You Deserve Nothing

by Alexander Maksik

  “Smart man.”

  All this time Annabelle has been studying Josephine. Eventually, she turns to Michael, who’s been studying Annabelle, and says, “I’ve got better teeth than she did. Did you know that she had famously awful teeth?”

  What did she see when she finally looked at young Michael Fisher? A well-dressed man, wearing good shoes and a neat haircut. A man with gray eyes and a long, straight nose. Strong round shoulders. A wide, open, American face. Thick blond hair. An attractive, unremarkable looking man, whose flat eyes threw her—she couldn’t tell if they were warm or cold.

  Why she agreed to have a coffee with him in a café (neither of them can remember its name) on the Place Dauphine she wasn’t sure. Certainly it wasn’t the world falling into perfect order. She’d never describe love in those terms anyway, but whatever was propelling her away from a museum she’d waited nearly a year to visit, I promise it wasn’t love.

  And that’s how they met—the museum, the café, and so on. Then they became inseparable. Lumen became Fisher. There’s no detail after the café. We’re to imagine the rest—the long walks through the city, the laughing, the glittering lights, an accordion, a rumbling métro, passion. People nod, they close their eyes. Ah Paris. Love. Romance. A chance meeting. But what is it they imagine, these guests of my parents who nod and smile, enraptured by my impeccably dressed father and his charming story? What do they see? What is it that happens next? Why does my mother stay with him? Why does she pack up her apartment on the rue Montmartre with her flower boxes in the window? What makes her move to Africa with this man she’s known only two weeks? This man who has so little art in him.

  But nobody seems interested in the answers to these questions. No one seems compelled even to ask. It’s all simply understood—the lovely couple, the brilliant young man, the beautiful young woman, one day in the Louvre.

  And I can understand leaving with him—the clean entry into a place she’d never been, the exotic idea of Africa, the spontaneity of it. The pleasure of the phone call home, “I met a man. I’m moving to Pretoria.” Oh, our reckless daughter. But why did she stay? Why did she let herself get pregnant? Why did she follow him around the world for so long?

  * * *

  August came. I loved my new city. I went everywhere. I found the Goutte d’Or, hidden down the hill from Sacré-Coeur, a village really. Little Africa. I wandered those streets day after day feeling nostalgic for Senegal. The markets swarmed with people wearing leather sandals and boubous. There were makeshift mosques, small restaurants serving cheap bowls of Thiébou Dien.

  I didn’t have a single friend that summer but I don’t remember ever feeling lonely. It was a kind of religious experience. I felt, for the first time in my life, a new sense of possibility, hope even, and belonging. That summer I was, I’m sure, as happy as I’d ever been.

  The emptiness of Paris in August allowed me a new sense of ownership, of possession. There was a laziness about the city without traffic. So little noise. More and more I moved through the streets, sliding in and out of métros, fluidly transferring from train to train, bus to bus. I rarely used my map. I invented games for myself where each decision I made about where to go was determined by a flip of a coin. A bus would pass. Heads yes. Tails no.

  I’d never had many friends in other cities, but there had always been people around. The compounds where we lived—heavily guarded, walled neighborhoods—forced us to interact. There’d always be a pool. There were always parties, somebody’s mother serving lemonade, somebody’s father grilling chicken breasts.

  There was nowhere to go. You couldn’t leave without your driver and, in some places, without your driver and bodyguard. If you want to see the city you’re living in you do it through the bulletproof glass of your car. When we did go out shopping in local markets or to restaurants or museums, we were made so conspicuous by our attendants that I only wanted to leave. I always hated the spectacle we made. We were isolated in the countries we lived in. It was like living in a wealthy, American suburb—nice homes, swimming pools, maids, alarm systems, and so on. The friends I had were just kids who were around. Kids from school, kids who lived next door, kids from the neighborhood and somewhere I lost interest.

  It wasn’t until Paris that something shifted. Paris was the beginning. Paris was everything.

  August passed slowly. And then there was school.

  MARIE

  On the weekends I’d usually sleep at Ariel’s because she lived in Paris and her parents were never around. Her apartment was in the sixteenth on the rue La Pérouse right near the Kléber métro. On Fridays I’d bring an extra bag and we’d go straight there after school. Maybe we’d go shopping before or see a movie on the Champs-Élysées. Otherwise we’d just sit around talking and eating, doing our homework and smoking our cigarettes out the window.

  We’d get a little drunk on vodka and Coke and get dressed. My whole high school life starts to feel like an endless dressing room. Always standing in front of mirrors, checking my breasts, putting on makeup, turning around to look at my ass.

  I hated the way I looked when I was alone and I hated myself more when I was next to Ariel, who was beautiful. I mean that she was really beautiful. It’s a fact. I don’t exaggerate about things like this. She had long black hair and perfect pale skin and a great body and bright blue eyes. She was so beautiful it was boring.

  We’d stand in front of her mirror together trying on outfits, taking things off, putting things on, drinking our vodka and Cokes. It was her drink by the way. I only drank it because she’d decided that’s what we’d do. She’d tell me how pretty I was, how she envied my body. I’d tell her she was crazy, that I wished I had hers. The whole thing was such bullshit. But that’s your life then. Really that’s the most terrible thing about it.

  Anyway, I know how attractive I am. I mean to what degree I’m attractive. I knew then too. I’m not spectacular and then in high school I was pretty much the same. I had a body that other people liked but it wasn’t the one I wanted. It wasn’t the one I thought was most appealing. I had nice breasts. That’s true. But they embarrassed me and I didn’t really want them then. I thought they weren’t subtle. They weren’t elegant. They weren’t Parisian enough. Even if my mother is French, and they’re basically just her breasts, they still didn’t look right to me.

  Then there was Ariel in her long thin body telling me about how she wished she had my body. And what’s worse she was American. Both my parents are French and even if we spent all that time in New York, I was still French. I thought I should have looked it. And my mother thought the same thing. If you’ve never had a French mother you can’t understand what she expected of me when it came to my appearance, to style. To be fair, I should say a Parisian mother. A Parisian mother with money. And I’m not talking about my father’s money. I mean money. I mean that my mother was born and raised in Paris with money. In the seventh. She still wears the fucking chevalière.

  She thought New York ruined me, made me American. Made me clunky, round, big. American. In all senses. The way I spoke English with an American accent, the way I spoke French with an American accent. She thought I did everything with an American accent.

  Anyway, if Ariel wanted my big breasts it was true only because boys looked at me the way boys look at you when you have breasts like mine. She insisted that I wear tight low-cut tops when we went out. She said I was crazy to waste my body hiding it. I felt like an idiot at first but it wouldn’t be true to say that I didn’t like the attention. Still, without her I’d never have worn those clothes.

  We’d go to Cab or VIP or a bar in the Latin quarter. Ariel preferred the clubs so we went there more often. The guys were older, better dressed, wealthier, more attractive, more European, there were fewer expats. They’d buy us drinks. Whatever we wanted. They wouldn’t leave us alone. Ariel loved it. I don’t know how many times I went back to her apartment by myself.

  No one had any idea how old we were. There were men ther
e as old as our fathers. But most of them were twenty-five, thirty. All she had to do was smile from our table. She was fearless. I’ll give her that. You’ve never seen someone so happy. To tell the truth she was dazzling those nights. Men were just drawn to her. Not that they didn’t talk to me. Of course. We were two young girls in a nightclub. But God they loved her and she would just light up. And the more they looked the more she’d glow. She wouldn’t talk to the boys our age. She just wasn’t interested. She said the weekends were for men. School was for boys.

  Sometimes she came home when it was still dark. But just as often it was eight or nine the next morning. If her parents were around she’d call me to make sure they were asleep. Sometimes I’d distract her dad in the kitchen, ask for his help with something, so that she could get in without being noticed. I don’t think they’d have cared anyway. They were those kind of parents. Ariel liked to pretend they were watching over her, but we both knew that was bullshit.

  The closest I ever felt to her was those mornings. We lay in bed and I listened to her stories. She told me about the guy’s apartment, his car, how terrible he was in bed, how fast he came, his bizarre fantasies. We giggled and I listened, trying to imagine Ariel’s strange secret life. She tried to convince me to do it too. Just choose one of them and do it, she said. For a while I thought I would. There were some very beautiful, very glamorous people in those places. But whenever it came down to it I couldn’t. I don’t know why. I preferred waiting for her in bed.

  By the end of the year I was exhausted. I was too thin. I drank too much. I felt like a zombie. I’d get home late. I’d do my homework and talk on the phone. Then at eight I’d come down for dinner. When my dad wasn’t in New York or traveling somewhere else he’d be there, just getting home, still wearing his suit. I liked those dinners when it was the three of us. And during her holidays my sister would be there too. That’s when things were the best. She’d been at NYU for three years and I still felt like she’d left a black hole behind her, like there was this massive absence, that we’d all been left floating in space. Even though we’d never been very close, her leaving changed the balance. My dad saw her all the time in New York. They’d have dinner together at good restaurants. He took her to the ballet. It drove me crazy with jealousy. But it was nothing compared to what it did to my mother.

  After dinner I’d go to my room and work until I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Then I’d get into bed and call Ariel. We’d talk until one of us fell asleep. In the morning I’d get up and do it again. By June I had nothing left. I felt completely strung out and after the year was over and after Colin, all I wanted was for school to end and to be free of that place.

  * * *

  I went with Ariel to a party for the graduating seniors. That’s where I met him. I mean by that point I knew who he was. I’d seen him around. Girls talked about him. He was good looking but it’s not like he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Not at all. He wasn’t really my type I don’t think. I mean if I even had a type then. He wasn’t very tall. Still, he had nice eyes and it’s true there was something about him. And Ariel liked him. He was famous at school. He was a perfect target for her. When I met him I was very drunk. It’s not as if I had plans. I didn’t even think about it. When we left the party everyone went out and I just went along. I followed Ariel like always. When we got there she ordered us our drinks and we started to dance.

  The funny thing is that I liked being there because there were so many kids. I remember thinking, this is nice, this is good. I was relieved. I felt safe.

  Ariel saw him first. He was there with Ms. Keller. Just the two of them. They seemed happy. I mean like it was natural. They were at ease, they laughed. They seemed to really like each other. I watched for a long time. I didn’t know them then but the way they were talking, the way they smiled, I don’t know, they just seemed good together. And not as if they were in love, just that they seemed like real people. Sure of themselves. Solid. Adults. Good adults. Like they were what I wanted to be.

  I had this quick waking fantasy. You know the way you do when you’re watching people on the métro and you imagine their lives. It was like that. I remember I was standing there watching them, pretending we were all at a restaurant together just the three of us talking like they were doing, laughing and feeling calm like they seemed. I don’t know. I was pretty drunk by then.

  But Ariel thought I was staring at him. And she whispered, You like him don’t you? You should try to fuck him tonight. She destroyed everything. I remember thinking how I never wanted to see her again. How it wasn’t only ISF and Paris and France that I wanted to escape from but it was Ariel too. And it made me so sad. Not just Ariel but all of it.

  Anyway, I laughed and told her I had to go to the bathroom. O.K. let’s go, she said, because it was impossible then for us to go alone. So I shut myself in the stall and pretended to pee. I sat on the toilet seat staring at the tiles on the floor while she looked at her face in the mirror, and I swear to God I never felt more lonely than in those few minutes in that fucking bathroom.

  I could have stayed in there the rest of the night listening to the music through the walls but Ariel was impatient. When I came out she was putting on eyeliner. She said it was our one chance, how maybe we’d never see him out at a bar like this again. Maybe we should take him home together, she said laughing and looking at me in the mirror, raising her eyebrows. I shook my head but she kept talking about it. I’d go down on you for him, she said and started to laugh.

  Ariel loved to talk but I think then she was serious. I’m sure she would have. For him. For the performance. Who could resist the two of us? she asked. She was dancing in front of the mirror looking at herself. I wanted to slap her. Well if you’re not interested, she said, I’ll do it myself.

  He’s a fucking teacher, I said.

  Exactly, Marie. Exactly.

  When we came out of the bathroom it seemed even more crowded. We could barely move. Somehow Ariel got us more drinks and we drank them fast. God I was drunk. I let myself get bounced around hoping the crowd would take me away from her. And it did and then I saw him and not really knowing why I sort of floated over to him. Then there we were the two of us like that. At first I don’t think he had any idea who I was. He smiled at me. The first thing I thought was, he seems happy, like he’s having a good time. And that was nice. Most people at those places never seem like they’re having a good time. We danced close right away. There wasn’t much choice. He looked right at me. He made me nervous but he wasn’t creepy. I don’t remember what we talked about. I tried to be witty. Anyway, it was loud and hard to hear and mostly we just danced close and I felt protected by the crowd and sort of crushed in there with him as if we were under a blanket together or something.

  I kept thinking about how he was looking at me. I mean he was this man, you know? It was surprising. It shouldn’t have been, and looking back it’s obviously not surprising at all. But at the time I was amazed. God, the way he was looking at me. He looked only at me and I just couldn’t get over it, that he saw me that way. It was jarring and I suddenly felt as if I’d been thrown into this new world, and it was scary and exciting and strange and most of all it was shocking, just completely shocking, that this man, this adult person, was looking at me in that way. I don’t know why I allowed it to be him, after all those nights out with Ariel.

  Again, there’s nothing surprising about it now. Of course. But then, then I was just blown away and I felt like in those few minutes, everything, everything had shifted. And at some point we started to touch and I felt him get hard against me. I was terrified. I was excited but I was terrified. I mean terrified to the point that I thought I might throw up. I turned around because I didn’t want him to see me get sick if I was going to get sick. And I felt him there behind me and he was so hard and there was this moment when I really felt like I was going to run, you know those few seconds when you’re not sure if you’re going to be sick, and I just kept dancing and
pushing back against him waiting for my body to figure out what the hell it was going to do and I waited, stuck there, so afraid. I was cold and my palms were sweating. I looked up and saw Ariel sort of smiling at me, but not really. She raised her eyebrows like she was encouraging me but I could tell she was angry and then she disappeared behind someone and I felt better all of a sudden and I knew that I wasn’t going to throw up. I was warm again and I closed my eyes and just fell into him.

  He was nervous, I could tell, and said he had to leave. But he gave me his number and he knew I’d call him. He must have. And I did.

  * * *

  I got out of there and I found him waiting for me on the hood of a car smoking a cigarette. He looked so calm, so sure of himself sitting on that fucking car.

  We ended up on some steps in the dark. It was cold and I kept falling into him and I was so happy. It was strange. I mean I was elated. He kissed me so softly. I mean no one had ever kissed me like that. No one had even come close to kissing me like that. Not even in the same world. There was no rush. His mouth soft and warm and my God he was gentle. And that’s what got me. That’s what got me. He was tender. I mean truly tender. At that time, at that moment in my life, I mean Christ. It was over. The way he touched me, it made me want to cry. I don’t know how else to say it: I was completely overwhelmed. I could barely breathe and I kept jumping around like an idiot, like a kid and he sat there smiling at me, his serene little smile like he knew everything, everything. And I was dancing around—I think I had my shoes off—and he was sitting there looking at me with that smile and those eyes and I had to get out of there. So I told him I had my period. I don’t know why I told him that, why I didn’t just go home with him.

  That was it. He kissed me again and my heart was pounding, pounding. I had to get out of there.