out of my ears. And the air. Can’t you feel how heavy it is?”
I inhaled deeply. Cool, dry air, the fall fragrance of leaves and ash.
“It’s just
air
.”
“It’s suffocating. I feel starved for real air here, and like a zombie among a million other miserable faces.”
He stared at me gravely, almost as if I were to blame.
“I’m not made for the city. I need ocean air. The open sky. I need friendly faces. I wish you could see where I live. Then you would know what I mean.”
I felt the warm October sun on our faces. The noise was the song of a city, conscious, pulsating. Some days we’d hear about the pollution levels going up, only half the cars could drive, and the government recommended staying indoors, and as for misery, in my month in France I’d seen three or four strikes—the Basques, the university students, and the taxi drivers. But all these things are proof of life, a society, a civilization.
“Every place has its flaws,” I said. “I love Paris for what it is, not for what it isn’t.”
“I’m trying to tell you I can’t stay here another day.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning on the seven o’clock train.”
“You’ve already booked a ticket?”
He nodded and we looked at each other but didn’t say anything more.
I care too much. I can’t help it. It’s congenital. I care too much about life, particularly about people. Santi would say it’s theimmigrant genes; immigrants are genetically predisposed to caring about life too much, which is why they put themselves in all sorts of crappy circumstances hoping for a better tomorrow. That kind of hope is a disease. If you carry the chromosome for faith you’re doubly terminal because you’ll always believe your misfortune is a prelude to something better.
So he was leaving.
I chewed the last bits of my sandwich with my best je m’en fous face. Cato watched me, but I watched the fountain, the silver water spots of coin-tossed wishes. I made a silent penniless wish that he would change his mind and thought he might have when he touched my sleeve gently, but it was only to say, “I’ll walk you home.”
“You don’t have to.”
He looked puzzled and I was pleased. He deserved to be confused.
“You seem upset, Lita.”
“Why would I be upset?”
“Because I’m leaving.”
“You’ve got to go back to your life. Besides, we hardly know each other.” Loic the nonpracticing actor would have been impressed with my delivery.
I stood up and took a few steps toward the fountain before turning back around to him, inhaling as if I couldn’t get enough of this alleged putrid air around us.
“Thank you for a
lovely
afternoon.”
I’d already charted the scene, expected him to come after me. But by the time I crossed rue Barbet de Jouy, hot in the face, I realized Cato had no plans to follow.
My parents have always prided themselves on their manners, which is funny considering they were both raised like wildflowers.The nuns taught my mother to be quiet, acquiescent, prudent, but those qualities are different than the manners that serve you at a dinner table or party. My mother learned hers from a Park Avenue lady whose apartment she cleaned during the early days of her and Papi’s arrival. The lady was a grouch but grew fond of my mother because Mami spoiled Byron, her cranky Persian cat, cooking him filet mignon just the way the lady wanted. After teaching her how to serve lunch, the old lady would invite my mother to join her at the table for lessons on posture and how to hold utensils. Santiago and Beto hated hearing about our mother’s days as a janitor and maid no matter how much our parents insisted there was no shame in honest work. When the Park Avenue lady died some years later, a lawyer tracked us down in New Jersey and said she’d left Byron to our mother in her will. We thought he was on his last legs but Byron got a second wind of life with us and lived for another ten years, though
I inhaled deeply. Cool, dry air, the fall fragrance of leaves and ash.
“It’s just
air
.”
“It’s suffocating. I feel starved for real air here, and like a zombie among a million other miserable faces.”
He stared at me gravely, almost as if I were to blame.
“I’m not made for the city. I need ocean air. The open sky. I need friendly faces. I wish you could see where I live. Then you would know what I mean.”
I felt the warm October sun on our faces. The noise was the song of a city, conscious, pulsating. Some days we’d hear about the pollution levels going up, only half the cars could drive, and the government recommended staying indoors, and as for misery, in my month in France I’d seen three or four strikes—the Basques, the university students, and the taxi drivers. But all these things are proof of life, a society, a civilization.
“Every place has its flaws,” I said. “I love Paris for what it is, not for what it isn’t.”
“I’m trying to tell you I can’t stay here another day.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning on the seven o’clock train.”
“You’ve already booked a ticket?”
He nodded and we looked at each other but didn’t say anything more.
I care too much. I can’t help it. It’s congenital. I care too much about life, particularly about people. Santi would say it’s theimmigrant genes; immigrants are genetically predisposed to caring about life too much, which is why they put themselves in all sorts of crappy circumstances hoping for a better tomorrow. That kind of hope is a disease. If you carry the chromosome for faith you’re doubly terminal because you’ll always believe your misfortune is a prelude to something better.
So he was leaving.
I chewed the last bits of my sandwich with my best je m’en fous face. Cato watched me, but I watched the fountain, the silver water spots of coin-tossed wishes. I made a silent penniless wish that he would change his mind and thought he might have when he touched my sleeve gently, but it was only to say, “I’ll walk you home.”
“You don’t have to.”
He looked puzzled and I was pleased. He deserved to be confused.
“You seem upset, Lita.”
“Why would I be upset?”
“Because I’m leaving.”
“You’ve got to go back to your life. Besides, we hardly know each other.” Loic the nonpracticing actor would have been impressed with my delivery.
I stood up and took a few steps toward the fountain before turning back around to him, inhaling as if I couldn’t get enough of this alleged putrid air around us.
“Thank you for a
lovely
afternoon.”
I’d already charted the scene, expected him to come after me. But by the time I crossed rue Barbet de Jouy, hot in the face, I realized Cato had no plans to follow.
My parents have always prided themselves on their manners, which is funny considering they were both raised like wildflowers.The nuns taught my mother to be quiet, acquiescent, prudent, but those qualities are different than the manners that serve you at a dinner table or party. My mother learned hers from a Park Avenue lady whose apartment she cleaned during the early days of her and Papi’s arrival. The lady was a grouch but grew fond of my mother because Mami spoiled Byron, her cranky Persian cat, cooking him filet mignon just the way the lady wanted. After teaching her how to serve lunch, the old lady would invite my mother to join her at the table for lessons on posture and how to hold utensils. Santiago and Beto hated hearing about our mother’s days as a janitor and maid no matter how much our parents insisted there was no shame in honest work. When the Park Avenue lady died some years later, a lawyer tracked us down in New Jersey and said she’d left Byron to our mother in her will. We thought he was on his last legs but Byron got a second wind of life with us and lived for another ten years, though
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