Part 14 (1/2)
”Probably now, I'd be called A.D.D. I couldn't stay still in school and all the teachers hated me. I was bored, so I made trouble to entertain myself. Doesn't everyone do that, do anything to entertain themselves when they're bored? I swear people do the most unbelievable things because they're bored. I never had any teacher who liked me. Not one. I wonder what would have happened if I did. That's why I never learned how to read very well. Do you know I've never read a whole book in my life? Not one. And here I am talking to you, a real writer, who's written so many books. But it doesn't matter, does it? Because we're just people, talking, enjoying each other. It would matter if we were bored, but we're not bored so it doesn't matter.”
I thought how odd it was that he was right, that it didn't matter. And that I didn't know what I felt about his never reading a book, and what that meant about his life. I wondered whether or not I should be sad for him, and I didn't know why I was so insistent on introducing a note of sadness when jean-Claude told the story of his life with so little self-pity, such an easy sense of ”once upon a time,” ”and then this happened and then that,” such a peaceful sense of proceeding without thoughts of ”The End.”
”Perhaps if some teacher had taken an interest in me I would have been different. Now I make up this story about this retired teacher who moves onto my street. One day I see her having trouble carrying a heavy package from her car, and I offer to help. She invites me for tea. She plays the piano for me. We become friends. I help her around the house. She gives me books to read and helps me with my reading. We go to the opera. In the summer we go on vacation, where we go to museums and read books in the hotel. But when I was young I never met anyone like that, or maybe I wouldn't have ended up on the streets of Paris at the age of fourteen. But if I hadn't gone to the streets of Paris, I wouldn't be here, having lunch with you in the suns.h.i.+ne by the pine trees and the beautiful green sea. Maybe I'd be a grandfather now, working for the telephone company in Gren.o.ble, with a fat wife getting varicose veins. Your legs are great, by the way, you still have a girl's legs.”
”Why do you think you'd have a wife?” I asked. ”Haven't you always liked men?”
”I've had two wives already.”
”Jean-Claude,” said Ted, looking amazed. ”You've never told any of us that.”
”Well, all right, I haven't had two wives, only one, according to the law. But I lived with a woman I wasn't married to for six years.”
”This is incredible,” Ted said.
”She had great legs, too, but not like yours. Hers were very long, very strong, like trees. Like a man. And she gave great b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs, as good as the best man, which is very unusual, most women just don't get it. We had a restaurant together. Well, a cafe, more of a bar. When I met her she was already pregnant. I went to the hospital with her. Her son called me daddy. I was always the one who got up with him and then took him to school. She was a lousy mother. She started picking up men in the restaurant. Then she threw me out, so one of them could move in. He beat her up, he hit the kid. The kid came to me, trying to get away from them. I was living with a rich American then, and he wanted to take me to America. But I'd have given it up and stayed in Gren.o.ble if she'd let me have the kid. She said if I ever came near the kid again she'd have me arrested as a pedophile. I saw him ten years after that, he was nineteen, a complete mess, greasy hair, missing teeth, sitting in a filthy hamburger place drinking wine, he already had a kid. We had nothing to say to each other.”
”What happened with the rich American?” I asked.
”I went to America with him, but it didn't work out. So I made my way to Aspen. I'm a great skier, of course everyone in Gren.o.ble is, and I got a fabulous job on the ski patrol. With a lot of good tips from lonely widows. That's where I met Penny. She was a waitress there and we got married for the green card. We were great friends, but the f.u.c.king was no good. I don't know why, because we really liked each other.”
”How did you get here?”
”A Cuban guy brought me to Miami. I learned bathroom lighting. Then I met George. I went home with him because I thought he was rich, but even when I found out he doesn't have s.h.i.+t, I stayed with him. I guess we're in love. Maybe that means I'm getting old. I don't feel old, but I could never support myself by my c.o.c.k anymore. That's over.”
”Well, it's too dangerous nowadays,” I said.
”What do you think about the waiter? Would he like to go home with you or me?”
”Probably with someone his own age,” I said.
”Are all your books depressing?” asked Jean-Claude.
”I think I write about life as it is.”
”Why would you do that when what everyone wants is to forget about it? Why don't you write something funny? Something romantic. Something about the waiter who meets his long-lost father, the oil sheik, who's dying and is going to leave him ten million dollars, so he buys a house for himself and this older guy who's the love of his life.”
”That's not the kind of story I can do.”
”Anyone can do any kind of story if they want to,” he said.
My brother called for the check. He and I fought over it. Jean-Claude looked at the palm trees, or the waiter, or the boys, bare-chested, roller-blading down the middle of the street.
On our way to the car, my eye fell on a dress in a store window. Gray wool, sleeveless, a jacket trimmed in Persian lamb.
”Remember Grandma's Persian lamb coat?” I said to my brother.
”You must try it on,” Jean-Claude said. ”It will be very elegant for you.”
He was right. I did feel elegant, although it seemed odd to be trying on gray wool when, fifteen yards away, people were dressed in almost nothing, in neon colors, their bare arms and legs absorbing the last of the October sun.
The dress was more than I could afford. But I'd been working hard, and no one else I knew was going to treat me to anything in the foreseeable future. I shook off the self-pity that was ready to drown my sense of well-being about how good I looked in the dress. I looked at myself carefully from all angles, partly hoping in one of them I wouldn't look good, so I wouldn't have to spend the money, or take the risk on so much pleasure, partly praying that when I turned I'd still look as good as I had a few seconds before.
”Magnificent,” said Jean-Claude.
”Terrific, honey,” said my brother.
Jean-Claude came by with a black velvet-and-silk scarf, velvet flowers embossed on the silk plainness. He wound it around my neck. The dress, already a success, was transformed into something entirely other; it turned from a success into a triumph. I looked at the price. The scarf was $300.
”That's higher than I can go,” I said, handing the scarf back to Jean-Claude, trying to keep my spirits from being dashed.
I was happy with the dress, and Ted kept telling me I was doing the right thing, the dress was a luxury, but it was clearly worth it; the scarf might make me feel bad in the end. I know I'd be happy when I got back to New York, but at that moment all I could do was mourn the scarf.
”You two go on ahead,” Jean-Claude said to me and my brother.
He caught up with us in half a block.
”So,” he said. ”You're happy with your dress.”
”Oh, yes,” I said.
”But you're sad about the scarf.”
”Well, it doesn't really matter.”
”Bulls.h.i.+t,” he said, and threw a small bag at me.
I opened the bag. The scarf was wrapped in aqua-colored tissue.
”Jean-Claude,” I said. ”Don't be ridiculous. You can't afford this.”
”Baby,” Ted said. ”It's a lovely gesture, but you can't afford it. You're up to your a.s.s in debt as it is.”
”Of course I am, you idiot. Of course I can't afford it. Do you think I'm an idiot like you? I didn't pay for it.”
”You stole it?”
”What do you take me for? I've been many things, but not a thief. No, I didn't steal it. All I did was tell him that you and Ted were married but what you didn't know was that this would be the last shopping you'd do for some time because Ted was leaving you for me tomorrow. That I was terribly guilty, but we couldn't live without each other. So I told the guy who owned the store that he should give you the scarf because your life was about to be ruined, that I would buy it for you, but I had no money, the money was all Ted's, and he was a monster but I loved him and what could I do?”
”So he gave you the scarf?”
”Of course. For a while I was trying to decide whether to tell the story as I did or to say that you and I were running away, that you were leaving Ted for me because you loved me and what could I do. I had to figure out whether the guy was straight or not, and I had to do it quickly because the way I told the story depended on it. I have trouble telling which way these guys from the Islands go. But I liked his a.s.s and I'm usually not into straight men. I decided he was one of us. Thank G.o.d I was right. I knew everything was riding on my telling the right story.”
”lean-Claude,” I said. ”You must bring the scarf right back.”
”Of course I won't,” he said. ”Why should I? I earned it. And everyone gets something they want. You get the scarf. The guy from the Islands gets something to think about, and a warm feeling inside, like he's the Good Samaritan. I get to give you the gift I want for you and can't afford. Only Ted didn't make out so well. But, what's the difference, he's got love and money. Life is good for him. And one day, you'll write something and Ted will be the hero of the story and you'll let everybody know how wonderful he is. Then he'll be paid back for not looking so great in my story. And one day, you'll write something about me.”