I Am Having So Much Fun Without You (17 page)

I came down the stairs slowly, assessing the smells and sounds permeating the house. Someone had made coffee, and I heard women's voices—cheerful—coming from the living room. Certain that no one could sound that perky unless they were already caffeinated, I felt confident that I could get into the kitchen and back upstairs with a cup of coffee without coming into contact with any legal eagles.

But when I hit the bottom step, I saw a tall man at my sink. Tall is an understatement; he was a fucking redwood. He had a mug of coffee in his right hand and he was staring out my window.

Apparently endowed with supersonic hearing as well as supersonic height, he turned around before my foot hit the kitchen tiles.

“Oh!” he said, putting his mug down.
“Bonjour!”

There were no real blonds in France; this chap had to be Belgian. With distinctly un-French enthusiasm, he came up and pumped my hand.

“I'm Thomas,” he said. “It's nice to finally meet you.”

I scratched my head, easing into the connection of synapses and neurons that were sending messages to my brain that I wasn't awake enough to deal with. Green eyes, full lips, a boyish flop of hair. This fellow wasn't only taller and younger than me, he was perversely attractive.

“It's nice to meet you, too,” I said, staring at the mug he had been drinking out of. It was one of my favorites, a red one with the slogan
Jacobsen does what you wish your mower would do
written in white script. I asked, “Are you new?”

“Relatively. I transferred from the Luxembourg office a few months ago.”

“Hmm,” I said, piecing together why my wife, usually a broadcaster of interoffice movements, had not mentioned the arrival of young Thomas at Savda & Dern. “Are you a Luxembourger, then?”

He nodded and made a gesture toward my coffee machine. “Can I get you some?” he inquired, reaching for a mug. I nodded, and watched the Ken doll serve me coffee.

“I'm from Antwerp,” he continued. “Milk?”

“It's fine,” I said, reaching for it. It seemed strategic at that moment that I take my coffee black.

“Oh!” said Anne, appearing in the doorway with two empty glasses and a mug. “We were going to get some more, also. Thomas, Richard, you've met? Thomas just transferred to Paris . . .”

She said other things, I'm sure of it, but I was concentrating on her outfit, a slim-fitting rose-petal-pink cashmere dress that I'd never seen before, and on the fact that she wasn't—in a breach with her normal sartorial policy—wearing it with a blazer. She also had on high heels, which, I was happy to note, were not new, but were still a trifle high for 9 a.m.

Anne kissed me on the cheek and wished me good morning, thus kicking off the opening act of our happily married show. I responded in kind by offering to make more coffee (no need to wait for it, I'd just bring the whole pot out), and after doing this and meeting an equally attractive paralegal named Selena, I retreated to the kitchen to eat the croissants that Thomas had been
such a dear
to buy.

The appearance of the Belgian shocked me into the realization of how rarely we interacted with fresh blood in gray Paris. In London, and certainly in the States, your circle of friends is an evolving, pulsating entity that can forever expand to incorporate people of all sexes and sizes because meeting new people is exciting, and it's good to have replacements for your old friends in case you grow bored.

But in Paris, we're around the same people all the time. And none of them are single. In fact, if they aren't related to us by blood, they are by lifestyle: married with one or two children, both spouses employed, most of their furniture from IKEA except that love seat there which they found during a weekend trip to . . . and onward.

Convinced that lurking around the second floor like some kind of recluse would only worsen my anxiety, I checked with
Anne to see if there was anything I could bring them back for lunch, accepted her response that they were intending to take a break at noon and go out, and—exhausted, fearful, itchy—I took off the fucking khakis and put on a pair of jeans and neon sneakers and ran the hell away from my house.

16

I HALF
walked, half ran all the way to the sixth to the Premier Regard, where I was surprised to find Julien, an hour before the gallery opened, already inside.

“You're not much for the telephone recently, are you?” he asked, unlocking the front door for me.

“Did they call you?” I asked, out of breath.

“What, the people you tried to
rob
?” I followed him to his desk. “No,” he continued. “Which is why I've drafted an official letter of apology. But I was hoping you could write a side letter. Something heartfelt. If these people are such collectors, I'd like them to collect again from me.”

He passed me his laptop so I could see what he'd written.

Dear Sirs,

On behalf of the team here at the Premier Regard gallery, we'd like to offer our heartfelt apologies for the mix-up that occurred last week.

After over a decade in business, we pride ourselves on working with some of the most renowned names in contemporary paint
ing along with a cutting-edge selection of up-and-comers from all four corners of the world. As you can imagine, being art lovers yourselves, some of the artists whom we work with also come with an artistic temperament that manifests itself in a variety of ways, sometimes not appropriate, sometimes off the canvas. We hope that you will excuse Richard Haddon's recent and unscheduled visit to your home as proof of his unbridled creativity, that you will also excuse us for the many inconveniences this may have caused you, and continue to think of the Premier Regard gallery as a creative home away from home during any trips you might have to France.

“What can I possibly add to that? You want me to write ‘I'm sorry' fifty times?”

“I don't know, Richard,” he said, exasperated. “Just write something. I want a personal touch.”

I gave the computer back, grabbed a sheet of paper, and copied out my favorite section from Kerouac's
On the Road
, which I often use in birthday cards and wedding cards when I don't know what to say.

“The only people for me are the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”

I'm sorry. Thank you for your hospitality, for Ngendo, and the tea.

Sincerely,

Richard Haddon

“Who's Ngendo?” Julien asked, reading it over.

“I told you! The sculpture . . . ? Anyway, Julien, I've got problems. There's a Belgian in my house.”

Julien narrowed his eyes. “Oh?”

“Anne's come back to Paris. She had a work emergency. She's got this team of ridiculously good-looking paralegals in our kitchen.”

“So you're both there together?”

“Yes,” I said. “And no. She's too busy with a case to get into anything.”

“Your wife doesn't want to talk about the fact you cheated on her and you want to press the subject? Sorry, am I missing something here? Aren't you British? Aren't you supposed to be all, carry on and turn the other cheek and sweep things under the carpet?”

“I'm trying to save my marriage.”

“By bringing up your affair?”

“If we don't have a proper confrontation about it, we're never going to heal.”

“Heal?”
he said, wincing. “My God, are you all right?”

“No,” I said, exasperated. “I need something to . . . I want you to reconsider letting me do something about Iraq.”

I watched him close his eyes. “You've got the clientele for it,” I insisted. “British, American, French . . .”

“We talked about this,” he said. “I thought I made myself clear.”

“You said you didn't think me capable of doing political work again.”

“No, I said you couldn't sell it
here.
I signed you for the oils, Richard!” he protested. “We've sold almost every one! Do your political stuff publicly. Do it in a squat. I can't represent it.”

“So you're actually telling me to go to another gallery?”

“For your installation? Yes. But you keep your oils here. Don't fuck me.”

“
You're
fucking
me.
”

“Don't bust my balls because I'm being pragmatic. You're
not well known enough to run around doing whatever project you feel like. You're going to look crazy.”

“Well, thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said, standing. “Shit. You're supposed to be my friend.”

“Richard—”

“I'll show you. I'll go to Sabounjian.”

“To Azar?” He laughed. “Oh, go ahead. He hates me. You think I'm tough? Good fucking luck with him.”

“I can do this,” I said. “I need to.”

“So fucking do it! That's the thing about you, Richard. You spend so much time complaining and analyzing, but no one's standing in your way! Go to Sabounjian! Go to Saatchi! Go to Gagosian, for all I care! I've been watching out for you, and you want to fuck me. You're the one who's a shitty friend.”

I had my jaw closed so tight, I could feel my shoulders shake. A dozen things went rocketing through my mind, but the more seconds that passed in which I didn't say them, the more I realized I was screaming, and being screamed at, by my closest friend.

And so I left Julien at his cluttered desk with his acidic coffee and his belief in brand legacy and predictability and his new haircut which I hadn't commented on.

The real reason I was angry was that I was worried that he wasn't wrong. That I didn't have it in me to do something daring, that I maybe never did, and that I was heading down a path that would lead to my being ridiculed and made to feel superfluous, and that the world, my wife, the critics—no one would be wrong.

 • • •

In order to give Anne-Laure space and get some distance from my interaction with Julien, I spent the rest of the day roaming
around Paris trying to think. I saw a romantic “comedy” that focused on the burgeoning love affair between a young Romain Duris and an older, married woman. He broke the heart of his sweetheart back home and the older woman decided not to leave her husband, and all the uselessly expelled energy made me feel quite grim.

After that, I trudged up to the command post of the aging glitterati, a gilded seafood slash cocktail palace called the Dôme. I ordered a severely overpriced dish of shrimp and a half carafe of rosé, an unfashionable wine choice for the time of year, a fact my judicious waiter had the tact not to point out. Some people self-soothe in retail outlets; I bask in pink wine. I raised my glass to the dowdy baronesses with their eggplant-colored hair, I saluted the right-wing horrifics in their pink pressed shirts. To each their fucking own.

I headed back to the house around five, a wee tipsy but in most ways feeling a good deal more upbeat about the world. Knowing Anne's work ethic, I doubted that her colleagues were gone yet, but I also knew that Anne and I had to be nice to each other for those same colleagues' sakes, so I found myself hoping that they were still there.

What I hadn't counted on finding was a shoeless Thomas recumbent on my couch. And in front of a platter of cheese sticks and Chablis, no less.
Certes
, the coffee table was covered in papers and files and Thomas was curled up with what appeared to be the largest, perfect bound manuscript in the world, but still, the man might have had the decency to keep on his damn shoes.

As I was standing in the doorframe gaping at this leviathan of a man, Anne came out of the kitchen. I might say that she
pranced.
Her face was bright and her eyes were brighter, but everything went all category-two hurricane when she saw me standing there.

“Oh,” she said, clutching the packet of crackers and salmon
tarama
in her hands. “You're back.”

“I tried to stay out as long as possible.” Thomas had finally noted my arrival and—hark!—was hurrying to put back on his loafers. “But I got cold.”

“Of course,” she said. “We were just—we're still working, but, you know. It's been a long day.”

“Making headway?” I asked, walking into the living room to accept the outstretched hand of Thomas, who was now standing.

“We're definitely getting there,” he said, not a little flushed. “You would think it would be easy, but . . .” He shook his head.

“I know,” said Anne, reaching for a wineglass. “It's just wine!” She put the glass to her lips and drained it. “You want some?”

“Sure.”

Anne left to get another glass. I stared down at the table, noticing the conspicuous absence of a third plate, a third glass.

“Where's Selena?” I asked.

“She had to pick her daughter up from day care,” Thomas offered.

“Oh,” I said. “And—no kids yourself?”

He sat back down and reached for his own glass, which seemed discourteous of him as I did not yet have mine. “Not yet.”

“Do you have a wife?”

Again, the smile. “Not yet.”

I watched him take a sip. Those lips! I bit the lower flap of fatty tissue that constituted my own sorry pair, their plushness compromised by too many cigarettes and poor decision making and a chronic lack of sleep.

“A girlfriend?”

“Well, I
did
have. . .” he said. “But she didn't want to move.”

“Here we go,” said Anne, arriving with more wine.

“Well, that's too bad,” I said, reaching for the bottle.

“What's too bad?” asked Anne.

“About Thomas's girlfriend,” I replied.

“Oh,” said Anne. “Well, it's tough, isn't it? If you don't want to relocate.”

“She's very close to her family,” Thomas said.

Like a bunch of Robotrons, Anne and I hummed and hawed our agreement that yes, it sure was hard. Relocation. Yes.

Uncomfortably, we bandied on until I could no longer identify whether the rising tension had to do with the fact that Anne and I were going out of our way to pretend that everything was hunky-dory for this fellow, or whether they actually had work to do and I was in their way.

“Well,” I said, standing. “I've got some stuff to do in the studio. Um, dinner plans?”

I watched my wife look at Thomas and it cut me like a knife.

“We were going to maybe get some takeout, actually, or pizza, because”—she motioned to the paperwork on the table—“we're not yet out of the dark.”

I saw Thomas swallow.
Courage, Richard. Class.

“Do you want us to order something for you?” Anne asked.

“That's okay,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “I'll probably go out.”

 • • •

Which I did a half-hour later, making quite a show of pretending that I was late for something, even though we all knew I'd only just gotten in.

So what if my wife was downing Chablis with a Robert Redford lookalike during a work obligation that looked like it wasn't any work at all? So what if my closest friend in Paris didn't believe in me, didn't want to support me, actually
pre
ferred
when I was a hack? So what if I had no idea whatsoever how to approach what had happened between Lisa and me with my wife? I was an artist. Suffering was my oyster. If I couldn't talk things out, at least I could draw.

After slogging my way through two unneeded pints of Stella at a nearby pub where I penned potential sketches for an Iraq project accompanied by existential scribbles like
What does it all mean?
I slumped back home two hours later to find the house deserted. The lights were off, the glasses put away, the papers on the coffee table, vanished. I searched in the living room and on the kitchen counter for a note, but I found none. The absence of a hint about Anne's whereabouts hurt me more than her absence. You left
notes
for people, dammit. Even if you were angry. Now I had no idea where to put myself, strategically. I didn't want to start a movie downstairs if they were coming back. I'd fed myself and was dehydrated and fuzzy from alcoholic drink, and short of going at the pint of butter pecan ice cream in the freezer, there didn't seem like there was much else for me to do. So I went up to the guest room, to mourn out of sight.

I had only to open the door a crack to spot her garish, neon glory: Ngendo, the fertility goddess, assaulting me with all twelve of her blue tits, a note attached to her head.

I forgot this was in the living room, it scared Selena half to death.
Can you arrange for something to be done with this? I don't want it here! We've gone out to dinner.
Thanks.—Anne

The “thanks” threw me. Thanks for what? Thanks for making myself scarce? But I knew that the “thanks” was just a placeholder for other words and phrases that she might normally have written.
I hope you had a good night? I hope you had a good
dinner. Sorry for all the people in the house. Sorry we're not talking. I'm sorry that it's like this. I'm sorry about what you did.

Swallowing through the sudden tightness in my throat, I taped the note back and gave old Ngendo a pat on her horrid head. I walked over to the television set and opened up the credenza, pulling out the well-worn copy of
Crocodile Dundee.
I stripped down to my boxers and got under the covers while Paul Hogan slunk through the outback in a butchy, leather vest. I watched the lovely Linda Kozlowski filling up her water bottle in the iconic black one-piece with a G-string back. I listened for the front door. I listened for footsteps. I listened for the sound of Anne putting down her keys.

Nothing came. Nothing happened. Groups of minutes passed. By the time the American journalist and her crocodile hunter were on the plane for his first trip to New York City, I was fast asleep.