Frankie in Paris (8 page)

Then I saw him.
 

He was so full of energy that sparks seemed to
fly from his skin, which I could actually see a lot of, because he was not
wearing a shirt.
 
In fact, the only item
of clothing he was wearing was a pair of cut off denim shorts. They were
unevenly cut and frayed from too many washings.
 
A brown leather belt encircled his waist, a huge copper belt buckle holding
it closed.
 
Hanging around his neck was a
gold medallion, and his feet were encased in huge hiking boots over thick grey
socks.
 
The color of the socks matched
his plentiful chest hair and the beard trailing down from his chin, which was
almost as wide as it was long. I could see that he was missing three teeth (two
on top and one on the bottom) because his smile was gigantic and genuine.
 
Very little
 
hair graced the top of his head, so the skin
of his scalp was pink from too much sun.
 
Above his ears was long fuzz that resembled the hair on his face. He
kind of looked homeless, or maybe just completely insane.
 
Slowly circling the performers, he clapped
his hands.

“
Bravo
!”
 
he shouted and stomped his huge feet.
 

Then he looked in our direction.

My back straightened, and I stopped
chewing.
 
Everyone’s eyes followed him as
he was walking toward us.
 
Gesturing to
me, he told me to stand up.
 
Not sure why
I followed his instructions, I stood in a daze—leaving the last two bites of
falafel in my napkin, on the curb.

“
Italiano,
non
?”
 
he asked, studying my face
with eyes that were blue and slightly rheumy.

“
Non
,”
I replied, unable to tear my eyes away from his wild visage, “American.”

“Heyhey!”
 
he cheered.
 
Smelling like sweat
and old man cologne, he kissed my cheek.

My
 
eyes
grew huge, and I couldn’t move.
 
The
people around us clapped and whistled.
 

When he saw Lulu, he covered his heart with one
hand and put his other palm up, so that she could grab onto it.
 
Lifting
 
her to her feet, he studied her appreciatively.
 

“
Très
belle
!”
 
he cried, kissing his
thumb and forefinger, which were pinched together.
 
He lead her in a circle, as if to show her to
the crowd, who continued to whistle and applaud.
 

Putting his arm around her back, he dipped her
like a ballroom dancer and planted a very loud kiss on her lips.
      

They looked like the cover of a fetish romance
novel. I wasn’t sure if I should slap him, tell him to go away, try to use my
gift to pull his hair, or scream.
 
I
couldn’t do any of those things, so I just stood there, stunned:
 
so did my grandmother.

Then he walked away.
 
It felt almost as if he had never been there
at all.
 

We looked at each other, then sat down.
 
I turned my attention back to my dinner.
 

“Well,” Lulu managed.

“Mmhmm,” I chewed and swallowed.
 

If cell phones with cameras had been common
then, there is no doubt that the whole episode would have ended up on the
Internet, faster than you could say, "YouTube."

***

When we returned to our hotel, we discussed what
we would do the following day.
 
Lulu felt
that we should visit the Champs-Élysées.
 

I looked forward to shopping and having a nice
lunch, realizing that since arriving in Paris,
I had eaten:
 
bread, more bread, an
American hamburger, and a falafel.
 
Some
genuine French
cuisine
was in
order!
 

Sleep eluded me that night, and when I finally
drifted off, I had strange dreams.
 
I saw
myself in the fuzzy man’s arms, being dipped and kissed in front of the
crowd.
 
When he pulled me up, it was my
sweet Rich, and he wiggled his eyebrows at me.

What does one wear to shop on one of the most
famous streets in the world?
 
A street for which a song was written?
      

I guess there are lots of streets like that,
but this one was within reach, and I was going to walk on it.
 
And shop. I wanted to visit all the most
famous shops and act like I belonged there, even though I probably couldn’t
even afford to purchase a keychain at one of those places.

When I woke the next morning, I knew that we
were going to have a fabulous day.
 
I
could just feel it.
 
Dressing head to toe
in black, I was ready: black “baby tee,” black strappy dress, and even black
tights.
 
I should have left the tights at
the hotel, but I wanted so badly to be chic.
 

Lacing up my boots and applying my lipstick,
 
I was ready to stroll.
 

I was prepared to be a super-tourist!

***

Lulu had purchased tickets to the one of Paris’s most famous
musical reviews,
The Lido
, for that
evening.
 
The only thing I knew about the
show was that the women performed topless.
 
And I could not wait to see partially nude
women dancing onstage while sitting with my grandmother.
 
I was sure that it was going to be such a
comfortable experience.
 
Not.

She dressed in one of her uniforms, and put on
the white flats.
 
Then she pulled out a
bag.
 
It
sort of
looked like a purse, I thought, but it was all flat and
squished from being in her suitcase.
 

“What,” I asked, “is
that
?”

“This is the purse that I’m going to use
today.”

“Why are you switching to a different purse
today, Lulu?”

“Because it is made out of alligator.”

I wasn’t aware that it was “bring an alligator
bag to the Champs” day in Paris.
 
I needed to know more.
 
She must have understood because she
explained.

“I bought this purse here many, many years ago.
 
It was a very expensive bag.
 
I wanted to see if they still had bags like
this one and how much they are selling for now.”

Dumping out her current purse, she started
filling up the ancient, worn specimen.
 
Lipsticks, pens, keys, wallet, little snack bags from the airplane,
mints—loose mostly, having fallen out of the foil roll:
 
everything made the transfer.
 

The strap was fuzzy with threads that were
strained from use and unraveling and at first glance, I couldn’t tell if it was
black or greenish.
 
The thing didn't
really have a form, and all of its contents sagged at the bottom, creating a
lumpy-shaped weight.

I sat on my bed while she worked away, and I
could tell that it was already hot outside.
 
Our little streak of sunlight reached through the window, feeling warm
on my forearm.

How I wished Alicia were with me.
 
I would make her at least try some
escargots
, even though I hadn’t even
glimpsed one yet.
 
We could dress alike
and act like we lived on the Champs-Élysées.
 
No, like we
owned
the damned
street.
 
We could make up stories about
the people around us and maybe act just a little snobby while ordering café au
lait and gossiping about life back home.
 

I missed her.
 
I still needed to buy something that looked French for her, I reminded
myself.

***

After we consumed our continental breakfast, we
headed to the Metro station.
 
It was
already humid, and my feet were sweating inside of my Docs.
 
Why couldn’t I have packed some sandals or
some flip-flops?
 
And why on earth had I
decided to wear tights?

On our way, we encountered a small outdoor
market.
 
I found a bracelet for
Alicia.
 
It was silver with a large clasp,
and it had a pink stone in it, which looked like her to me.
 
I bought one for myself, as well.
 
Mine had a black stone.

“
Vous êtes
italienne
?”
 
the vendor asked.

What was it about me that looked so Italian,
all of a sudden?
 
I was made up of so
many different things:
 
English, Irish,
French, Canadian Indian.
 
But not an
ounce of Italian.
 

Maybe this explained why my boyfriend had chosen
me.
 
He is half Sicilian.

“
Non
,”
I replied, “
américaine
.”

He nodded, and I realized that I had been
holding my breath.
 
I guess I was afraid
that I was going to get some sort of reaction, but no lewd hip-thrusts or party
invites followed my revelation.

The bracelets went into my purse, and we
continued our trip to the Metro station.
 

After a short ride, we exited the station, and
it was evident that we were at a very exciting place.
 
A bustle was in motion that reminded me of San Francisco’s

I felt like an idiot for wearing my huge
boots.
 
All of the ladies that I saw wore
very feminine footwear.
 
Little shoes
with chunky heels.
 
My enormous feet
looked totally out of place.
 
Like clown
feet.
 

“Where would you like to go first?”
 
Lulu asked.

“I have no idea.” I looked in wonder at all of
the famous stores around me.
 
“Let’s go there!
 
We know that one!”
 
She grabbed my wrist and pulled me across the
street, toward the Louis Vuitton boutique.

***

Opening the door, I immediately felt out of my
element.
 
All of the women who worked in
the store wore black.
 
But it wasn’t the
kind of black that I like to wear.
 
It
was… snooty black.
 

They weren’t in uniform, but they were all
similarly dressed.
 
One wore a cardigan
with a small, delicate silk scarf tied around her neck.
 
Another wore a knit mini dress with
impossibly high shoes.
 
There were a few
of them, and when we entered, they all looked in our direction. I could see the
almost imperceptible tilt of their noses toward the ceiling, and I wanted to
turn and run.

“WE ARE HERE TO LOOK AT PURSES,” my grandmother
announced.
 
Using her
I-know-you-do-not-speak-our-language voice.

No one jumped to help us.
 
Finally, the lady in the mini dress walked in
our direction.

“
Oui
,”
she said, “I can help you.”
 
She hardly
even had an accent.

Beautiful purses covered the walls and shelves in
all directions, like artwork.
 
Most of
them were brown with the golden LV
lettered print, which has made the brand so famous.
 

Scarves with the print were on a table next to
me, and I looked at a price tag.
 
It cost
more than I made working for two weeks at the mall.
 
I unconsciously wiped my hand on my
dress.
 
A shop minion adjusted the scarf,
as if I had completely destroyed the display—pretending that I wasn’t still
standing right next to her.
 
Black
eyeliner reached all the way around her eyes.
 
She looked like a cat.
 
A very
mean
cat.

“You see,” I could hear Lulu say, “I bought
this purse in Paris
many years ago.”

The saleslady looked at the bag and then at
Lulu’s face.

“It is made of alligator.”
 
Still no response.
 
“I was wondering if you might have something
like this in your store because I need to replace it.”
 

The lie was so thin that it made me
cringe.
 
No way was my grandmother
prepared to pay hundreds of dollars for a new accessory.
 
Even in Paris.
 
And they knew it.

“
Non
,”
sang the Cat Lady, next to me, “we do not carry anysing like zat... old
bag.
 
We carry only what you see around
you.”
 
Her “r's" buckled in her
throat, as they do in the French language.
 
When she said “carry,” I thought a ball of phlegm might fly out of her
beautifully made up, pouty lips.

Lulu was not deterred.
 
She was not catching the hint.

“Well,” she continued, “that is such a
shame.
 
I wonder how much something like
this might cost in Paris
these days.”
     

She was looking for an answer, but not getting
one.
 
I could feel my cheeks betray me
with their burning.
 
I was horribly
embarrassed, but even angrier about how they were treating their customer: she
was my grandmother, dammit!

“We don’t need to shop here,” I mustered up the
snarkiest voice that I could find.
 
“I
guess we will have to buy your new purse somewhere else.”

Scarf Girl rolled her eyes and raised one
perfect eyebrow at me.

“You should know,” I continued in my best
French, “that we came to your country specifically to buy a new designer bag
for my grandmother.
 
Your loss.”

Another one that I hadn’t seen before came out
from behind the cash register.
 
Her hair
was artfully twirled at the back of her head and held together with combs.
 

“Wait,” she called, also in French, “maybe I
can help you.”

The other women smirked at her.

“
Non
,”
I replied, “I don’t believe I will let my grandmother shop in a store that
treats their customers so poorly.”
 
I
tilted my chin and glared at her.

“As if she were a real customer.
 
Look at that old bag!
 
Look at her, too.
 
And you!
 
You two did not come into our store to purchase our product today!”
 

Lulu looked back and forth at us, watching an
invisible ping-pong ball; confused since she couldn’t understand what we were
saying.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to judge a
book by its cover?
 
What is wrong with
you people?”

“By ‘you people,’ do you mean the French people
as a whole, or just us?”

“Just you,”
 
I said in French, but then switched to English, “bitch.”

At just that moment, my tenuous control unhinged—and
every ounce of extra special brainpower that I had been born with grabbed onto
the merchandise on the shelves and racks and pulled.
 

I took Lulu’s arm and hurried her out of the
store.
 
Ridiculously priced accessories
whipped from their displays, some landing on the sales girls.
 
They shrieked and squealed as bags and key
chains toppled onto the floor and scarves formed a tornado around the
room.
 
I was furious with those horrible
women, but the look on Lulu’s face stopped me from a sloppy emotional outburst.

“We’ll find another store, Lulu.
 
They didn’t know anything about alligator
bags at that stupid place.”

The madness inside the store gradually began to
subside as we walked away, leaving the people standing amongst piles of Louis
Vuitton to wonder what the hell had just happened.

***

After we caught our breath, we wandered down
the street looking for treasures. We saw many, but none in our price
range.
 
We stopped at a nice restaurant
for lunch, but I was still so angry from our first boutique visit that I
couldn’t concentrate on the menu.

There was some outdoor seating, but we sat
inside—trying to find some reprieve from the heat.
 
I could see the people out on the sidewalk,
scurrying to their various destinations.

One item on the menu looked familiar.
 
Maybe from one of my classes. I thought that
I remembered hearing a teacher saying that you had to try it if you ever made
it to France,
or something like that.
 
I was so sick of
eating bread at that point that I might have been willing to try anything.