by Hoang, Jamie
“Did you know then that you were going to marry Mom?”
“Yes,” he would smile.
A photo of my mom kissing a petal at the top of the Eiffel Tower was on the last page of the Paris section, but my dad ended the story with them dancing every time. I loved that story.
I stared at it for a long moment, perplexed. “Humm.”
“What?” Jeff asked, not even looking at the Eiffel Tower.
“I’ve always imagined what it would be like to stand here and I can’t believe that I’m actually here.”
At the ticket line to the Eiffel Tower, a sea of loving gestures surrounded us: a gentle squeeze of the shoulders, swinging entwined hands, laughter followed by a tiptoed kiss, arms wrapped around each other’s waists. Jeff was staring at the tiptoe kissing couple next to us. “What did Veronica think of the Eiffel Tower?” I asked.
“She thought it was ugly. To be honest, our trip was kind of annoying. She spent most of the time shopping, which made no sense to me ‘cause every store she went into was a chain that we had in L.A.: Gucci, Prada, Chanel. Are they really that different in another country?”
I caught a touch of sadness in his voice and asked, “But she must’ve loved being at the top?”
He shrugged, “We didn’t go up.”
“You came all the way to Paris and didn’t go up the Eiffel Tower?”
“Nope.”
“Well, do you want to?”
“I wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t,” he smiled, handing the cashier €28 in exchange for our lift tickets.
I looked up at the massive steel plates and bolts that made up an intricate, interlocking weave of parts that held the Tower together. Its lack of color made it hard to describe as ‘pretty’ but there was no denying the innovative structural design and engineering.
The initial ascent reminded me of the glass elevator in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which moved not only up and down but sideways as well. We were moving at a diagonal, which was just like going up an escalator, but for some reason I kept expecting us all to tilt sideways into each other. The elevator was packed to the max with people, and when I looked down I noticed that Jeff was shifting on his feet and tapping them nervously.
I slipped my hand into his, squeezing it tight. He looked down at me and laughed, realizing how transparent his discomfort was. Then, he lifted his head and sighed deeply as the elevator doors finally opened.
A chilly breeze greeted us as we emerged onto a small platform at the top of the Tower. Jeff released my hand, and I curled it into a fist before quickly stuffing it into my pocket.
I was so distracted by the hauntingly beautiful view that I failed to notice the goosebumps that had formed on my arms. Standing up there was like being on a Ferris wheel at the pivotal point of descent, and perpetually waiting to exhale. I watched as the city, shrunken down to the size of Monopoly pieces, ran on autopilot.
“Doin’ alright down there?” Jeff joked behind me. Squeezed in-between other tourists who all wanted to stand at the edge, I stood shoulder to shoulder with strangers.
“I do kind of wish I was your height right now,” I said.
“I could lift you up on my shoulders.”
“That would be awesome,” I replied, jokingly. He started to kneel down. “Oh my gosh! I was kidding! Get up. Don’t be crazy.”
“Suit yourself,” he said as he straightened back up.
A decent-sized space opened up to my left and Jeff slid into it. The light had begun to change and we stood with a direct view of the reddish-pink sky reflected onto the Arc de Triomphe in the distance and the Seine River directly below. Like an intricately spun web, the French gate stood at the center of the city with its streets dispersing outward equidistant from each other.
“I love it,” Jeff said, gazing out at the vast and sprawling city.
“What?”
“The perspective. Up here, nothing down there seems as important,” he said.
“Yeah, but knowing that the world down there is the one we live in is kind of depressing, right? I mean, look at the people. They all want to matter, but from our perspective…” I trailed off. There were thousands of people moving about below, all planting seeds and hoping to sprout some kind of flower, when the reality of it was most of us would amount to little more than blades of grass in an enormous lawn.
“You don’t actually believe that,” he replied.
I looked up at him with a half-broken smile. “Yeah, I kinda do.” The occasional gust of wind made the cold hard to ignore as I hugged my body for warmth.
“Do you want to head back down?” he asked.
“In a bit,” I replied, my lips quivering. Cold as I was, I wanted—and perhaps needed—the moment to linger. Without saying a word, Jeff moved behind me and wrapped his arms around me as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I could feel his every movement, right down to the muscles in his arms tensing and relaxing as his lungs took deep breaths. Shifting only slightly, I cupped my hands over his wrists and pressed them to my chest to reciprocate the gesture.
“Have you been up to the Griffith Observatory?” I asked. “My friend Rusty took me there the day I arrived in Venice. He brought a jug of wine that he poured into red plastic cups and we made a toast to my arrival.”
“Of course, yeah, I’ve been there,” Jeff said, his warm breath grazing the top of my head.
I smiled. “Sometimes I’d drive up there by myself just to look down at the city. I’d look at the hundreds of thousands of people moving around below and remind myself that we all have big dreams. Every single person down there wants the same thing I do. Well, maybe not the exact same thing, but we all want to be successful and not just in a monetary sense. We want recognition. We want the world to remember us.”
Jeff said nothing.
“But I guess we can’t all be Picassos or Rembrandts.”
“Why not?”
“I’m just saying, maybe I need to be a little more realistic about my expectations.”
“People who are realistic about their expectations never aspire to be greater than what they are.”
I scrunched my face, perplexed at his insight. “Okay Socrates, where did that come from?”
“From my last fortune cookie.” I laughed.
I wanted to believe him—that everything happened for a reason and people ended up where they were supposed to. But I’d run into one too many colleagues who had shifted away from art and settled into other careers to hold on to the notion that hard work eventually led to success.
“We should head down,” Jeff said, gently sliding his wrists out from under my hands and stepping away from me.
“Yeah,” I relented with disappointment.
With Jeff’s arms around me, my world was only as large as the two of us and I found that comforting. But within seconds of us moving, a group of teens crowded into the space and that cocoon of safety evaporated.
We took the elevator down in silence. Outside, shades of pink, orange, and red had been replaced by dark blues, blacks, and scatterings of yellow cast up from the city lights.
Back on the ground again, we walked for about two blocks when all of a sudden a flash of brightness lit up everything around us and we turned around to see the Eiffel Tower lit from bottom to top in yellow lights. Blinking on and off in scattered patterns and then jetting from the base to the top and back down again, the tower transformed into a show host saying, Welcome to the city of love, now come dance with me. It illuminated the area with a glow that commanded all attention, like exploding fireworks without the boom.
“Wow,” I said as we headed back over to it.
“Yeah, I’m really glad I got to see it this time,” he smiled.
A scattering of merchants flooded the already crowded area selling all kinds of glow-in-the-dark tchotchkes, souvenirs, and various paintings of the Paris cityscape. To our left, a violinist played a hauntingly beautiful melody. A significant crowd quickly formed and t
he streets became congested with traffic. I smiled, feeling as if I had walked into my own painting. Jeff’s eyes were on me, waiting for me to say something, and I let him wait. I was standing on the edge of my parents’ memory—I couldn’t chance missing it.
As the lights danced up and down the tower I let myself imagine my mom and dad moving about this space we now shared. I pictured them standing in line, taking photos with the petals, and dancing to the music. Then it dawned on me that this was their story, not mine. In another life, the three of us might have danced in a circle to the sounds of Paris, but this wasn’t another life.
“Dance with me,” Jeff said.
“Thanks, but I’m okay,” I replied, lowering my gaze.
“It wasn’t a question—now hurry up before I change my mind,” he said as he placed his hands gently on my waist and started to guide me back and forth.
I wasn’t in the mood to dance, but I liked being in his arms. Pulling myself closer to him, I rested my cheek against his chest, and together we danced to the melancholy violin.
We moved in unison through two songs as other couples and a small audience formed to watch and join in. I didn’t want the music to stop. But like all good things, it eventually came to an end, and when it did, I looked up at Jeff. We stood there for a moment suspended in time before I reached up, pulled his face to mine, and kissed him. His lips were cold but soft.
I pulled away, holding his gaze for a moment then looking down at my feet in embarrassment. “Thanks for an unforgettable trip.”
Tilting my chin up with his finger, he smiled and said, “You’re welcome.”
His eyes held mine for another moment. But the intensity was too much and I had to look away. “Are you hungry?” I asked, breaking the silence.
“Starved.”
“Want to go get food?”
“I made a reservation at this place called Opaque,” he replied, looking at his watch.
“Is it cloudy there or something?”
“Not exactly. It’s trendy.”
“Oh, my favorite,” I replied, smiling only half-flirtatiously. It was awkward to try and turn on the charm with someone I’d known for over twenty years.
We walked just a few yards before I shouted, “Wait! Hold on a second.” I rushed over to buy a rose from a street peddler walking by. “Will you pose for me?” I asked him.
“You’re buying me a flower?” he asked quizzically. I started plucking the petals off the stem. I dropped a handful of them on the ground beside him, stuffed a few into his pocket, and then added a single one to the palm of his hand. “Now, I need you to pretend—”
“I know what I’m supposed to do,” he said, cutting me off. I had forgotten that Jeff was sometimes privy to storytime as well. I walked back to position myself for the photo.
I paused for a moment before taking the picture. A couple behind Jeff stood in a kissing pose while a stranger took their photo, and for the first time in years I considered the moment to be sweet. I smiled to myself.
Like most restaurants, Opaque was located on a busy street surrounded by shops and other brightly-lit restaurants. The exterior, however, was nothing more than a wall of black with a small, dim placard that read: Opaque Dining Door Handle, with an arrow pointing to a camouflaged, black steel handle. As Jeff pulled open the door, I noticed braille letters at the bottom of the nameplate.
“Are you sure this is a restaurant and not a strip-club-slash-whorehouse, slash-front-for-drug-deals?” I joked.
“I’m positive,” he replied simply. Once inside, we stood in a small, dimly lit room roughly the size of a freight elevator.
A hostess wearing dark sunglasses greeted us at the entrance saying, “Bienvenue a Opaque.”
“Bonjour, uh, J’ai une reservation a Anderson.”
“Ah, yes. Welcome to Opaque Mr. Anderson,” she replied in startlingly good English, obviously aware that Jeff’s accent and fumbled sentence meant he was American. “Have you dined with us before?”
“First-timers.”
“Well, we’re delighted to have you as our guests. As you probably read, our restaurant is served by a staff that is blind. Our philosophy is that without being able to see the food, your sense of taste is heightened and the meal becomes a whole different experience.”
As I listened to hostess explain, I turned to Jeff in a sort of panic and asked, “How did you know? Did Rati tell you?”
“About this restaurant? No. A friend told me about it a while ago, but I didn’t actually think of it until I saw you painting on the balcony with a blindfold,” Jeff said. “Why, you think it’s lame?”
He obviously didn’t know.
“No,” I said. Just highly coincidental, I thought.
The hostess asked us to hold each other’s hand and follow her as she guided us to our seats. Taking my hand, Jeff squeezed it and whispered, “Don’t worry, I checked the menu in advance, there’s nothing weird or gross.”
I laughed, “I’m sure we’ll be okay.” What wasn’t okay was the tingling sensation I felt, yet again, in the hand that he took hold of with such ease.
Once we were seated, our waiter immediately began an introduction to our place settings. We fumbled around a bit, slowly feeling for the surface of our plate, the location of our silverware, and the stem of our wine glasses. In case we knocked anything over, they had staff standing by to clear away any hazardous messes. The menu (spoken to us) was small, offering only four different main courses: chicken, steak, fish, or vegetarian. We both chose steak.
“For wine, we have a Sauvignon Blanc, Pinot Noir, Pinot Grigio, and Merlot—all local French wineries. To accompany the steak dish, our chef recommends the Pinot Noir: It’s a 2009 medium-bodied, fruitful red wine. Is that okay with you? Or if you would prefer another bottle, we’re happy to switch,” the waiter said.
“Pinot Noir is my favorite,” I said.
“I’m good with that,” Jeff added.
“Great, you won’t be disappointed,” the waiter replied. I listened as the squeaky spin of a metal wine opener met the bottle’s rubbery cork. After a slow pull and faint pop, I heard the sound of liquid fill our glasses. “Enjoy,” he said before walking away.
“Hold on,” Jeff said as I cautiously felt around for my wine glass. “Reach forward with your left hand until you find mine.” Slowly, I slid my hand across the table until the tips of my fingers met with his and he gently took my hand in his. “Now, if we slide our glasses over toward where our hands meet, we’ll have a reference point to toast.” Lifting my glass with my right hand, I slowly extended it toward Jeff until they met in an awkward clank.
“Not bad,” I laughed.
“Pretty cool though, right?” he asked.
“It’s sweeter than I thought it would be. The wine, I mean,” I fumbled. Sweeter than I thought it would be? What was I saying? I was trying to sound cool and cultured, only I was really coming off as a bumbling idiot. And with Jeff of all people, who I was sure could see right through it. “The streets are super-cute here and the people are fabulously sexy,” I added with a cringe. Thank God he couldn’t see my face.
“You think Parisians are sexy?” he laughed. “Please enlighten me on how a sexy nation looks.”
About the same way your voice sounds, I thought. “There’s something about the way they walk. It’s more of a sashay. They’re thin with defined stomachs and hips that swing from side to side with purpose.”
“Um, you should paint a picture of that,” he mused.
I slid my hand from his to slap him, but he caught it and held it firm, almost daring me to pull away again.
Was this really happening? And what was ‘this,’ exactly? A date? For a brief moment being in the dark was comforting. The unlit space provided a kind of shield between me and everyone else. To be honest, I’m not sure how I got all the way through half a glass of wine before I understood the gravity of my situation. I could hear the sounds of mixed chatter and the clinks of silverware meeting with peop
le’s plates, but spatially all I knew was what I could touch. Void of pretty purses, patterned clothing, fancy hairdos, chiseled faces, or expressions of any kind, everything was dark.
“The house soup for today is a creamy French onion soup, made from the finest local provolone and Swiss cheese in France. Your spoon will be located at the top of your plate and crackers are in the center of the table. Bon appétit,” the waiter said, breaking into my thoughts. I was so ensconced in my own problems that I barely registered Jeff’s hand break from mine. All of a sudden this whole world, which I had been traveling across, shrunk down to a small space. Confined solely to the elements within my reach, I had no context for anything other than what was near me. Did the restaurant seat forty people or four hundred? I had no idea. Were we underdressed? Should any of this even matter to me?
I moved my fingers along the outer edge of the plate in front of me until I found my spoon. Doing my best to steady my now shaking hand I lifted the spoon to my mouth surprised at how easily I found my lips.
“I think it’s the best soup I’ve ever had. I wonder if it looks as good as it tastes,” he laughed.
I forced a laugh and said, “I can’t imagine anything looking better than this tastes right now.”
“I’m really glad you decided to come on this trip with me, Aubs,” Jeff said. I wanted the lights to turn on right then so that I see the expression of warmth I knew was on his face.
With suspiciously perfect timing, the waiter came by just as I’d finished my soup. “I’ll take that,” he said from somewhere behind me. The plate in front of me was taken as another landed heavily onto the table. “Alright, we have two medium rare filet mignons with a side of grilled asparagus and garlic mashed potatoes. To your left is a warm towel and then using your knife and fork you can feel around your plate for where things are. I personally find it easier to use my fingers. Some people find it distasteful, so I’ll leave it up to you. Do not, however, try and use your finger as your fork when cutting, it’s dangerous,” he said wryly. “Enjoy.”
