"I have to go," he said.
"Someone wants to stay."
"I—" He leaned down and kissed her forehead, twisting away from her groping hands. "I have to."
He went to the closet and came out with the right garment bag, quickly stripped off the uniform, and started to dress in his old clothes. She stood at the window and watched.
"We can meet later," he said. "At the café, say around four-thirty."
"Four-thirty it is, then."
He took his jacket from the hanger and swung it over his shoulder. She could see that he'd fixed the lining with a safety pin.
"I can have the hotel press your suit," she said.
"Great."
"Should I bring it?"
"Keep it here." He came over to the window. "Four-thirty," he said.
She touched his cheek.
She should have felt hung over, but she was too excited. The ice in the bucket had melted, but the bottle was still cold. She filled her glass and drank and stooped to retrieve Scott's rumpled suit jacket. The rosebud fell from the lapel, a soundless scattering of petals. She called down for the suit to be picked up and ordered breakfast: bacon and eggs, and orange juice for mimosas. She put the uniform in the closet and went to the bathroom to shower. She couldn't shake the feeling that Scott was still in the room, that he'd left a piece of himself behind for safekeeping; as if it would be four-thirty for the rest of the day.
She spent the morning going through her address book, searching for the business card of a friend of Michael's, Stefan, who owned a gallery in Soho. She called and left a message on an answering machine. At three-thirty she still hadn't heard anything. At four, he called.
"It has been a long time," she said. "You know Michael did my apartment. When I get back I'll have you over."
Then she told him about Scott. "Of course he shows at a gallery here," she lied. "I don't remember the name. It's French. I own one of his drawings. Yes. . . . I'm sure he can send you something. . . . Slides? I'm sure he does. . . . Yes, he's amazing. He's young. You'd be doing me a favor."
"How young?" he said.
"Young enough to make me feel young."
"You naughty girl."
She felt flushed from her news, her secret surprise like a bubble in her stomach wanting to pop. She hurried down to the lobby and sent the porter dashing out across the square for a cab. She didn't once doubt whether Scott would be at the café. She didn't question the night or the morning; she didn't wonder if it had all been merely a glimpse of a faraway fantasy, a new language that she'd fooled herself into thinking she could speak. The day had been real, as true as water spray between her toes, as her hands circling Scott's head in the dark like a halo, or the drawing on her vanity back at the room, living proof of a beautiful sleepless dream. He was at the café at the time promised, so still, so engaged in his book, yet not so removed that he didn't look up at the exact moment she was stepping from the cab and see her. He set down his book and stood.
"My beautiful painter," she said, kissing him on the lips.
"Aspiring painter."
He held her chair and signaled a waiter.
"We have to get champagne," she said. "I have a surprise."
"Uh-oh."
"Trust me. It's great news."
The waiter came to the table and Scott ordered.
"Do you sell your work?" she said.
He didn't answer.
"Scott?"
"No."
"But you're so good."
"Not yet. Soon, I hope."
"I would buy your work."
"Well, we've made love."
"Seriously."
"Let's talk about something else, Kim, something fun."
"This is fun. That's why I'm bringing it up."
"I need to create work before I can sell it."
"You must have lots by now. Do you have slides? Listen, I talked to a friend before I came here, and—are you ready?—he wants to see slides of your work to consider putting you in his gallery in New York. Can you believe it? I'm so excited for you."
Scott looked away.
"If you don't have slides, we can make them. That's no problem. Scott, he's going to use you for a show."
"What are you doing?" he said.
"I'm helping."
"No, you're not."
"C'mon, be practical."
"My life is not about practical."
"But the drawing—you're gifted. This is a way—"
"To ruin everything."
"There's something wrong with my wanting to help?"
"Help what? With what?"
"Sell your work. How can you pass up—"
"I want to paint," he said. "It's all I'm ready for now, that and being in Paris . . . with you. Don't you see, I could do that drawing for you because of the choices I've made?"
"Well, I could take you to dinner because of the choices I've made. What's wrong with being practical? You're acting like a boy."
He put his book on top of his notebook.
"Scott—"
"No."
"Scott, I'm sorry."
He shook his head.
"Don't go," she said.
"Who followed who?"
"What?"
"You followed me."
"When you run out of money, what then?"
He smoothed the sleeves of his blazer and patted his pocket for his wallet.
"This is why I don't discuss art," he said.
"This is a chance to show your work. You want to pass that up? What's wrong?"
"Thank you for dinner last night," he said, standing.
What could she say to make him stay? She couldn't understand why he'd suddenly turned hostile.
"Please sit," she said.
He didn't move.
"You play the pauper," she said, "while drinking five-dollar coffees, pretending you don't like gifts. I don't understand."
"You don't."
Hadn't she seen his eyes light up at the store yesterday?
"At first you turned up your nose at the clothes," she said.
"Keep the suit. I don't want it."
"Admit that you liked getting that suit. You admired it because you are an artist. It's your nature to appreciate it. Who's being foolish? I understand more than you think."
His cheeks reddened. She knew she hadn't been the only one wrapped up in the previous day.
"You must let my friend see your work," she said.
She wished he would not be so rash. She was pointing the way. His eyes were like stones.
"When you get to be my age—"
He snatched his notebook and book so suddenly she flinched. Her hand shot to the side of her face.
"Scott, don't go. I'm sorry." But he was too far off to hear.
The waiter appeared with the bottle of champagne and the bucket of ice. He watched Scott go, then looked at her. She nodded for him to uncork the bottle.
She would not chase after him. He would come back.
The next day, she went for an early manicure. She got her hair trimmed and combed into a flip and returned to her room to change. She took extra care dressing, choosing a forest-green wool jacket with a sheen that shifted color depending on the light. Sometimes it appeared black, sometimes more yellow. She thought Scott would appreciate the aesthetic, the color, the texture. She slipped on the emerald ring she'd worn the day they met, the ring he'd noticed.
She went to the café at the usual time and drank wine. She waited for Scott. He never came.
All evening she waited. The phone never rang. Around midnight, she took out a pad of hotel stationery and began to write. She crumpled the first two attempts, then began again. No lies, she thought.
Dear Scott,
How do things become other things? I wanted only to give you the most wonderful dinner, and then it turned into something else. Did I do that? How many gifts have I transformed, I wonder? You see me as owning a great deal. Can you believe me when I say that nothing I own i
s what it seems, or that whatever meaning these things once held has recently changed? I came to Paris empty-handed, knowing that everything I possessed amounted to nothing. I knew this in some way before I came, but I am even more sure now. You bought a postcard of a boy the other day. I was so afraid you were going to ask who the photographer was, that you knew and wanted to test me. I was scared because I couldn't remember his name, and I wanted desperately to impress you. But you didn't seem to care. I know now that it wouldn't have mattered, because all that counted was the picture, the boy, his strength, his courage. That's what you were telling me—not to change it into something else. You asked me to listen to the rain. I wanted to know what you heard, because I wanted to hear the same way. But that wasn't the point either. Whether you knew or not, you were informing me. Did you know how badly I needed to see? I can't thank you enough. Then I went and destroyed everything. I was afraid again. I fell back on what I knew, and look at the mess. You gave me so much, and I wanted to give back. I only knew one way and that turned out all wrong. Please forgive me. I'm so naive. All my life I've blamed myself. I want to stop this. Scott, we hardly know each other, so I can't presume to understand, but trust my intention when I say that I didn't want to turn you into something you're not, or make you into something I'm more used to. And if it seemed like I did, I was deceiving myself. The things I have that lack meaning can only have value if they bring someone like you happiness. I want to offer myself because it is the only thing I can give that won't turn into something else. Give me the chance to prove to you that I mean something. Promise me you won't feel pity if I say that I love you. I want you always to remember that, because I'm going home.
When she woke, she didn't shower. She put on black leggings, a long black jacket that flared at the knees, and a thin leopard Alice band to hide her messy bangs. She took out earrings, setting them on the vanity, but then didn't bother to put them on. She took a taxi to the café and sat and waited, wiping sleep from her eyes.
"You are meeting someone, yes?" the waiter said. It was the man with the mustache.
She was afraid to answer.
"Maybe he will come today?" he said.
She sipped coffee and waited.
She watched the early morning crowd leave and the lunch crowd gather. She ordered more coffee and a salad.
The people next to her finished and left. The man getting up had brown hair. The man sitting down had black hair. No further details mattered. People came and went. They fit into one another's absences, adopting the same anonymous form as the one before, smiles, mere facial contortions, void of possibility. She observed this familiar, faceless crowd as an outsider: the motorists and the tourists with their shorts and white sneakers; the musician with his bony cat and dog, who lay at his feet, preying on the hearts of the churchgoers who passed.
There was an old woman with thick-soled shoes, carrying a gray plastic bag, shuffling along the sidewalk. An expensively dressed woman breezed past her, coming the other way with plans, Kim imagined, more plans than she had time for, probably. They appeared and disappeared. They inhabited the same cobbled square, day after day until death, scattered, busy as swarming ants, leaving scarcely a mark. History changed. Impressions changed, and the square remained, through generations of rain and cold, exposed and unpossessable, for new eyes, younger eyes to love and lose.
Scott would not come, she realized.
The waiter watched her pay, stroking his mustache. He stopped her at the curb, then hesitated to speak.
"Can you give him this?" she said, handing him the letter she'd written.
He tucked it in his pocket. "I will tell him you waited," he said.
Her hotel room was filled with roses when she returned, vases on the commode and vanity and nightstands, a single rose across her pillow with a note from Robert. Hatboxes wrapped in blue bows were stacked on the bed. She started to undress. The phone rang.
"Madame, there is a Monsieur Sanders on the line. Shall I say you are out?"
"I'm here," she said.
"Hello, Kim?" His voice bubbled with excitement.
"I just walked in."
"I know. I had the concierge ring me."
She said nothing.
"She made it, Kim. Christine pulled through! We can breathe."
"We can, yes. God's will."
"What the last two days have been like—I needed you here."
She said nothing.
"It's okay, Kim. I understand. It would have been inappropriate. I wasn't thinking. I was—listen, I'm coming to Paris."
"Don't."
"I promise, Kim. I'm not angry. Do you love the flowers? Have you looked at the hats yet? I bet they're all over the room now. I wish I could have seen you opening them."
"Robert—"
"You don't sound pleased."
"I'm relieved about Christine."
"Davis is here. He came when we told him and wouldn't leave her side. I think his face was the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes."
"But you were there, too."
"I was."
"She'll remember that. You'll see. What about the fiancé?"
"He's here. We telephoned his parents. He flew up immediately. They're talking. He's had a rough go too. I think the wedding is back on. He's a fine man."
He took a deep breath.
"You're right, Kim. I can be better. Say it. Tell me I can. I need to hear it from your lips."
She was silent.
"Come back to me," he said. "Or I'll come to Paris. I have a whole week that—"
"Don't come."
"We need—"
"No more, Robert. I—I'm going now."
She waited, hoping he would cut off.
"You can't stop my coming," he said. "You know that. If I want to see you—"
"I don't want to see you."
"That's not acceptable. You owe me—"
"What do I owe you, Robert?"
"For starters—"
"What is it you deserve?"
"Now that's a different term."
"Why did you ever give me anything?"
"Why? Darling, I loved you."
"Say it again."
"I love you."
"Again."
"Kim—"
"Like you mean it."
"I—"
"Daddy used to say that. Like you mean it! he'd bark. Say it like you mean it. After a lot of repeating, you don't think about the meaning anymore." She listened to his breathing. "I'm not blaming you."
"What are you doing?"
"I can't see you anymore," she said. "Not anymore."
"I don't—Kim, we—"
"We can be better."
"What are you trying to say?"
"It's hope—hope, Robert."
She set down the phone. Her hand brushed one of the earrings she'd left on the vanity earlier, knocking it to the floor. She stepped back and something crunched. She stooped to pick up the pieces. The setting had fractured. The stone had come out, and she got on her knees to look for it. She imagined the sight of herself and started to laugh. If anyone asked her, she'd say she spent the week searching for a diamond on the floor of the Ritz. That's what she did in Paris. She found the stone and laughed. She stood up and set the earring on the vanity and looked at the picture Scott had drawn of the girl and the boy with the umbrella, and she remembered Bobby Streeber, whom she hadn't thought about in years.
"You can catch wind in a jar. . . ."
She rushed to the window, unfastened the latch, and flung it open. She cried for Robert's daughter, a second chance at life, and the pain she would face. She cried because of that pain she herself had always fled, the things she'd missed along the way and the things she did not yet know; for Scott's struggles and pride, and for those who were no longer part of her life. She cried to be free, not knowing how truly free she was, for she was unaware that two days before, eight thousand miles away, her father had died. The initial surgery had been successful. Complications
followed, and another more serious failure. He died in the early morning, the sun just rising over the cliffs, a team of doctors crowding his open chest, ribs fractured and split apart with a sparkling clamp, sterile air touching organs that were not meant to see light, all the while his fighting—his fervent, unconscious clinging to the dawn. None of this she knew. Even still, she mourned him, because his life had been at the heart of the missing. It always had been, since she knew enough to know missing; and the missing that lay ahead that death could not alter—that was a part of rebirth.
She dropped her head back, and even her crying couldn't block out the song of the birds.
About the Author
CAMERON DOUGAN grew up in Ho-Ho-Kus, New Jersey. He attended Davidson College and New York University, and earned his M.A. in creative writing at New York University. He is assistant manager at the Madison Avenue Bookshop in New York City. This is his first novel.
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This is a work of fiction. The characters and events in it are inventions of the author and do not depict any real persons or events. Any similarity to individuals living or deceased is coincidental.
Copyright © 2001 by Cameron Dougan
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