by Susan Conley
Then I ask a boy named John with perfect French grammar to translate it into English, which he does slowly, steadily: And then the day came, when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
This is the type of short narrative that the students love because they can attach themselves to the extended metaphors. Some of the kids compare the story of the blossom to risks in their own lives and how they dared come to France on their own. Some equate it with trying to write their own poetry.
The class finishes at twelve-thirty, and I look in on Gita. Two wooden desks form an L against the back wall of the office. Luelle is typing on a gray Olivetti. Gita speaks into a black phone receiver. They both smile at me. “It’s going okay?” I ask.
“It’s going very well,” Luelle says. Her hands don’t stop flying over the typewriter keys.
“Lunch?”
“I take lunch now,” Luelle says. “We close the office down for an hour. So please, Gita,” she says, nodding, “you can eat at your desk or outside in the park. There are also several good cafés.”
“Follow me,” I say to Gita and smile. “We can go find food.” We walk down St. Sulpice to a small market on the corner of Rue de Tournon. I buy Brie and apples. There is a boulangerie next door where I get us a baguette. Then we take the long block all the way into the Luxembourg Gardens. The plane trees here are getting full and green, and the gardeners have cropped off their tops so the trees are flat and sculpted. We walk on the gravel esplanade toward the palace. There’s a row of slatted green metal chairs to our left overlooking the grass. The garden is full of red geraniums and bright-colored tulips and a flowerless plant with pointed dark green leaves that I don’t know the name of. I pull two chairs close together. Then I put the cheese and apples on the paper bag in my lap and break off a piece of baguette for Gita. “Is it okay in the office? It’s not too much?”
“I am learning.” She takes the bread and eats it without cheese. “Luelle is very helpful. It is nice of her to let me answer the phones in English. I hope I am good enough. I am grateful for the people who call and wait for me to speak my slow English.”
It almost feels normal to have a picnic with Gita in the garden. So hard to believe this is only the second time she’s left the center since I’ve known her, and that some of the girls haven’t even left once.
In the afternoon I teach a seminar on Rainer Maria Rilke, a German poet who lived for a time in France and wrote one of the greatest last lines of poetry ever written. It comes at the end of the poem called “Archaic Torso of Apollo.”
A girl named Hannah from Colorado reads the poem out loud in French. I tell the students nothing is superfluous with Rilke. Every line matters. Each word serves the next and moves the poem forward. “For a while,” I say, “Rilke worked for the sculptor Auguste Rodin. He wanted his poems to have the same muscularity that Rodin’s carvings did. He wanted to describe the statue of Apollo with sensory details that mirrored what a sculptor would do with a chisel.”
I hand out the English translation and ask Hannah to read the last two stanzas. I want to spend the rest of the class dissecting the French words and comparing their meaning to the English.
Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders
and would not glisten like a wild beast’s fur:
would not, from all the borders of itself,
burst like a star: for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.
Every time I come to that last line, the hair on my arms stands up. The imperative voice at the end changes everything. The reader is implicated. You. You out there. You must change your life. I’ve never read a better closing line.
A boy named Tyler, who rarely speaks, says, “This poem is an anthem. It’s a call to action. It’s about what a short amount of time we have here on earth. And how fleeting life is.”
Virginie nods at him. “And there’s immediacy. There’s this incredible culmination. I think it’s about how to live without pretense.” We’re equal parts poets and philosophers.
When class is over, I walk back down the stairs to the office to get Gita. “The Academy of France is happy to be sending you the information,” she says into the receiver and smiles. “I am Indian. It is an Indian accent, yes, good-bye and have a nice day.”
Her accent is strong, and she lifts her sentences up at the end, so the tone sometimes implies a question when it doesn’t mean to. She keeps using passive verb construction, even though we’ve talked about using the simple tense. But she’s answering the phones well. I wait for her to finish the last call. Then she stands up from her chair. “It is time to be going back already?”
“You’ve done great work in here today.”
Luelle takes a pencil from between her teeth and taps the side of her typewriter with it. “You did a good job, Gita. Very well done. We will see you next Tuesday.”
Gita nods and says in a formal tone, “Good-bye, Luelle. Thank you very much for all of your assistance.”
We walk through the hall past the bronze bust of Balzac on the marble table by the front door. Students lean against the walls and call out to one another. It wouldn’t be so difficult to think that Gita was one of them—an undergraduate in a sari perfecting her French during a semester in Paris.
I hold her arm out on the street. “You did it! You were wonderful! You have a job now at a college in Paris!”
“It is almost true, isn’t it?” We go left down St. Sulpice toward Rue de Rennes and the metro. Her eyes take in everything: chestnut vendors with metal carts near the stone walls of the cathedral, cafés that line Rue Bonaparte, filled with young women and men talking earnestly while they drink coffee, crowds milling outside the doors to the metro station. It all seems part of a crueler story now that we’re on our way back.
A teenage girl and boy hold hands next to us on the train platform and kiss tenderly. “They are in love, aren’t they?” Gita stares at them brazenly. “They are kind to one another. I hope I know love before I die.”
“What are you talking about? You’re so young. You’ll know love. Just not yet.”
“I want to know what it’s like to have someone care about me.”
“That will come. You are only fifteen.”
“But when, Willow, will it come? I am going to be sent back to India. I know I am. Even if we try to prepare for the court hearing. I will move to Jodhpur with Daaruk and have his children. I will love these babies even though they will have come at a price. I will commit to loving them. I have seen this kind of marriage very often in India.”
We climb on the No. 4 and find two seats next to each other facing backward. “Gita. First, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re not going to be sent back to Jaipur. Mr. Ventri has a plan. He’s asked me to be your guardian for the courts. He thinks the judge will release you into foster care if I take on this role and help. Then we will figure out the rest.” What am I saying? Macon’s not sure this will work.
“You will do this for me? You will give your word to the judge about me?”
The car is full and people crowd around us, holding on to the metal ceiling bar. “I will do this.” But I’ve got to talk to Macon first. What does guardianship really mean?
We get off at St. Denis and make our way up the cement stairs to the street. Groups of teenagers let out from school hang around the station, talking and laughing. “This boy in the kitchen named Kirkit. How old is he?”
“I think he’s nineteen. Kirkit is very nice. He is making the kitchen work fun for me.”
“He’s much older than you.”
“The man I will marry in India is thirty-eight. Kirkit is kind. He says he wants to have me home to meet his aunt. Why wouldn’t you want happiness for me? I don’t understand why I can’t choose something I want.” She’s almost yelling as we turn down Rue de Metz.
The graffiti
is still there. Every day I look to see that the sea creatures and blue suns and white stars haven’t been painted over. And every day they’re still there. I want to offer Gita something. All I ever have for her is words. “You are not going to have to marry Daaruk in India.” I press the buzzer next to the door. “It’s not going to happen.”
Four-thirty—plenty of time for Gita to report for kitchen duty. Sophie hears us in the hall and comes out of her office. “Gita, you will be able to keep this job every week if your work here at the center is done and if you’re on time. You must always be on time like today.”
“Good-bye, Willow,” Gita says flatly. I think she’s lost somewhere in the gap between the outside world—the couple kissing and nuzzling on the train platform—and the fluorescent lights in the cramped hall of the asylum center. It’s too big a distance. “Thank you for the day.”
She turns and walks toward her bedroom and I follow Sophie into her office. The radio is tuned to an international station again playing the high-pitched, melodic music—Egyptian? Harps and flutes and clarinets. “Can I go down to the kitchen, Sophie? I’ve never been there. I want to see this boy Kirkit.”
“Because you’re worried he’s after Gita?”
“She likes him.”
“There’s a lot to like. He is hardworking and responsible. He makes a variety of good dishes. He’s on time and polite. You are welcome to go there.” She turns to her desk. “But don’t get caught up in these things. What’s between Gita and Kirkit isn’t something you need to concern yourself with. I will monitor it.”
The basement is a storage area converted into a small, overheated cafeteria. It smells like cooked meat and onions. There’s a soapstone counter that runs along the far wall, interrupted by a deep sink where Gita stands washing white potatoes. She’s got a flowered apron tied over her sari. Three feet or so away from her, at an industrial-sized black stovetop, a young man stirs pots. A potato slips out of Gita’s hands and drops on the floor, and the man’s face broadens into a smile.
This must be Kirkit. Gita says something to him in what sounds like Hindi, laughing. She seems so relaxed down here. I’ve never seen her like this, her face pliant and smiling. He points to the cutting boards lined up on the counter next to three metal bowls of chopped onions. She nods and sits on a metal stool and begins slicing her potatoes.
“Kirkit.” I say this with a question mark at the end. He turns toward me. He has a thick neck and a dark crew cut. “Kirkit.” I put my hand out. “I’m Willie, a teacher at the center. I’ve heard about your new menu and that you’re making good food down here.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you. We have a lot of mouths to feed, but we have good job rotation and I think the girls like the food. So thank you for coming.”
Does he know I’m the one who took Gita to the job at the academy today? How much do they talk? The raw onions make my nose begin to drip. “Where did you learn to cook so well?”
“I grew up with my mother and grandmother in Kerala. They both worked at the canteen my grandfather owned. They were much better cooks than me.”
I look him in the eyes, and he doesn’t look away. “I must be going now,” I say. “Gita. Have a good meal.” She blushes and keeps slicing potatoes as if her life depends on it. She knows I’m here to meet the boy named Kirkit. The pots on the stove boil away with their soups and stews. “Kirkit. It’s been good to meet you. I wish you luck.” It comes out more formally than I intended and I feel silly, but by the time I get to the front door, I’m glad I’ve spoken to him. He can’t be bad for her. His whole face lit up when he saw her bend to pick the potato off the floor.
17
Appalachian Trail: at roughly 2,180 miles, one of the longest continuously marked footpaths in the world
May comes to Paris in a spray of lilac blossoms. Their smell is of dried roses and something almond and lush. Macon and I take Pablo to the sailing pond at the Luxembourg Gardens on Saturday. Children stand next to the stone ledge and reach with wooden sticks, prodding, nudging the miniature boats. The wisteria in the park has also bloomed, with feathery purple-and-white stalks. Afterward we eat croque-monsieurs at a café on Boulevard St. Germain. The melted cheese oozes out of the sides of my bread. Pablo eats his whole sandwich.
Then we walk to the Pont Neuf. It feels like everyone in Paris is on the bridge today, leaning against the railing, taking in the bright sun. Tour boats slide under the bridge like lazy, low-riding convertibles. Pablo wants to get on one. “Please, Daddy. Let’s go down to the water. Please.” Macon says something about Pablo’s birthday—that the boat ride will be an early present.
We cross the bridge back to the Left Bank and climb down the stairs to a stone plaza on the river. The words BATEAUX MOUCHES are painted in red letters on the boat’s low, wide white hull. It’s flat-bowed and sits heavy in the water like a barge. Macon buys three tickets at a portable steel booth next to the boat and gives one to each of us. “Happy early birthday, Pablo,” he says, smiling.
Pablo’s ticket flies out of his fist, and I let out a small yelp and watch it sail away. “Grab it. Grab it!” I run until I can’t reach it without jumping into the river.
“Pablo.” Macon’s voice is stern. “Now we can’t get you on the boat.”
He goes to wait in line again, and Pablo starts to cry. I take his hand. “This is not a problem, Pablo. We can get you on the boat. It’s only a ticket, and it’s not worth crying about. Do you understand, sweets? Not worth crying about.” I’ve never seen him cry before and I’d forgotten it was even possible.
Maybe the whole thing is too much—taking the train into the city, leaving his mother for the day. Meeting me again. Who am I, anyway? This woman with his father? He’s got to be so confused—and lonely even, standing with me while we wait for Macon to come back. “Let’s take a picture of you on the river for your mother.” I walk up the cement stairs, back toward the street. When I turn around, he’s gone.
I walk back down to the river. The water looks green and sloshes against the boat’s hull and the long stone embankment. I go three minutes in either direction and don’t see him. Nothing. I stare blankly at the boat. Where is he? A narrow dock is lowered down by pulleys between the side of the boat and the river walk. The engine sputters in the water. Maybe he’s run under the barrier rope and gotten on already?
Small whitecaps roll on top of one another in the deeper water. People around me don’t know that he’s missing, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t missing. I can’t find him. The little boy. Macon’s boy. How could he disappear so quickly? My panic spreads like a rash—until my arms and legs are shaking. It’s happened incredibly fast. He was with me. Then he wasn’t. The boat fills up with tourists. Macon comes down from the ticket booth; he looks calm and slightly distracted by the sound of the horn of a larger barge passing us.
I yell, “The boy! S’il vous plaît! Le petit garçon. Il a quatre ans! L’avez-vous vu?” Then, in English: “Have you seen the boy?”
Macon’s face changes into a look of cruel surprise. What is it that I’m yelling? Some of the people left on the walkway fan out in different directions, looking for Pablo. Others turn to each other and try to make sense of what I’ve said. Macon’s eyes ask the question. “I’ve lost him,” I say. “He’s gone.”
“He can’t be gone. There hasn’t been enough time for him to be gone. Think clearly, Willie.” He holds my shoulders. “Where did you last see him? You must think.”
“Right where you’re standing.” I step back. “Right here. When I went to take the picture, he was gone.”
“We can’t stay here. I’ll go farther down the river. Oh Christ, Willie. Oh God, where is he?”
I walk and swear at myself out loud. I take the stairs back up to the street and jog in either direction. Then I cross the Pont Neuf over to Île de la Cité, but Pablo wouldn’t have done this. He wouldn’t have come all this way up here, would he? I go back down to the boat. I can’t see Pablo or Macon. How
does a boy vanish? Then Macon crosses the wooden ramp to the boat. He speaks with a sailor in a white military-looking uniform, gesturing with his hands toward the bow. Then he jogs all the way around the perimeter of the rows of seats. I’m frozen on the cobblestones, thinking about the water, feeling a terrible mix of fear and guilt.
We should be looking there—in the roiling water. But that’s the worst possible ending. Macon goes below the deck. Once his head disappears and I can’t see him anymore, I move behind the metal ticket booth. I’ve circled it once already, but now I look more carefully at the trees that stand like sentries along the stone wall. Everything slows. The world feels savage without Pablo. There’s no other way to say this. A little boy. Such a little boy. I can see his smooth face.
The biggest surprise is that there’s no in-between. He’s either found or lost. Alive or dead. Safe or not safe. I see the bright red with the white swoosh of his sneakers. He’s lying on his stomach under a small linden tree talking to—who? It looks like he’s speaking to the dirt. Relief floods me. It enters my bloodstream. I scream his name and hug him, but my legs are still shaking. I have to check myself from squeezing his arm too tightly. Why did he walk away like that? Why did I turn my back? He’s only four. Children like him disappear all the time. He says there were two ants following each other on the pathway. I yell for Macon. He doesn’t come. I stand up and yell again. I don’t know what to do now. I can’t leave Pablo, not for a second. I vow to never let him out of my sight again. I yell another time, and Macon finally comes running.
He picks Pablo up in his arms. “Why did you walk away? That’s not okay. We were worried. Do you understand, Pablo? We were very worried.”
Pablo nods and gets maybe some part of the seriousness. We stand in the shade of the tree, and I can’t speak. Relief is still moving through me. I’m correcting for the rational world, as if I hadn’t once thought Pablo might have drowned. The boat blasts its horn three times. Final call to climb on board. We find three empty chairs on the bow. Some of the tourists stare at us and whisper and smile. There’s a knee-high white handrail that runs along the edge—the kind a small boy could climb over with one quick move and fall into the river. So Macon keeps his hand on Pablo’s neck. “What were you doing again?” he asks me. “How did he get away?”
