B as in Beauty

by Alberto Ferreras

  Inspired by Madame’s strong views on the subject, I picked a perfume from the vintage shelf.

  “What do you think of this one?” I asked her.

  “Shalimar? That’s a classic. They’ve been making it since the 1920s”

  My grandmother Celia had a bottle of Shalimar. It was her favorite perfume, and she wore it all the time. When my mother left Cuba, my abuela wanted to give her something to remember her by, and she gave her that bottle. They never saw each other again.

  My mother kept that bottle of perfume in her special drawer, with her fine lingerie, and every time she missed her mother she would pull the bottle out and take a whiff. It must have felt like having her mother back with her for just a second.

  I’ve seen my mother crying very few times in her life, but I could swear that every time I saw tears in her eyes she had that perfume bottle in her hands.

  It has never crossed my mind to try Shalimar on. For me it isn’t just a perfume, it’s a family heirloom. But as I recalled these memories while holding the tester in my hand, Madame approached me with her two cents’ worth.

  “Are you going to try it on?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure if it’s for me. It’s too intense.” I hesitated.

  “Just try it on. Your chemistry will change the scent. But, honey, don’t try the cologne, try the extract.”

  Madame ordered the clerk to bring us a tester of “pure” perfume. She came back with a minuscule bottle that I picked up respectfully in my hands. When I was about to splash my neck with it, Madame stopped me. “Honey, wait a minute. Let me explain something to you. You put a little on your wrist, then you go away for a couple of hours—look at bags or shoes—and then you smell it again to see if it feels right. Fifty percent of the perfume is you—your scent, your body—and it takes time for the chemical reaction to take place.”

  Then, smiling, she added, “It’s just like a man. It doesn’t matter how good it looks at first: you have to try it on and take it for a long walk before you decide if it’s worth keeping.”

  While she dabbed a tiny amount of perfume on my wrist, she fired a question, and I wondered if it was connected to her recent statement.

  “So how are things with Mr. Five in a Row? Still sleeping?”

  “Like a baby.”

  “Good!” she replied.

  “He’s so mysterious. He never talks, he hates the beach, and what is it with the sixteen and a half inches?”

  “Don’t ask. It’s the kind of thing that even if he explained it to you it would make no sense, trust me. Is he attractive?”

  “Well, he’s tall…skinny…scruffy.”

  “Is he attractive?” she asked again.

  “I guess he is kind of cute in a tall-skinny-scruffy way, but…he’s so serious, and so quiet…” I replied.

  Madame shook her head, smiling, and mumbled something in Russian.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘Tight face, loose ass.’ I know that type.”

  “Oh no!” I defended Simon. “I don’t think that he’s a Jekyll-and-Hyde type. He’s just very hard to read, he has a hard time letting his guard down. It’s just that it’s so quiet in there that…”

  “…you are bored,” she completed my sentence.

  “Well, I’m getting a little restless, I guess.”

  “Do you want me to send somebody else?”

  “No!” I replied abruptly. Madame stopped what she was doing and gave me an inquisitive look. “It’s good money,” I added, trying to change my tone, but I could tell that she wasn’t buying it.

  “This is the thing, and I know it’s totally silly,” I started, “but I feel that he needs me and…”

  “…and you like to feel needed,” she completed with a smirk.

  I couldn’t take one more analytical remark from Madame, so I stopped her. “No, I just wish I could—I don’t know—maybe watch a movie while he sleeps.”

  “Honey, if he wants to keep you around he’s going to have to compromise. Bring in a movie tonight, and if he has a problem with that, just call it quits and I’ll send another girl.”

  “But I feel sorry for him!” I pleaded.

  “And you don’t feel sorry for yourself, bored to death on that sofa? Look,” she continued, “I have no time for this, I have a business to run. Do whatever makes you happy.”

  Okay, here’s what kills me about Madame. She can make the most casual comment, and the thing sticks in my head like Velcro. Do whatever makes you happy. What a concept! You can laugh at me if you want, but I had never—ever—looked at life in those terms. I’ve complained about not being happy countless times, but very rarely have I actually done what makes me happy. I can say that I’ve waited for someone to make me happy. I’ve waited to be recognized by a boss who won’t do it, I’ve waited to be asked out by men who won’t ask, but hardly ever have I taken the initiative. The fear of rejection has been too strong.

  That fear has kept me from saying things like “I want to work for you,” or “I want to be loved by you.” The whole idea of “This is what I want, so I’ll ask for it” seemed not only foreign to me but actually unattainable.

  As I was thinking about this, Madame, exercising her well-developed psychic powers, turned around and—out of nowhere—delivered the following line: “The opposite of love is not hatred. It is fear.”

  Madame ended up buying a pair of leather gloves, a box of Teuscher champagne truffles, and a bottle of Mitsouko, for Alberto’s wife, whose birthday was apparently coming up soon.

  I bought a little something for myself: a small bottle of Shalimar. Turned out that it smelled delicious on me—especially after I’d had it on for a little while. Now, every time I use it, I feel that I’m invested with the strength of my mother, and the wisdom of the grandmother whom I never met.

  I said goodbye to Madame on the street, and, clutching my precious perfume as if I were carrying my grandmother’s ashes, I hopped on the subway to go home to prepare for my fourth full night with Simon.

  As I sat in the subway, I recalled Madame’s words: Do whatever makes you happy. What would make me happy? I was so used to thinking about how to make others happy that I feared I might have lost the capacity to please myself. As my mind was navigating these turbulent waters, the woman sitting next to me fell asleep on my shoulder. She reminded me tenderly of Simon, so I let her snooze for a couple of stations, until I got to my stop.

  As long as there was no drooling, I could take it.

  CHAPTER 22

  Preparing for that night at Simon’s, I decided to stop by a cool video store on Greenwich Avenue to pick up a movie that I could watch while he snored.

  I went to this particular store because it was kind of funky. Each employee had a shelf with movies that he or she recommended, and in addition to regular categories like “Comedy” or “Action,” they had a bunch of less traditional categories that could match the strangest interests, from “Spaghetti Westerns” to “Vintage Erotica.”

  There was also a shelf labeled “Chubby Chasers.” In the past I had deliberately ignored that shelf. Picking one of those movies would be like buying clothes in a store for the fat and the ugly. But with my self-esteem in advanced stages of reconstruction, I felt that it was the right shelf to pick a movie from, so I started checking out the titles and I noticed that most of the “Chubby Chasers” films were foreign. I guess American movies hardly ever present anybody chasing a fatty.

  Anyway, they had movies that I had never heard of, like Seven Beauties, Georgy Girl, Bagdad Cafe, and a few Fellini films like Amarcord, La Dolce Vita, and Nights of Cabiria. I’d heard about Fellini in a film course I took in college, but I had never seen any of his movies, because I assumed that they would be too artsy for me. For some reason I felt that it was the right moment to give Fellini a shot. Maybe being trapped on the couch would make me relax into those old films.

  A couple of hours later, after a particularly slow and fulfilling session of exf
oliating and moisturizing motions, I showed up at Simon’s wearing jeans, a sweater, and a few drops of Shalimar behind my ears. He was busy downstairs, so I just took care of all the details, including the sixteen and a half inches, and I sat there to wait for him while reading the booklet on the movie I’d rented.

  Simon walked in, looked me straight in the eye for a second, and smiled.

  “Hey!” he greeted me.

  I was pleasantly shocked. Maybe that conversation we had the night before had had a positive impact on him.

  As he was getting ready to sit down, I gathered the courage to mention that I wanted to watch a movie. Would he be pissed off? Would he throw me out in a rage? Would I freak out like I did that infamous night when Ludwig Rauscher—the Nazi officer—rejected me?

  Enough thinking, B! I ordered myself. It’s one thing to be mortified when a loved one rejects you, but being rejected by someone you hardly know should mean absolutely nothing.

  “Simon…I’m getting tired of reading every night. I need to do something else…”

  He was shocked—and for a second I thought that he was the one who actually felt rejected by my words—so, to avoid a misunderstanding, I continued with a soft and honest tone. “If you want me to stay tonight, I need to watch a movie.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “Do you want to see what’s on TV? As long as you keep the volume down…” he finally said, reaching out for the remote control.

  “I brought a movie,” I said.

  “What is it?”

  I handed him the DVD of La Dolce Vita.

  “Have you seen this one?” I asked. “It’s supposed to be a famous Italian movie.”

  He looked at the DVD and shook his head.

  “I don’t like subtitles.”

  Shit. I made the wrong choice, but it was too late to back out.

  “Well, I really wanted to see it.”

  “Just keep the volume down,” he finally said as he placed the DVD in the player. He sat next to me and closed his eyes while I started watching the movie.

  It took me a bit to get into the story, but finally I got hooked on it. In the meantime, Simon kept moving around in his seat, trying to fall asleep.

  La Dolce Vita is the story of this journalist, played by Marcello Mastroianni, who hangs out with “the rich and the beautiful” in Rome. Marcello has to choose between these shallow friends and the simpler but more honest people in his life. I wondered if, to a certain extent, that had been Simon’s life.

  There was a great scene where Marcello stepped into the Fountain of Neptune with Anita Ekberg, who was at the peak of her beauty then. Anita at her prettiest was kind of chunky. Prancing around on the screen with her humongous bosom and her thick legs semi-covered by a fabulous gown, she reminded me of someone.

  Yep, she looked a lot like me.

  Give or take a few pounds, Anita looked like me on that night when Mr. Akhtar had dressed me up. She had that type of hourglass figure that you only see on a big girl, with those generous and voluptuous curves that, at that time, were the highest expression of sensuality.

  “Can you raise the volume?” Simon asked me as we saw her standing under a stream of water in the Roman fountain. Turned out that he was awake. I should have said something like “excuse me, I thought you didn’t like subtitles” but I kept it to myself. I was glad that he was enjoying the movie too.

  The film ended, and I turned off the TV. Simon’s eyes were wide open.

  “I’m so sorry—the movie kept you awake, right?” I apologized.

  “It’s okay. It was good,” he said.

  We were silent for another minute, and then—surprise—he asked me something.

  “Where are you from?”

  “New York.”

  “New York?”

  I knew what this was about. “Do you want to know where am I from, or where are my parents from?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I meant—I guess.”

  “My parents are Cuban.”

  “Huh…” he said.

  “And where are you from?” I asked.

  “Miami.”

  “Cool. All my cousins are in Miami.”

  “Wait—not Miami, Florida; Miami, Arizona.”

  I laughed. “You gotta be kidding me! Is there a Miami in Arizona?”

  “Yep. They call it Miami-Globe, because there’s a twin town called Globe next door.”

  “Oh,” I said, “big town?”

  “Well, last time I checked, the population was about eight thousand—make that seven thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine since I left. So you’re Latin?”

  “Yes, and you?” I replied jokingly.

  “Me too.”

  “Oh, really!” I said sarcastically. Latinos come in all colors and sizes, but that this big white guy could actually be Latino was pushing it. He was probably a mix of German, English, and Polish—or maybe even Russian—but I just didn’t see much Latin flavor in his features.

  “I was raised by Mexicans.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I have time,” I said.

  He took a second before he started talking.

  “My mother…she died when I was a kid. My father was a miner, so the woman next door raised me…Her name was Teresa, she was from Rosarito.”

  He looked away and then added, “She was a great lady.”

  There’s nothing sadder than when a kid loses his mom, and I could tell by the way Simon was talking that it was a painful memory.

  “Can you speak any Spanish?” I asked, to lighten things up.

  “I understand some, and I can say a couple of things.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “¡Hiiiijo de la chingada!” he said with the purest Mexican accent.

  I laughed really hard. To hear this white guy speaking like a Mexican was so incongruous, it was truly hysterical.

  “¿Hijo de la chingada? Son of a bitch? Is that all you can say?” I joked.

  “I had to learn all the bad words. I had to defend myself. It was a tough town.”

  “But did you learn anything nice to say?” I asked.

  “Yeah. There’s a word…it’s my favorite word in Spanish.”

  “Which one?”

  “You’re gonna laugh,” he said.

  “Come on, tell me!”

  He made a theatrical pause and finally said proudly: “Sacapuntas.”

  “¿Sacapuntas?” I asked surprised. “You love the Spanish word for ‘pencil sharpener’”

  “I just like how it sounds,” he replied. “Sacapuntas,” he repeated, taking a deep breath and exhaling with a smile.

  So cute! I watched Simon sink softly in his tight corner of the couch, his favorite word still resonating in the air.

  “I feel guilty for keeping you awake. What can I do to help?”

  He kept his eyes closed for another second, and then said,

  “Take me back to Hearst Castle, please.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The alarm clock woke us up at six in the morning that Thursday. But instead of jumping off the couch, Simon sat there for a few minutes. Not knowing what to do or say, I sat next to him in peaceful silence.

  “Did you sleep okay?” I finally asked him.

  He nodded.

  “Do you still want me to come in tonight?”

  He nodded again.

  “Can I bring another movie?” I ventured to ask.

  He looked away, and took a second before answering. “No action movies and no scary movies.”

  “Are subtitled films okay?”

  “Yes”

  “Cool,” I mumbled, knowing already what movie I was going to bring for my last evening with Simon.

  In some cultures people kiss too much. The Spaniards always kiss twice—on both sides of the face—and I’ve heard that the Belgians kiss up to three times—going back and forth from right to left to right again. Cubans kiss only once, but they kiss everybody: fri
ends, family, even strangers once they’ve been introduced. I know that in America greeting someone with a kiss on the cheek is less acceptable, so I only kiss hello and goodbye with my close friends.

  So it came as a surprise—even to myself—when, after Simon escorted me to the door and I was about to step out, I gave him a kiss in the cheek. He jumped slightly, and I jumped too, realizing—a second too late—that I was stepping over the line.

  “Sorry!” I said. “I do that automatically sometimes.”

  “It’s okay,” he said in a barely audible voice, as he closed the door behind me.

  I stood in the elevator, my heart racing.

  It was Thursday—the day before we had the big UK Charms meeting—but I couldn’t care less about those damned tampons. I just kept thinking about meeting Simon that night.

  After Alberto took me home, I dressed up and took the subway to go to the office, where Bonnie had scheduled a meeting to prepare for Friday’s event.

  There were about ten of us, including a couple of creatives and a slew of managers, directors, and VPs of other departments. Bonnie presided from her chair, avoiding eye contact with me at all cost.

  “Creative will go after the media planning presentation,” Bonnie determined while Mary Pringle took notes of every word that came out of her mouth.

  Bonnie had a very specific strategy for these meetings. The heads of all the other departments always presented their groups’ ideas, but Bonnie would never do that. See, when you pitch an idea you are asking for approval, and Bonnie would never ask for approval from anybody. She always found ways to transfer that dirty duty to someone below her. Then she would sit next to the Chicago Boss and act as if she were hearing the ideas for the first time too. By doing so, she could distance herself from the whole thing. If the ideas worked, she would step in to take credit; if they stank, she would pretend that she’d had nothing to do with them.

  Since we didn’t have a creative director on the project, there were only two people who could present the ideas on behalf of our department: Bonnie and me. The logical solution was to let me present them, but she would rather die a slow death than let me speak in front of the Chicago Boss. She’d prefer to bring in someone else—even someone who was not in the creative department. “You’ll present the slogans, Mark.”