A Million Aunties

by Alecia McKenzie

  * * *

  It was morning in Paris, but midnight body time and they all felt cranky and tired. Féliciane’s dad met them at the airport, a slim man of medium height, with greying hair, dressed in a suit. He hugged his daughter and stroked her hair, then kissed the rest of them on each cheek, smack-smack eight times, with Chris and his father having to bend their heads for the salutation. He introduced himself as Jean-Marie.

  “You ’ave all your things?” he asked. They checked their luggage, patted their pockets, and confirmed nothing was missing, and he ushered them to the taxi stand. Leroy, Féliciane, and Stephen would go in his car, and the others would take two cabs. He would meet them at the hotel, to drop Stephen off before taking his daughter and her partner home, where Maman was waiting. They got caught in traffic jams all along the highway, as the rush-hour frenzy clogged the way to the city. Chris fell asleep without trying and jerked awake only when the car came to a final stop, the driver getting out and slamming the door as he went round to the trunk to unload their luggage. He’d been surly and untalkative from the beginning, which had suited Chris fine.

  Féliciane had found them rooms in a small hotel close to the Eiffel Tower and to the Seine. Might as well see the sights, she’d said. The place was a narrow, five-storey town house that looked as if it had recently been renovated, with varnished wood gleaming in the small reception area. They filled the tight space, standing with their suitcases, while Féliciane spoke in French to the solidly built man in white shirt, grey waistcoat, and black pants, who seemed to have permanently raised eyebrows. He switched to English and welcomed them with a joke, saying they had come at the right time for strikes, demonstrations, and other troubles, but that they shouldn’t be afraid to explore the city. He showed them to the tiny lift, where there was room for only one person and one bag, and they creakily mounted to the rooms one at a time. The whole business seemed interminable to Chris. To keep costs down, they had opted to share two of the rooms—Chris with his father and Miss Pretty with Miss Della. The others had single rooms. Féliciane waited until they were all installed before heading off with Leroy and her Dad. She would come back to take them to lunch once they’d rested up.

  From Chris’s room, they could see the Eiffel Tower when they craned their heads from the window, and he smiled at his father’s excitement.

  “Can’t wait to go up for the view,” the older man said. But he was tired and stretched out on the bed after washing his face in the miniscule bathroom. Chris told him he planned to take a walk, and left him snoring in the room.

  At the reception, he ran into Stephen, who had the same idea. They got maps from the raised-eyebrow man who said his name was Cléber, hence the name of the place—Le Relais Cléber. He was the owner and used to have a much bigger hotel. But he had to sell that one after his divorce, and downsize to this.

  “Your room is okay? Everything’s fine?” he inquired. They both nodded.

  Cléber asked where they wanted to go, and reeled off recommendations of sights to see, telling them to be careful of pickpockets if they took the metro. Outside on the sidewalk, finally, Chris asked Stephen if he wanted to come along to the Musée de l’Orangerie where he was headed, but Stephen said he had things to do, gallery people to see, so they went in opposite directions, each relieved to be on his own. Chris followed Mr. Cléber’s instructions and strode in the direction of the Eiffel Tower, through the dusty Champ de Mars park—a place for parades, concerts, and protests, Cléber had said. He’d warned Chris that things would be messy as the government was building a huge glass barrier around the tower to prevent terrorist attacks. You could no longer walk under the structure, as people had enjoyed doing for so long; you now had to go around, he’d said. Chris was surprised to see the throngs of tourists already out, a steady conga line of people heading in the same direction, their phones held aloft, snapping pictures of the tower. As he drew near to it, a group of about eight young men raced in his direction, shouting to one another. Chris pulled to one side, and they sprinted past, their eyes wide in fright, their voices hoarse. They were all dark-skinned, and the bags of trinkets they carried jingled as they ran, the scarves trailing behind them. Several tourists scrambled out of the way, as policemen on bicycles chased after the group.

  Chris stared at the scene, overhearing a man say, “I don’t see why they have to bother these guys. They’re not harming anyone.” And a woman, perhaps his partner, responded, “Yes, they’re only selling souvenirs.”

  He turned to look at the speakers, and they gazed at him with friendly expressions, as if expecting him to join their conversation, to add his opinion. He nodded, kept his face blank, and walked on. He wondered how many times a day the chase played out, until it became just another weird game with the have-nots on the losing side. He felt empty, and not just because he hadn’t eaten.

  Skirting the Eiffel Tower to avoid the crowds, he crossed the Pont d’léna over the Seine and walked briskly along the Avenue de New York, passing the monument and the floral tributes to the princess who had died in a car crash in the tunnel beneath where he trod. He remembered how shocked his mother had been by the news—it seemed both long ago and still raw. “I can’t believe it, I just can’t believe it,” she had said, shaking her head. “So young. And the poor boys.” He couldn’t avoid knowing that the second of the “poor boys” had got married not so long ago, since the ceremony had been beamed live around the world and had filled the newspapers from east to west.

  He was perspiring by the time he got to the Place de la Concorde, where the expansive Jardin des Tuileries lay between the river and the gaudy Rue de Rivoli with its tourist traps. Cléber had told him to enter from the Seine side for the Musée de l’Orangerie, which housed some of Monet’s famous water lily paintings. He mounted the steps to find that the museum was still closed and wouldn’t open for another fifteen minutes. He stood indecisive for a few seconds, then walked around the gardens, looking out at the Luxor Obelisk and the fountain dominating the square and at the Eiffel Tower in the distance. He admired the shapes, composing a painting in his head that blended them into dark colours.

  Strolling in the shade between the rows of trees, he passed people reading books on the benches, a family having a breakfast of baguette, croissants, and orange juice, a couple kissing as it were their last chance to do so—the woman sitting on the man’s lap, facing him, her thighs around his hips, his hands on her waist—and girls taking photos of each other, with the river in the background. When he returned to the Orangerie, he was surprised at the long line and the security measures. It was almost like being at the airport again. But he’d read how things had changed after attacks in the city, that the authorities weren’t taking any chances. As he stood in line to pass through the metal detector, he read the English version of the French sign above his head: ATTENTION! The big luggage, not entering the detector with X-ray, are not permitted in the museum, and cannot be left in the cloakroom. He was thankful he had no “big luggage,” only his wallet and phone, which he had to put in the plastic container to be X-rayed. He walked through the metal detector, without any alarms going off.

  The cashier handed him a brochure when he bought his ticket and he examined the plan of the museum. Downstairs was a collection with a double-barrelled title; it’d been generously donated by a woman who’d wanted the names of both her first and second husbands included for posterity, he read. The first husband, Paul Guillaume, had been the real connoisseur, “specialising in African arts, which, at that time, were a source of inspiration for avant-garde painters,” said the brochure. Guillaume supported Picasso and acquired works by all the bold new artists of the 1920s. The second husband, Jean Walter, had been a rich architect and industrialist whose money boosted the expansion of the collection before his wife “ceded it to the State in 1959.” Chris decided to see the collection first and put off seeing Monet’s water lilies, the Nymphéas, for now.

  At the bottom of the wide steps, he read more about
the collection before going through to look at what the museum called “masterpieces in the history of art.” To show the influence on the artists, the curators had arranged three African sculptures in glass cases—one from Ivory Coast and two from Gabon—and he stood gazing at these, with the Picassos in the background. Maybe everybody got something from somewhere else and there was nothing new under the sun, he thought. The brochure said that Guillaume and Picasso came together because of their “shared interest in primitive art and in particular ‘negro’ art,” and Chris remembered Féliciane complaining that she didn’t like going to museums because when she went as a child with her school, she didn’t see herself in the exhibitions—no brown people, no women. As he stood in front of a painting of a young black man in a white shirt and black pants, playing a mandolin, he wondered if the curators were now making a special effort. He noted the title, Le Noir à la mandoline, by an artist he’d never heard of before, André Derain. He promised himself to find out more about him, and to ask Féliciane if she had seen these works. He could hear her voice in his head: Le Noir, La Noire. Black. Masculine and feminine. Colours. And people. He wondered how she might have felt as a French schoolgirl reading about “primitive” art.

  Farther along the wall, he saw a portrait of the woman behind the collection—Madame Paul Guillaume, by Derain again. She wore a big yellow hat and an ivory dress that reflected the light. Chris stood back from the painting in appreciation and checked the brochure to see if Madame had her own first name. No, she was just referred to as “Wife.” Later he would see on an explanatory panel that she was called Domenica, and for some reason the name stuck in his mind.

  He strolled past the Modiglianis and stopped to examine Renoir’s Bouquet of Tulips. Yes, he could do that now, paint flowers that looked like flowers, add the right amount of white to send the light streaming back at the viewer. Both Lidia and miss moon shine would probably agree. But he was still waiting for the light to stay with him, beyond the technique, even after all the canvases.

  He spent nearly an hour taking in the collection, then bounded back up the stairs for the water lilies, first “presented to the public in 1927,” when they attracted little attention, he read in the leaflet. As he stepped into the vast oval-shaped vestibule, he held his breath. Lidia had told him about these panels. She’d seen them in the months after 9/11, when she’d left New York and returned home to visit her parents. She’d spent weeks backpacking through different cities, trying to decide what she wanted to do after turning her back on finance. These huge paintings of lilies on the water—with their pastel mauves, blues, yellows, greens, and the reflections of the sky—had filled her with hope and lifted her depression, she’d told Christopher. They had spoken of coming back here together one day. He understood her awe now, despite the crowds. He stood back to take a picture, but people kept moving in front of him.

  “It’s difficult with so many visitors, isn’t it?” The man who addressed him had red hair and wore a loose white shirt, black pants, and a patterned neck scarf. A badge hung from a ribbon round his neck.

  “Do you work here?” Chris asked.

  “Yes, I keep an eye on things.”

  “Are the paintings all real, or just copies?”

  The man laughed. “When the paintings were brought here, they were glued to the wall. So they’ve never been moved. I’ve been working here twelve years now, and they’ve definitely been here the whole time.”

  Chris looked at the people milling around. Many were Asian women, dressed stylishly in frocks and hats as if they came from some of the portraits he’d seen downstairs. He visualised Lidia among them, in a patterned dress and the straw hat she used to wear in summer.

  The man followed his gaze. “Monet adored the Japanese, and the Japanese adore him too. Lots of Chinese and Koreans are now coming as well.”

  They spoke for a while, and the man asked Chris where he was from. Chris told him and gave his name.

  “My name is Shafai,” the man said in turn, sticking out his hand.

  “Cool name,” Chris smiled, as they shook hands.

  “It’s Algerian. I came to France when I was very young, so I guess I’m neither French nor North African. I don’t really know the Maghreb. I consider myself a terrien.”

  Chris wasn’t sure what that meant, but he mentally translated it as “citizen of Earth.” “Me too,” he said. “But sometimes I feel like an extra-terrien.”

  Shafai laughed again. “You have to come back on a calmer day,” he said. “Thursday and Friday are the best days. Forget the weekend.”

  Chris promised to return and shook Shafai’s hand once more before leaving the atrium.

  * * *

  Outside the sun shone so bright it hurt his eyes, and the Seine acted like a mirror, reflecting the buildings along its banks. He saw that the cruise boats were already packed with tourists, and he could almost feel their exhilaration at being in the city, as a guide spoke through a loudspeaker, pointing out the sights in English and French. Chris descended the steps, crossed the Quai Aimé Césaire, and walked over the wood flooring of the pedestrian bridge—the word “pretty” popping into his mind. On the other side, he saw that the bridge was called the Passerelle Léopold-Sédar-Senghor, and the name rang a distant bell. Senghor, Senghor. Senegalese president? Yes, the sign said so. Président de la République du Sénégal. He’d ruled for twenty years. Chris readily acknowledged to himself that he wasn’t one for history, yet this was another name he would look up.

  His phone rang as he glanced left along the bank and saw a huge red sign with the letters M O. It was Féliciane calling.

  “Hey,” she said. “How’s it going? I’ll come get you guys in about an hour for lunch.”

  “I’m not at the hotel,” he responded. “I’m out seeing your great museums.” He told her where he was. “I guess M-O means Musée d’Orsay?”

  “Yes. Lots of impressionism. Lots of light. Just your kind of thing.”

  He chuckled. “Can you give me an extra half hour? I’ll meet you at the hotel.”

  “No problem,” Féliciane said.

  “By the way, everything okay?” He remembered how tense she’d been about the trip, about coming “home.”

  “Oui—oui. Everything’s fine.”

  “And how’s Leroy?” he ventured. He didn’t want her to think he was poking his nose in her affairs.

  “Oh, he’s having fun. My mom loves him. He just fixed the kitchen tap which apparently has been dripping for a long time. My father isn’t good at things like that . . . See you in a bit?”

  “Yes. A très bientôt.” He was proud of himself for remembering the phrase. Perhaps he should devote more time to learning the language when he got back to the States, he thought. Lidia had spoken it fluently, along with English, Persian, and Italian. You just have to set your mind to it, she’d said. Some words she never translated though. Firenze was always Firenze, never Florence. And he found he couldn’t call the city by any other name, though he wondered what it would be in French. Perhaps the same as in English, but different pronunciation.

  The queue to buy tickets was even longer at the Orsay, and he scrutinized the other people as he inched along. A tall blonde woman in a very short pink dress, with a tattoo of a strawberry on the back of her right leg. A balding man in flip-flops, his toes bony and twisted, the nails in need of a trim. Two thin Asian women with enormous white bags that screamed CHANEL in black letters. A lanky African American woman and her short white friend, giggling together, both seemingly delirious to be in the museum.

  “Well, we’re gonna do all the art,” the first one said cheerily in her unmistakable Southern accent, which took Chris back for a moment to his Alabama childhood. He felt a surge of warmth that people travelled to see art, and he wondered what the woman would do if he went up and hugged her. She looked back, saw him watching her, and flashed him a smile. He winked clumsily, and she returned to her happy chatter with her friend. She probably thought there was
something wrong with his eye.

  Signs pointed to a restaurant on the top floor and he realised that he hadn’t eaten in hours. He took the lift up and entered the Campana café with its huge golden chandeliers in the form of bells. A suited waiter came over, and he ordered a cappuccino and carrot cake. Inside the chandelier above his head, he noticed the pieces of metal, in different shapes, that had gone into the construction. Lidia joined him at the tiny square table, sitting on one of the blue-green chairs.

  Look at that, she says, pointing to the huge round glass clock built into a wall of the café, letting in the light which frames her face and hair.

  This used to be a railway station, back before the war, she tells him, and he smiles, impressed as always by her knowledge. He reaches across and takes her hand, as the waiter returns with a tray.

  The carrot cake turns out to be inedible, dry and chewy as if it has been cut from a loaf that spent too much time in the freezer.

  Never order carrot cake in France, Lidia laughs. You should’ve listened to me.

  Words bubble up for a reply, but he swallows them. “Talking to yourself, Chris, is the first sign of madness,” Lidia used to tease when she saw his lips moving as he painted.

  * * *

  After his snack, he stepped out onto the platform outside the café to admire the view, amidst the other tourists—of the river and the distant Sacré-Coeur Basilica, standing out like a monumental lighthouse. Picasso and all the others had spent time around the church, in the hills of Montmartre, loving its rough atmosphere. The area was on his list of places to visit before he and his father set out for Italy.

  In the main Orsay gallery, he came face-to-face with two paintings that both Lidia and miss moon shine had worshipped, and he recalled the slides his teacher had shown in art class. They were opposite each other in the museum, Manet’s Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe, with the nude woman picnicking with fully dressed men, and Monet’s massive panels of the same name, depicting a glamourous group in a garden or park.