Theft by Finding: Diaries 1977-2002

by David Sedaris

  2002

  January 3, 2002

  Paris

  I’d always imagined Susan Sontag as delicate, almost brittle, but seated beside her at the dinner table, I noticed that her wrists were easily as thick as her ankles. She was tall and bulky, her trademark skunked hair now dyed a solid black. Steven had done the seating arrangements and it was his joke to place me beside her. We talked privately for a minute or two, but most of the conversation was central, with topics ranging from Henry James to a ninety-five-year-old Polish poet I’d never heard of. I was prepared for the worst, but aside from a few displays of obvious boredom, Susan Sontag was, if not warm, then at least well behaved. She said she couldn’t possibly eat cheese off her dinner plate, but that was her only show of fussiness. Outright hostility was reserved for an Englishwoman named Hillary who looked like Candice Bergen. “I’ve just been to Libya,” she said, “and have noticed that we’re really much better off than the rest of the world.”

  Susan Sontag said she’d been “noticing” this every day of her life, but the jab went unchallenged.

  “I mean, really,” Hillary continued, “there are places where one can’t find so much as an aspirin!”

  Susan Sontag said that, yes, we all need aspirin.

  Seated around the table were Diane Johnson and her husband, John; Paolo, Susan Sontag’s Italian translator; Steven; Hugh; James Ivory; and Ismail Merchant. James and Ismail are making a movie of Le Divorce and they start shooting in early March. Ismail was seated on my right and was just as gracious as he could be. After dessert he took us up the street and gave us a tour of his grand apartment. He made everyone feel special and interesting, while James Ivory was a bit more businesslike. Diane and her husband are lively and engaging, but for the most part, it was an uncomfortable evening. Uncomfortable meaning that I tried my best to keep my mouth shut.

  January 4, 2002

  Paris

  Don called with a business question but lost his way while wishing me a happy New Year. One moment he was discussing the new book contract and the next thing I knew, he was in a cab with Ray Bradbury and Zero Mostel. “He had an apartment on Seventy-Second and wanted to show me this…cloth he’d put things on…painted things on. These…paintings he’d done.”

  January 7, 2002

  Paris

  It snowed twelve inches in Raleigh, and my brother’s street was blocked off. He lives at the bottom of a hill, and people came from all over with their seldom-used sleds and toboggans. Dad dropped by late in the morning and warned Paul against overdoing it, saying, “You’re fat now and you’ve got to be careful. You might hurt yourself.”

  He said it the way one might warn a senior “You’re old now,” as if Paul’s condition were irreversible. To prove him wrong, Paul tried a complicated trick and dislocated his shoulder. Unable to sled, he now sits in the house eating cookies and growing fatter.

  Every day feels the same, in part because every day looks the same. Again yesterday it was cold and cloudy, the sky the flat gray color of a nickel. We’d planned to go to Normandy, but it turns out the agency in Argentan has no more rental cars. Going without one means that Hugh will spend the entire week in a sour mood, threatening every fifteen minutes to sell the house and move back to New York. We’d both looked forward to getting away, but I’m definitely handling the disappointment better than he is. I just watched as he poured an entire bag of coffee into the stovetop espresso machine. Grounds spilled onto the counter, and when I asked what he was doing, he brushed them onto the floor, saying flatly, “Making coffee.”

  January 23, 2002

  Paris

  Monday night was our co-op meeting, which was held in the coiffeur’s shop on the ground floor of our building. Hugh had attended one last spring, but this was my first. The apartment owners, seven of us all together, gathered up chairs and sat in a semicircle facing an architect and our efficient syndic, a thin woman in her early fifties whose job it is to manage things and who tended to interrupt whoever was speaking with “C’est normal, c’est normal.”

  What wasn’t normal got her full attention for a period averaging between thirty and forty-five seconds. The main point of business was to vote on the roof repair. Two estimates had been given and the architect suggested we accept the higher bid, claiming the lower would wind up costing us more in the long run. Madame S. presented a case for fixing her retaining wall, saying it had been moistened and damaged by the leaking roof. “I’d said as much to my husband,” she said.

  I’m not sure exactly how long her husband’s been dead, but Madame S. mentioned him at least a dozen times, most often in the context of some prediction. “I told him…,” “He told me…” In the middle of the meeting, she pulled out a test tube containing a tiny lump of calcium. She’d harvested it from her drain and waved it in the air, hoping to make a point.

  “C’est normal, madame,” the syndic said. “C’est normal.”

  Though everyone was civil, I sensed that our neighbors had long ago grown tired of Madame S. Smiles faded as soon as she opened her mouth. The syndic examined her notes. The architect doodled in the margins of his floor plan. At one point she complained that the third-floor tenants of number 98 boulevard Saint-Germain had held a party. “And the noise! The music!”

  “C’est normal,” the syndic said.

  Of all the partners, my favorites were the couple who own the tiny apartment on the half landing between the first and second floors. They’ve got a leak in the roof, but their biggest problem is their tenant, who hasn’t paid the rent in months. “Oh, him,” everyone said. “He’s crazy.” The husband was honey-colored and spoke with an accent I couldn’t identify. He was maybe in his late sixties, but his face was unlined and surprised-looking. “Well, we know he’s crazy,” he said. “I just wish we’d known it sooner.”

  The meeting proceeded, and just as it was winding up, the syndic laid down her papers. “Who’s been building fires?” she asked. The informer, of course, had been Madame S., who conveniently reexamined her test tube of calcium. According to the syndic, fires are essentially illegal in Paris. People build them all the time, but apparently not her people. If it simply came down to asphyxiating Madame S., she’d be all for it, but legally any death would be the syndic’s responsibility. Our options are to “entube” the chimney, which would allow us to build charcoal fires, or tear down the building and reconstruct it from scratch. I left the meeting, my face burning. I’d chosen this apartment specifically because of the fireplaces and if we can’t use them, I’d just as soon move.

  At the Odeon Métro stop I saw a baby lying alone in her basket next to an ashtray and a little sign reading AIDEZ MOI SVP. The mother was hanging out at the top of the stairs and would look down every few minutes, checking to see if she’d earned any money.

  January 26, 2002

  Florence, Italy

  Me: What do you want as your main birthday gift?

  Hugh: I want to attend Madame S.’s funeral.

  January 28, 2002

  Florence

  Florence often smells like toast.

  January 30, 2002

  Paris

  It took over twelve hours to get from our Florence hotel room to our apartment in Paris. Hugh and I awoke at four thirty a.m. and walked through our door, finally, at ten to five in the afternoon. The first problem was the fog. We’d boarded our plane at seven fifteen and spent an hour and a half parked on the runway, listening as the guy behind us crabbed at his wife. Actually, crabbed is too gentle a word. He screamed at her: “For God’s sake, will you just shut up!”

  He was an American in his seventies, tall and bearded, who’d topped his greasy hair with a black beret. “I’m sick of hearing about it, so just shut up. Can you do that? Shut. Up.” Boarding the plane had put him in a foul mood, and his mood worsened when they sent out a bus and returned us to the airport.

  Like most of our fellow passengers, the American couple had a connecting flight in Paris. At ten a.m. they stil
l had a chance of making it, but by noon all hope was gone. While Hugh and I talked with a Canadian schoolteacher, the bearded man roamed the waiting room, loudly complaining to whoever would listen. His wife sat alone, huddled in her mink, and after a while I stopped feeling sorry for her. You don’t just suddenly become an award-winning asshole. It takes years of practice, years she’d doubtlessly spent mortified in other, larger waiting rooms with pay phones and magazine racks. They had us reboard at around one, and again her husband started yelling. He screamed when a man with glasses accidentally took the window seat, “You’d think he’d never been on a goddamn plane.” He screamed when his wife tried wedging her purse beneath the seat, and he screamed when a fat man arranged his coat in the overhead compartment. “Hey,” he said, “you want to back off?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re invading our space, goddamn it.”

  “I was just trying to—”

  “Bullshit, you’re knocking against my wife. Back off.”

  The fat man was also from the United States, clean-shaven with gold-rimmed glasses. “You, sir,” he said, “are being an ugly American.”

  “Piss off,” the bearded man said.

  “An ugly, ugly American.”

  The fat man laid his self-help book on his seat and called for the flight attendant. “Excuse me, miss,” he said, “but you might want to keep an eye on this gentleman.”

  “Oh, kiss my ass,” the bearded man spat.

  He was quiet for a few minutes but started up again when the pilot announced a baggage-identification check. A few of our fellow passengers had gone missing and we couldn’t proceed until their luggage had been removed from the plane. This involved unloading the cargo hold and spreading its contents out on the runway. In groups of twenty we were instructed to disembark, identify our suitcases, and reboard. The process took over an hour, and we didn’t take off until two fifteen, by which point the whole thing had become a terrible comedy. The bearded man brightened with his third glass of champagne and fell asleep shortly afterward. Her crossword puzzle finished, his wife put her head on his shoulder and quietly, so as not to wake him, chewed the end of her pencil.

  February 8, 2002

  Paris

  Yosef called yesterday afternoon, asking if I’d found the time to read his screenplay. I told him I hadn’t and he said, “Well, I read your book and hated it.” He translated my laugh as “Tell me more, please,” and went on to offer a detailed critique of Barrel Fever.

  It didn’t bother me, as the book is almost ten years old and I hate it now too. On top of that, it’s sort of exciting to know someone who’s that direct. I listened to him, certain that, should I hate his screenplay, I’d never admit it. The directness will always be one-sided.

  February 9, 2002

  Paris

  I met Yosef at the Viaduc des Arts and we took the train to his riding stables in the Bois de Boulogne. Before leaving I’d resolved to be more interesting, but by the time we reached the Métro station, I felt that I’d failed and it was too late to make up for it. He’s a very nice guy, but I couldn’t seem to remember what friends talk about. “What did you have for dinner last night?” I asked. “Did your dog sleep well?”

  He asked me a few questions in French and then resorted to English, saying, “I forgot. It’s easier for you.” I wanted to say that French was fine but felt it would be burdening him even further. “What will you eat tonight?” I asked. “Will your dog stay up late?”

  The stables were large and broken up into different areas. In one building, a teacher instructed a group of young women in how to apply a horseshoe. He kept telling his pupils, “Decontractez,” which means “relax.” Yosef said it’s the most used word in any sports-related conversation. He said that the French invented both laziness and the belief that rules were meant to be broken, and I wondered if he was saying that because he’s Swiss.

  We walked around in the mud and rain and then visited the stable café for a cup of coffee. It was a large, sad place, nearly deserted. Through a glass wall we could see teenage girls on horseback trotting around in a circle. While we sat there, Yosef told me of the time he visited Munich and stole a bicycle. It’s the second episode of petty theft he’s admitted to, and again he made it sound very reasonable. “All around me, people were riding bikes and enjoying themselves, so I thought, Why not me?” He said he’d planned to return it when he was finished, but the police stopped him before he could even leave the park. “It was,” he said, “a real fiasco.”

  On the train back, Yosef asked what kind of animal I might be if I were suddenly transformed into a cartoon character. I didn’t quite understand the question, so he offered an example, saying that he himself would be a bear. “Sometimes I am cuddly like a panda,” he said, “but if I get in a bad mood, watch out!” I tried to imagine him as a cartoon bear dressed in a raincoat and yellow sneakers and decided that, with his red hair and penchant for stealing, he’d probably make a much better fox.

  “So come on,” he said. “What are you?” I’d never given it much thought but figured I’d probably be an ant. When Hugh and I moved into the new apartment, I carried everything but the furniture, making six or seven trips a day from the old place to the new one. When I pictured all our belongings, it seemed futile, so I never thought beyond the load I was transporting at the time. Books, shoes, pots and pans, the television: I was like an ant deconstructing a scrap of bread.

  Yosef seemed dissatisfied with my answer and announced that I’d most likely be an oyster. “Because sometimes you look at me and I have no idea what you are thinking.”

  “How can you tell if an oyster is looking at you in the first place?” I asked. “They don’t even have eyes, do they?”

  “Well,” Yosef said, “you know what I mean.”

  It seemed vaguely insulting to be compared to an oyster. I wanted to replead my case for the ant, but instead I just let it go. He invited me to his house for a piece of pie, but I begged off. “I’m super busy right now,” I said. Then I came back to my apartment and took a bath, counting the hours until Hugh came home.

  Over coffee Yosef taught me the word beauf, which is short for beau-frère. It means “brother-in-law,” but the shortened version connotes an element of tedium. A beauf branché is a brother-in-law who mistakenly considers himself to be hip.

  February 12, 2002

  Paris

  Sunday at three a.m., an American couple had a fight on the street in front of our building. I’m guessing they were in their late twenties, both drunk. Apparently the girl had had her jacket stolen at the bar.

  Her: Well, I told you to watch it.

  Him: That isn’t the point.

  Her: Then forget about it. I can get a new fucking passport.

  Him: Well, I’m not going to forget about it. I’m not.

  Her: You’re just mad because you gave it to me.

  Him: Hey, that is not the point. Yes, I gave it to you. It was expensive. It looked damned good on you, but that is not the point.

  Her: Oh, please.

  Him: The point is that you just stood there and let them laugh at you.

  Her: They weren’t laughing.

  Him: They were. You said that stupid stuff and let them laugh because—(He grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her against the wall, a separate slam for every word.)—you (slam) don’t (slam) have (slam) any (slam) self- (slam) respect (slam).

  She recovered herself, and then, as if it were a scene memorized from a play, they started again from the top.

  Her: Well, I told you to watch it…

  March 2, 2002

  Paris

  In return for our help getting her hot-water heater installed, Peggy took us to dinner at the Hotel Bristol, where I learned about foams. According to her, it’s the new trend. Stocks are reduced to a potent broth and then whipped up to resemble scum. I had a foie gras soup that looked as if it had been pissed on. Hugh had sea urchins, the shells emptied out and filled with w
hat looked to be dirty bubble bath. The problem with foam, aside from its general ugliness, is its texture. Unlike, say, a mousse, it doesn’t really take to the mouth. The flavor was there, but I missed the heft of a heavy fork. I missed chewing. Also I realized that, should the trend continue, you’d never again be able to tell if the waiter had spit in your food. At the Café Marly, some things are foamed and others are not. Hugh ordered the pig head and received a perfectly recognizable nose and ear surrounded by vegetables.

  March 5, 2002

  Paris

  I went to see The Honey Pot, a 1967 movie starring Rex Harrison and a very young Maggie Smith. Even in her twenties, her face unlined, she had the eyes of a man. They’re heavily lashed but somehow seem to contain masculine information. Maggie Smith’s eyes know about shaving.

  March 9, 2002

  La Bagotière

  Little, Brown forwarded an envelope of mail, and I realized after reading it over that every single letter wanted something from me. The senders included:

  a college student writing an article on magazine readership. “I’m on a deadline so email me as soon as you get this!”

  a Cleveland man who’s written a gay travel guide and wants my help finding an agent.

  an Indianapolis human rights group wanting me to attend their rally. “Your agent says you haven’t got the time, but I suspect you do.”

  a Seattle drama group asking for an essay on how theater has changed my life.

  three Nashville High School students assigned to read a bestseller and write the author with questions such as “Have you written any other books? Where do you get your ideas?”