Graduates in Wonderland (9 page)

I'm getting so antsy thinking about all of the many, many possible futures that could still happen. I'm still waiting to hear back from the Fulbright. It's all about waiting.

My back-­up was the master's program in Cinematographic Studies at the Sorbonne. I just want to be in Paris. It costs almost nothing in tuition, and health care is included! It is, however, taught in French. The application included a six-­hour-­long French test last week and a two-­hour-­long conversation with a French professor. These things are so strange, because you end up having conversations about things you would never talk about in your native language.

Professor: So, what is the national origin of your name?

Me: German and English.

Professor: Okay...

Me: Oh, did you mean
Rachel
? I think it's Jewish.

Pause.

Me: But I'm not Jewish.

[I remember the Vichy government and the complicated French history with the Jews.]

Me: But they have a wonderful culture! Such a rich...cultural...history.

Pause.

Me:
Au revoir les enfants
was such a sad movie.

Professor: Yes.

Me: Very, VERY sad.

I blame this total catastrophe on my faulty preparation. The only thing I did was watch the French news every day, but I kind of hate watching the news. Probably because this is what it sounds like to me: asdjkhf FIRE asdkjfhkj DEAD askdjh THE SOMETHING asdkhjfkj EITHER IRAN OR IRAQ.

Rosabelle's Fulbright application also made it to the next stage for Argentina and I am relieved that we both made it. Selfishly, because it is less awkward around the apartment; nonselfishly, because I really love her and think that she deserves it. There have been so many nights when I've come home distraught and she drops everything, sends Buster into their room, and pours me a glass of wine. And as much as he drives me crazy by eating all of my food and accidentally using my toothbrush, Buster has brought out a lot of the best parts of Rosabelle, while also proving that people are really strange. Once, as a joke, Buster wore Rosabelle's pink pajama bottoms that have a cupcake pattern. But now, he has taken to wearing them all the time and it's just getting weird.

For the moment, I shall have to settle for hugs from a hilarious man. That's right. Saul's back in my life; he called on New Year's Eve. The last time I actually saw him was on a Monday after work and we were both in our office clothes and beaten down and bland compared to our upbeat college selves.

This is my trip down memory lane—­one in which it feels like I can go back and take care of unfinished business for the years he and I flirted in college and never even kissed. Off to dinner with him soon. I will report back.

Love,

Rachel

P.S. What's going on with the Brazilian sex god in China??

JANUARY 20

Jess to Rachel

FACT OF THE DAY:
Gatinha
is Brazilian Portuguese for “foxy lady.”

I know because Bruno calls me this. I know that my brain has turned to absolute jelly as well, because I fucking love it when he calls me this.

Where to begin, Rachel? Honestly. Honestly.

Well,
honestly
? Bruno doesn't speak the best English, which means that I can't be sarcastic with him or even attempt to be funny with words—­he just doesn't get it. After marathon conversations with Max­well that amounted to nothing, I take this as a good sign.

Most nights with Bruno are spent in bars, shouting to be heard, not being understood even when heard, drinking alcohol, and wasting time until we can leave at a respectable hour and go back to my apartment and I get to have wild rainforest sex with my Brazilian lover.

At college there was so much talking, talking, talking, but Bruno doesn't talk—­he pulls me toward him and kisses me. Even though he remains mostly a mystery to me, we share little things, like our forays into Chinese grocery stores to pick up noodles or haggling together as we buy pirated DVDs from hidden shops (which he has to watch with English subtitles). But when he hands me my coat, pulls up my hood, and takes my hand, I feel happy even though our deepest conversations are limited to postsex basics that fade into him falling asleep and snoring softly.

And because we can't talk, I feel uninhibited. I like that he knows what he is doing, because God knows I don't. It's different from sleeping with American guys, at least the ones at Brown, where it always seemed to feel like there was a GOAL that must be met. With Bruno, it feels natural. I also feel uninhibited because he's only in Beijing for a few more weeks. I'm not really sure where this is going, but I'm having fun, and it's been a long time since I've felt this way.

The biggest thing that I don't like is his utter and complete lack of ambition. As in: He dropped out of his university Chinese class months ago, but didn't tell his family, so he has been doing nothing for the past three months. Why should this matter? He's not my boyfriend. And he's moving back to Brazil in two weeks. But it bothers me.

Anyway, we actually lost a little bit of time together because I got sick. It's bitterly cold in Beijing, the air is dry, and I had a sore throat I couldn't shake. My dad told me to go see a real doctor, but I've always wanted to try Traditional Chinese Medicine. Astrid came with me to a TCM clinic, where she asked for a massage and they suggested a “cupping” treatment to cure my ailments.

Okay, I know you don't know what this means, and neither did I. Cupping is like a massage, but instead of someone massaging you, they take empty glass cups, place a lit match in them to heat the air inside, then place the cups facedown on your back so that it forms a tight, painful suction. Then they drag the cups across your skin as they pull out toxins and leave you with circular purple bruises the size of tennis balls. It will also cause you to continually yelp the only Chinese word you will remember:
Teng
. Translation:
Pain
. Teng! Teng! TENG!

Meanwhile, Astrid was in the next room, getting a relaxing massage.

Cupping is supposed to cure anything but cholera. Apparently I had cholera.

I felt awful, maybe even
more
awful, after the treatment. But Chris, who was also sick and loves an excuse to get new drugs, went to a doctor who prescribed antibiotics, and was healed.

He offered me some pills as I was heading over to Bruno's. “Take two!” he yelled from the couch, as I put a sachet of pills in my purse and headed out.

Later that night, as Bruno and I got ready for bed, I took the medicine. While we were lying in the darkness, talking softly (“What do you call this body part in Portuguese?”), I began to see the most beautiful images of things that don't exist—­colors melding together, cars that drive on their sides, birds with feathers and fur, and it was all so beautiful. I wasn't frightened at all, but completely in awe. I stared up at these incredible creatures and objects that appeared above us as I kept asking Bruno what he thought of them and if he liked them too.

That's pretty much the last thing I remember. And then—­a big blank.

Ten hours later, I stirred slightly and I thought I was at home in Amarillo because I could sense the light on my face and it felt so much like the light from my childhood bedroom. I felt content to be at home. And then I rolled over onto a Brazilian. I froze BECAUSE THERE WAS A MAN NEXT TO ME IN MY BED. Thank God I figured out where I was and who he was before he woke up.

Turns out I accidentally took two of Chris's sleeping pills, which can cause hallucinations and slight amnesia. This is why I don't do drugs. Bruno mentioned a movie we watched last night, and I remember nothing. Nothing but the fantastic images that appeared before me.

Then I asked Bruno if I sounded insane when I was describing my hallucinations, and he didn't know what I was talking about. He said I sounded like I always do.

RACHEL. HE DOESN'T SPEAK ENGLISH WELL ENOUGH TO KNOW IF I AM HALLUCINATING.

Fjdaklfjdsaklfjdkasljfdakslfjdaklfjdsalkfdsjferssjfkdjaljfdkjiwreirueiawojakfjdskl!

Okay, I go die now.

Love,

The Girl Who Rufied Herself

JANUARY 25

Rachel to Jess

Jessica. You roofied yourself? YOU ROOFIED YOURSELF?

Also, you don't know how to spell
roofie
.

Your hallucinations sound amazing. Do you think that sleeping pills work that way for everyone?

Just...kidding?

Stay away from anything stronger than vitamin C! You probably wore yourself out from having too much sex. But Bruno sounds like the ideal man to hibernate with for winter. I feel like I want to give you a sexual blessing. Mazel tov!

I haven't been “blessed” for about a year now—­the only thing even vaguely romantic in my life is Saul.

Before our date, I showed my friend Sally from work Saul's online pictures of him filling a suitcase with Jell-­O (to take to a picnic). She said he looked borderline insane. I can see that. He's the guy who will wear any hat at any time, even when it is not a hat but a poinsettia, and also he is at an Orthodox Jewish wedding. And he's holding a baby squirrel. And he's an investment banker. He is less like a man, and more like the incarnation of Mad Libs, where his whole personality is composed of randomly chosen words.

So naturally, I am still smitten with him.

I know that right now you are also remembering the countless conversations you and I had about why he never made a move, to my complete and utter confusion. But when he told me that he'll be in town for a few weeks, I really wanted to see him.

I met Saul at a restaurant around the corner from my house. He was very easy to find, because he was wearing a tie that was covered in bottle caps. He cried, “KAPELKE-­ELF!” from across the restaurant and gave me a big hug. I ordered us a bottle of white wine, and he kept making sure my glass was full. I even liked him after he dusted off and kissed a wayward French fry that had fallen astray. He is way too nice to everyone and everything, but I could use some nice in my life.

He still resembles Larry David, whom I've always had a thing for (they are the only two men in the world who are so funny that you forget they look like Larry David).

Even though I hadn't seen him in months, we sat close and he reminded me about a bunch of happy memories at Brown. But I had work in the morning, so after lingering over our wine, I walked him to the subway to point him in the direction of the friend's house where he is staying.

And here I am: going to bed alone.

But now, at home, why am I thinking about Saul and a future with him? He doesn't even live in New York! He lives in Boston! And focusing energy on him when I spend all of my time trying to find a way to move to Paris is completely beyond me. If he came to Paris, he'd wear a baguette on his head and try to eat a beret.

I've finally adjusted to waking up at normal hours and not feeling dead all day. I've started leaving early for work to get coffee around the corner before I get on the train. I sit in the window seat of the café and watch all the harried commuters scramble to work. I think about the French Fulbright committee and how I really hope they pick me. And I think about you, all the way in China, probably having sex with Bruno for the fourth time that day.

Love,

Kapelke-­Elf

FEBRUARY 1

Jess to Rachel

Fuuuuuuuuuck.

Fuck.

This morning the condom broke.

I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do.

PICK UP YOUR PHONE. WHO SLEEPS AT 3 A.M.??????????? WHO DOES THAT?!?!?!?!??!

I don't know how this happened. Just, like, that in one moment, everything was fine, and the act was over, and then...

I panicked. I just fucking panicked. I sat straight up and as soon as I saw what happened, I went crazy. I asked him if he had STDs over and over again. I yelled: DO YOU HAVE ANY STDS? HOW MANY GIRLS HAVE YOU SLEPT WITH? EVER? DID YOU ALWAYS WEAR A CONDOM? WHY DID THE CONDOM BREAK? WHY DID IT BREAK? WHY? WHY? WHY?

He was speechless and then began answering in fragments—­he had an HIV test before he was given his Chinese visa. He's slept with three Chinese girls since he's been in China.

WHAT KINDS OF GIRLS? WHAT KINDS OF GIRLS?????? NICE GIRLS OR SLUTTY GIRLS? WHAT KINDS OF GIRLS, BRUNO???????????????????????????

I threw my clothes on and ran outside to catch a cab back to my apartment. It had snowed the night before, but I didn't even register the snowfall until I was already inside the taxi. I shouted my address to the driver and slumped against the seat as I tried frantically to recall every single
Seventeen
magazine article I had ever read.

But all I could remember were the fucking dumb theories girls would ask about that turned out to NOT be true. Like girls who write in asking if after they have unprotected sex, can they hop backward and not get pregnant? Or rinse with vinegar to prevent STDs. I COULDN'T REMEMBER ANY OF THE ADVICE OR FACTS!

I can't believe how stupid I am. I can't believe how blissful I was, how delighted I was to be sleeping with a beautiful Brazilian, becoming empowered, being a woman who feels SEXY for once, having an adventure, when ALL I WAS ACTUALLY DOING WAS FUCKING A STRANGER WHO COULD HAVE AIDS AND NOW MAYBE I FUCKING DO TOO.

As soon as I got home I ran into a hot shower to try to scrub my entire body clean. I was in there so long that the hot water ran cold and I just leaned against the toilet (because I still shower over a fucking toilet) and I cried. I don't know what to do. I don't know Bruno's past. I don't even know Bruno. Why didn't I listen to the fervent religious people of the Bible Belt who preached no sex before marriage? Why did I think none of that applied to me? Is this my punishment? What if I have HIV? What if I have herpes? What if I have thrown my life away just to feel sexy and exotic?

I got out of the shower and went to an expat hospital clinic where I had to tell a stern Australian-­Chinese female doctor that I need the morning-­after pill. Then when I told her I also wanted to be tested for STDs (ALL OF THEM), she was visibly shocked.