Extraordinary Theory of Objects (9 page)

Paris

“You catch up nicely,” Adelaide said, sipping her espresso and staring back at me over the tiny café table. We'd been set up by a mutual French acquaintance who thought we should meet. She knew Adelaide from winters in Saint Moritz and summers in Ibiza. Somehow I ended up telling this stranger about not having many friends as a child, spending lonely months in Le Vésinet and weekends in Paris or Versailles. Her comment was flippant. She meant to say that now it seemed I have plenty of social engagements. I didn't care anymore about having many friends. “And what a lovely way to grow up.” She pulled her blond hair back into a ponytail, patting the sides perfect. “You were living here around the time of the Concorde, non?” she asked.

I nodded.

“That was so amazing, you would sit down to a meal and arrive to Paris at dessert.”

“I never went on it,” I said. Some of my classmates had spoken of flying on the Concorde. When I'd mentioned it to my parents as an option for returning to New York during summer vacations, they'd laughed and asked, “When did you become so entitled?”

“Oh. Where are you staying now?” Adelaide said, switching the topic as she gestured to the waiter for the bill.

“L'Hôtel.” I always stayed there, on the Left Bank in room 44, walking distance from where we were, at Café de Flore. The small hotel was once part of the palace of La Reine Margot and the last residence of Oscar Wilde.

“You don't have family here anymore?”

“No.”

“No friends to crash with?”

“I'd rather not impose.”

“I like your
bangles
,”
*
she said, changing the subject.

Alone was better than Adelaide.

*    *    *

That night at the hotel on rue des Beaux-Arts, I sat staring at my computer screen. It was 2
A.M.
An hour earlier, I'd gone for one of my walks to nearby rue Jacob to pass by the site of Madeleine Castaing's shop, which had closed years ago, on the corner of rue Bonaparte. In its place was an autograph store run by her son. No one else had been outside at that hour, though it was a lovely July night. I peered into the window, looking for evidence of Castaing, an opaline glass or fading stripe wall, but there was not much to be seen from the street. So I turned back to the hotel. Even in the dark, it was easy to find, with the silver ram's head hanging over the door.

Once inside, I walked the four flights of leopard-carpeted stairs to my room. The walls of
chambre
44 were painted mauve and hung with a delicate expanse of dark fabric suspended from rosettes. Black silk curtains hid some windows while others were draped in lace covered in thick velvet. The bed was beneath a violet canopy trimmed in deep mauve. My desk flipped open like a drawbridge suspended by a gold chain.

I sat down, lit a
candle
*
smelling of roses and black currants, and opened my computer. There were e-mails to read, one message from an old boyfriend. He asked where I was. I said Paris. He knew L'Hôtel was where Oscar Wilde had died, and he also knew that I might fall apart in France.

“I picture you there. Always have. I can relate. Not sure if something is consuming you but if so, stay the course and handle it within, take the bullet up to Mont St Michel and get through it. Go out on a limb here . . . YouTube the White Stripes' ‘Jolene.' Do it Steph!!! It'll kill four minutes.”

I Googled the video and listened to the song. It reminded me of our connection, of him. We were both a little dark, a little fucked-up. All we shared was a love for Hemingway and an odd understanding of each other, enough for him to know I should take a trip away from here.

Paris

More recently . . .

“You still want to go to the flea market, right?” Will asked, pushing his dark hair back behind his ears.

“Yes, we have to get there early, before everyone else.”

“I didn't sleep last night, I was too worried about losing you to the Paris night. You worry me sometimes. Even I wouldn't walk around the city streets after hours.” I laughed. He was six feet five, whereas I was elfin-looking, tall but frail. He might have been right to fear for my safety. The Parisian darkness had taken a few of my girls—Cunard, Seberg. Self-critical, introspective women court tragedy. They don't care about making friends.

Will knew there was potential for explosions with me and unpredictable, irrational behavior, but he stayed. Who knew how such extraordinary opposites could coexist—even love? Will clearly did not want to go to the flea market, but he understood it meant something to me.

“Steph, remember when we get there that there's a limit; we have to carry it all back.” He wanted nothing to do with any sort of treasure hunt.

“You are so American,” I said. He looked at me and smiled, shaking his head. A gesture he did often. I pushed him out the door.

It was easy to find a taxi at that early hour. The Parisian streets were empty except for a middle-aged man smoking a cigarette. Will nodded at him and raised his hand in hello. The taxi the hotel had called was waiting outside.

“Marché aux puces de la Porte de Vanves, s'il vous plaît,”
I said to the driver, who smiled at me in his rearview mirror. Will shook his head again. “They love you.”

“They just don't know what to do with me. It doesn't make sense—American girl, French accent.”

It took nearly an hour to get to the market. Every stall was already set up, and deals were being brokered on either side of the walkway.

“Isn't it amazing? Look!” I pointed to a group of objects set up nearby.

There were ceramic frogs, a silver-dipped lobster, two
scallop shells
*
on top of podiums, and giant, fragile branches of coral all spread on a purple carpet. “It will break when we try to bring it back,” Will said before I could ask what he thought of the piece. We walked on and found a lady with a case of jewelry that held hundreds of
antique rings
*
and a tiny bracelet made of five strands of coral beads with an antique diamond closure. “May I see that?” I asked her in French. She explained to me that though it dated back to the gaudy days of Napoléon III, it was understated and quite delicate. “Isn't it lovely?” I asked Will. “Or should we try to smuggle those coral branches?”

“I don't know about that. Remember the guy with the pods.”

The old woman behind the jewelry stand looked at Will and asked him in French if he'd like to see any rings.

“No, thank you.” he said. “Steph, we really don't need anything here. You're like a little kid, crazy over souvenirs.”

“Fine. Then, I want to go somewhere where I can . . .”

“Oh no,” he said smiling.

“I haven't even told you what it is—”

“I'm already sure it's hard to find.”

“I know you're bored. Do you want to get something to drink?” I asked him.

“Sure.” We walked to the nearest café and sat at a table out front.

The waiter came over, and Will spoke to him in English. “I'll have a beer and she'll have a tea. Do you have that flavor, er, that one with the
v
?”

I interrupted him. “
Verveine
.” French for the herb verbena. The waiter nodded and left us alone.

“You need to calm down,” Will said. “You claim to be sensitive to such small, pretty things, but you're giving yourself too much credit, you're obsessed with the past.”

I started to get angry with him. He, like my mother, called out my selfishness.

“Why do you love these markets? We could be walking around Paris, enjoying the weather.” The waiter came back with our drinks. He placed two primary blue–colored coasters on the round table and then set down the beer and teapot, cup, and saucer.

“You're okay,” Will said. It wasn't a question. “You don't have to find all these random objects or read all these books to distract yourself from what's happening in your life. How many did you bring this time?”

I'd carried three with me and packed four hardcovers in my suitcase.

Will took a sip of his beer and looked out onto the sidewalk. “Do you want to eat something?” he asked with a little exasperation in his voice.

I nodded.

“The usual?”

Another nod. I couldn't speak.

He motioned to the waiter. “Haricots verts for her and a croque monsieur for me. Thanks.”

“Vous voulez une autre bière?”
Will shook his head.

“Don't think so much,” he said, pushing back from the table to extend his legs. “You're missing everything.”

The waiter brought two plates of food and set them on the table. I pushed aside the green beans. “Instead, I'll have a salad Niçoise.”