“We’re two of a kind, then!” he smiled. “What a coincidence, huh. You’re coming as I’m going. When did you get here?”
“Yesterday. It’s been kind of rough so far. I’m staying in this scummy hostel, and I’ve already paid for three weeks there, but I don’t know if I’m going to make it. You’re the first person I’ve been able to actually talk to since I got off the plane.”
“Everything feels so strange and different, doesn’t it? I know the feeling. I grew up near Los Angeles, so I’m not a stranger to big cities or anything, but I’d never left the US before coming here. It’s like, I got here, and I was just caught up in something bigger than myself. I didn’t know how to handle it, at first. Being on my own, without knowing anyone. Starting all over.”
I punched him on the shoulder enthusiastically. “That’s exactly how I feel! How did you know?”
He almost fell off the bench in an exaggerated reaction. Suddenly we were both dissolving in laughter, for no real reason except that it felt good, and that I had someone to laugh with instead of sitting all alone.
He stuck out his hand. “Hi, I’m Josh.”
“Josh. I’m Vivian. That’s funny that the first person I really meet in London comes from near where I do. I grew up in San Jose.”
He leaned far back on the bench so that his long legs stuck out way in front of him. “Ah, San Jose,” he intoned. “Market basket of the north. The fertile valley. The place, the place . . .”
“The place where nothing ever happens,” I finished for him. “The neighborhood I grew up in—it’s pretty, and quiet, and safe. I just can’t stand it. Whenever I go back home, everything’s always the same. The same neighbors out watering their plants, driving the same cars, doing the same things. I feel like a kid again every time I go home for vacations, because whenever I go back, it’s like I never left.” I didn’t tell him about my house, about the one place that wasn’t safe.
“Well then,” he said, “let’s do something completely unlike your life in San Jose. Unless you have plans?”
“No, nothing,” I said, heart pounding, attempting to look blasé. “There’s this painting I want to see at the National Gallery. But that’s it, really.” I pulled the A-Z from my backpack. “Just me and my map.”
“Good,” said Josh, “Because it’s your lucky day. I have the day off, and I’ve got absolutely nothing to do. In fact, if I hadn’t started talking to you, I’d probably still be sitting on this same bench at dinnertime. But you’re fresh meat—it’s your first real day in London. I’m gonna give you . . .” He made some trumpeting noises. “ . . . the grand tour!” More instrumental sounds, then he stood and offered me his arm. “Mademoiselle?”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” I curtsied.
~ ~ ~
We headed toward the National Gallery’s imposing classically-columned stone entrance. “This is probably the oldest building I’ve ever been in,” I commented. “I’m such a hick.”
From the bright entry rotunda, we wandered through the rooms full of Impressionist paintings. They were beautiful, but not what I’d come to see. “This place is free, so I come here a lot,” said Josh. “Especially when it’s raining, and I need somewhere to sit and dry off. I just sit here and look at—that one, actually.” He pointed to Monet’s The Thames Below Westminster. “I hang till I’m ready to go out in the rain again.”
Consulting my gallery guide, I led Josh upstairs to room 56, a little room way in the back of the second floor displaying the painting I’d been dying to look at in person.
“It’s one of Jan van Eyck’s most famous works,” I instructed Josh, after staring, absorbed, at the Portrait of Giovanni Arnolfini and His Wife for a while. The richly dressed subjects—the merchant Giovanni Arnolfini, wearing a long fur cape, Mrs. Arnolfini in a sumptuous green dress—were looking toward each other, though not quite at each other. Their hands rested one atop the other, lightly, not clasped. A mirror in the back of the chamber reflected them in miniature; squinting closely, it looked as if there was a third person in the mirror, someone outside the borders of the canvas. “I wish I could paint like that,” I said longingly. “Look how small the painting is—and yet, all the detail. You can’t even see the brushstrokes. I heard that Van Eyck would paint with brushes with only one hair. He captured the tiniest detail.”
“Sure, sure, but are they happy?” he asked, squinting at the Arnolfinis.
“Of course! They’re married!” I said blithely.
“But no, wait,” said Josh. “She’s totally gazing at him with this complete adoration, but look at him. He’s got this look, like, whatever, I don’t care, I’m busy doing important Flemish business activities, so just go off, and have babies, and I’ll see you in a couple years.”
I glared at him. “This is one of my favorite paintings you’re talking about. And you’re ruining my whole communion with this piece!” I started laughing, but I felt a peculiar sense of loss.
“C’mon then,” Josh pulled my arm. “Let’s go! There’s all kinds of stuff I want to show you.”
We left the museum, rounded the corner onto Charing Cross Road, strolled into bustling, tourist-filled Leicester Square, dubiously eyed a pizza cart featuring toppings such as sweet corn and tuna, and looped back onto Charing Cross Road. I was drawn to the many used bookshops lining the street. “I love antique cookbooks,” I confessed, wandering inside a moldy-smelling storefront, piled high with stacks of books in no discernable order. “They’re like entering this bizarre alternate universe of complete minutiae. I’ve got this one at home from 1927. It tells you how to serve a luncheon if you don’t have a maid. The details go on for four pages. I can’t imagine it—people caring so much about protocol. Serving sandwiches only to the right from a tea cart. Like the universe would explode if you served from the left. Like, did these ladies have anything else to do?”
“You’re asking the wrong question,” Josh said. “I think there’s comfort in conforming. In doing things just the right way. It’s so much easier, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I looked down. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Well. We’ve got to find you the perfect cookbook, then!” Josh enthused, his voice artificially buoyant, and I knew it was to cheer me. Somehow, this funny, smart, thoughtful guy wanted to make me happy. In the scope of my life’s experiences, this was absolutely new. Meanwhile, I stepped carefully. This shop featured several sleek tabby cats, and I noticed what looked suspiciously like hairballs underfoot.
I paged through a book imposingly titled Twentieth Century Art in Context. “You were asking why I’m not majoring in art, anymore,” I said. “And you’re right—it’s the one thing I’m good at. The one thing that makes me feel completely . . . I don’t know . . . alive, but settled, if that makes sense. I have all this energy I need to channel somewhere—and painting takes care of that. But I don’t have that belief, that I can really make it as an artist. I don’t believe in myself enough, I guess. And if you don’t have that, as an artist, you’re lost. When I’m retired maybe I can show my paintings in some senior citizen art show. Paintings of cats and flower arrangements, or something.”
“I feel the same way about writing,” Josh sympathized. “I’ve always wanted to be a writer. But I’m not sure I have the willpower to pursue it, really. It’s like the luncheon ladies with the tea carts. It’s way easier to stay on the safe path, the one my dad’s prepared for me for my whole life. I mean, my life’s been already planned. I just have to show up.”
“I don’t know the answer,” I said. “I don’t have that drive, and it makes me sad—that I’m just letting it go. And I don’t have anything really to take its place. Nothing could.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Josh agreed. Then: “Hey! What’s this I see!” He pulled out a yellowed book. The lengthy title page read, in part:
Ladies’ Indispensable Assistant
Being a Companion for the Sister, Mother, and Wife
Directions for Managing Canary Bir
ds
Also,
Safe Directions for the Management of Children;
Instructions for
Ladies under Various Circumstances
I flipped through the book avidly. It appeared to cover every potential situation a lady in 1852 might encounter. Dropsy remedies. A recipe for roast pig (“A pig about three weeks old is best. It should be killed in the morning . . .”). How to write love letters. The book cost twenty pounds; more than I could afford, but I had to have it. “I wish there were books like this now,” I mused. How to Figure Your Life Out in 1998, or something.”
“That’s what magic eight-balls are for, silly. Anyhow, all these cookbooks are making me hungry!” Josh exclaimed, pulling at my arm, changing the subject again. “Come on—I’ve got the perfect lunch plan; you’re going to love it.” I bought the book before I could change my mind, then he backtracked us down Charing Cross Road, onto Garrick Street, and a few blocks to Covent Garden.
I browsed eagerly through the eclectic array inside—an opera house, the Punch & Judy pub, numerous shops. I was awestruck in particular by the promise of chic yet bohemian skin care options available at brightly colored Lush. “Hurry up,” Josh said impatiently, “We can come back later; I’m starving.” He led me outside to a nondescript hot dog cart. “You might not think so right now. You might be incredibly doubtful, in fact. You might even wonder why I yanked you out of that foofy bath store, just to come here. But I swear: this will be the best hot dog you ever tasted.”
I rolled my eyes. Josh was so enthusiastic—“Fine, buy me one, and I’ll see for myself,” I demanded, actually arching an eyebrow. Was I . . . trying to flirt? Me?
Okay: I’d never eaten a hot dog like this. It was encased in a long baguette, with a hole poked in the middle, and inside the hole was one long, perfectly cooked hot dog. “Gourmet!” I enthused.
“Told you,” Josh said, satisfied. Then he leaned forward conspiratorially. “You know . . .” he whispered. “This was a test. If you didn’t like that hot dog, I figured there was no hope at all. I would have had to drop you back off in Trafalgar Square, and continue on my merry way.”
He liked me—this gorgeous, electric guy with the happy smile. Gears in my head that had never meshed now squealed into motion. I could be that person. The person that Josh could like.
~ ~ ~
We took the tube to Warwick Avenue and walked briskly past the stately Edwardian row houses, creamy and beautiful against the now-blue sky. I was one big bubble of happiness. It was so easy being with Josh, carried along on waves of his enthusiasm. I didn’t have to do anything particular; I just had to be there, and listen, and he took care of the rest. Everything was so easy, all of a sudden.
Our shoulders brushed as we walked toward the canal. My stomach cramped with a sudden sharp desire. These were surely the first steps in some unfamiliar dance.
“I’m dying to show this place to you, because it’s one of my favorite London spots,” Josh said. “Now that you passed the hot dog test, I mean. And you’ve been found worthy.”
“I’m in suspense! Canals in London—who knew?”
“It’s called Little Venice—look!” Backed by those gorgeous houses and leafy trees, there was indeed a narrow canal ringed by small, colorful house boats: cadmium red, hunter green, and one burnt-umber–colored one that looked to have been constructed by hand of leftover wood planks. Ripples splashed against the dock. Sky and trees shimmered upside-down in the water.
“I wish I could stay here forever!” I said impulsively. “Just like this.”
“Let’s, then,” murmured Josh. “Let’s just stay.”
We quietly leaned against a fence for an hour. Not feeling the need to say anything, just being there next to each other. Mothers passed by, pushing strollers. Animated men wearing newsboy caps pulled low walked near, talking and gesturing loudly. But finally, it was just us, watching the changing patterns of the sun on the water, the boats bobbing up and down, feeling utterly peaceful, at home in the world, no longer waiting for answers.
Chapter 3
By dinnertime, we’d made it to Win Kee Restaurant, back where we started, near Leicester Square. It was a dingy spot, with wrinkled pink tablecloths covered with thick acrylic table covers. I peered dubiously at the poorly spelled menu. It featured “spared rips” and “orange chiken.”
“So, what’s good here?”
“Doesn’t matter what’s good—you should ask, what’s cheap!” Josh grinned. “I’ve managed to subsist on nearly no income this year, just by having dinner here a couple times a week. I take home what I don’t eat; it’s dinner tomorrow. Here:” He perused the menu. “The absolutely cheapest thing they have is the mixed chow mein. So we should get that.”
“Tally-ho, then,” I said. “You can take home my leftovers too; you’ll eat for a week. But wait a minute—they don’t feed you, at Chicago Pizza?”
“Oh man, I’m so sick of pizza, you just have no idea. But I bring pizza home from work too. That’s lunch. And breakfast!”
It was still bright outside, but it was 7 pm. I felt suddenly lonely. I’d never had so much fun in one day, and now it was over. This dinner, and then back to the hostel, and three more weeks of aimless wandering, trying and failing each day to recapture the joy and camaraderie I’d had with Josh today. I jerked out of my reverie:
“So what are you going to do, now that you’re not going to be an artist anymore?” he was asking.
“I don’t know, really. I changed my major to history, just so I could come here and have something to study.”
“Yeah, like studying history is some kick-ass way to make a living. Get real. What are you going to do with a history degree?”
“Listen, I didn’t really think things through, okay? The whole idea was to come here, and by the end of the year I’ll have something figured out. I don’t know. I’ll do whatever people do with history degrees. Be a teacher. Be a waitress. Something like that.”
He glared at me. “You know, I always wanted to be an English major. I’ve always wanted to be a writer. So it’s not fair that you just gave up your dream, and I didn’t even get a chance to try mine.”
“So why not? What are you mad at me for—it’s your life! You can do whatever you want!”
An exhausted-looking waitress hurried over with two steaming plates of brown, greasy noodles. I poked my fork into them dubiously. They were delicious, actually—“Big piles of MSG goodness,” I joked, to make him laugh.
He didn’t, though. He just looked gloomy. “Sorry I snapped at you. It’s just, I don’t really have a choice. My dad’s massively strict, and he firmly believes that I need to, I don’t know, I need to be the son he can name-drop in conversation. ‘Josh—the lawyer—yes, he’s working for Wangdoodle and Grinch. Junior Associate already!’ That kind of crap. So I’m getting this political science degree, just like everyone else. So I can have the same fuckin’ boring life as everybody else does. And so Dad doesn’t have to say, ‘My son, the screw-up writer that works at a coffee shop because he can’t sell anything he writes . . .’ Okay?”
I got up, went around the table and hugged him, hard. “It’s not okay. You know it’s not.” Thinking of Mom, name-dropping Eric in conversation that way. Never me. Remembering how much it hurt.
He hugged me back. “Thanks for that. I just get so upset, you know,” he muttered into my shoulder; I was squeezed uncomfortably against him and the table. “I don’t have the control over my life I thought I would, and it’s partly my fault. I’m too weak to stand up to him, to damn weak to say, ‘I’m going to be who I need to be—I’m just gonna do it.’ Because doing that would cut me off from my family.” I extricated myself, grabbed my chair, pulled it over next to his. He grasped my hands. “My dad rules everyone. Mom is totally under his thumb. And I’m not ready for that—to be on my own like that, totally alone.”
I wanted to say, You’re not alone. I’d be there for you. But I’d only known him for one day. Hi
s hands so warm over mine.
“I thought if I came to London, I’d be far enough away that I could leave them all behind. But I still crave his affection, you know? It kills me, that I email him about my high marks in class, just wanting him to love me more. Like I’m not worth anything without his love. And I can buy it with As.”
“I came here to get away too,” I said softly. “Isn’t that funny. To get away from my family for a different reason than you did, but still—to escape. And now you’re telling me it’s not far enough—that nowhere will be far enough to hide from all those memories.”
“What happened that made you go so far away?” Josh asked intently.
“I really don’t want to talk about it. Maybe another time.”
“Why? Is it so bad?”
“No, I guess not. Yes.”
I was crying now, making a fool of myself, blubbering into the noodles. “I’ve had such a lovely day—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get so upset.”
“I had a really nice day, too. And I’m glad you’re upset, kind of! Because you think like I do, and you know what I’m going through. I’ve never met anyone who did, really, before. Or I never told anyone what I’ve told you. That’s so strange—I’ve only known you for a day. Why am I telling you all this stuff?”
I looked at him. The gears clicked into place. I slurped a now-cold noodle.
“I wonder . . .” he started, then stopped. Finally: “I don’t have to get to work till five o’clock tomorrow. Will you spend the day with me?”
The room swirled around a bit, then leveled.
~ ~ ~
The next morning, I exited the Tube at the Hampstead station, peering around nervously. We were supposed to meet here, at 9 am, and I was right on time. But I was certain Josh wouldn’t show up—that yesterday had been some sort of hallucination or trick. Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty, and I sat down on the ground outside the station, curiously paved with blue glass tiles, hiding my face in my arms. I felt as if Alice in Wonderland must have, after awakening from her fantastic dream.
Parts Unknown Page 3
