by Corine Gantz
“Take some clothes off,” Annie suggested. “Lola did and she feels much better. See...look.”
Althea glanced in the direction of Lola’s bare breasts and quickly looked away.
“Lola is busy acting French so she cannot be disturbed at the moment.”
Lola glanced above an obsolete Paris Match. “You betcha,” she said and resumed her inaction.
The children came running from the house and spilled into the backyard followed by Lia in tears. Althea sprang to her feet in reflex, and Annie had the notion that Althea was experiencing Lola’s nudity like it was her own.
“What’s going on in there?” she asked Maxence.
Lia was drenched, “They ganged up on me,” she wailed. “They wet me!”
“So, isn’t that the whole point?” Annie wondered out loud to Lola who shrugged behind her magazine. Lia noticed her mom.
“Ewww...Mom!”
“Maxence, no water balloons in the house,” Annie yelled without conviction.
Maxence, followed by Paul, Laurent, and Simon, stomped into the yard. Her boys all ignored Lola. They had seen bare breasts at the beach their entire life. “It’s just a few tiny drops. It’s not gonna kill her.”
“Just sit out there and be quiet. All of you.” Annie said.
“Can’t you find anything to keep yourselves occupied without killing each other?” Lola asked behind her magazine.
“No, we’re bored.” Simon said.
Althea got up from her plastic chair and walked towards the kitchen. She almost entered the house, then turned back towards the garden, looked away, and said to no one in particular, “We can do something if you guys have washable markers.” Annie had to hold onto her trowel not to fall. She did a quick glance in the direction of Lola who glanced back.
“It’s not a school day. I’m not doing crafts,” Maxence said.
“I mean,” Althea said timidly, “maybe, if you want, I’ll tattoo you.”
Maxence perked up. “Cool!”
Lia shook her head. “I’m not doing it.”
“Not on the face, no blood, no profanity, no weapons,” Annie said.
Lola folded her magazine and got up. Her bare breasts shone with oil and looked a lot like torpedoes. “I’m off to yoga,” she said.
Annie pursed her lips, “Not in this accoutrement I hope!”
Annie resumed her planting and watched from the corner of her eye the unlikely scene unfolding. She didn’t know what was most unlikely, the children cooperating, Althea taking an initiative, or the fact that Althea had a secret talent. Out in the sun-drenched garden, Althea used a thin black marker and began to draw patterns of entangled animals, dragons, lizards, bees, and unicorns on Maxence’s arms and torso. She drew precisely and without hesitation, as if she were merely reproducing the figures. She was indefatigable even as the boys wanting their turns harassed her by calling out names of animals or superheroes they wanted on their bodies. She drew without small chat and certainly without pretending to play with them. In her expression, all Annie could see was an artist at work, completely engrossed in what she was doing. When Lia volunteered to color in the drawings to make them look like real tattoos, Althea let her without seeming the least bit territorial about her creation.
After a while, Annie stopped pretending to garden and went to sit next to them to watch Althea work. By the time Lola came back two hours later from her first yoga class as a teacher, the children were covered in drawings and Althea was putting the finishing touches on the garland of flowers that circled Lia’s arms. Annie, sunburned and covered with dirt was taking pictures.
“She’s good,” Lola whispered.
“She’s damn good,” Annie said.
They both looked at Althea, not knowing what to think.
Lucas peered above his Armani sunglasses. On the north side of center court, in the bleachers, Jared’s black silhouette moved past pastel Lacoste shirts and wide-brim hats. Then back the other way when he realized he was on the wrong side of the bleachers. Second row seat at Roland Garros, and Jared was forty-five minutes late!
Jared came to sit beside him. They followed the yellow ball from one racket, to the clay, to another racket and back, the set ending with a murmur of discontent from the audience. Lucas wore a white polo shirt and light seersucker pants appropriate for the time, place, and heat wave. “Aren’t you hot?” he asked. Jared seemed to realize only then that he was, and removed his coat. He was too pale and did not look healthy at all. Lucas took a sip of Evian and offered him a bottle.
“You need some sun,” he said. “You live at night--” He was interrupted by a cheer from the crowd. One of the players had removed his shirt. “American players have no class. Do you see Europeans doing this? No. How are things with your damsel in distress?”
Jared looked at him and frowned. “Who?”
“That, that creature. Althea. Lovely, really. Only--”
“How is it going with Annie?” Jared interrupted.
Lucas shook his head. “Ah! Annie. The other day in her kitchen, I came on to her.” He sighed. “I don’t know what possessed me. It was unpremeditated, awful. I made a terrible fool of myself. There’s so little time alone with her and with Lola being there all the time, there is so much flirting and joking going on. I’m at the mercy of two irresistible females. The last thing I need is for Annie to see me as a buffoon with too much testosterone.”
Jared shrugged, “Don’t you think it’s about time to be more direct? Haven’t you wasted enough time? Years, in fact?”
Lucas continued with his train of thought. “Annie’s more self-sufficient than ever. Of course, it also confirms my positive opinion of her. She is not needy. I don’t think I’ve ever been with a woman who wasn’t needy one way or another.” Lucas turned and looked at Jared. “I want to warn you about that.”
“What?”
“Needy women.”
“I don’t need any warning.”
“That lovely young woman, of course. Althea? Right? Youth, beauty, they can be quite manipulative. Annie is a different woman entirely: strong, smart, autonomous.”
“Annie’s a pain in the ass.”
“That’s because you’re not living up to your potential! At least with Annie, I know where I stand.”
“Do you really?”
“At least I’m not manipulated.”
“Not manipulated?” Jared stood up. “You’re the Testosterone Buffoon.”
“Ah, merde!” Lucas said as the players walked back on the court. “How am I going to fix this?” he asked. But Jared was already gone.
Althea had taken to wandering the streets around the house while waiting for her time with Jared. The day was overwhelmingly hot and the house had no air conditioning, which turned her room under the roof into a furnace. She walked and stopped in front of a store she had noticed before. The name of the shop was “librairie traditionelle,” an old-fashioned book and art supply store. As she entered, she was welcomed by the jingle of a bell placed on the door. Inside, it was as cool and quiet as the street had been sweltering and busy. The store smelled of chalk, books and ink. She moved around the cramped alleys and shelves heavy with merchandise, letting her fingers caress the various surfaces. She did not know why she had stopped there or what she was looking for. Her fingers recognized the sensation first. Papier Canson, one of the finest papers in the world.
Her dad had given Althea her first drawing pad for her eighth birthday. It had a black cover and the pages were thick and smooth. Each year on her birthday, she’d go to the store and choose a new one. She drew everything and everywhere. She drew during school. She drew at home when her parents watched TV. She’d sit on a bench at the playground and draw. She liked that kids and even adults looked over her shoulder as she drew, and often complimented her. She wanted to take lessons one day to become an artist. By the time she was fourteen, she had filled every page of six sketchpads. When she was fifteen, they moved. In her new bedroom, Althea had alrea
dy put away the content of every box of her belongings when she realized her pads were missing.
“Mom, I can’t find something.”
Her mom had been frazzled from the move, her patience was thin that year and she was smoking more than ever. She blew a cloud of angry smoke at her. “What’s missing?”
“My drawing pads.”
“I can’t keep every single shred of paper this family produces. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Althea had screamed and sobbed and yelled at her mom. As a result, she had been slapped and grounded. She then stopped drawing.
Althea admired the ancient wood shelves, the rows of inks, paint tubes and pigments arranged by hues, then went back to the area for drawing paper and pads. She opened a couple of pads, smelled them, felt their grain with the palm of her hand. There was something noble about blank white paper, something that made her heart flutter.
Jared saw things the way artists did, which was also the way she used to see things. He noticed every inch of her face and body when he painted her. He looked at what she ate, how she ate. He looked at how she walked. He observed the way she held her spoon, the way she put on her shoes. It was exhilarating and terrifying, to be watched like this.
Her mother was the opposite: completely self-involved. She didn’t care about her daughter’s needs, or talent. Her mother had neglected Althea and rejected anything she did that was short of devoting her life to her mom. Her throat tightened.
She bought a vellum pad and a box of expensive pastels. Forgetting the heat, she hurried back to the house, holding the paper bag against her chest like a shield. She immediately dialed the number. In Cincinnati, it was the heart of the night. Her mom’s voice came, apprehensive, disoriented. “Hello?”
“It’s me.”
Apprehension dropped out of her mother’s voice to be replaced by anger. “Why are you calling us at three in the morning?”
Althea’s fists tightened. “Hi.”
“I certainly hope you’re not waking us in the middle of the night just to say hello.”
“I. Said. Hi,” Althea repeated between clenched teeth.
Her mother’s voice turned to ice. “What is your problem?”
“You’re not dying. That’s the problem!” Althea screamed.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Althea looked at her face in the mirror as she screamed at her mother. “Everything is wrong with me, and you don’t give a shit about me.”
“At three in the morning--”
“I’ve worried about you my whole life. I’ve spent my whole life thinking you’d die if I weren’t around. I’m in Paris, and you’re not dying. You’re just fine without me. You’ve never even bothered to ask for my number here. You only think of yourself.”
“I won’t stand for this.”
Althea wasn’t sure of the nature of her tears. Sadness, relief, rage? “It’s me, Mom. ME! I exist, you know.”
“I have no idea what you are saying.”
“How sad I feel? How depressed I am? How lonely I am? I’m invisible to you. And to Dad.”
Annie entered the room carrying a pile of dinner plates. Althea didn’t care. Annie placed the plates in the cabinet, gave Althea a quick two thumbs-up and left the room.
“Are those French people putting ideas in your head?” her mother screeched. “You hate America now, and your parents? Why am I not surprised?”
“Well, at least I’m not invisible here.” Althea understood now. It wasn’t just about Jared. They accepted her here. More than her mom ever had. Here she was herself. She didn’t have to be pleasing. She could have a fit. They all could. It was all right.
“Good for you. Stay there then. We don’t need that attitude here in America.”
“I can stay in pajamas all day here, and leave my room in a mess. I can be lazy. I can be useless!” Althea knew how silly this was, yet how true.
Her mother’s precise voice came across the phone line. “Useless? Isn’t that what you’ve always been, Althea?”
This, Althea saw, wasn’t going to be the usual pummeling. This was her first fight with her mother, a fight where she could punch back. “I’m glad you’re saying that, Mom. I’m glad. Because it shows you’re a mean bitch. And a shitty mother.”
“You, you...Look at yourself in the mirror.”
“As a matter of fact, I am looking at myself in the mirror,” Althea said. “I’m looking at myself in the mirror, and I’m holding my head up. I’m looking straight into my own eyes and making the decision not to talk to you anymore.”
And Althea hung up.
After dropping off Simon at daycare, Lola walked fast along rue de la Pompe. Her previously frightful anxious baby had simply waved goodbye. She and Lia had changed in just a short time in Paris, but Simon was the one who had made the most astonishing transformation.
Lola looked so unlike herself these days, and at the same time, she looked at long last like herself. Oh she was a mess by any standard. Her hair was bicolor now: an inch of blond hair at the root, and an inch of jet black at the tip. She used Lia’s barrettes to keep her hair out of her face while it grew out. She wore no make-up and lived in Birkenstocks. Over her yoga clothes she had put on a sweater that had belonged to Johnny and that she had rescued from the trash can.
Why did she feel perfectly at ease looking entirely unstylish in a city where appearance was laced with codes and rules? Why was it that unlike in Los Angeles where she felt she never looked perfect enough, in Paris she felt just fine dressed in rags? Of course there was the daily reinforcement from unknown men willing to stop her in the street just to tell her she was beautiful, the fact that age didn’t seem to matter here as French men celebrated women of all ages and flirted almost as though, not flirting would have been the rude thing to do. And women flirted right back. She saw it happen all around. French life was all about men and women playing, enjoying each other.
She had other reasons to feel beautiful. She felt much lighter on an emotional level. Mark had set her free in a way during their last phone conversation. He had been despicable. Out of control. His absolute inability to reach out to her, his condemnation of everything she represented, his utter lack of effort to win her back had been sobering. That conversation had been followed by an entire night of tears, much like a giant draining of every cell of her body. In the morning she had felt brand new. It was as though years of anxiety and tension had melted off her shoulders, her face, her skin. If Mark did not want her anymore, if he wasn’t planning on taking her back, then she needed to start life anew, just like Annie had after Johnny had died. Wasn’t it almost the same? Mark was, in fact, dead to her, and she to him.
She entered the building through the arched doorway, felt the coolness of the stones reverberate on her skin and climbed the stairs towards the Yoga studio. In the staircase she said bonjour to two women who had come a few minutes early to get a better spot in the room. She wondered if he would come today. With her own key, she opened the door of the studio. It was the first time she had done that, and her throat tightened. How long since she had last felt in control of her life? How long since she had last experienced her life through her own perceptions, not Mark’s? Owning a key to the studio made her the official teacher. Substitute teacher, but teacher nonetheless. She belonged here. Even as a model, she had been somebody’s tool. With yoga, she was not only belonging, she was contributing. For the first time in years, she felt capable, and important.
Fellow yogis walked in behind her and unrolled their yoga mats at the front of the class, close to where Lola would be putting hers. As yogis entered the yoga studio, they exchanged the French ritual of a kiss on each cheek and whispered a few words.
Lola turned on a switch. In the center of the ceiling, where intricate stucco molding remained from a time when the superfluous was essential, the single immense crystal chandelier reflected the light like drops of sunshine. She opened a window to let the warm air mix in with the pungent scent of the room
, a mix of wood wax, incense, and humidity, that timeless scent she associated now with yoga, and with Paris.
The room was vast and the walnut floor, which the instructors took turns waxing meticulously, a floor probably as old as the building, had a patina so lustrous that it seemed alive under her bare feet. Lola had fallen in love with this room the first time she had come here for a class over three months ago. Now she was the one giving the class. Those years of practice when she clung to yoga like a buoy did have a purpose in the end.
The room filled with mats and students. Lola discreetly searched among the faces and glanced too many times in the direction of the door. She inserted a CD of Indian chants into the CD player and felt a thrill when he entered. He was German and she had found out his name was Gunter. He looked younger than she by a good ten years and had the graceful musculature of a cat. The first detail she had noticed about him was the blond hair on his arms. He looked absolutely delicious. There had been enough looks between them to give her a sense that he was attracted to her as well. When her glance met his piercing blue eyes, he always seemed to smile in a slightly ironic way that made her feel weak in the legs.
Once he asked her if she’d like to have coffee after class. She had said, “no thanks.” He had said, “maybe another time.” She had flirted back, “maybe,” before running off. Since then he had always left before she could continue to play hard to get.
She read some well-prepared words in French that Annie had translated for her.
“Thank yourself for coming to practice today.”
She began her class by demonstrating, then moving among the mats to alter postures. She walked by Gunter’s mat and paused, mesmerized by the pearls of sweat on his flexible back. She moved on to the following asana.
Later, when the mats were rolled back, and the class had ended, when shoes were gone from the floor and the students had waved good-bye, Lola gathered her CDs and closed the window. She turned toward the door, and her heart leaped in her chest.
