In Paris With You

by Clémentine Beauvais

  as if he wanted to cut her out of the picture;

  Lensky waves at him wildly what does he want?

  with the ladle from the sangria tub.

  ‘Hey, man! You turned up!’

  (It chills me to see Lensky with that look

  in his eyes,

  so happy that Eugene had changed his mind.

  Fuck,

  I didn’t think it would be so heart-rending;

  I thought I’d be able

  to describe it objectively, but seeing him again,

  waving with that stainless-steel ladle …

  it’s tough.

  And his best friend does not return his wave.)

  Why is he blanking Lensky, Tatiana wonders,

  and why is he blanking me too, and then, all of a sudden:

  ‘You want to dance?’

  Eugene asks

  Olga.

  Tatiana shudders.

  Olga, a little surprised:

  ‘Sure, if you like!

  It’s funny, I thought you’d have despised

  the Black Eyed Peas.’

  Well, obviously he does. This is Eugene.

  Of course he hates that pap-rap cheese.

  What the hell’s he doing?

  Tatiana wonders, sensing the danger

  of Eugene’s behaviour

  tonight, and aware that whatever he’s up to,

  it has little to do with Olga.

  Lensky, completely unfazed, claps and whistles

  at the sight of his friend dancing with his girlfriend,

  their bodies entwined;

  he dances with another girl, and the two couples

  join together, switch round, then split up again.

  It’s hard to tell if Eugene is enjoying himself:

  his face is like a book

  in a language you can’t read.

  The way he dances is weirdly broken:

  cold, but full of jolts and tremors,

  smashing his heels against the ground

  as if he wanted to crack it open.

  Tatiana watches him dance with her sister,

  and a vague sense of imminent disaster

  is rising insidiously

  inside her, when suddenly

  ‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,

  YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE.

  I WOULD LIKE TO PAY TRIBUTE

  TO THE QUEEN OF THE PARTY!’

  Tatiana turns, horrified. It’s a loud kid from her class,

  Patrick Triquet,

  who’s grabbed hold of a microphone

  connected to the stereo …

  God, what a dickhead!

  ‘So I searched on the Internet and found a song

  that’s perfect for the occasion,’ he says,

  then starts to bellow some stupid tune, echoed

  by the other guests:

  Oh let us contemplate

  The beauty and charm of the girl

  Who we’re all here to celebrate,

  The sweetest girl in the world!

  Oh look at her radiant face

  Spreading joy like Lady Madonna!

  Let us praise the amazing grace

  Of glorious Tatiana!

  Fantastic. This is just what she needs.

  Tatiana hates being the centre of attention, and here she is

  surrounded by a conga line of drunken teens

  wrapping her up in this godawful tune

  like a mummy in bandages.

  … the amazing grace …

  Through gaps between dancers behind the

  laughing faces she glimpses something

  strange but what’s happening?

  of glorious Tatiana!

  just get out of my way

  over there in the shadow of the trees she sees

  Olga and Eugene dancing

  without music a slow dance in silence but

  where is Lensky?

  oh

  he’s just seen them too

  what’s going on?

  Tatiana elbows her way through the crowd

  of swaying singing fools

  towards Eugene and Olga. What are they doing now?

  Tatiana tenses, suddenly seized

  not by jealousy but fear.

  Lensky’s over there, a smile a mile wide

  plastered across his face, a smile he has to feign,

  the smile of someone in terrible pain.

  ‘Hey man,’ he says, and laughs. ‘Everything okay?

  Not bothering you, am I?’

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ laughs Eugene.

  ‘Really? Okay, glad to hear it.

  And how about you, babe? Everything all right?’

  ‘Calm down, Lensky, it’s fine,’ chirps Olga.

  ‘We’re just having a bit of fun.

  God, you can be so possessive and uptight!’

  (Allow me to add that this is totally unfair;

  Lensky is not possessive at all; the poor guy’s

  so convinced of Olga’s love that it’d never cross his mind

  she might be led astray by lust.

  That’s not possessiveness, it’s trust.

  And if he’s jealous tonight, then it’s the first time ever,

  and you can hardly deny that it’s justified,

  given that Eugene has his arms round Lensky’s girl

  and his lips are only three inches from hers.)

  Olga’s expression is odd:

  contemptuous, cold,

  even a little cruel,

  although I don’t think she’s too proud of herself tonight;

  you can see it in the writhing of her feet.

  Even now, I still wonder

  what went through her head that night, Olga,

  why, when everything was going so well,

  when she wasn’t even drunk

  as far as I could tell,

  did she let herself be seduced

  by Eugene?

  who she didn’t even like, really,

  Eugene, who she thought arrogant and gloomy,

  why him, why tonight, why why why?

  Maybe it was already coming to an end

  with Lensky, I don’t know,

  I never paid much attention

  to what was going on between the two of them,

  but I think that when people do something like that,

  it’s not just a mistake; I think that Olga precipitated

  a break

  that she saw coming, sooner or later.

  ‘Wait,’ says Lensky. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing, I told you. Leave me alone!’

  He slumps like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

  ‘What’s wrong? Are you tired of me?’

  Olga rolls her eyes.

  ‘Lensky, chill out! You’re overreacting.’

  ‘Well, maybe. Maybe this is an overreaction,

  but I’m sorry, seeing you rub your miniskirt

  against his erection …

  I’m sorry but, to me,

  that doesn’t seem like the kind of thing

  that I should take lightly.’

  Tatiana tenses as this idea fills her head

  (an idea she would never have had herself),

  and Olga, as if to give her boyfriend a real reason

  not to take things lightly,

  kisses Eugene on the mouth

  suddenly,

  joylessly,

  and, annoyed by this row

  and the gesture it provoked,

  Eugene bites her lip, his own mouth

  twisting over hers, his tongue

  fighting her tongue like two sumo wrestlers,

  so to anyone else, they appear to be

  locked in a passionate embrace,

  when the truth is, this kiss

  is sad and cold and empty;

  it tastes of Olga’s watermelon lipgloss

  and the failure of this birthday party.

  And when those lips separate at last, they
each make an O

  as if to award a score of zero

  to each other.

  Only Lensky watches; Tatiana, wise,

  closes her eyes,

  and when she opens them again, she sees

  Olga and Eugene shamefaced beneath the trees,

  and Lensky, looking like he’s been struck by a bolt

  of lightning,

  repeating,

  ‘This isn’t real, is it? Tell me it’s not real. You’re not really

  dumping me?’

  and Olga muttering,

  ‘Oh calm down.

  Stop acting like it’s the end of the world.’

  And Eugene: ‘Mate, it’s fine, no big deal.

  Here, take her back, your girl.’

  Their bodies unlock, faces registering faint disgust,

  a smear of pink gloss

  under Eugene’s nose.

  ‘Come on mate, I was only messing.

  You kept going on about how good she was at kissing,

  so I thought I’d find out for myself.’

  Tatiana notices that Lensky is leaning on her,

  or she’s leaning on him. Well, anyway, they’re

  leaning on each other silently,

  in mutual understanding,

  the two of them losing all their petals, like peonies,

  my favourite flowers,

  so fragile that when the sun shines on them,

  warm, and the breeze gently parts

  the petals until they are gloriously open,

  in a snap of the fingers they just fall apart;

  plop, and nothing’s left but one small bald head

  and a little hill of confetti on the ground below.

  Lensky and Tatiana are like those peonies, so sad,

  all their joy gone, all their love lost,

  after the briefest summer bloom.

  I suppose

  some people are so dazzled by the day

  that when night comes, they just aren’t ready.

  Tatiana, suddenly cold, just about holds herself together,

  her thin arms hugging her chest tightly like a nut

  around a bolt;

  Lensky is too weak to even stay on his feet;

  he crumples

  to the ground, repeating

  you’re dumping me?

  you’re leaving?

  Olga gets annoyed: ‘Lensky, you’re pathetic.’

  Lensky: ‘But Olga, do you love me?’

  Olga: ‘Listen, stop getting so upset.’

  ‘But do you love me?’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with that.’

  ‘But why did you do it? I don’t understand.’

  That’s what he says – I don’t understand,

  in a quavering, half-broken voice,

  a voice that devastates Tatiana;

  it’s the desperate, despairing I don’t understand

  of someone who understands all too well, in fact,

  and what they understand is this: no one is safe;

  no one is protected from the attack

  which comes just like that,

  without warning,

  pitiless,

  merciless;

  and you are absolutely alone

  when the suffering begins.

  Eugene, of course, has known all this for years,

  and has made his feeling clear many times before

  to Lensky, who really ought to thank him through his tears.

  Eugene thinks:

  It’s over for Lensky: no more illusions,

  no more sweet hugs or whispered sweet nothings.

  God knows, it was about time that he finally faced reality.

  And so, not without curiosity,

  Eugene observes Lensky

  as he falls to pieces before his eyes.

  He breaks nicely,

  this Lensky

  who increased the world’s beauty;

  he makes a good crunch as he’s crushed underfoot.

  It might have ended there.

  Lensky, hands trembling,

  chin down, lips wobbling,

  coughing and sobbing,

  throat hard as iron,

  gets ready to leave.

  From here, there are two possible scenarios.

  Either: Or:

  Tonight Tonight

  Eugene will pack his bags Eugene will pack his bags

  and return to Paris. and return to Paris.

  This won’t be He will feel,

  the first time for the first time,

  or the last and probably the last,

  that a friendship slightly guilty

  has ended like this. and bereft.

  They will sulk After a few days

  into a stony solitude, Lensky will call:

  testy, with a taste of tears, you wanna go to Mackey D’s?

  missing and over their Filet-O-Fish

  each other they’ll feel happy,

  though too proud to admit it. though too proud to admit it,

  And after they leave school to see each other again.

  they will almost forget Sometimes one of them will

  each other and make a reference

  when they talk to that evening,

  about that evening, because, y’know, girls

  they will say that it was are girls, but mate,

  an unpleasant but necessary what really matters

  lesson in life; are friends,

  it cost me a good friend don’t you reckon?

  but it taught me it’s friendship that oh shut

  that in friendship up

  as in love, and eat your chips

  nothing lasts a lifetime instead of talking crap

  and you’d have to be dumb that Eugene, what a shit

  to think it could. Lensky will think

  Anyway, there are plenty more although, y’know,

  girls and friends out there. he’s still my best friend

  Two possible reactions to this slap in the face;

  in either case, thinks Eugene, heartless as always,

  at least something will have happened;

  it will be interesting.

  So he considers with a surgeon’s curiosity

  this friendship laid out, guts exposed,

  pinned down like a dying butterfly:

  either it will be a museum piece one day

  or it will survive, miraculously,

  this brutal dissection.

  But while he examines the pink flesh and pale intestines,

  fate intervenes,

  or rather the mob of partygoers does,

  gathering round, a few shouts, a few shoves;

  they’re not singing anymore, as you might expect,

  because the mob,

  unlike Eugene or Lensky,

  knows exactly what must happen next.

  *

  And what must happen next does not correspond

  to either

  of the two scenarios.

  Jesus man what’s wrong with you?

  you just gonna let him do your girl like that?

  you a pimp and she a ho?

  The mob has no intention of letting these two

  just walk away or yield.

  Look how proud they are! Look at their prides:

  a pride, when visible, is bright red, it glistens

  like a blood orange; it has to be peeled

  to its raw flesh as soon as it’s ripe

  man if he did that to me I’d smash his fucking face in,

  someone shouts

  what a shame it would be to let these juicy prides dry out

  when they’re weighing so heavy

  on the branches of those dark looks

  that stretch across from Lensky to Eugene.

  you queer or what man

  it’s fucking obscene, you know you gotta

  fight him man you

  just gotta the mob urges gotta

  the branch is hanging lower you
gotta man

  the air is growing hotter you just gotta fight him

  fight the intense scarlet that everyone can feel

  must lie inside the prides of Lensky and Eugene fight

  fight just beneath the cracking rind, the thin peel. fight

  They’re far too fine for the mob to let them just

  shrivel on the vine, these two ripe prides:

  at least one of them must burst open tonight

  you gotta fight fight fight

  So Lensky and Eugene stubbornly walk away,

  buckling like mules under the crushing weight

  of their swollen prides while their fates

  dance impulsively before their eyes,

  and the mob watches them, entranced,

  because kids are always thrilled to see

  what happens when you trap a wasp and a bee

  in the same jar.

  And now? What next?

  After that, it will all happen very fast;

  one of them will be at the top,

  the other at the bottom

  of the house next door. What went on?

  Tell me everything.

  What happened on that roof? O Eugene,

  sing us the song of Lensky’s rage,

  the fateful rage that led to his fall;

  sing us the final moments,

  but the truth this time;

  not what you told the police that night:

  ‘I arrived too late, there

  was nothing I could

  do, no, nothing

  at all. I just

  arrived

  and

  then

  I saw

  him

  fall.’

  Eugene, ten years later; a new interrogation

  by a new interrogator –

  yours truly.

  What really happened that night, exactly?

  EUGENE I didn’t push him,

  if that’s what you’re suggesting.

  ME I’m not accusing you.

  EUGENE You’re insinuating

  that I haven’t told the whole truth.

  ME I’m not insinuating anything.

  I’m just asking

  you to explain.

  EUGENE We left the party. When we got back

  to Lensky’s house, he said: meet me on the roof.

  He went up there, and I followed soon after.

  Up on the rooftop, he told me:

  my life is fucked up, it’s all over,

  and then he jumped. There was nothing I could do.

  ME Start again. Add more details.

  None of this makes any sense to me.

  Dig into your memory, Eugene,

  this is important. Take your time

  and try to explain.

  EUGENE We left the party. When we got back

  to Lensky’s house, all was silent.