmed that every time you try to walk away, you spin around to find the other standing there, unable to leave. I hope it never ends for you. I hope the touch of her arm or her waist or her lower back is all that you need and that it remains just for the two of you. I'll sit here and be merry. God, I'll be merry.
Go fix your relationship. I bought the flowers for both of you. I mean no harm. Don't worry bout me; I'm just driftwood passing by. I got some other trip you don't know bout: Africa. I'll tell you bout it if ya like, but I won't have much to say. Just that I'm going there. Keeps me away from all of Walt Whitman's "indoor thoughts," which surely would have killed me if I sat static much longer.
And there you are again, French lovers, about to tackle each other in the bush! I've missed you! I saw you those four years ago, when my country was creating its next campaign of vanishing lives. I'd wake up every morning in bed and I'd hear piano playing from a flat in the building next door. We must've been five stories up at least! Camille was still asleep next to me and she'd sort of roll over and press herself closer. I didn't know who you were or what you were playing, but your window was open and, through my time in Paris, you'd work every morning and night on the same song.
I wish I knew what it was. I wouldn't even be able to hum it for you. Could be Shostakovich. It was lovely and gave a soundtrack to those Luxembourg garden mornings, next to this woman I loved, even though I was nineteen and she was thirty-two. Every day, you'd get a little better at the piece. I'd hear you have little breakthroughs. You'd make a mistake and put so much effort into each little part. By the end of my time there, you'd nearly nailed the song and you sparked alive and played it joyfully. You never knew how much I appreciated these moments. I'll never forget.
I only saw you once. Camille and I had all the lights off in the flat and were walking around naked. We had just made love on the floor. All the windows were open and the moon was shining in blue. She walked into the kitchen to go make tea and I heard your piano. I followed the sound into the study and saw you there, in the building across the way, seated at it, wearing just a robe.
You finished and stood up and stared out the window, just a silhouette. I hid behind the desk in shadows and could not look away. You stood there, scanning the night. A shirtless man entered silently. You didn't hear him coming. He snuck up behind you and grabbed you into his arms, kissing your neck. Your head shot back and your mouth opened wide and he carried you away.
You will never disappear.