Hungry Woman in Paris

by Josefina López

  “You like it?” Henry asked, not sure if I was laughing at him.

  “I love it,” I said, half-giggling. We stared up at the moon, her light massaging our skin, kissing us with her rays of light.

  “The moon loves Paris more than any other city in the world,” Henry bragged. “So many poems written to her and lovers making love to her, she always comes to Paris dressed like a queen.” Henry said all this in between loud breaths and humps.

  “It’s the same moon I made love to back in Los Angeles,” I interjected, not convinced that his romantic observations had been authentically inspired by me. For all I knew this was his routine, his M.O. every full moon. The moon was the same, but never the woman, you know. Oh God, I’m so jaded. How many women would kill to be in this same position, pun intended?

  “Ah, but Paris to the moon is the shortest ride. You can go there at the same time you French-kiss,” he said, kissing me, then dying in my arms. Minutes later Henry recovered from la petite mort and we headed back to his apartment just as the sun was rising.

  Henry stopped at a farmers’ market and picked out fresh fruit and vegetables, fish, and a baguette. I was surprised to find mangoes out of season and all sorts of tiny fruit I had never seen before. He had no translation duties that day and spent the morning making me an English breakfast. He was so sweet to cook for me that I didn’t have the heart to tell him I didn’t care too much for it. It didn’t matter—he could tell by the way I ate.

  “I love that about you; you can’t lie,” Henry chuckled.

  “Oh, you’ll hate that real soon,” I warned him.

  He kissed me lovingly and took my hand. “Let me show you the Paris no one will take you to see.

  For the next twelve hours we challenged ourselves to have sex in all the tourist places in Paris. I would take mental pictures of all the sights as he penetrated me, and I knew I would never forget him or the hidden places for lovers in Paris. We almost got caught in the bathroom at the Louvre. It was so exciting, the idea of getting caught in a men’s bathroom by security guards. Would I negotiate my way out of it or would I just say, “Handcuff me,” half-dressed?

  Henry took me dancing at Barrio Latino in the Bastille to show me I could be as Latina as I wanted to be in Paris. He surprised me with a few dance moves and I knew he had probably dated a lot of black women to dance like he did. He bought me drinks and told me dirty stories about doing it in the bathroom. We sat at the bar discussing what I loved about being Mexican. Yes, France may be the culinary capital of the world, but what kind of a world would it be if Mexico had never produced chocolate or vanilla or salsa or tequila? He poured me more tequila and I quickly forgot all the reasons why I yearned to go back to the United States.

  At the end of the night Henry reminded me why I couldn’t leave Paris: “It’s the most beautiful city in the world!”

  “Henry, there is more to life than Paris. I have to go back to the U.S.; it’s my home,” I said, sincerely calling it home for the first time. People say if you hate America you should leave it, but I think you have to leave it to love it again.

  “Canela, you can start a whole new life here. You can finally have the life you want,” Henry declared. “With me.” I rolled my eyes, dismissing him. Henry saw me and quickly interjected, “Look, I know you have no reason to believe me since I didn’t treat you so well at the beginning.”

  “What do you mean? I thought we were just having fun and that we meant nothing to each other,” I replied. I was proud of myself because I could say that out loud and mean it. When I first had sex with Henry, I’ll admit, I was hooked into him and wanted something more than sex. Now that I knew how to ride his roller coaster I could sit back a happy passenger, knowing it was just temporary.

  “Canela, you know I care about you!” I was so touched by Henry’s sincerity that I wanted to kiss him, but I held off, knowing that I couldn’t lead him on or fool myself into thinking anything serious could develop between us. Instead I studied his funny pale face.

  “If I stay here I will always be an immigrant. I will always be treated like an outsider, and I’ve already been through that. As bad as the U.S. is, I still like it better than France. I’m a Latina and I want to live in a country where I feel I belong and in a city where I get some respect.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Henry interjected.

  “Need I remind you, you are a white male—” I said, about to give him a lecture, until he cut me off.

  “Fine. Go back to your lousy country and have a nice life.” Henry tried to be funny, but he was too hurt to make either one of us laugh.

  “Yeah, it’s fucked up what the U.S. is doing… but I have to go back and try to do something about it… even if I can’t make a difference.”

  That night Henry cooked for me and we had sex one last time, but it was more of a release for him. I was still sore from our sexual tour of Paris.

  Henry was kind enough to go with me to the airport. I began to cry when I saw the Eiffel Tower and the merry-go-round from the taxi window. To keep myself from crying I sucked on a mango. I ate it because I knew I couldn’t take it with me on the airplane. I thought about all the beautiful things I was going to miss about Paris, the roasted chickens and the aroma-filled street named Belles-Feuilles, the crepes by the metro stop, the fresh bread at the corner of my street, the macarons and the chocolate at Maison du Chocolat on place de Victor Hugo. It was mostly the food I was going to miss. I was certainly not going to miss the dog poop or the urine stains everywhere, which looked like Rorschach tests revealing to me my miserable existence in Paris. I definitely would not miss the wannabe model hostesses at the few fancy restaurants I got to go to, or the anorexic waitresses laughing at me for asking for tea as my aperitif, or the arrogant waiters sick of American tourists practically throwing the menu at me and rolling their eyes because my French sucked. Still, I started crying. How could living in Paris have made me so miserable? No, wait—Paris didn’t make me miserable. I’d left Los Angeles and the United States so I wouldn’t be miserable under the leadership of an idiot, but I’d arrived and was leaving the same miserable person.

  I shook my head. No, I wasn’t the same miserable person. I’d come to Paris already dead. I was leaving Paris almost alive. Henry and Le Coq Rouge had revived me and awakened my senses. I was alive again… Maybe I should take medication, like my mother has been insisting, so I won’t be so cynical and pessimistic and I can finally replace my urine-stained glasses for pretty rose-colored ones and see la vie en rose wherever I go. Maybe it will help me. I don’t want to leave Paris feeling this way. If Luna were here she would be so happy to have finally seen Paris.

  I shouldn’t have thought of Luna, because I couldn’t stop crying after that. Henry misinterpreted my crying and held my hand and said, “We could turn around.”

  “No, it’s… It’s nothing… Los Angeles… I have to go home,” I told him, trying to be strong. I decided my last hours in Paris were going to be happy ones, even if it killed me. I was going to be happy because I was at least alive to enjoy Paris on Luna’s behalf.

  At the airport Henry walked with me to the security gate and embraced me, not wanting to let go. “I could fall in love with you,” confessed Henry. “I hope you can come back soon.” Then he kissed me.

  “I don’t know if I’m ever coming back,” I told him, then kissed him good-bye on the cheek. Henry was a man I could love and love madly, but all great loves end in tragedy or sometimes they end in marriage; and that’s the tragedy.

  CHAPTER 20

  Canela’s Feast

  I landed at the airport and almost cried when I saw a Latino mayor welcoming me to Los Angeles on a large billboard. My little sister Rosie picked me up at the airport, and as we rode in her car I could tell life had changed while I’d been gone. There were many more Spanish stations on the radio and reggaetón was the hottest thing on the charts. Rosie was hooked on it and played Daddy Yankee, Zion, and Calle 13 the whole ride to her hous
e. Rosie had invited me to stay in her guest bedroom as long as I needed to. I didn’t want her to tell my mother or any other family members that I had returned. She swore she would not tell anyone and that she would not gossip about it either, so it wouldn’t get to my Tía Bonifacia. Only when I was ready was I going to go over to my parents’ house and confront my mother about the letter.

  I assumed that since I had been away and had abandoned my apartment, all my belongings had either been thrown out or donated. I had only two suitcases and my LV purse to my name. It felt liberating to know I had so few belongings and no money.

  I borrowed money from Rosie and bought a new outfit to wear to Rosemary’s wedding. I didn’t want to go alone to her wedding, but I’d promised I would be there.

  Rosemary looked pregnant in her wedding dress; either that or she’d gotten a boob job. When I had a chance to talk to her privately in the ladies’ restroom she revealed to me that she was four months pregnant and happy about it. She was so in love and happy that I was able to share this precious day with her. Rosemary got all teary-eyed when she started thinking about her mother not being there. She quickly changed the subject and said she couldn’t wait for me to find my true love and get married. At the reception I forced myself to make small talk with the other guests and had to explain why I was alone and no, nobody would be coming later to join me. I debated whether I should sneak out early or stay until the cutting of the cake. I loved her reception and wondered if I could see myself in a wedding dress or making dinner for someone. It felt good knowing that I could cook, but I never had to. I bet Henry would never expect me to make dinner or clean up. Yes, but Henry would never be the kind of guy who would propose or promise love for a lifetime; he could never lie like that. But I will never know now what a life with him would have been like.

  Rosie came into my room and asked me what I was planning to do for my thirtieth birthday party. My birthday was before Christmas and my family usually combined the two; yeah, I would get cheated on the presents. I told her I honestly didn’t know what to do. She walked past my suitcase and saw a giant cardboard envelope and asked me what it was. I told her it was nothing and attempted to hide it. Rosie knew me well enough to know it was important because I got nervous talking about it. She insisted that I show it to her, so I figured, what the hell, and showed her my giant diploma. She didn’t understand why I had a diploma for cooking when I’d been studying journalism. I told her the truth and she practically laughed. See, that’s why I did it. Rosie stared at the diploma and smiled.

  “Wow, so are you going to cook for me?” she asked, savoring the imaginary French food I would make for her. I made a note to myself not to mention cooking school ever again to anyone.

  “Why don’t you make a dinner party for your birthday?” Rosie suggested. I considered her suggestion and almost dismissed the idea until Rosie added, “Maybe I can invite all the family to dinner and then surprise them with you coming out of the kitchen. Do you have a chef’s hat?” Rosie always had her heart in the right place, but I wasn’t sure I could go through with it. But, after much urging from Rosie, I agreed to try.

  I went shopping and bought all the ingredients. I wasn’t thrilled about doing all the work for my birthday party, but this would be a nice way to be welcomed back. Plus, I could live out my cooking fantasy, which would be a nice present. I debated whether to make fish or meat. Should I make the monkfish wrapped in bacon or the saumon farcie en feuille de chou vert or the truite farcie aux morilles? Or should I make my agneau à la Mexicaine-Américaine and finally get it right? What kind of dessert? Should I attempt to make a chocolate soufflé with Chantilly cream or something really fancy with caramel decorations? When I was paying for the groceries I picked up the newspaper and read an article about a proposed wall along the border between Mexico and the United States being approved by Congress. I asked Rosie about it and she told me, “They’re even proposing to make it a crime if anyone assists an undocumented person. Something called the HR no se que cochinada something. It sounds like hemorrhoid medicine.”

  Rosie made her husband set up the table all fancy and forced him to use the fine china that was typically just for decoration. When the family arrived they were impressed by the table settings and asked who was cooking and why the early celebration; Christmas was still days away. Rosie said that she had hired a professional chef and forbid anyone from going into her kitchen. I ran around like a madwoman getting the veal ready. Finally I was satisfied with my dish; it was done as it was meant to be prepared and presented. Rosie ran into the kitchen to check on me and asked me if I was ready. I put the chocolate soufflé into the oven and I put on my chef hat and fixed my tie. I grabbed the veal and walked out of her kitchen holding the platter. It took a few seconds for everyone at the table to notice that it was me under the chef’s hat. Collectively my whole family said, “Canela, is that you?” I announced my dish and began serving. When I got to the end of the table I almost dropped the platter when I discovered that Armando was one of my guests.

  “Armando? What are you doing here?” I blurted out tactlessly.

  “Your mother invited me.”

  “He’s practically a part of the family,” my mother interjected. She stared at me defiantly, her eyes gleaming with pride that she had outsmarted me. I gave her a dirty look and went back into the kitchen, Rosie following at my heels.

  “Did you tell mama about this?” I snapped at her.

  “No! But…” Rosie hesitated. “I think my husband might have accidentally let it slip out.” I went to the sink and stared at the dirty dishes. I was so annoyed at my mother for what she’d done, but I also knew that it was not fair to Armando to embarrass him or make him feel unwelcome.

  I gritted my teeth and took the platters with the tomato confit and the bell pepper tian into the dinning room. I finished serving my guests and said, “Bon appétit.” My family began to eat. My mother took a bite and stared at me, incredulous. “You made this?” I nodded. I stared at everyone as they ate my food and wanted to cry. Not because I was angry about Armando or afraid of what my family thought, but because I was relieved to be back home and to see all my siblings and my parents. Being away for nine months had helped me remember I loved them.

  “It’s delicious,” my mother said approvingly. “Don’t you think so, Armando?” He smiled at me and agreed with her. After several bites I was showered with compliments and questions about my life in Paris. I tried to give as little information as possible without making it obvious that I was trying to be vague.

  “I went to cooking school,” I said, and no one laughed.

  “Wait, didn’t you tell Rosie you were studying journalism?” my sister Reina interjected.

  “I did… I wanted it to be a surprise,” I told them, and they all thought that was sweet. “Excuse me, I have to finish dessert,” I said and went into the kitchen. I finally understood what that female chef named Babette felt after she made her fabulous feast for those sexually repressed Danes. I felt like an artist. Like in some small way I had contributed to enriching my family’s life. I danced around victoriously and stopped the second Rosie walked back in. She hugged me and said, “You did it! Happy birthday.” I took the chocolate soufflé out of the oven and it looked like a beautiful hot-air balloon. I felt so proud of myself. All this and my soufflé had risen to great heights, looking perfect—there is a God! I took the soufflé to the table and everyone looked at it. Reina’s husband didn’t know what the black thing was and I educated everyone on the fine art of making soufflés. My father finally spoke up. He commented that maybe now that I knew how to cook and was a “hot commodity” I could be a real woman and settle down. The table fell silent. Everyone was waiting for me to explode, to scream and yell so they could roll their eyes and share “you know how Canela is” smirks. And it’s true, I wanted to tell him the thirty reasons his comment was sexist, but I forced a smile and let his sexist comment slide; I wasn’t going to let him ruin my fantasy. I had
accepted that machos don’t evolve and that you can’t teach an old macho a new trick.

  I sliced the soufflé as best I could and handed the pieces out before the soufflé was reduced to a flattened ball. I added the Chantilly cream and powdered sugar to the slices. I handed my mother a big piece and put tons of cream on it. It was so rich and delicious I salivated just serving it to her. One of my sisters asked me if I got to eat frogs and snails.

  “Escargot, as they call snails, and grenouille, as they call frogs, don’t taste bad. Drown them in butter and they taste like chicken.” Reina asked me what I thought about the French—were they really snobs like everyone says they are? I tried to be diplomatic, but I couldn’t lie either.

  “They are so arrogant; who do they think they are?” Reina said loudly. I didn’t want to generalize, so I explained how I had heard people in the south and in the country were so much nicer than the Parisians. “I’m glad I went, but I wouldn’t want to live there again,” I confided. “But at least they stood up against the war in Iraq,” I said on France’s behalf, forgetting that my sister was a Republican.

  “Yeah, that’s because they had an arms contract with Saddam—” Reina interjected. I was about to argue with her when my mother tipped over the pitcher of water. Everyone stared at her, but she continued searching for the water with her hands, like a blind woman.

  Armando reached over to her and my mother passed out. Quickly gathering her into his arms, Armando carried her to his car and we rushed her to the emergency room.

  CHAPTER 21

  Bitter Truths

  Your mother has lost her sight. Her diabetes—” explained the doctor before I cut him off.

  “She has diabetes?” I asked.

  “She’s had it for a long time. It has to be severe for her to lose her sight,” the doctor told all of us.