by Jade Sylvan
Caleb shrugged and shook his head. No. It’s okay. I knew this was going to happen here.
Yeah, when I was here six years ago, I was a vegetarian. I basically lived off of crêpes and croque-madames.
There is a problem with the eggs? said Adélaïde, who was already dipping a toast corner into a golden yolk.
Caleb’s a vegetarian.
Oh? He does not eat eggs?
Eggs are okay, but there’s ham in it. See those little pink bits?
She squinted at her bowl. Oh, I see. Well, maybe there is something else. She reached for the menu and started to scan it. Yes, here is onion soup?
That all has a beef base, Caleb said. It’s really okay. I knew this was going to happen. I’ll just eat bread and find something later. A crêpe or something.
Here, take my salad. I took the ceramic dish off my plate and gave him the small pile of greens. I also gave him my two thick slices of toast smeared with salted butter. He wound up eating that and the rest of the complimentary baguette in the center of the table. I finished his eggs and most of his wine.
Oh, said Adélaïde, glancing at the Roman numerals of the large, old-looking clock on the brick wall across from her. It’s time.
We paid the bill and followed our guide back out into the street where the mist had solidified into intermittent drops of cold rain. She walked quickly. My left leg was cramping, and I struggled to keep up without a noticeable limp. We crossed a street into a wide courtyard where Adélaïde waved and smiled at a dark-haired, dapper, five-o’clock-shadowed young man walking in the other direction. The two greeted one another and bisou’d, and I felt weirdly jealous. Then, I reminded myself that kissing, in France, is as platonic a greeting as a hug would be back on the streets in Cambridge, and that I was being creepy, and that I was supposed to be abstinent right now, anyway.
When the young man left, flashing a smile, Adélaïde turned to us and curled her lip. That guy is a creep, she said, narrowing her eyes as she watched him walk away.
Oh really? I said. What makes him a creep?
She was still glaring out the corner of her eye. He dated a friend of mine. She was away, and he slept with another girl, and after he is saying, ‘What is wrong? You were not inside the country. I didn’t know that this was not all right.’
I laughed too loud. Ah, yes. You have to love that one. ‘What did I do wrong? You never said I wasn’t supposed to sleep with other people!’
She looked at us. You mean guys in the U.S. do this too?
Oh yeah, said Caleb. Guys everywhere do.
She considered this for a moment. That’s too bad, she said, and started walking again. I was hoping the U.S. was the Promised Land.
Caleb and I hurried after her.
There’s a lot more in the U.S. than guys, I said.
Yes, I’m sure, she said. I’ve never been. One day I will go. She looked back at me. You are in Boston?
Yes.
She nodded. I see. Well, Boston is now on my To Travel list.
We passed the town’s Cathedral on our way, and Adélaïde slowed, turned, and began to walk backwards as she resumed her tour-guide role. That is Cathedral Saint Bénigne. Last year, I performed in a great theatre festival here with poets, dance, some Japanese-type puppets. I did some Butoh. Do you know the discipline? It was very inspirating. She gestured to the building’s facade. You see the stones? They have, how do you say it, nettoyage?
Cleaned? said Caleb.
Yes. The government was cleaned the outside of the Cathedral last year. It used to be very dark, not light like this. She raised a hand toward the ashen arches.
You don’t like it? I said.
She paused and touched her lip. I think, when things are old, they should look old.
Chapter Fourteen
Other People’s Clothes
In 2008, while I was dating Luke22, Caleb asked if he could come over and wear my clothes for his final project at the New England School of Photography. I said sure, anything you want.
He came over in the afternoon and raided my closet to take a self-portrait for his series, Other People’s Clothes. I left him alone and stayed in the kitchen doing dishes. That was a period when I was sick all the time. I wasn’t eating well, and most healthcare officials probably would have classified me as an alcoholic. In the photo, Caleb’s wearing a trendy, dress-length hoodie and skinny jeans and pretending to blow dry his faux-hawk. On my desk, you can see my laptop, a box of Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookies, and a handle of Jim Beam.
Other People’s Clothes was a series of self-portraits of Caleb wearing other people’s clothes, with other people’s stuff, in other people’s spaces. In each photograph, he created and embodied a different character, using his androgynous appearance and theater background to his advantage.
The series took off. It was shown in galleries across the country and appeared in journals and magazines all over the world. Caleb became instantly cool in the self-conscious, self-referential Boston arts scene. He was in all the dailies and weeklies. People in the street would recognize him regularly. I told him he was famous, and he told me he wasn’t23.
In 2010, I walked up the steps of the Broadway T station on my way to Caleb’s first major solo art opening for OPC in a South End gallery. I wore a collared shirt and vest and so did he. Mine were black and grey. His were purple and fuchsia.
As I walked into the space, I realized that at some point I’d failed to notice, we’d stopped aspiring. We’d moved beyond dress-up games in Midwestern living rooms and had grown into the clothes of working artists.
Chapter Fifteen
Nom de Scène
The bar was packed with clusters of people lingering outside in dark coats, attempting to avoid the light rain by cramming all24 of their bodies underneath the temporary metal scaffolding that umbrella’d the sidewalk as they smoked their home-rolled cigarettes. Standing cigaretteless among the damp smokers was Dareka. When he saw us he waved. We walked over, and he and I bisou’d.
Dareka’s real name was Marc, but in the poetry world he went by Dareka Daremo, which was Japanese for Somebody Nobody25. I met Dareka when he was studying in Boston a couple of years earlier, and I impressed him with my grade school French and with the Japanese I’d picked up during the period in my teens when the only music I listened to was J-pop soundtracks to shoujo anime series. We had several broken, tri-lingual barroom conversations during this epoch in which I told him the following: one, I had gone to college in Indiana, which was a state near Chicago; two, I had spent some time in Paris and had enjoyed it; and three, my heart/soul/mind approached tomorrow’s sky on wings of an angel. Then, I would nod and say, hai wakatta, or, oué, je comprends, after whatever he said. Dareka looked almost satirically French. Slender, slightly slouched frame, prominent nose, and a dark, sculpted mustache.
Jade! Yes, I’m glad you are here. Julian is inside. I talked to Bernard. He will give you each two slots, one at the beginning of the night, and one at the end. And you know, I told you, I think, that this night has no pay, but it is a show in between Amsterdam and Reims, and you can sell your books if you like.
Oui, je sais. C’est d’accord. Dareka, c’est Caleb Cole, mon ami, le photographe.
Caleb extended a tense right hand to shake Dareka’s and said, Bon swar. Dareka shook his hand and, thankfully, did not try to bisou.
Cole? Nice to meet you. My name is Marc, or Dareka in poetry. I’m happy you could come. Did you have a nice flight?
Um, it was long. But it was fine.
Caleb hasn’t slept in about twenty-four hours, I said.
Yeah, Caleb said. But it’s fine. I knew this would happen.
I looked for Adélaïde, but she was gone.
You want to go inside and sit down? I said to Caleb.
Caleb shrugged. Sure. I mean, whatever.
Yes, said Dareka. We are along the side. I’ll come with you and introduce you to Bernard.
The large barroom swarmed with attractive, art
istic-looking young people in scarves and engaging hats. Along the right side of the wall was a long table where Julian sat resting his chin on his palm in between Lucile and Brigitte. Dareka introduced me to about fifteen different people whose names I had no hope of remembering.
You see there? He pointed at a tall, slender man with a short, dark beard. That is Bernard. Come with me, and I’ll introduce you. Actually, do you want to sit down? Here, come sit down first. Put down your things, and then I will take you to meet Bernard.
Julian looked relaxed and greeted me with an exaggeratedly solicitous expression and an extended hug. How was dinner? he asked, blond eyebrows lifting, Good? I had been around him long enough to know that after periods of crankiness Julian had the tendency26 to compensate with overboard performative consideration. Caleb promptly set up his camera and our bags in a smaller version of the stuff-fortress I’d found him in in Gare de Lyon. I didn’t see Adélaïde anywhere.
Are you going to do the piece in French? asked Dareka. I’m sorry we did not get to practice it much.
I don’t know, I said. Maybe. If I do I might try to run through it a few times outside first.
Either way is good, said Dareka. Most here speak some English. They will be able to understand something27. Oh, I almost forgot, your bar coins. Here.
He handed me two large wooden nickels, and I used one to buy a bright red beer in a large glass goblet that tasted like fermented apple. I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I was wearing a checked collared shirt and a black sweater vest with a small silver pin, which Caleb had given me two years earlier as a thank you for performing at his wedding. It was a handlebar mustache with the words MUSTACHE RIDES: 5¢ along the bottom.
I sat down at the table and saw Adélaïde’s hat near the back of the room. I was about to stand up again when I was addressed by a tall and rather muppetly-postured young man with a floppy ash-brown bowl-cut sitting on the other side of Julian.
Hi, he said, with a prime-time-TV-worthy American accent, I’m Scott.
Hi, Scott, I said. I’m Jade.
You guys are American? he said, his voice and face carrying the dull excitement with which most American expats in Europe greet each other.
Yeah, I said. And I assume so are you?
He smiled big. Yeah, I’m from Rhode Island. Where are you guys from?
We live in Boston, I said, gesturing to Caleb and myself, but we’re originally from Indiana. Julian lives in New York, but he used to live in Boston.
Well, I don’t live anywhere, now, said Julian, tossing his bangs back from his forehead. I’m on tour for the next five months. His eyes affected a faraway gaze. After that, who knoooows.
Wow, said Scott. You guys are on tour for five months?
We’re not, I said. Caleb and I are going home after next week. Julian’s going on forever and ever amen.
Wow, Scott said again. Then he looked at Caleb. You’re a poet, too?
Caleb shook his head. No, I’m a groupie. I’m just here for her. He pointed at me.
He’s a photographer, I said.
Wow28, like for a job? said Scott. I’m just a student. I write for fun, but…wow.
The poetry finally began, and Adélaïde took the stage. I was waiting for what Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe called “The Magic.” It was the feeling in Ralph’s Diner on Halloween the night I read “On Breathing” and decided to come on this tour, and what I’d seen happen to Louis29 the night we met at the Cantab. The air in the room changed, became more electric. The way people breathed changed. The whole room seemed to breathe together, steadily and continuously, all energy moving and being moved by everyone half-consciously in a rhythmic circle.
The Magic did not quite happen when Adélaïde performed, but at least the room grew quiet. Part-way through, she introduced a heavily-French-accented refrain of the English sentence, My body is not a playground, before launching into a broken English verse that was only slightly more intelligible to me than the French poetry.
I leaned over to Caleb. If I look half as cute doing poetry in French as she does in English, then I’ll be fine.
I looked at Julian hunched over a four-inch chapbook of poems. He felt my gaze, looked up, and adjusted the square, plastic frames of his glasses. These are his, he mouthed to me while pointing to Scott, who smiled with all his teeth and shrugged in an aw-shucks kind of way.
I nodded and grinned, then I felt a hand on my shoulder. Dareka was letting us know that we were going up after the next poet.
I stood in front of the hundred or so bescarved poetry lovers. Je suis très heureuse… uh… être ici, I said. Then I read my poems.
When I sat back down, every fiber in my body was vibrating. I could feel eyes on me from all corners of the room. Caleb rested his camera on his lap and nodded at me. Julian mouthed Good job, and he meant it.
Julian performed, and the rest of the French poets, and before I knew it, we’d been there nearly four hours and the bar was starting to empty out. Julian was lost in whispered conversation with Scott, and Caleb was practically falling asleep.
Thank you for coming to France with me, I said to Caleb.
He perked up momentarily. Sure. Thanks for giving me a reason to come. He looked at his camera. I think I got some good stuff.
From across the room, I made eye-contact with Adélaïde. She smiled and waved at me from a crowd of fashionable, animated people. I’m going to go mingle and try to sell some books, I told Caleb, who I could tell was fading further from already-faded. Hopefully we won’t be here too much longer.
It’s fine, he said. I knew this would happen.
He followed me to where Adélaïde was standing, slumped against the bar.
J’ai aimé ta texte, I said to her.
She shrugged. I don’t know. It was okay. I liked very much yours though, she said. Your French, it is very good. I was thinking, I would like to have the text to look at.
I reached into my bag and handed her one of the books. She took it gently.
Oh, this is in English? I am afraid I will not be able to understand. I have a book by William Blake, and I am so frustrating by all these brilliant words that are unpenetrative to me.
Non, non, I said, opening the book to the French section. Les poèmes sont en anglais et frainçais.
She flipped through the French poems and smiled. Oh, god bless you for that! I am always so frustrating by my English in the face of great poetry. Here, let me.… She placed the book on the bar as she began to open her purse and take out her wallet.
Non, non, non, I said, waving her wallet away. C’est un cadeau. Pour… being our tour guide aujourd’hui.
She smiled, looked again at the book, and tucked it into her bag along with the wallet. I was about to formulate something incisive to say in French when a stout man with full, wet lips and an enormous, bulldog-like head intercepted me.
Hey, that last poem you did, he said with a thick, British accent, the one in English, I really appreciated it.
Thank you, I said.
You said we could buy it?
Oh, yeah, here. I pulled out a few of my books and handed him one.
He turned it over in his hands without opening it. Right. How much?
I ask for a donation. Most people give around ten.
Ten?
Or thereabouts.
Right then. He reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and handed me a twenty.
Hold on, and I’ll get you change.
No, no, he said. That’s for you. That poem really meant something. It really said what I’ve always wanted to say.
I looked in his eyes and took his hand. Thank you, I said. I tried to say it as earnestly as possible. Are you a writer?30 I asked.
He shook his head. No. I’m a rugby player for the Dijon team. I was traded down here last year. I hardly spoke a word of French at the time. Now, I speak about seven. He laughed at his own joke. Then, he looked back at me.
It sure does get l
onely sometimes, though.
Yes. I said.
The rugby player continued standing there for an uncomfortable period of time until I finally thanked him and turned back to Adélaïde, who had watched the whole thing from her tired slant. When the stocky Englishman finally left, I tried to continue our conversation, but I’d completely lost my train of thought. After a few attempts to say something remotely profound in French, I apologized for my mangling of her language.
It is okay, she said. All poets speak the same language, and we do not like easy words.
She was fingering a glass of pink wine31. In the mirror behind the bar, we looked like three half-deflated balloons.
Hey, do you want to hear a joke in English? said Adélaïde. It was a heroic attempt to enliven us.
Sure, said Caleb.
Wait, I said. Let’s film it for the internet. Hold on a second. I handed Caleb my phone and he began recording. Okay, I said.
She composed herself and tried to contain her smirk. Where do cows go on Friday night?
Caleb and I paused for an appropriate moment before I said, I don’t know, where do cows go on Friday night?
She raised her eyebrows and leaned into me. To the moooooo-vies.
She threw her head back with exaggerated cackling. The only verbal reaction I could muster was, Oh.
Lucile and Brigitte were bisouing Dareka and the rest of the crowd outside. Through the glass doors and huge windows, we watched as they scuttled off to the car across the street, got in, and drove away.
Those were the girls we’re staying with, said Caleb.
Lucile said she’s coming back, I said. She’s just driving Brigitte to some party. I think that’s what she said, at least.
Caleb made that face.
My bed can fit two, if you need, said Adélaïde. There’s also a couch, for the other. Her attention was quickly hijacked by a man and woman— presumably a couple—who took hold of her arm and, giggling, dragged her off her stool several paces away and thrust an open book toward her face, pointing at some significant passage.
I looked at Caleb. She just offered for me to sleep in her bed, didn’t she?
Yep.
