seventy-two

12:09:13

I’m still chained to my bed in Paris.

His “precautionary read” was The Economist. Serious. I was seriously hoping it was going to be a novel, a classic, but perhaps he has already devoured them all.

I arrived five minutes later than 18:20. I got out of the metro, moths in my light stomach. I’m doing this. I’m doing this. I cajoled myself into rounding the corner. I noticed him immediately. He looked like the photo, perhaps slightly better. Definitely older. The moths in my belly batted their wings against the glass globe. I took a deep breath to cool them down.

He was drinking Schweppes. I was reminded of Uma Thurman lusciously mouthing, “I want to have Schweppes with you” and hoped that it wasn’t a discrete message he was sending me.

He didn’t stand up. I sat next to him. At first, it felt like a casual business meeting. His whole look was business. Except for his jeans. They must have been as old as I was. Light blue and soft. A no hit and miss.

He told me his story. He was indeed a Yale alumni, with a degree in literature, who then went on to do something great in one of the world’s largest corporations. Sooner than later, he realized that “great” and “corporation” don’t walk hand in hand. Bad things are planned seated around large tables in the shadow of the public eye, the rumours that we hear are true, he confirmed. He is married, but separated, and a father. His manner of speech was calm and contained, I was almost entranced. Now it was my turn.

My story. My story was not as long or as fascinating, but we discovered that we did indeed have things in common. Not credentials, not experience, but a certain espoir en tête and a certain disenchantment with the way things were currently going. It’s the ability to balance the two, to struggle with the sway between naïve hope and total abandonment that kept us going. At least that, we had in common.

Was I attracted to him? He had nice hands and a soothing voice, but that was as far as I could go. I was more enthralled by his overall character, an acquired calmness. I sat there looking out unto the buildings bathed in orange sunlight, smiling inwardly at the circumstances of this afternoon. Perhaps I’m too easily impressed by titles and such, but I don’t blame myself too much about it. For some, meeting Ke$ha would do it, for others, a war hero. It is the company of great minds (great and mind being relative) that stimulates us to aspire to something, even if that something is a second cup of coffee or Schweppes.

We said goodbye, that we’d keep in touch, that September was just around the corner, that it would not hurt to meet again. It had been a pleasant afternoon, cooler and more contained than the rush through the streets with Lucifer, and I was willing to leave it all to the future, once more.

As he disappeared into the distance, I sat down in the nearby square to let it all sink in. I was early for my next rendez-vous.

“C’est bon, je suis a l’heure, je prendrai le metro. Le resto n’est pas loin de Chez Prune, on peut se rencontrer devant.”

“Ca marche. Je pars de chez moi. Bisous”

I clicked my heels (I didn’t), and descended into the mouth of the metro.

seventy-one

10:32:15

I’m chained to my bed in Paris.

It’s winter again. I call it winter, they call it fresh air, but I miss the sun already. I shouldn’t complain though, the memory of the smell of sweaty June in the metro still makes me turn my head towards the open window. Better the cool of wine cellar than the oasis illusion of a saj oven.

Sunday. Hot sticky no escape Sunday. My suitcases were packed and I was ready to exit the steamy womb of my soon to be ex-home.

I met Lucifer in front of the fountain. We were going to have some dripping gelato.

Lucifer was a mutual friend. I’d hear of him from hims and hers and just a few days ago, we had finally met.

He was an interesting looking type. Short and skinny, a few couple years my senior, black hair peppered with white, Italian. He had an interesting way of looking at things and of talking. We’d chat, silence would present itself, we’d turn to someone else, he’d reappear, we’d chat again and so on. Never empty words, and I liked that.

As we walked towards the ice-cream shop we’d never find, we talked about everything. I remember my mom would ask me what I talked about with people I’d see.

I’d say “Everything”.

“But specifically?”

“Everything.”

Well, mainly about everything about ourselves. Random things on every subject.

The heat reflecting off the stone walls, the asphalt, the pavement, the metal poles, the people, off each other was becoming unbearable. And with the ice-cream shop nowhere within our sight, Lucifer took us by the leash and to Café George on the roof of Centre Pompidou.

I had never been there for drinks and welcomed the idea of filling a checkbox on the Wallpaper* list (pure speculation here).

He ordered a beer and I had a flashback to some lazy day on the beach back home and ordered some pineapple mix cocktail. We sat there and sweated. The conversation escapes me now, but I was certainly much more absorbed by it than I was with Nice (boy for nice girl).

But then Lucifer, being the Italian devil that he was, touched my nose.

I lost my balance. Was this a date?! Or was this Italian for “You smell nice?”. I’m not trying to compliment Le Grand Nez of the perfume I was wearing that day, but a few minutes later he leaned forwards to smell my neck.

Let me rewind a little. Earlier on, I had commented, innocently, promise, on his perfume. It wasn’t his. It was Botticelli’s. I love that scent and I often find myself singling it out on the street. There is always someone wearing it…

So here I was being touched and smelled. How do I get myself in these situations? I did not have an ounce of hidden intention behind the gelato invitation, I smiled not to flirt but to facilitate social interaction, to show my interest and agreement in what he had to say, to show my pleasure in his company.

I’ve been told I smile too much. Too much. But then they try to correct it by saying it’s a good thing. It’s not a good thing. It gets my nose touched and my neck smelled.

I always arrive at the question: how can a woman be friendly to a man without giving him false signals? I’d sincerely appreciate a clear and direct answer. But I guess there isn’t any.

I didn’t speak Italian, I didn’t touch his nose back. But I might have over-complimented his hair. It really was the coolest hair I had ever seen. Maybe that’s Italian, though probably Mediterranean, for “I’m into you”.

We had lost track of time, I had to go home or else I’d be late to meet with Ambassador.

We decided to see each other on Sunday rather than September. Why wait to find out if we were really centuries apart? Ambassador had called earlier that day to confirm our date at 18:00 at “Les Esplanades”. I knew from the sound of his voice that it was going to be a my-kind-of-a-date.

Hence, I had to rush my time with Lucifer. He insisted on inviting me, I eventually obliged. Having no change didn’t help either.

We took the lift back to the world below. And as we were walking towards the main hall, we got caught up in a crowd, I turned towards him, he looked at me and we kissed. Visitors and parents with kids walked by us while we acted out a scene fit for none other than a commercial for “Find your true love in Paris”. It was so bad a cliché that it was good, as good as a performance piece meters away from the famous piazza that attracts thousands of artists yearly.

But we weren’t artists, we were Ceasars of the moment.

For his size, he was quite strong. He kept on highlighting this strength, perhaps to compensate for his short stature, either by lifting me up in the air or by squeezing all the air out of me. It had its charm.

We walked/ran all the way back to mine, with intermittent pauses to catch our breaths and hydrate one another. By the time we reached, we could smell beyond our perfumes. Pure pheromones and sun juice.

“When do you return?”

“In a couple of weeks.”

“Will I see you again?”

“We’ll keep in touch.”

Even though I had carelessly welcomed this break from lipstinence, I wasn’t sure I would welcome it again. I thought I’d leave it to the future.

We said goodbye and I ran upstairs to freshen up for official date one, unofficial date two.

“Looks like I’ll be a little late, will try and be there 18:20”

“I took along precautionary reading material. Reflex of experience. A.”

sixty-nine

18:48:23


I'm sleepless above a fantastic landscape of rivers and forests.


The following day I was invited to a friend's dress-up party. Everyone was excited. For one, his last party was mad and memorable and the theme for the up-coming night had everyone talking about their outfits.


Leather. Latex. Heels. Uniforms. Diapers. Whatever tickled your fancy.


I hadn't yet thought of what I'd wear, but I had promised the host that I'd bring along a stranger.


A promise broken is the last one in line of promises made, so a stranger it had to be.


My initial idea was to magically meet someone, in the street or in a cafe, who was the right bit of this and a good amount of that and who happened to be free that night. I abandoned the plan as soon as I realised that I had only four hours to go, more than half of which would be spent preparing and commuting.


So I put up an online ad (the previous day had not sucked out all my hope and trust in the online community).


It went something like this: 50s dahling looking for a smartly dressed gentleman for a trendy soirée, tonight ONLY


Pretentious and obscurely decadent, enough honey to attract a B-rating.


To my surprise, I had a reply within minutes.


He was young, 23, blonde, blue-eyed, motorbike-riding, surf-boarding, engineer who didn't have a white shirt, but gave me the choice between light blue, gray and carbon.


Keep a promise and take a risk? Yes. He will have to do.


We decided to meet a little before the party, incase our photos turned out to be fakes and to see whether the uncomfortable silence that would inevitably poke its nose out would indeed be uncomfortable.


Uncomfortable it was, the ride in the metro from point A to point B. It's odd. One would think Paris to be open-minded and tolerant, but it only took a pair of silk shorts and fake eye-lashes for me to be taken for a hooker. I even got an eye-dart gesture from the North African guy in shi7ata, something I could only manage to translate into "Yalla, next stop?". Not knowing how to translate, "Dude, chill, I'm only going to a party. Why are men such pervs?!" into an ocular movement, I settled for avoiding to look in his direction until I arrived to my stop.


Moto was waiting for me outside the entrance. He looked younger than I'd like, but for what it was worth, he looked smart and decent (if judging a book by its cover was the way to go about life).


But this story is not interesting. It does not end with my hair flying through the streets of Paris. I was home and asleep by three o'clock in the morning.


The narrative picks up the following day. Not outside my door, window or anything, but in my inbox. Late applicants.


There was a 40 year old with a wide-eyed freaky look from my neighbourhood who was up to have "de la fun" with me. A what-looked-like spam message from a balding 48 year old, his portrait framed by pink and red hearts. A picture of a mini baseball bat clad in speedos. Several angles mind you. A Latin-looking-boy swearing he was French, who was fresh out of a relationship and looking for someone.


And a very short but eloquent message from a 52 year old who knew how to dress and loved champagne.


I noticed his e-mail address. Non-French-looking-name@aya.Yale.edu. Ladies and gentlemen, we may have a winner.


As soon as I replied thanking him for his, albeit, late entry, I turned towards my favourite confidant, Google.


If he wasn't Pinnochio, then he was an ambassador of an organisation whose abbreviated name could be recognised as immediately as CNN. Although, embarrassingly, I didn't.


My jaw dropped. Just the other day I had discovered that the men with whom I had had coffee in Rome a couple of years ago were actual princes, two brothers whose lineage could be traced back to the Holy Roman Empire. We met outside the Hiroshige exhibition and they invited me for a quick cup before I took the train back to Milan. The younger, unmarried one, left me his contact details and I have since added him on Facebook. Don't ask me why, but I threw his name into the magic pot of Google only to stumble upon an article where his brother was referred to as Prince S.R.I (Sacro Romano Impero). They were so modest and genuine when we had met that to think they were royalty, was mind-blowing. This is the one thing beyond the Nouveaux Riches' purchasing power. Bless the wealthy who reek not of excess and oversized logos, but of discretion and refinement.


And this is where I would like to bust any rumour that questions the authenticity of my stories. This shit is too insane to be fiction. To make things up, to blow up details would be beneath and beyond the point of me writing.


At first, I was, of course, suspicious of my findings regarding Ambassador. One could have, with some effort, fabricated the e-mail address, stolen his name and consequently reaped the benefits. Even the photo he had later sent me could be found online, along with other similar ones.


But his English was impeccable and his sense of humour tasteful, that was authentic, and I did not doubt it.


I shared with him my anxiety regarding his age. Despite having a renowned weakness for older men, he was ten years older than my "record". I hate to line them all up like that, but one can't help but single out the fantasies that have come true.


"Well, perhaps, it's higher powers (in which I usually do not believe) and we should stick to our age groups. And then again, as you say, life provides for all kinds of friendships and surprises, for curious minds.


If you ever want to go out for a dinner or a drink, I would certainly be the gentleman to invite you, no anxieties required (I would probably be more nervous than you, but perhaps more experienced in concealing...)"


His reply did it for me. It had to be him. Or someone wise enough to have my snout pointing in his direction.


It didn't take much convincing or brooding over; I would regret not meeting him.


"Why not?"


It would have to be Sunday or September, he was a diplomat after all.