Because She Is Beautiful

by Cameron Dougan

  "His daughter attempted suicide," she said. "I found out yesterday. The mother—she's tried before, and if it had been her, I wouldn't have cared. . . . That's the despicable part, that I can rationalize her suffering. Now this girl's one step closer to becoming like her mom. I'm ashamed."

  Kim sidestepped a long puddle.

  "At what point did my life become part of theirs? I wasn't even supposed to exist. But I did. I need his daughter to be okay."

  A car pulled onto the curb, its whole frame rocking as the wheels bumped and the chassis went aslant. The headlights showed the rain for a second, then were shut off. The door opened and a woman emerged, dark and featureless, shopping bags in both hands, balancing on one foot to kick the door shut.

  Kim and Scott walked on. She tried to read his silence. He maintained the umbrella a safe distance above her head, eyes locked on the pavement before them, watching so they wouldn't trip. She thought of him painting, the stillness she'd observed. Now, even in motion, there was a stillness about him—a surface concentration that left his senses free.

  The road led to the Seine. They crossed a bridge and descended a flight of worn marble steps. The quai was deserted; they stopped at a bench. Scott wiped the wet surface with his sleeve and they sat.

  "Your arm's soaked," she said.

  On the opposite bank, the streetlamps had begun to glow. The rain fell harder, drops visible as they slanted across the scattered islands of yellow light. Rain hit Scott's shoulder.

  "When I first came to Paris," he said, "I had these fantasies, romantic ideas of things to do to make the thrill of my time here permanent in some way. I wanted to drink wine with someone on the Pont des Arts and throw the glasses into the Seine—the nicer the glasses, the better—or even to pour some of the wine into the water; I felt that would connect me to the city somehow. It's because I was alone. Sometimes when you're alone, you fool yourself into thinking a city can share your sadness. You believe it's giving back, but you're only taking from it."

  Scott's shoulder was a deeper shade of blue now, the wetness spreading like an epaulet.

  "Have you left him?" he asked.

  "It doesn't end like that. There isn't really an end."

  She moved his hand so that the umbrella covered him more.

  "Did you come here to get away?" he said.

  "It will always appear so."

  A bateau-mouche was approaching, a tour guide's nasal voice droning above the chugging engine. "On the left, zie Hôtel de Ville. À gauche, L'Hôtel de Ville—" Glaring green and white lights bulldozed the darkness. They covered their eyes until it passed and the banks were again dark. Black waves slapped stone. She kept her eyes shut, feigning blindness.

  "Les yeux, les yeux," she said, rubbing them.

  Scott laughed.

  The choppy water settled, fragmented slivers of reflected lamplight becoming whole again, gold shafts reaching toward them. She hunched and shivered.

  "There was a blind girl in the park the other day," she said. "I tried to give her mother money." She dropped her hands in her lap. "Why do people refuse things? I never have. Did I ever think about love?"

  "This man—"

  "Robert."

  "You didn't want him to leave his wife?"

  "I don't know. I never thought I wanted to get married. My father used to hit my mother."

  "Did he hit you?"

  "It doesn't matter now."

  Another boat approached and they turned their heads. She could see their shadows cast on the ivy wall behind them side by side. An empty wine bottle lay in the dirt.

  "She would intercede," said Kim, "absorbing blows until she caught his wrists. Even the simplest memories change. The years make you see differently. One time, Father was furious. I think over clothes, how I'd hung them in my closet. Of course Mom was there in a flash. I still hear her clearly: 'Charlie, what did she do?' She'd calm him that way. 'What did she do?' "

  "She was your savior."

  "She always wanted me to forgive him, but I did already. I can say this now: I never doubted his love. He never apologized for being the way he was. He knew he was a monster. He never admitted it, but he knew. That was the difference. She felt so sorry for herself. I never asked for protection. Something made me think she was blaming me. I couldn't understand. She died when I was seventeen."

  "To have to watch someone you care about—"

  "An excuse. I felt like an excuse."

  Scott was silent.

  "After she died," said Kim, "I moved out. I got as far away from my father as I could. That was running. I'm not running from Robert. Now it's different. I can feel it's different. But I'm not going back to him."

  Scott shut his eyes. He put a finger to his lips, then reached out and gently cupped a hand over her mouth.

  "Have you ever heard rain before?" he said. "Have you ever really heard it?"

  There was rain in his hair, his lashes, dripping from his ear, coursing down his neck. Her chin was wet now from his palm. His eyelids shivered. Was he fighting to keep them closed? she wondered. She could not close her eyes. The sight of him transfixed her, his face like a diver's surfacing, and the touch of rainwater from his absolving hand. His eyes opened and he saw that she was staring. He lifted his hand away and slowly leaned his face toward hers. Their foreheads almost touched.

  "Sorry," he said, and he shifted the umbrella so that it was covering her more.

  Perhaps he didn't wish to kiss her at all, and this was only what someone looked like who cared. She had said things that she felt she'd said before but knew she hadn't, or at least not as clearly, and she tried to remember the past, how she had expressed confessions and how men had reacted. She thought back to Robert the first time she'd shown him her photo album and how after he'd left she didn't even pick it up off the floor. She thought of Sam in the back of a rented limo, taking the cigar from his mouth to say "Don't cry," after she'd talked to her father: damp tobacco kisses that were supposed to cheer her. Then the nameless ones who came before, faces she recalled vaguely, a beard, groping fingers, the chill of a watchband against her breast.

  Scott had only to lean over to kiss her, to break the precious distance that had already been disturbed by her want. Would his kiss be grand? Or would she find what she had countless times? She felt close to an explanation. Yes, the gap, the narrow space between them that was itself a form of skin, a membrane that they shared.

  "I want to see you tomorrow," she said.

  "Then you will."

  "You're not busy?"

  "I can make myself free."

  "Join me for dinner. But we'll still meet in the afternoon."

  They climbed the steps to the street and walked to the nearest taxi stop.

  "Here," he said, handing her the umbrella. His one whole side was soaked. He turned his face to the cloud-covered night, his cheeks covered with droplets, tiny gold dabs of reflected lamplight, like stars, like Paris.

  "Do you know your way from here?" he said.

  "I'm learning."

  In the morning she sipped coffee with the curtains pulled back, sunlight warming the tops of her feet. The glare was so bright she stood to the side of the window, watching as the waiters prepared the courtyard tables below, setting them for the first time since the day after she'd arrived: billowing white linens, glinting silver.

  She unlatched the window and stuck out her hand. The dampness was gone. The air was still cool, but with the promise of warmth. Her hand was pale.

  She refilled her cup from a silver pot and stood before her closet, curling her toes and stretching. Blue capri pants and a blue cashmere sweater, a blue and cream hat with a wide sloping brim that could turn up in front, and no handbag—sandals; Scott had never seen her dressed casually. She would surprise him with this side of her. There would be other sides.

  Paris could seem like two cities. In the rain, everyone was anxious to get somewhere. In the sun, there were no destinations, no deadlines, and people scattered alon
g the banks of the Seine like shells. Love was no longer a private matter that could be detained.

  She walked along the quai past a woman with a pink parasol and a tattooed man whittling soap, shavings about his bare feet and poking from his shoes, which he'd set to the side. A boy with orange hair slept with his head propped on a green canvas knapsack. A man had a young woman in his lap. Her skirt was hiked up and her thighs were white. Black spaghetti straps left her shoulders exposed. She was holding seed out to a bird. "Voilà!" she exclaimed, when the bird landed and snatched the seed. The man gazed up at a straggling cloud, then kissed her shoulder blade. No rain could touch him.

  Scott was sitting on the edge of the quai, leaning back on straight arms. His pants were rolled to the knees and his shoes were off. His jacket was folded beside him. He hadn't seen her, and she stood for a moment watching. She thought of sneaking up behind him, perhaps throwing a pebble or a twig to get his attention. Instead she walked quickly to the edge of the quai and sat down beside him. He didn't say anything at first. He just nodded and smiled. His cheeks were red as though he'd been sitting in the sun all morning. He lifted his legs and pointed his toes, and she did the same. He crossed his legs and uncrossed them and she copied him. The trees on the opposite bank swayed in the breeze.

  He reached into his jacket.

  "I brought you this," he said.

  It was a rolled piece of paper tied with a shoelace.

  "Should I?"

  "Sure."

  She undid the bow and regarded him and looked down. It was a sketch of a young boy and girl on a bench. The boy held an umbrella. He stared at the girl. Her gaze was down, her head tipped toward his chin, yet pulling away as though tickled—two simple lines for lips. Her hands were folded, her socks uneven. The light shined from below, casting their shadows on the ivied wall behind, inflating their dark silhouettes, joined to envelop them in their own night.

  "I'm going to cry," she said.

  "The eyes aren't sad."

  "No, they're not."

  He'd made the umbrella big enough to cover both of them evenly. The boy didn't have pupils. There was only the faintest dark, not enough to take away the softness of his stare, which was also in the angle of his face, as though he was deferring to her. What, though?

  She rerolled the drawing carefully, tying it with the shoelace and clutching it to her chest.

  "No one has ever given me anything like this."

  "It's a reminder."

  He ducked under the brim of her hat, close so that his hair fell against her ear. His lips touched her cheek—the sound of drawing air as they withdrew.

  She put the drawing to her eye and looked at him through it.

  "What do you see?" he said.

  "I see a person who's about to go shopping with me."

  "Oh, no."

  "You promised me the day."

  "A different kind of day."

  "You said you would let me take you to dinner, and that means I get to choose the restaurant."

  "But—"

  "It's very formal."

  She looked at him through the rolled drawing again.

  "Is that a smile?" she said. "It's a little blurry, but . . . come on, how often does a woman offer to buy you a suit?"

  "It's our first dinner and you want to dress me?"

  "I don't. I swear. Think of it as going to a costume ball. We're going to put on masks and pretend we're very serious. But inside, we'll know that we're really sitting here bare-shinned, licking ice cream from our fingers."

  "That sounds more fun. Why can't we do that?"

  "Because Berthillon doesn't have a 1982 Margaux on their wine list. We can do both. I'll race you!"

  She jumped up and tried to run as fast as her sandals would allow. Scott was scrambling to get his shoes on. His coat was gripped in his pumping fist, and she could hear his pounding footsteps closing. Then he was past her. She stopped and dropped her hands to her knees and panted, and he slowed when he saw that she'd given up. He walked back to her, grinning.

  "If I were wearing sneakers," she said.

  "I've never had Margaux."

  "I've never had Berthillon ice cream."

  "What time is the ball?"

  "There's plenty of time. Can you carry this to keep it safe?"

  He shook out his jacket and slid his arms through the sleeves and tucked the drawing into the inside pocket. Then he rolled down his pants.

  "First things first," he said.

  They bought two cones, three scoops each, and traded as they walked so that Kim could taste all six flavors.

  "Framboise," she said.

  "Raspberry. That's on mine."

  "What's strawberry?"

  He passed her his cone. "Fraise."

  "Frais fraise."

  "How about ananas? Rhymes with bananas."

  "I like the coffee."

  "The framboise is the best."

  "It almost sounds more like a raspberry than raspberry."

  They had to walk underground to get to the other side of the busy Quai de l'Hôtel de Ville. The ramp was long and their footsteps echoed. When they rounded the corner, half the tunnel was flooded.

  "Here," she said, gripping her hat and balancing her cone. She jumped to a small island of dry cement and began searching for the next one.

  "What now?" he said.

  "Follow me."

  "You're going to have to move off that spot."

  "Join me."

  Three women had entered the tunnel from the other side. They surveyed the flood, shook their heads, and retreated.

  There was another dry patch near the edge of the wall, and Kim braced herself and jumped and leaned against the cool cement side. When she looked back, Scott had taken off his shoes. He was rolling his pants up again.

  "That's not fair."

  He dangled his shoes in one hand and held his cone in the other and marched very matter-of-factly, spraying water right and then left with each long, intentional sliding step. She hugged the wall to avoid the splashes, shielding her face with her cone and squealing, the sloshing and her laughter reverberating like the pool noise of children playing.

  "I'm waiting," he called.

  He was standing at the end of the tunnel. He dropped his shoes and kicked drops from his feet and rolled his pants back down with one hand.

  "You're right, the coffee's good," he said, licking his cone, slipping into his shoes and fixing the heels. "There's going to be none left."

  She undid her sandals and threw them, sending him ducking. She ran through the water, clutching her hat, kicking showers up before her, drenching her thighs. Scott had retrieved her sandals.

  "Mademoiselle."

  "Merci."

  "Your coffee ice cream." He extended the cone and bowed his head slightly.

  "Merci."

  Her sweater stuck to her skin and she flicked water from her fingers and laughed. Scott offered an arm and they turned the corner and headed up the ramp. There was a gendarme at the exit of the tunnel. He looked them up and down as they walked past, and they tried to maintain a straight face. Then they dashed across the fountained square for a taxi, tossing their finished cones in a green trash can. Even Kim's hair was wet. The driver complained and they tried to appear grave and apologetic.

  They drove to the rue Saint-Honoré and got out and she led him eagerly, as if she were taking him to a special unknown place. He stumbled behind her, dragging, then relenting. They stopped first at the Valentino Boutique, still wet, Scott's pants soaked up to the knees. A salesman glared at them, the corner of his mouth twitching.

  "But it is nice out, non?" he said.

  Kim stepped forward. "We need dry clothes."

  The man glanced at her ring. "May I ask what sort of dry you are considering?"

  "Very dry. Evening dry."

  She sat in a leather chair outside the fitting room, Scott's folded jacket in her lap. A short woman in a black linen dress with a starched white collar brought her
mineral water with a slice of lemon. Kim leafed through fashion magazines, looking up whenever Scott appeared, the man standing just behind, watching for her approval.

  "You like the three buttons?" she said.

  "It's sort of twentiesish, or is it fortiesish? I don't know."

  "My friend Michael says, 'If it's ish, don't buy it.' "

  "Everything can be ish."

  "Classicish?"

  "A two-button, then?" said the man. "With the same pinstripes?"

  "Do you like the pinstripes?" said Scott.

  "They're beautiful, and the fit is perfect."

  Scott turned sideways to a mirror. He unbuttoned the jacket and the man lifted it from his shoulders. They disappeared back into the fitting room.

  In her magazine there was a photo shoot of actor George Clooney's apartment. She thought of her apartment and how impersonal it felt: bits of chopped-up scattered collections, like wilted garnish, that reflected neither Michael's taste nor her own in the end—nor Robert's, for that matter. She would call Michael, try again to apologize. Perhaps he would take her call. Perhaps he would even come to visit.

  Then she thought of Joseph, his phone call the night of her departure. Had he really intended to hurt her? What if the call was a warning, because he cared? Because he felt all along that she deserved better, that she could be better? Could he ever begin to forgive her? She would call him too. Perhaps he would even allow her to hire him. Maybe not. Hopefully he'd gone on to a better job. And his daughters, were they following their dreams? Two people who had been nothing but nice to her. Why, she hadn't a clue. She had known only hurt and how to hurt. She would call them. She could change. She was learning.

  Scott emerged in a two-button charcoal suit, the pinstripes thin with the faintest texture.

  "That looks exactly right," she said.

  The man crossed his arms. He brushed a thread from Scott's shoulder.

  "Are you comfortable?" she said. "I want you to be comfortable with this."

  "It feels great. I mean, I feel a little like a schoolboy."

  Kim looked at the man. "Can you excuse us for a moment? We will need a shirt as well, and a tie. Oh, and shoes."

  "I will pick out a few things and return."