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Tuesday, June 23, 2009
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Chapter 7: Players
Danielle emails me two or three days later and says she will postpone medical school for a year and 'be aggressive about my dreams'. She moves to California and stays with the girl that she worked with at Peter and Alan's before I had come along. I do not remember that girl's name. Anyway, that is the last I hear of Dani. I have not seen her in magazines or in movies; I wonder how she is doing. A little bit, I hope that she went back to school. Better to be a beautiful doctor than a very smart model, I think. There are more prospects in the first than in the second.
I come close to returning to Peter and Alan's several times, purely for the company. I miss Peter and Alan very much—I miss their sweetness around each other and around me; I miss their banter which I think is the clearest symbol of love more so than anything else.
Then why do you not simply go back? Marcheline asks over the telephone.
Oh Marche, you love your job too much to understand why I hate it, I reply.
Perhaps, she says, but you do not have to model. You can go there and just talk and spend time. Is that so terrible? I do not think so.
Well, no, it is not so terrible, that is true. But I... I sigh. I do not know, maybe I am crazy.
No, I think you merely do not wish to go back there precisely BECAUSE you miss them.
I shrug to myself on my end of the telephone. If that is true, is that not crazy?
Honestly, Geneviève, I blame Robert for all of this, says Marcheline. I think he gave you a fear of being abandoned, so you fear getting close to anyone who can one day leave you.
I am shocked that Marche could say this, not because I feel criticised but rather because I feel it is true.
Marcheline...
Please do not think me harsh, Marche says defensively. I am only telling you what I think because I hate to see you this way. You are so much stronger than you have been.
Thank you, Marcheline, I say. I think you are right: I avoid people now who I miss and see those whose absence makes no difference to me, which is basically no one. I am just surprised that I have become so transparent lately.
Marche laughs. Do not be foolish, Geneviève. I only know you because I am the same way. It is why we will be sisters forever. To anyone else, however, you are still a great mystery.
* * * * *
After that conversation with Marcheline, I shift to a different gear in my life again. Instead of trying to be invisible and fitting in, I become a rich, single woman.
I buy a beautiful white BMW sports car (which I regret as soon as the first snow of the winter begins to fall; that car, although gorgeous, was not designed for Canada in the winter), and spend a lot of time shopping. I make myself solitary and available in cafés and allow men to speak to me. Disposable company, just the thing for someone with a fear of abandonment.
As it happens, the closest shopping centre to my home is the haute one where I eventually find my Chapters job. I discover Bakery Garden before I discover Chapters and on one gloomy September day, a young man with short blond hair and a face like Joseph Fiennes discovers ME while I am reading a magazine and asks me if I like haikus. His name is Kieron but he calls himself Key. He is twenty-eight years old and a fledgling 'pickup artist'.
* * * * *
I try to call Ben in the days after I kiss him but he suddenly has little time for me. He is always in the middle of something—that is, if he picks up his phone at all. A few days later, he emails me to say that he cannot make our usually appointed lesson on Sunday.
However, he does give me an assignment:
All artists first learn by copying existing works. Musicians play or sing along with a CD, painters mimic Disney, dancers follow music video choreography. Writers can do the same. Good writing, as magical as it may seem, is just some combination of words. So for your assignment, find writers that you admire and copy out passages of their works. Channel their words and try to remember how it feels to have them spilling from your hands. If you can capture that, you can create your own genius. Give that a try and tell me how it goes. Good luck.
Well, I do not know who to copy at this time. I consider Tolstoy, then remember that the copy of Anna Karenina that I own is a translated work, which makes it feel contaminated for the purposes of my homework. Also, unrelated to this, the events of the previous few days make me feel like I have done something wrong and chased Ben away. I wonder if I have become unattractive in my old age or if Ben is just hopeless with women. Anyway, these things together cause me to re-read Ben's stories.
However, at around this time, Ben's upgraded blog membership has lapsed and his convenient little archive of entries no longer appears on the front page, so I must click around blindly. I choose a date to search and begin reading again, revisiting his old work and copying out passages that I like as per my assignment. To my surprise, there are little nuggets of one-off stories, poems, and commentary that he had deemed unworthy to be immortalised in his archive. I discover these while clicking through each entry one by one.
This is how I accidentally stumble across the ghost of Number Four.
* * * * *
I look up at the Joseph Fiennes gecko and say, I am sorry, I do not know what a haiku is.
He hears my accent and pauses a moment. His routine has come across an unexpected complication and he does not know what to do now.
At length, he says, Pardon me, I thought you speak English. He smiles. Sorry to have bothered you. Take care.
Hey, wait a minute! I exclaim. What do you mean, you THOUGHT I speak English! I DO speak English!
Ah, so you do. My mistake. What kind of accent is that? Spanish? Italian?
I blink at him, hardly able to believe this strange conversation. I am French. Spanish and Italian sound completely different.
That is impossible, he replies. I have friends from Montreal and you do not sound like them at all.
At this point, I begin to lose patience. Fine then, I say. As you like. Good day to you. I go back to my magazine.
I am aware that this gecko does not move from his spot next to my table. A few seconds later, he begins to laugh. Oh come on, where is your sense of humour? Do not be the serious French stereotype, hm?
I look up at him. He is smiling like a fox, which causes me to smile too, in spite of myself.
He holds out his hand and says, My name is Key. What is yours?
I shake his hand. Geneviève. Pleased to meet you. Maybe.
Do not worry, Geneviève, I will make it worth your while, he says and pulls up a chair. So, about that haiku...
* * * * *
My homework is interesting to me because it causes me to read with a closeness that I have never done before. Even now, I use the copying technique whenever I come across a passage that I particularly enjoy, whether it is in a novel, a magazine, or even in an advertisement.
More importantly, this assignment that Ben gives me implies that he will not cancel two lessons in a row for surely he cannot hope to teach me anything meaningful through email alone. So I consider it a bit more and decide I have not chased him away yet. I have merely startled him and he has rolled up into a ball of spikes like a hedgehog. Our relationship is salvageable although there are a number of things that need to be cleared up. Ben is obviously unversed in the ways of women; the best way to reach men like him is with five minutes of open conversation. Honestly, upon realising this, I am relieved. I feel at this time that I am too old for games. Time is precious so it is better to get right to the point.
When Ben arrives at my home for our next lesson, he blushes deeply as soon as I open the door and greet him. Furthermore, while he normally sits next to me, I notice this time he positions his seat as far away from me as possible while speaking of dialogue and the importance of reading my work aloud during the editing process.
There is something radioactive about me, clearly.
However, I let it go. As with Robert, I gather up the trifles and store them away so that I may unleash them all on the man when enough has accumulated. This is really a vicious way of engaging in a dispute and almost always makes things worse than they need to be, but I prefer periods of peace and happiness with occasional bursts of venom than to bring up every annoying little thing as they happen and make life a constant hum of irritation. Besides, this is simply my style.
After our lesson (which can be summed up by Ben's assertion that 'good writing is 95% good editing'), I serve prosciutto, cheese, and some fruit in the living room and leave Ben sitting on the sofa, looking at the works that I have copied out for my assignment from the previous week. Meanwhile, I go into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of Chablis.
Are you quite sure you would not like to try some? I ask loudly.
No, thank you, he replies. You should know by now my problem with alcohol.
I laugh and nod to myself.
From the living room, he exclaims, You copied ME? I meant for you to copy REAL writers!
I did, I say.
I go into the living room and take a piece of cheese from the platter but I do not sit down.
You said to copy what I liked and admired. So there is you, Kafka, Margaret Attwood, and some Harry Potter. If I could write like you, I would be happy. What is wrong with that?
Well, nothing, I suppose, other than blasphemy.
I touch him on the shoulder and he flinches a little bit. I decide this seems to be going well but there is still some underlying problem that I need to understand if Ben and I are to remain friends. God, what trouble one simple kiss can make!
I go around the sofa to my desk where my laptop computer is. As I sit down, I ask, What is the significance of July 11?
There is a stunned silence. Then Ben says, What?
While I was reading through your blog, I found something you wrote. I do not know if you would call it a poem or a story or what. It is a kind of narrative, I guess. In it, you apologise over and over.
I glance over at him. He is sitting on the sofa, leaning forward, and looking straight ahead with the expression of a zebra that has been caught by a lion and is just realising there is no getting away.
You do that too much, by the way, I say. You are sorry too much of the time, often needlessly.
He makes no reply.
I click around on my computer. I have saved that page of his blog in my favourites.
Here it is. At the end of this post, you say it should be a special day, but instead, it is just Monday. And that was posted on July 11. My guess is, it is an anniversary or something? This would make sense considering that, in the poem, you speak to the girls you have loved. There are four, so I assume it is your last anniversary, which means it is not Casey or Jaye, and probably not Evangeline since I do not think you had an anniversary with her, did you?
At this, Ben gives a small laugh. You have been busy! You are the first to question me about this thing I wrote. You could be a detective. Or a spy.
I smile over my shoulder at him. Yes, in fact I have been told that before.
He sighs. Fine. You are right. Evangeline was number three. I never wrote about number four.
Why not? Is it so terrible?
To me, yes, it was.
I consider this for a moment while sipping my wine. Tell me about her.
He looks at me. It is a long story.
That is quite all right, I have time. Besides, I think she has something to do with why you are acting so strangely lately.
He shrugs. I do not know where to start, really. It was complicated.
You can start with her name.
He looks at me with sad eyes, pleading with me not to push him. But to be honest, I am irritated with him at this point because he has made me feel old and unattractive for a week all on account of a girl that I do not even know. He has hurt my pride, so the least he could do is tell me a story.
She... um...
He exhales a long, defeated breath.
Let us just call her Number Four, he says.
* * * * *
Key and I have an on and off dating relationship for a few months. The entire time, I am completely confused by what is going on. He is very good at making conversation and getting me to go out with him but very bad at maintaining any degree of intimacy.
I tell Marcheline about him and she replies, He is a constant hunter. Men like him only enjoy the sport. He will catch you, then let you go just so he can catch you again. I hate men like that.
He looks a little bit like Joseph Fiennes, I tell her.
Joseph reminds me of a pet squirrel I once had back home, she says. It is quite eerie. Suffice it to say, I have always preferred Ralph Fiennes over Joseph. Ralph seems more my type.
I must admit, Key, although aggravating, also keeps things rather interesting. Certainly, being chased, then released, then chased again is not what anyone would consider boring. Annoying, perhaps, but definitely not boring.
However, I think, if Marche is right and Key IS a constant hunter, does that not imply that he is not monogamous? After all, if he is in it for the chase, would it not be in his best interests to have many targets in case one or two stop running?
This makes me wonder how many women he has on the go.
So one evening, after dining together, I flirt heavily with him over dessert, and end off by suggesting we go back to his apartment. He thinks he is going to get laid so he does not consider that I may have other motives. In fact, I would say he is unable to consider anything other than how to get the bill as quickly as possible and drive home at the maximum speed without crashing us into a light pole.
Men and sex. It is almost too easy.
His apartment is in an old building in a nice neighbourhood. We enter, he turns on the lights and, as I look around, he says, It is modest but at least I own it and I do not have a roommate.
The decor is simple: a sofa, a flat TV hanging on the wall, a small dining table, a shelf with books at the top and videogames at the bottom. It is a one bedroom plus den; I can see into the den from the front door. Inside is a single bed (neatly made, surprisingly; obviously it is intended as a guest bed and has not been used recently), and a desk with a laptop computer surrounded by books and papers.
Key says, That is my office. Please do not mind the junk. It is just research material for my thesis.
(Key is working on his doctorate at this time in some branch of economics that I am neither familiar nor interested in.)
And here is the bathroom, he continues, opening a door by the small kitchen. The bath is clean and smells nice as well. Very shocking. Unless one of his other women cleans for him.
He guides me through the rest of the place: The kitchen—(Now that you have come over, I will not be shy to invite you again for my famous risotto.)—the living area, the balcony—(pointing: That is the university grounds there.)
I notice a small jar with ashes and the twisted ends of marijuana cigarettes inside.
Your home is lovely, I say. I like your balcony. I have no view at my place.
He comes over and coils his arm around me.
What floor are you on? he asks.
I laugh. I am sorry, I was not clear. I rent a house uptown. My view is a bunch of trees and people walking their dogs.
Well, that is not so bad. Although I hate renting. You should save up and buy something. Then your home becomes an investment, you know?
Ah yes, well, difficult to save right now as I am between jobs.
That will not do. I cannot date you if you are unemployed. I cannot afford a trophy girlfriend.
I elbow him in the side and he squeezes my waist. His shows of confidence are rather entertaining.
He asks, What was the last job you did?
Oh, I was in retail, I reply vaguely. I worked at a boutique downtown helping rich ladies make themselves over and such. Perhaps I will look for something similar when I am ready.
Key shakes his head disapprovingly. Retail is not a career. You cannot go through life working at jobs that offer no advancement. That is for kids just out of university, not for older people.
Lovely. Thank you.
He laughs and squeezes me again.
I am just keeping it real with you, Geneviève.
I have heard this term, 'keeping it real', many times, but do not really understand it until Key uses it at this point. I say, Well, I have only a high school education and no real experience in anything, I do not know what I can do for a career.
At this, Key turns me around facing him and kisses me softly, which is unexpected but pleasant. He is a good kisser.
He says, You will think I am crazy for saying this, but you are gorgeous; with some work, you could be a model.
I laugh heartily.
I am serious! he says.
Yes, I know you are, I reply. Thank you for your confidence. But right now, I am only thinking that it is chilly out here. Can we go back inside? You have not shown me your room yet.
He smiles at me devilishly, and leads me by the hand back into his apartment.
* * * * *
Given another four or five years, she might have been perfect for me, Ben says. When I met Number Four, she was twenty-one. She was a great girlfriend, but raw in life. But that is the curse of youth, of course: only the young can demonstrate their ignorance by being so assured of their own wisdom. And me, I had the broken cynicism of old age. It was not a happy combination.
I asked, Did you fight often?
No, hardly ever. This girl, Number Four, she loved me more than anyone ever has. To her, I was the greatest thing to ever walk the earth. Again, ignorance, foolish but really quite sweet. And instead of cherishing it, I used it as reciprocity against all the girls who had come before her.
He pauses a moment at this point. He is sitting forward, with his forearms resting on his knees, and his head down. I think he is about to cry and I quickly locate the box of tissues in my living room with my eyes. Finally, he sighs and continues speaking, so I sip my wine and listen.
I did not believe in the evils of the rebound relationship, he says. I used to think rebounds were not that bad. If anything, going into a new relationship while still hurting from the last one motivates us to consider people whom we would otherwise not look twice at. Not that this applied to Number Four because Number Four was beautiful.
I must say, Ben, despite the ignorance of youth, I am not foreseeing trouble here, I comment.
It... it was complicated and sudden, he replies. In a nutshell, I changed myself to suit my past girlfriends. Quite famously, I transformed to please those whom I loved. But no matter what I did, I could never change enough. So when Number Four came along and loved me so much, perhaps consciously, perhaps subconsciously, I wanted HER to change for ME. I wanted her to grow up, to learn from me and my friends and be successful like us instead of just being a college kid like she was. I wanted her to be better than her peers but of course she only wanted to be herself and love me in her own way.
The scar left by Number Four was self-inflicted, he continues to explain. I was sick of being a giver and decided to be a taker instead. To be a demander. But in breaking Number Four's heart, I learned that we can only be who we are. If I am a giver, I can no more change that than a cat can choose to be a dog or a bird can choose to be a fish. I am a giver for life, and looking back at my history, I am clearly happiest as a giver. It is my lot in life and Number Four's tears taught me to accept that.
So now every time you think of her, you remember your crimes and kill yourself for it, I say.
Basically, yes, I suppose so.
I shake my head and sip my wine again. That does not sound like you, I say.
He shrugs. I have been through many iterations.
I doubt you are as complex as you think you are. But nevertheless, as you like it. However, I think your self-imposed sentence is worse than your crime. Believe me, I have broken hearts in my time. If I chastised myself in the process as much as you have, I would never leave my home.
Perhaps it IS too much. But it is just the way I am. So, that is why I cannot be with you, Gen. I hope you will understand.
I laugh. Ah, I knew it! I knew this girl had something to do with how strangely you have been acting!
Yes, well, when you kissed me, you shocked me quite badly. Of course, I am very flattered and I think we are great friends, which is especially why I would never forgive myself if I hurt you.
We look at each other a moment and he laughs at himself, giving small shakes of his head.
I cannot believe I am making the Just Friends speech with you, he says.
It is an interesting speech; I have never heard it before, I answer and indeed, to this day, only Ben has ever told me that we are great and wonderful friends but that is the most we can ever hope to be.
So, we are okay, right? he asks.
I laugh. Of course we are okay! I exclaim. What a ridiculous question! We are perfectly fine. You are such an unusual but dear man, Ben, and I do hold great affection for you but that thing you are so concerned about, It was just a kiss—a reflex action.
Oh. Well, all right then. He looks at me quizzically.
I chuckle. Although I will tell you, the next time you do something darling and cute, I may just kiss you again. But it will not mean anything; I am French, it is just what we do.
And to prove it, I go over and kiss him again on the cheek, just to see the look on his face.
Priceless.
* * * * *
There is a large Bible on the night table next to Key's bed, which I do not expect to see.
Once I get a little closer, I realise that my impression of him was not incorrect after all, for the book is not really a Bible, it is merely dressed up like one with gold dusted pages and a red ribbon bookmark. The book is actually called The Game by Neil Strauss. There are James Bond-like silhouettes of women on the false leather cover, which arouses my curiosity.
The next day, I go to the Chapters at the haute mall where Bakery Garden is located and search for this book in order to find out what it is all about, although I feel I already have a pretty good idea. It is at this time that I see the sign advertising that Chapters is hiring a full-time clerk. I think of what Key said about not wanting a trophy girlfriend and on a whim, I apply for a position there.
Again, I transform myself: this time from a rich, single woman to something else.
Ben is not the only one who has been through many iterations.
[à suivre...]
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Monday, May 04, 2009
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Chapter 6: Coming Around
Peter meets Alan while Alan is studying photography and interning at a studio in Versailles. Peter is a fashion design student at this time, and Alan is the one who coaxes him into becoming a model. He becomes Alan's muse, and soon, also his... well, I hesitate to say 'boyfriend' because according to Peter, he and Alan skipped the tentative dating phase and went almost immediately to the all-for-one-and-one-for-all, in-love phase.
I do not believe in love at first sight or even at second sight, but I do believe in chemistry and a special kind of romance that connects two kindred spirits, so I believe this is what joins Peter and Alan. They are companions. Romantic companions. I think that is the best description of them.
Peter is from Versailles while Alan is a Canadian who speaks broken French. They have been together over eight years now. As soon as same-sex marriage becomes legal in Canada, they move to Toronto and get married.
I learn this story while in Toronto the first time with Marcheline; Peter and Alan take turns adding sentences to their common narrative, sometimes (often) even finishing one another's sentences. It moves me to tears to see what I think of as conventional love in what we consider an unconventional couple, even in Canada where society is supposed to be progressive. Compared to the lives of a married gay couple, my union with Robert seems terribly mundane. The fact that it cannot work out makes me happy for Peter and Alan but rather sad for myself. And they look at their relationship as a matter of course, not even realising how special it is, which makes me jealous.
Peter and Alan's boutique is located in an upscale area of downtown Toronto in a converted, two-floor townhouse. The shop is on the first floor; the second floor is the photo studio with lovely satin drapery hanging from the ceiling and a variety of different wall textures. Customers come in by appointment only. The designers they carry are quite fashionable but edgy, nothing too cliché.
(We can order in cliché if you want, Alan says, but you might not get a second appointment.)
But that is not the genius of the boutique! The reason appointments are necessary is because they have two or three in-house models (of whom Peter is one, obviously) who will model the items that the customer is browsing. Further to that, the customer themselves can model the clothes (in their own sizes, of course) and Alan will take photos of them, which then immediately appear on two enormous television screens upstairs for the customer's review.
In all my years of modelling, I never once considered how my photos were marketed. I only recognised vaguely that I was a tool that companies used to sell their products, but until I visited Peter and Alan's shop, that was the extent of my consideration.
In a standard fitting room, the lights are usually directly overhead to cast vertical shadows, which make one look thinner and taller. Sometimes, shops will use slightly curved mirrors to stretch one out also.
But none of these things is as convincing as being photographed by someone who knows the angles and how to flatter whatever kind of body one might have.
Peter says, If you wish to occupy yourself with something, Geneviève, you are welcome to come here and model. Various rich madames come in regularly appraising goods like Coco Chanel. We have two girls who model for us but they are amateurs. It would be a luxury to have another professional that we can call upon.
Marcheline claps excitedly. That sounds like such fun, Geneviève!
I smile and agree, Yes, indeed it does sound amusing. Allow me to consider it. I do not know if I am prepared to get back into all the posing and standing again. It has been a long time, I do not know if I can still do it.
Come now, says Marche, it is like riding a bicycle! Stand, walk, stand, turn. You never forget that.
In truth, I am certain I can do it. Modelling is simply a matter of developing muscle memory: which muscles to tighten and which to relax in order to stand straight or do a crisp pivot. It is not rocket science, as Alan likes to say.
My DESIRE, however, is suspect because, as I said, I had not considered how I was used as a model until that afternoon; my reluctance is entirely because I do not wish to be a walking mannequin again. I have been a THING to be used, dressed up, and attained for long enough, it took a dysfunctional marriage to break me out of that life, I do not wish to dive into that pool again without testing the water with my toe first.
I say, Marcheline, my dear, I do not know how to ride a bicycle. However, I will think about it nonetheless, just as something to do.
I consider Peter's proposal for the rest of the week. Although I say to Penelope that this is something I can potentially do to occupy my life in Toronto, after mulling it over at length, I intended to politely decline.
Then, a month after I have settled into my quaint, rented house and Marcheline has returned to France, my life is suddenly so empty and dreary that I decide there are worse fates than trying on dresses for rich women.
I call Peter and Alan and agree to give this whole modelling-on-demand thing a try.
* * * * *
If you ever wish to annoy Ben, ask him what kind of writing style you should adopt. His eyes will narrow, his lips will become a fine line, and he will frown in such a way that you can tell he is very disapproving but is trying not to show you his irritation.
He says, I know this will sound cliché and be difficult to believe but, truly, no real artist adopts a style. At least not in the sense that they simply decide to start writing or drawing or filming in a certain way. Styles adopt the artist. It is true.
I look at him for a moment. You are right: that DOES sound cliché and difficult to believe.
Consider this, he says. You do not speak the way you do simply because you woke up one day and decided you will begin to use certain words or phrases more than others. You merely speak in a manner that you are comfortable with. Same with your style of dress and so, same with how you write as well. Just write what you want to write in a way that comes most naturally to you. After time, you will inevitably develop ideas about how you wish to communicate with your reader and therefore you will naturally create ways to do so. That is when you will find a style coming into your work, not before. Your style communicates your idea of writing; it is insincere and fraudulent to create an arbitrary style and then try to devise an idea to justify it.
* * * * *
Peter and Alan use a lot of aspiring models who are willing to work for free in exchange for photo sessions with Alan, recommendations, and exposure. These models rotated in and out according to their schedules and commitments and such. When I start again my modelling with Peter and Alan, one of their regular girls (by 'regular' I mean three afternoons a week, three weeks a month) has just signed with an agency in California and has headed to the west coast.
Oh really? I shall pray for her, I say.
Danielle, Peter and Alan's other regular model, laughs. I should like to sign with someone—ANYONE, really—and earn some money doing this. The boutique is fun, but it does not pay the bills.
I look at her and shake my head. I understand what you mean about bills, Dani, but if I may offer you some advice, I would urge you not to allow yourself to become desperate. When someone signs you—and I am sure someone will—remember they are not doing you a favour; you will not have won the lotto. Your relationship with them will be mutually beneficial so take care not to devalue yourself and give yourself away.
At this time, she is looking at the dresses hanging on the rack at the other side of the dressing room, which we will be showing for our three o'clock appointment, trying to decide which to fit next. However, at my wisdom (or as I call it, cynicism), she immediately comes over and sits next to me at the makeup table.
Danielle is very beautiful. She is a brunette with green eyes, twenty-four years old, about 170 cm tall and thin, with a burst of freckles across her nose and the tops of her shoulders. She is clearly of mixed heritage although her eyes and nose suggest the greatest percentage of her most recent ancestry is Asian.
Presently, her eyes are wide and eager. She reminds me of Marcheline when she first began—I cannot help but be charmed by her innocent enthusiasm.
She asks, Really? Do you really think I can do this for a living?
Of course, I reply. You have that certain look. It is still raw, but once you find the right kind of flair, you will be noticed, I am sure.
She smiles. I hope you are right, Geneviève. I do not wish to go back to medical school.
* * * * *
The Toronto International Film Festival occurs in September. During this time, Peter and Alan's appointment book is filled with film industry people, rich patrons dressing for parties, and some celebrities.
The most famous person I see in the boutique is a director. I promised Peter and Alan that I would not disclose who it was because I do not wish to get them in trouble or hurt their reputation amongst their clientele, but consider how few directors are truly famous enough to be recognised on the street and the pool of possibilities is very small indeed.
Anyway, Mr. Director comes in for his four o'clock appointment and Danielle is simultaneously excited and scared out of her wits. Apparently, she is a huge fan of his movies.
I tell her, He is just a man like any other. Do not make him bigger in your mind than he is in his own.
(I tell her this but in reality I wonder if it is possible. Mr. Director had peaked in fame while I was still modelling (the first time round, I mean) and I had heard stories of him; by all accounts, one would have to think him a colossus to make him bigger than he is in his own mind. But I digress.)
Dani bites her lip and nods and together, we show him outfit after outfit. He eyes Danielle like a lion watching a gazelle and I realise that this big, famous director is but a common gecko.
To me, at least.
To Dani, he is an earthbound god.
He spends most of his time in the boutique looking at women's clothes that he wishes to buy for his girlfriend du jour, who has not accompanied him to Toronto. Peter also shows him a few men's items, which he purchases rather half-heartedly. His attention remains fixated on Dani.
His personal fashion show lasts almost three hours and ends because he has a dinner engagement. Danielle and I are in the dressing room while Mr. Director is outside finalising his purchase.
Suddenly, Alan pokes his head into the room and says, Dani, Mr. Director would like to speak to you before he leaves, if you do not mind.
Her eyes become very wide at this. She nods slowly and shuffles out like a lumbering elephant instead of a graceful gazelle.
I stand just inside the dressing room door with my ears perked up. I already know what he wants and I try to send my thoughts to Danielle. Value yourself, Dani! I think as hard as I can. Be strong! Do not give yourself up to a common gecko who would have no chance were it not for his fame and his Academy Award!
Mr. Director says, There is a big party tonight and I want you to come. I picked out a dress for you and I will send a limousine to pick you up from here at eleven. I will not take no for an answer.
To which Dani replies giddily, I was not going to give no as an answer, Mr. Director.
I roll my eyes. I am disappointed, but I cannot say I am entirely surprised.
So Mr. Director leaves and Danielle comes back into the dressing room and squeals with delight. She is freaking out.
I am going to a Hollywood party, Geneviève! she exclaims. I cannot believe it!
She giggles like a machinegun and bounces around the room a couple of times.
I congratulate her but warn her again to take things on her own terms.
She nods and agrees absently but I can tell she is not even hearing what I am saying. She is busy daydreaming. She thinks she has been discovered.
All at once, she stops and looks at her watch. She has four hours before Mr. Director sends for her. She grabs her things and hurries out.
I remain in the dressing room for a little while longer, thinking sadly about what is in store for Dani. This would never have happened to Marcheline because I had told her about purple lipsticks. It was flawed advice, true, but I realised it nevertheless had its usefulness.
Suddenly, I am quite depressed.
At length, Alan comes in and says, Mr. Director was our last appointment, Geneviève. You can head home for the day.
Alan, I say, I am very sorry but I have been considering this job and, you know, I do not think modelling is for me any longer. It is just not something that I enjoy anymore.
Alan looks at me for a moment, then nods and smiles. I understand. In fact, Peter and I saw it coming.
Really? Am I so predictable?
Alan laughs. We all are.
At this point, I sigh. I am back to square one again.
Alan sees me downcast and comes over and hugs me. Thank you for your help, Geneviève. It truly was nice to have another professional working in here, even if only for a while. Good luck with everything. Come back and visit us soon, okay?
Of course, I reply and smile. I will make an appointment.
* * * * *
At the end of our fourth or fifth lesson, Ben presents me with a flat package wrapped in colourful paper.
What is this? I ask, taking it slowly.
Anniversary gift, he says and smiles shyly. It has been almost a month since I started working with you and you have made great strides, I felt you deserved a reward.
Oh Ben, you should not have gone to the trouble, I reply.
Well, and also I know you are a Gemini so your birthday ought to be around this time, so you can think of this as a birthday present as well. I hope you will like it.
I grin. I am sure I will! Who does not like to receive gifts, right?
I tear through the paper unceremoniously and reveal a thin, hardcover book. On the front is a photo of a tulip against a background of a large stone and a thin birch tree, the cup of the flower just barely opening. There is something strangely familiar about this picture.
I look outside my living room window and laugh. This is my flowerbed from my front lawn!
Ben chuckles and nods.
The title of the book written in gold lettering above the photo is Early Works. At the bottom, is By Geneviève Tissot.
I open the cover and the first page is a foreword written by Ben for me. It is three pages long so I will not copy it here but in essence, it says, potential is a glorious thing; it is the seed of greatness, the opening seconds of what is to come. He praised me for my initiative, hard work, and progress.
The book is a collection of the earliest writing experiments that I had sent him, printed in chronological order and bound into a single volume. As I flip through the pages, my eyes start misting over.
I know sometimes trying to get your writing just right can be very frustrating, he says. At those times, I thought maybe you could look at that book and see how far you have already come from the first story to the last and that will give you motiv—
All at once, I lean forward, grab the back of his head and pull him towards me. With the book still in my lap and tears starting to escape my eyes, I kiss him fiercely. He flinches at first, then freezes like an animal under attack.
I kiss him three times quickly before letting go. I open my eyes and see him staring back at me in shock. He blinks and his whole face turns crimson.
Neither of us speak for a time. At length, I wonder if he has suffered a heart attack, so I say, It is incredibly sweet of you to make this book for me. Thank you very much.
This breaks the spell. He clears his throat and says, You are welcome, Gen. Er, I am glad you like it.
We look at each other for a moment. Then he gets up hastily and gathers his things.
So, he says, I will speak to you later, okay?
You are leaving? I ask, bewildered.
Yes, I should be heading home, he replies.
Uh... very well then, I say. I set my gift down and see him out. Drive safely, Ben.
He throws his books into his bag, slings his bag over his shoulder, and almost bolts from my house. I stand in the front door and wave as he drives off.
My goodness, I say to myself, I am a cougar.
[à suivre...]
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Sunday, April 05, 2009
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Chapter 5: My Life in a Room
See there, Geneviève, that bright one which twinkles white? That is Castor. The brilliant orange one next to it is Pollux. Those two stars make Gemini, which is your sign.
I do not see it, Papa.
My father puts his head next to mine and closes one eye. I do the same. Then he points his finger at the sky.
There. Do you see it now?
Ah yes, I do!
His finger then draws simple lines across the stars.
Here is Castor's head... then his body... and his twin, Pollux...
I stare in marvel. Finally, I say, But there are so many stars, Papa. I am sure I can connect enough stars together to draw my face in the sky, how did people decide on those particular stars for Gemini?
My father laughs. Yes, that is the trouble, is it not? Not just with stars but with all of life. So many things carry on all at once much like all the stars in the sky, but we can only focus on the bright ones to build our constellations.
I look at him blankly.
He smiles at me. Never mind. Perhaps someday once you are grown up, you will understand.
* * * * *
Ben does not agree to teach me to write at first. He has a business to run and writing is not something he is willing to teach half-heartedly. Also, he says he is not really a good enough writer to teach anyone anything. I do not think it matters. The best photographers may not know how to model, nor the best directors know how to act. But that is not their job, they only need to know what is good and what is bad and communicate an idea of how to improve.
Still, Ben does not accept me.
I am not accustomed to being turned down, so I make a greater effort to win him over. I stop asking him to teach me. Instead, I just write things and email them to him and ask his opinion. He has a very difficult time being honest with me as I know my earliest attempts at writing in English were quite horrible but he does not have the heart to tell me this.
Finally, I have a breakthrough.
I happen to write a couple of pages regarding my father and Gemini and to my surprise, Ben replies to me, I can work with you on Sunday afternoons, would that be okay?
I write back to him, Yes, that would be fine. I will see you this weekend!
* * * * *
I have the fastest divorce of anyone I know, and believe me, I have known many divorces. Rich people tend to break up quite easily, I have discovered.
I agree to leave France because my marriage disgusted me so much, I wished to get it behind me as quickly as possible. Robert was of the same mind although he cared more about his personal and professional reputation than his emotional well-being.
The only place I can think of to go to is Montreal and be with my sister for a while. Leaving Robert, I felt an urge to re-discover my family.
Penelope welcomes me to Montreal with an enthusiasm that I do not expect. She and her boyfriend, Jean-Luc, come to pick me up from the airport, and from there, we return to their apartment.
Penelope does not have any pictures of our family in their apartment, not even of our father. I would not be surprised to find that Jean-Luc did not even know she had a sister until I asked if I could come stay with her for a time.
I think he was surprised further still when I came out of the arrival gate looking very much unlike Penelope in every possible way.
My sister is much shorter than me—162 cm—with mousy brown hair, high cheekbones, and large breasts. The only thing we have in common, her and I, are our 'steel cobalt' eyes. Other than that, my sister and I are so different, it is hard to believe we could even be COUSINS, to say nothing of being SISTERS.
In the car, she asks me how I am feeling. I assume she means physically because I used to often complain about the small spaces on airplanes. It does not occur to me at that time that she is referring to my emotional state after the divorce.
I just say, I am well, just a little bit tired.
Jean-Luc says, You can shower and change when we get home. I will prepare dinner. Penny says you like duck.
I have no particular fondness of duck over anything else, but I say, Yes, I love duck.
Penelope smiles at me over her shoulder from the front seat. Jean-Luc has a wonderful family recipe for duck that you will love, Geneviève.
I smile back at her and nod. Then I spend the rest of the ride looking out the window at the sights of my new home rolling by.
* * * * *
The first thing about writing, Ben says on Sunday, which is really the foundation of writing, is to simply say what you wish to say, then stop.
I laugh and write this down. That is all, hm?
He smiles. Since I cannot advise you how to best use the French language, I have decided I shall give you the broadest principles I have, which you will be able to apply anywhere. So yes, that is all. If you can simply say what you wish to say, you will be better than most writers out there. It is not as easy as it sounds, however, I must warn you of that.
It is not? I ask.
No, he replies, it is not. I assure you, you will constantly feel an urge to be too stylish, to make things more complex in order to be impressive. You will think a 'red car' is too simple a description so you will call it a 'crimson automobile'.
I consider this for a moment. I recall all the little writing experiments I had sent to him and say, Yes, I think I DO do that.
Yes, a little bit.
I look at Ben, which causes him to turn pink. I can tell he feels uncomfortable offering me criticism, so I smile and say, Well, this is an excellent start! That is good advice. I write in my notebook, Red car, not crimson automobile.
Okay, I have an assignment for you to work on this week, if you have time, he says.
I laugh. Of course I have time! What else would I be doing?
He smiles at me.
So what is my homework?
I want you to describe your room. Take care not to use overly complicated words, just paint me a picture of what your room looks like, as clearly as possible if you please.
I am a little uncertain what the point of this assignment is and I am about to ask just that when I catch myself. It has been too long since I have been in school, I almost forget how to be a good student. I say, Okay, I will try to do that.
Great, he says. I look forward to it.
I write down my homework and close my notebook.
Class dismissed? I ask.
He laughs. Yes, class dismissed. You are free to go.
* * * * *
My room is approximately square. The door opens on the left side and swings in. The closet takes up the whole left side wall. It has a white sliding door. The bed is queen-sized and is placed against the right side wall under a window. The head of the bed is in the back right corner. At the foot of the bed is a bookshelf filled with miscellaneous books. Next to the bed is a desk, which is placed against the wall opposite the door. On the desk is my laptop computer, a small dish for coins, a stack of CDs, and a pen holder. There is also a three-hole punch, a stapler, and iPod speakers. The floor is wooden; the walls are white, painted with swirls of pastel turquoise. It is nothing fancy at all.
* * * * *
Ben reads my paragraph the following Sunday and nods. Good, he says. From this, I can see what your room looks like.
I am glad, I say. But I am not very happy with it because it is so... lifeless.
He looks at me and smiles. Yes, it is supposed to be lifeless. This, Geneviève, is your sky of stars: many lights but without order or sequence. Which brings us to your assignment this week: pick out the constellations in your room that give it personality. Is the floor uneven? What books do you have on the shelf? Tell me what makes your pen holder different from my pen holder, your computer different from mine. You have a good, solid foundation; now let us build something upon it.
* * * * *
Jean-Luc is a chef at the Hilton. He and Penelope live in a two bedroom condo four blocks away from the hotel. This is all news to me; I did not even know Penelope was dating someone, to say nothing of them living together. I learn that she and Jean-Luc have been seeing each other for almost two years and the apartment actually belongs to him.
Penelope is not exaggerating: Jean-Luc's roast duck is phenomenal. I compliment it quite enthusiastically. Jean-Luc is happy that I like his cooking, but seems a little embarrassed by the attention. Penelope, on the other hand, is clearly very proud of him.
After supper, the three of us sit around the table drinking wine and talking. I say, That meal was grand, Jean-Luc. You have reminded me that I must learn to cook for myself.
Surely you can make a dish or two, he says.
I shake my head. No, I am not exaggerating when I say I cannot cook a single thing. I could burn cereal.
Jean-Luc does not laugh. He says, Yes, Penny has told me that you probably had servants for such things as cooking and cleaning.
At this, Penelope gives Jean-Luc a dark look.
I say, Well, I cannot say 'servants' as we merely had a single housekeeper and that was all. She did the cooking and cleaning by herself; my life was not so lavish. Prior to marrying, my mother did the cooking so I had no cause to learn for myself.
Well, Geneviève, says Penelope, patting my hand, that life is in the past.
I smile at her. Yes. New place, new life. I must learn to make at least a couple of things without catching the kitchen on fire.
Jean-Luc gets up and goes to a shelf in the living room next to the television. He plucks a book off the top shelf and brings it back to me. It is a recipe book.
He says, This is an excellent book to begin learning from if you are truly interested in cooking.
I take the book from him and smile graciously. Thank you, Jean-Luc. I will be sure to at least try out a couple of dishes. Then if you will permit me, I will cook something for you and Penelope.
He nods and sits back down, sipping his wine while Penelope begins speaking of other topics.
That book is presently sitting on the bookshelf in my room. I never did learn any recipes out of it.
* * * * *
It is evident from his kitchen that Jean-Luc is a very precise individual. For example, all the bottles on his spice rack are arranged with labels facing out like a grocery display. The knives in his knife rack are also always placed in the same order. I notice these things on my first day at their home because I have nothing to do and am just so bored.
I flood Marcheline's email with short notes about things in the apartment, my thoughts on my sister's relationship, what I think of Jean-Luc, what the weather is like, and how Quebecois French is different from French French. If I had Facebook back then, I would have changed my status once every two hours, I am sure of it.
For her part, Marche replies with short notes of her own filled with an extraordinary number of smiley faces. It is rather unlike her and I secretly wonder to myself what has got her in such a happy mood.
The next day, my notes continue but Marcheline does not reply at all. I suddenly feel like a high-maintenance, emotional trainwreck who requires so much attention that even those sympathetic to her situation quickly find her annoying.
I read and nap the day away. I am jetlagged so it is not hard. I am woken up at around 6:00 p.m. by a loud knock on the front door. Penelope and Jean-Luc are working the evening at the Hilton so only I am at home. My head is swimming at first and I am unsure of where I am or what time it is. Then one by one, my senses turn on and I hear the person at the door. He or she knocks several times, more than the usual excuse-me-sorry-to-disturb-your-supper type of knock, so I think perhaps it is one of Penelope's neighbours.
I come to the door cautiously; the knocking has stopped momentarily but I can hear the person on the other side of the door moving a bag or purse around or something. I peer through the spy hole and—
I throw open the door and launch myself at Marcheline, nearly knocking her over.
Geneviève! I cannot breathe! Marche manages to say while laughing.
The sound I heard earlier between her knocking was Marcheline searching through her purse for her mobile phone, which she presently has in her hand and is trying to put back in her bag before my jostling causes her to drop it on the floor. I release her and instead take custody of her small red Samsonite luggage and pull it into the apartment by its handle.
I find I cannot stop giggling.
This is such a surprise! I cry. What are you doing here?!
I told you I would visit, did I not? Marche replies, grinning. Oh Geneviève, you would not believe how difficult it was to keep this trip a secret from you!
I wheel her little bag over to the living room and invite her to sit on the sofa, which she presently does with legs crossed primly.
Yesterday, being here was rather lonely and depressing, I say. Now, it has becoming quite exciting!
Yes, I am long overdue for a vacation, Marche replies. I bought your sister a lovely bracelet to match the watch that you got her. Oh, and look at this adorable little candy set I picked up on my way here!
She goes into her purse and takes out a miniature leather golf bag with butterscotch lollies sticking out of them like golf clubs.
You said your sister's boyfriend seems to be a very precise type? Perhaps he plays golf and would find this amusing. I did not have time to shop for him. If I had only known about him beforehand.
Me too, I say. I take the little golf bag of candies and examine it. This is quite cute, I hope he will like it.
I had purchased a beautiful white gold watch from Mont Blanc for Penelope as a gift but naturally did not have anything for Jean-Luc as I did not know of his existence. I had been worrying over this since I had arrived, which admittedly was not very long ago and considering my new environment, the thought shared time with various other concerns I had. I wondered if Penelope had made it clear to Jean-Luc that I did not know about him and so could not be expected to bring him anything from France. I also wondered if Jean-Luc was the type to take such a 'snub' as a slight.
Well, Marcheline's golf bag lollies would test my worries.
In the end, Penelope likes the bracelet very much; meanwhile, Jean-Luc is not very impressed by the lollies because, as he claims, he does not enjoy sweets.
So the four of us share the lollies and I keep the little golf bag. The lollies were held in place by a small piece of cardboard inside, which had holes in it for the lolly sticks. I remove this cardboard and stuff some tissue at the bottom. I now keep this lolly golf bag on my desk where I use it as a pen holder.
* * * * *
About a year after we first start working together, Marcheline and I get ourselves hired to an Air France campaign shooting in Thailand. The client initially wants to use local models but Marche and I offer to pay our own airfare, and that is how we get in: because a pretty girl is a pretty girl but you cannot argue with the bottom line.
It is really a paid vacation. After the shoot, which lasts about five days, Marche and I travel to Phuket for a week of doing nothing.
For two women not doing anything, we certainly take a lot of pictures of 'nothing', which, after they are developed, Marcheline separates into series. My favourite photo is from the 'Mediterranean Series', so called because of a party of three Greek men Marche meets out on the beach, parasailing. The picture itself is taken at dinner by the house photographer. It is a close up of Marche and I, grinning like villains because the Athens Trio (as we called them) have paid for meals and drinks for two straight days and we are having a great time. The most handsome of the Trio, Andreas, an investment banker, tried to get in on the photo but could not squeeze in all the way. Half of his face is cropped off the side.
It is a perfect metaphor for our vacation: at its heart, it is just Marche and I, with a few interlopers here and there trying to get in but failing.
Upon seeing this photo for the first time, Marche says suddenly, These little creatures were everywhere!
I do not know what she is talking about. I reply, What creatures? Andreas and his friends?
No, silly!
She points at a spot near the top of the picture. Above our smiling heads, high up on the wall behind us are the shiny, reflected eyes of a gecko.
Reminds you of certain boys at the resort, does it not? Marche asks.
Hm?
Huge, unblinking eyes, greedy mouths bigger than their faces! Marcheline laughs.
I smile and point at Andreas' half-face. Yes, I see the resemblance. Geckos everywhere.
This picture is sitting on my desk in a silver frame engraved with the words, 'Best time ever!' with little flowers and leaves all around it. Seeing it makes me simultaneously happy and sad.
* * * * *
What is of greater importance to Penelope and Jean-Luc beyond the gifts is the fact that a visit of indeterminate length by the sister of the lady of the house is, of course, now suddenly a visit of two. The condo, which is not large by any means, doubled its occupancy in less than seventy-two hours. The shock is too great for Jean-Luc, I think partly because it is more chaos than he had readied himself to accept, and partly because he felt disrespected by the guest of his girlfriend (sister or no) having invited another stay-over guest at his home without first consulting him.
(This is obviously not the way it was, but I can understand his feeling put-off from an emotional standpoint.)
Marcheline does not help matters by being who she is, which is to say, a princess.
I do not blame her being the way she is any more than I blame Jean-Luc for being uptight or Penelope for leaving home all those years ago and keeping her live-in boyfriend a secret. People must be given a bit of latitude to be themselves, I believe.
Marche's biggest flaw, which is common enough in the modelling industry to seem the norm, is that she does not often think outside of herself. She wishes to surprise me in Montreal, so she flies in and stays wherever I am staying. She does not think to ask approval because for all her life, people have said yes to her. When I first met her, she was a simple country girl in the sense that she did not know how to protect herself from those who would use her. Back in Chaource where she grew up, she was the famously pretty girl that no one said no to. In the modelling world in Paris, she had to be taught that every 'yes' had its consequences, so she should not ask for anything that she could not afford the payback for. But still, she was never told no.
Marcheline retires directly to the sofa every evening after supper to watch American television in its native English. She loves this; these shows are usually dubbed into French back home and she hates how the actors never seem to match the voices.
Marche also has to be told to smoke out on the balcony on two or three occasions and I am afraid she does not react very happily to these requests. As a result, she and I are like peas in a pod but she does not speak much to Penelope and Jean-Luc whom she considers prudes.
Oh, and of course there is the issue of Marcheline making herself at home without seeking approval from her hosts or relating to them when she might be leaving. This is a pretty big problem also.
A week after she arrives, she proclaims that we need to go on an adventure.
I think being exiled from home is adventure enough, I sniff. I do not need more.
Well I am bored, Geneviève! she says. Let us go somewhere!
Where would you like to go, my dear? I ask. I am presently thousands of kilometres from home, I feel like I am 'somewhere' already.
We can go to Toronto! We can rent a car and drive there, see the country between here and there.
Toronto?! I exclaim. What is the point of that? What is there in Toronto that is not available here?
Marcheline blushes and smiles at me.
Do you remember Peter Stahl from that Mercedes commercial I auditioned for last year?
I frown at her. Marcheline tests and auditions for a great many things, I can hardly keep them straight unless she gets them (she did not get this Mercedes job, otherwise I would remember). Auditions are terribly uninteresting. The name Peter sounds familiar, however, which means Marche likely spoke about him for at least two weeks, which means he is likely very handsome.
Presently, she elaborates, You met him in Versailles; you said he had great shoulders.
Immediately, this conjures an image and I smile involuntarily. Oh yes, him! I laugh. He was lovely. He is in Toronto now?
Marche nods. He now has a boutique there. I emailed him to say I am here and he insists we go visit.
My first reflex is to say no, I guess because I am depressed and do not feel like doing anything but complain about life. But Marcheline looks at me with a small, pleading smile. She is like a little girl.
I say, Let me speak to Penelope and let them know first.
Marche does not understand why that is necessary, but she does not care. She says only, Wonderful! I will tell Peter straight away!
Then she takes the cordless phone and her cigarettes out to the balcony and places a long distance call, which does not help relations with Penelope and Jean-Luc later.
The entire matter is settled in a single, tense conversation in which Jean-Luc is clearly displeased that Marcheline and I intend to come and go as we like, in effect treating his home like a hotel. But he cannot forbid us from leaving so that is the end of it. A few days later, Marche and I rent a car, print out a great many Google maps with roads highlighted and arrows marked everywhere and set out. It is actually a lot more fun than I think it will be. Marcheline and I blast our favourite music, sing with U2 at the tops of our voices, and drink a lot of Diet Coke.
About halfway between Ottawa and Toronto, we stop at a small petrol station off the highway because Marche needs to use the toilet. She gets the key from the attendant and disappears for a minute, while I gather up the trash from the car and throw it away.
Suddenly, Marcheline bursts back into view and she is screaming that something is chasing her. I am stunned by this because I think perhaps she has run afoul of a large dog or something and I have the presence of mind to throw open the passenger side door for her so she can just dive in and slam the door closed behind her.
She comes running across the asphalt, legs pumping, arms flailing from side to side. (Marche looks very good strutting down a runway but she looks completely preposterous in a full sprint. Her workouts usually involve yoga, dance, and kickboxing for cardio, but running is not her thing; looking at her, it is quite obvious this is true.)
She truly does dive into the car and slam the door. She is breathing heavily and her hair is tossed about her face. She waves frantically for me to drive, which I do. I almost peel out of the petrol station (or I would have if our rental car had more power; it was a Hyundai Sonata, not likely to win any grand prix races any time soon).
Once we get back out on the road, Marche looks behind us a couple of times to make sure whatever was chasing her is gone and eventually calms down.
I am quite concerned as it had crossed my mind when she had appeared in a panic that we might die in the middle of nowhere. Finally, I ask, What was that all about?
There was huge mouse in the toilet, Geneviève! A huge grey one and I swear to you it chased me out of there! It must have smelled all the food and sugar on me!
I resist the urge to laugh. I try to be sensitive, you know, because I know mice and rats are Marcheline's phobia. She is fine with everything else; a hotel room could be haunted and there could be snakes and spiders under the bed and she would not bat an eyelash. But once a mouse appears, she takes off like her hair is on fire.
Fifteen minutes later, Marche decides she needs a smoke to settle herself down. She rolls down the window and goes to her purse. It is at this time that she realises she is still clutching the petrol station's key for the ladies' room. All at once she looks like a guilty little girl. She holds it up at me and asks, Should we go back, Geneviève? This may be the only key they have...
She asks this, but once again, she has the pleading look in her eye because she really does not want to.
I say, No, it is okay. I am sure this sort of thing happens all the time; they must have a master key. We will pass by there on our way back to Montreal. We can drop it off and apologize then. I also think sarcastically to myself, By then, the mouse will surely be gone.
She breathes a sigh of relief and sits back. At my reassurance, she is suddenly relaxed again and no longer needs a smoke so she rolls up the window and starts to play with the stereo. Twenty kilometres later, I find that she has closed her eyes and fallen asleep. When we get to Toronto, I take the washroom key, which is linked to a long piece of plastic with 'LADIES' handwritten on it, and tuck it into the glove box. It quickly drops out of my thoughts until we return to Montreal a week later and we discover it again while gathering our belongings ahead of returning the car.
Presently, the toilet key is sticking out of my mini golf bag penholder. For me, it is like Tom Hanks' undelivered FedEx parcel from Cast Away. I do intend to return it someday. For now, however, it is a convenient place for me to loop spare rubber bands that I always seem to have too many of.
* * * * *
By the time we return to Jean-Luc and Penelope's place, Penelope has been rotated to a different shift so she and Jean-Luc no longer work overlapping hours.
At the first opportunity, she tells me that we need to talk. I tell her that yes, I have something I would like to tell her also.
She raises her eyebrows at me. Oh? Would you like to go first then?
Being that I think I know what Penelope wishes to speak to me about, I think we would save a lot of time if I give her my news first.
I say, Well, my news is simple. I plan to move to Toronto.
Penelope's eyes become quite wide. Why... I thought perhaps you would like to rent your own place, but...
I take my sister's hand and apologise since I can see I have shocked her quite badly. Thank you and Jean-Luc very much for all your hospitality. I know me coming here and Marcheline suddenly showing up and everything... I know it has been very trying on the two of you.
Well... yes, a little bit, but it is not on account of you or Marche, it is just a matter of space.
I understand, Penelope, I truly do. That is why I feel like I should try to get along on my own again.
But why Toronto? Why not stay in Montreal?
Marcheline has a few friends who are based there now. They say I can perhaps get some modelling work if I wanted to. I do not think I will, but who knows, maybe just as something to do. Besides, I would rely upon you and Jean-Luc too much if I stayed here. I think a good clean start will be better for me. Maybe after a few years I will come back. But for now, I need to find my own strength again.
Penelope nods slowly at this. I think after two weeks, we have come to an unspoken understanding that, even though we are the only family either of us have, we will never be close. What we missed in childhood is gone forever and cannot be built back up again. It is very unfortunate.
Penelope begins to tear up. Geneviève, I have not been an elder sister to you since we were little girls, nor did you need me to be. I would like to help you and support you if you need me to, but I will ultimately trust your judgement. If you wish to move to Toronto for a time, Jean-Luc and I wish you the best, of course, and hope you will come back to visit often. But I just want to say, I hope it really is your healing process and not because you feel we are put out by you being here because we truly are not!
I give Penelope's hand a squeeze and I feel tears welling up in my eyes also.
Penelope, I say, we have both been independent girls with our own lives but please do not think you were not a big sister to me. When it mattered—crossing the boulevard as children, when Papa was sick, when Robert and I broke up—you were. That is all that is important.
We sit looking at each other silently for a moment. I am right, my plan to move neutralised Penelope's part of the discussion.
Five days later, Marcheline and I return to Toronto and stay with Peter for a week. I find a nice house to rent near a park in the northern part of the city. Marche stays with me at this house for a month, helping me to furnish the place and such before leaving tearfully back to France. The month after she is gone is the hardest for me. But it is necessary pain.
Anyway, this is how I come to Toronto.
[à suivre...]
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Monday, February 09, 2009
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Chapter 4: The Perfect Murder
Now here is where the story becomes difficult to tell, not because I remember too little but rather because I wish to tell too much. However, Ben has taught me that, in art, whether writing, painting, acting, or posing for a camera, we always try to return to the core of the story we are trying to tell. We may leave the centre for a chapter or two, but we always come back.
So at this point, please allow me to say something about love.
I did not realise until I started writing this that I have been searching for love in its various forms all my life. I wanted the love of my peers, the love of my mother and sister, the love of a best friend such as Marcheline. I wanted to love a craft, whatever that craft may be. I kept up a tough exterior only in hopes of finding someone who will break through it to discover a softer, quivering core. I was a difficult one to figure out.
The only love I had, which I did not have to look for or try to win, was that of my father. Ironically, I did not see this until he was gone, which I suppose is why I now find that the pinnacle of perfection any man can achieve is to be as unconditionally supportive and caring as my father was. Perhaps this is the Freudian fantasy of daughters, to delude themselves into thinking their papa is the best of a flawed sex.
The greatest similarity between Robert and my father was that my mother liked them both very much. She approved of Robert because of his willingness to support not only me but her also. She was careful not to kill the golden goose by overextending herself or taking him for granted, but she was certainly quick to snatch up any golden eggs he happened to lay.
I did not love Robert for most of our marriage. In fact, at the time I married him, I do not think I had ever been in love at all. I had had infatuations, flings, lusty trysts, and romances that went on for a year or more, but love, I believe, had escaped me because I had no need to fear loss.
True love is not simply a heightened appreciation of having, it is also a heightened appreciation of losing. One cannot love what one does not fear to lose, this is why people say we know not what we have until it is gone. Many people I know do not feel love until the other person is gone, at which time, the heartbreak hits them so savagely and so completely that they do not know what to do with themselves or how they had let things get to this point.
Robert made my life very simple. I had no need to work, to do what I did not wish to do, or see those I did not wish to see. I did not own an alarm clock because I did not need to wake up on time to be anywhere almost ever.
Robert made all of this possible and I appreciated him for it. I liked him a great deal because he was funny, handsome, and a good lover.
But I did not love him until I knew I would divorce him.
* * * * *
When Ben gives me his email address, he gives me the key to his entire existence on the internet. With only yoga in the afternoons to occupy me, I have nothing to do but satisfy my many curiosities.
I find Ben through Google in the same way and for the same reason as his old flame, Evangeline. I feel I have a better idea of what I would find than she did, but even then, the books he had written on his blog caught me by surprise.
I am embarrassed to admit, I possess a natural love of gossip. Furthermore, Ben's stories contain secret insight into who he is as a person, things that I did not learn in all the lunches we have taken together.
The first night I find his blog, I am drawn right in. I make two pots of coffee and read and read until four in the morning. I am amazed by this man I have spoken to often but, as it appears, do not know very well.
I am amazed not by his writing talent but rather by his willingness to expose the most intimate parts of his life to people he does not even know. I cannot decide if he is sweetly naive or stupid and foolish. Possibly, he is both.
Because English is not my first language, it takes me a week to read all of Ben's work. But by the end of it, I know what I want to do with my time after Chapters.
I email Ben and say, You have tutoring experience, yes? I would be grateful if you would teach me to write.
* * * * *
My mother begins dating again about a year after my father's death. She never has what she would call a 'boyfriend', only 'good friends' who take her out for meals together, short trips, and such. She breaks up with her 'good friends' quite regularly; not one stays around for very long. I have many guesses about why this is, but it is pointless to speculate so I will refrain from doing so. Besides, I do not want to tell about my mother's dating history. In fact, it is awkward for me to even think about it.
What I wish to tell you, dear reader, is that despite her advice to me about the importance of security and the luxury of romance, I do not think my mother followed her own wisdom. She had men who, while not RICH, were at least well-to-do, vying for her attention. However, she could not bring herself to choose security with any of them.
My mother dies in her sleep at the age of fifty-two from a heart condition we did not know she had. It scared me a great deal, my mother passing away so suddenly.
Since then, I have been meaning to check myself up at the doctor to see if I have something similar.
However, I cannot force myself to go through with it; I do not wish to be told by science that broken hearts run in the women of my family.
* * * * *
A man of Robert's relative youth, wealth, good-looks, and freedom invites many opportunities for indiscretion, whether it is financial, political, personal, or whatever. Upon accidentally discovering the first of these indiscretions, I am angry and hurt because he has betrayed those who trusted him, and scared because all of a sudden, my security is no longer so secure. It takes me a few days to gather my emotional bearings. Fortunately, Robert is away on business at the time so I do not have the opportunity to confront him like a silly woman might do.
Instead, once the storm in my heart settles down, my brain takes over. I decide I would eventually divorce him.
But not right away.
I turned a blind eye to everything. I do not think Robert knew that I was aware of his activities until I wished for him to know. Every time something suspicious came up, I investigated it to the best of my ability and wrote my findings down in a journal, which I kept locked away in my study.
Finally, after a year of living under a shadow, I contact my lawyer and tell him of my plan. He thinks it is a good one and that I should proceed, but with caution.
I consider and re-consider every detail. I learn about every possible countermeasure Robert could have, legally and financially, and how I would use them if I were him. I devise countermeasures to his countermeasures.
Finally the day comes and I am a wreck. I decide to confront him in my study because it is my space and I am comfortable there. Furthermore, Robert is not very familiar with my study so I am able to conceal a video camera atop a bookshelf amongst a bunch of souvenirs from my modelling life. I turn it on and pray nothing untoward will happen, either to the camera or to me.
There is a desk, a chair, and two small sofas in my study with a low table between them. When Robert answers my summons, a stack of paper is sitting neatly on the table along with a pen.
It is the perfect murder. Or at least, I hope it is.
He comes in, sees me sitting on one of the sofas with my legs crossed, hands in my lap, and immediately, I think he knows.
Nevertheless, I invite him to sit down, which he does, quietly.
Robert, I say, I want a divorce.
He blinks at me. Perhaps he knows this was coming from some time ago because he is very calm. He pushes his Cartier glasses up and says, I see. What is the matter?
Why, everything! I say. Surely, you do not think—
I do not surely think anything, Geneviève, he says. Please tell me what this is about. How have I offended my dear so greatly that she wishes to leave me?
His eyes slide frictionlessly from my face to my legs to the stack of papers on the table before him.
Oh, your offenses are many, Robert, I reply.
I point at the documents and invite him to pick them and read them, which he presently does. Again, very calmly.
At one point, he gives a small laugh. My, you know about this one? That is very impressive. You could be a spy! Or a detective.
He takes it all very well, as if I were playing some silly game and he is only humouring me. I cannot express how infuriating this is. Perhaps it is just me, but if I must gather up the energy to fight with someone, I wish to upset him, to incite him to fight back. I want to see blood, sweat, snot, and tears. But from Robert I receive a big unsatisfying zero.
He says, So then, these are all photocopies of... well, it seems like a journal. Handwritten, like in grade school.
Yes, I say softly. Full of stories, like in grade school, also.
Where is the original? I hope you did not do something foolish like leave it with Marcheline.
It is in the care of my lawyer.
Robert nods. Very prudent.
He reaches the bottom of the pile, where there is one single sheet of Jean's old stationery, which I had saved. Robert takes this sheet and replaces the rest of the pages neatly on the table as he had found them. Then he sits back and contemplates what I have written.
These are your demands, hm?
That is what I want, yes, I reply.
He nods briefly. Then at length, he leans forward, places the paper on the table in front of him and looks at me directly in the face. All the humour is gone from him. At once I can see the Robert I had heard of but never knew: the Shark Robert, the Merciless Killer Robert. This is the Robert who cut the deals, made the millions, and provided for me.
He says, Geneviève, I do not deny that I have wronged you and many others around me. Indeed, half of what is in your little diary might even be true. However, you and I both know I am not going to give you what is on this list.
The list is what I deserve for my years with you, Robert.
He laughs and shakes his head.
What you deserve is irrelevant. In this life, we do not get what we deserve; we get what we negotiate. So let us talk, you and I. What will it take to make this—pointing at my photocopied journal—and this—pointing at me—go away?
I stare at him but say nothing because, honestly, I had not considered he would go this route with me, treating our marriage like a business deal.
He smiles. Very well then, perhaps it is unfair of me to demand you make the first cut. Let us do it this way then: I will tell you what I can give you and what I cannot...
At this, he takes my list of wants and strikes a bold, fat line right across the page with the pen I had provided. It is like the cut of a dagger. Underneath it, he writes a number with many zeroes in it.
There, Geneviève, he says. You wish a divorce, you shall have it. You wish a settlement, that is what I will give you. One cheque, that is all. Do with it what you will. However, know this: I consider this an act of treason and will not suffer traitors in my organization, including my wife. Your acceptance is final.
He slides the paper to me across the table with two fingers. I take it and stare at the number. The idea of this much money is foreign to me.
Now while you are considering my counter-proposal, he says, allow me to give MY conditions. First, you are not to disclose any of these little fables you have gathered to anyone. If you seek to hurt my reputation, the fight will be fierce and to the death. You cannot afford to attempt that with me for you will not win, do you understand?
I look back at him blankly.
Furthermore, I want the original book and your assurance that all copies have been destroyed. Does that sound possible?
Slowly, I nod. Then immediately, I realise he is playing a mind trick on me, implying my acceptance, hypnotizing me to agree to his demands.
Second, he says, a corollary to my first condition: I want you to leave France for no less than five years. I cannot have you here spreading stories to people who might believe you.
This shocks me. My mouth drops open and I say, Now wait a moment! If I am to leave France, where will I go?
I do not know, and I do not care. That much money can make you friends anywhere you wish to travel. However, my humble advice is, spend it wisely. You are getting old; your modelling days are over. Unless you have some hidden skill I do not know about, that will be your last paycheque for a long while.
I feel my face quickly burn at this comment as if he had slapped me.
I will give you time to think it over. He gets up to leave. I will sleep in the guest room tonight. I think you and I would both prefer that.
* * * * *
Considering how she had broken down at my pre-marriage wake party, Marcheline is surprisingly calm about this whole affair.
While I am attempting to prioritise what to take with me to Montreal and what to leave behind, she is browsing idly through my closet, selecting items she would like to take for 'safekeeping'.
Oh Geneviève, I love this Ralph Lauren! she exclaims, pulling the shimmering blue dress out and holding it against her body. It would be an excellent fit for her, of course. My, it looks just like one I wore for one of their shoots last year!
I smile. Take it, Marcheline. I will not need it in my simple life.
She looks at me and beams. I will take good care of it, trust me. Just let me know when you want it back and I will have it delivered to you as new.
That won't be necessary, I say.
Oh but of course, you are rich now, Marche teases. You have no need for old clothes, you can simply buy them new!
I sigh and leave my suitcases. I sit on the corner of my bed and just stare at all my things everywhere. It is like someone is literally dissecting my life and leaving the unimportant bits strewn about in the cavity of the carcass.
I will miss you a great deal, Marcheline, I say and immediately tears come to my eyes.
Oh Geneviève, Marche says, sitting next to me and holding me. You know I will come visit you often. We shall go skiing and play in the snow and tease Canadian men together!
I laugh, hiccough, and cry.
You will have your sister; things won't be so lonely.
This reassurance only makes me cry harder.
In many ways, I have more in common with Marcheline than with my real sister, Penelope. In addition to our looks, Marche and I both have a strong need to believe in people while at the same time, we also have a strong fear of being fooled. The two of us are the same contradiction.
After sobbing quietly for a brief time, I gather myself enough to say, Marche, do not concern yourself with purple lipsticks. My mother lied to me, which caused me to lie to you. Learn from my disaster: the best kind of security is that which you provide yourself. No man can give you that.
She does not say anything for a moment. Then I feel her hug me tighter.
Silly sister, she says, I already know that.
Her cheek is pressed against mine and I feel her tears begin to run down her face.
I know.
[à suivre...]
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Saturday, January 17, 2009
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Chapter 3: Goodbye, Goodbye
Before we are to marry, Robert and several of the men go to Monaco to gamble, drink, and make general idiots of themselves for a week. The thought of them terrorizing Monte Carlo like boys playing James Bond is somehow deeply amusing to me. Life, it seems, is often like a fantasy game that some men are particularly good at playing. The best of them, such as Robert, are adept at forming alliances, gathering resources, investing wisely, all so they can spend it all at once on a bunch of women and a Ferrari.
Me, I do not have a party. Instead, it is more like a wake. There are no handsome men taking off their clothes and dancing to Right Said Fred or some other such nonsense.
Marcheline says she cannot celebrate for me when she is sad for herself as I had made it clear I meant to retire from the modelling industry.
But it does not mean I will retire from my friendships, I tell Marche.
Her eyes begin to fill with tears. I should hope not, she says, for I shall miss you too much! I hope Robert does not move you away from Paris.
Oh, that is just silly, I reply and smile. Why would he do that? Unless he means to get rid of me, then I may be exiled to Nice.
Jean's wife, Denise, laughs and says, I should love to be exiled to the Côte d'Azur! If that was a possibility for me, I would take many men and allow my husband to find out!
This makes Marcheline smile, which in turn squeezes a tear from her eye. She takes a tissue from the box in her lap (for she has been crying off and on all evening), and wipes it away.
Poor Marcheline, says Denise. You must not take it so hard. We all have our lives to live. And Geneviève is not leaving us; she is merely retiring to a life of leisure. We should all be so lucky.
Well then, Marche announces, it is decided. I shall dedicate the next year to trapping a man richer than Robert so that I can marry and retire also. Then Geneviève and I—and you too, of course, Denise, if Jean can do without you for a while—will take coffee, travel, lie on the beach on the Côte and grow fat together!
Now it is my turn to laugh.
You may grow fat on your own, Marcheline, I say. Once married, my job will be to look good and secure my place as a rich man's wife. So in a way, my modelling life is not over. Nothing comes for free.
Marche nods absently at this. She is probably wondering which of the multitudes of men who pursue her at any given time would do the best job of securing her as Robert will secure me.
Marcheline is an only child. This is why she adopted me so easily as an older sister. Therefore, I must take responsibility for leading her astray. Before she met me, she was just a beautiful girl from the country who had gotten a job to look good for a camera.
Then I gave her my mother's advice: why conquer the world when we can let a man do the hard work and once the dust settles, we can simply conquer the man and take the world from him?
Thinking of this now, I can only laugh and shake my head.
What stupid, foolish girls we were. That is something else we have in common.
* * * * *
Over the next two months, I meet Ben periodically at Bakery Garden. We do not ever plan these meetings in advance—in fact, we never even exchange telephone numbers or email addresses until the event I will tell you about—he just sometimes happens to be taking lunch there when I show up (or vice versa) and we chat about books, the news, or whatever else might be on our minds. These spontaneous meetings happen once or twice a week. One day, just to tease him, I ask:
Where do you take lunch if you come and see I am not here?
He narrows his eyes and looks at me. What do you mean? If I come here to take lunch, I take lunch here. If you are not here, I eat alone. I do not understand your question.
I laugh. I see. Never mind.
Again, I discover another mistake I have made with regards to regular people. These meetings, I assumed they are his awkward, shy way of picking me up because—pardon my immodesty—that is what I am used to men doing. Ben is a funny man and he intrigues me as I look at him like an alien from outer space. He hardly ever does anything I expect him to.
It does not occur to me until later that perhaps I am the space alien and what I expect is overly complex compared to the general simplicity of the average man.
* * * * *
My sister, Penelope, is older than me by five years.
When she graduates university, my father introduces her to an old classmate who is at the time a manager at the Hilton Arc de Triomphe. This is where Penelope starts her hotel career. Although we are not especially close as sisters, one thing we have in common is, we are daddy's girls.
* * * * *
I have never told anyone this before, but one of my greatest regrets in life is that my last conversation with my father was such a stupid, pointless one. It occurs on a Saturday afternoon. I had just gotten a new haircut the previous evening and I am looking at myself in the mirror and frowning.
My father happens to pass me on his way out. He sees me unhappily flicking my hair about the sides of my head and asks, Did my little one eat a lemon?
What? I ask.
He points at my reflection and says, I do not often see you looking so sour.
I pout. The stylist cut my hair too thin, Papa! Look, do I not look ridiculous now? My ears stick out like Prince Charles!
Excuse me, I will not have you insult your ears in such a way, miss! he exclaims indignantly. Your ears are what show me you are indeed my daughter for my ears stick out in much the same way!
I try to keep frowning but after a second, I cannot help but laugh. My father is much more handsome than Prince Charles. Then you are just as unfortunate as I am, Papa. I shall have to wear a hat until my hair grows back.
You need to do no such thing, Geneviève. Most girls would kill to be as lovely as you, imperfect ears and all.
I roll my eyes. Sometimes, my father's unconditional support is so tiresome, I never know what is true and what is not. Nevertheless, I smile and say, Clearly, Papa, you have terrible taste in women.
Do not let your mother hear you say that! he warns, laughing. He kisses me on the side of my head and hurries out the door.
That night, on his way home, he has a stroke while driving and crashes his car into the rail on the motorway. Ambulances arrive in short order and take him away with lights flashing and sirens screaming.
The police arrive at our home and chaos ensues. When we get to the hospital, the doctors say my father is in a coma. He never wakes up.
Four days later, he dies surrounded by his girls.
* * * * *
I learn that Ben majored in English in university. This, he says, is why he likes books such as Anna Karenina. They are not just stories to him, they are case studies in how a person writes. Every time he speaks to me about books and writing, he gets a shy look in his face, like he is embarrassed for liking something that others may think is foolish. However, I can tell he does not often have the opportunity to talk about this thing which is close to his heart, so I listen and nod and smile at the appropriate parts.
Coming from my life as a model and then a rich man's wife, I have learned a thing or two about fake people. We all want to project a certain something to those around us. We want to be funnier than we are, more confident than we are, more sophisticated than we are. But we understand on a basic, animal level that we are not the car we drive or the last advertising campaign we were a part of. At our core, we are really not much different, any of us. We all wish to feel safe, to love and be loved, to believe that the things with which we are most comfortable will never change.
We think people who truly care about something try to treasure it, hold it close, and do not wish to let it into the world where it can become damaged or even destroyed. But the truth is, one's secret love is more resilient than we think. People whose passions are vulnerable to criticism nevertheless DO actually wish to share their inner hearts—like any good secret, they want to give it away and set it free. These secrets only remain such not for want of a teller, but for want of an understanding ear.
So this is what I try to be to Ben, partly because when he gets excited about this subject, I in turn get excited as well.
Partly, also, I am a little jealous. Working in a bookstore, I feel like I should have some of the same passion as Ben does but I do not so I try to absorb that from him.
He says he studied biochemistry once in university but stopped after a few years because he simply could not do it any longer.
I like science, he says. But only in a broad sense, do you know what I mean?
Science itself is quite broad, is it not? I ask.
He nods and laughs. Yes, I suppose it is.
I give him a pleasant and inviting smile and take a small bite from my baguette.
I suppose I liked science enough to be MacGyver, he says, but not enough to save lives and do research.
Ah, I see. And that is why you studied English instead?
Yes, I guess you can say that. There are not many things that interest me enough to study in university. I did not even know what I would do with an English degree.
You could become a teacher, I say.
I had considered that. I tutored literature and composition for about ten years.
Very impressive. Ten years is a long time.
He shrugs. What about you? What did you study in school?
I laugh. High school? I studied enough to finish. I did not go to university.
Oh? College?
I shook my head. No schooling at all after high school. My father died so I went to work. Actually, I often wonder what I would have studied had I gone to university.
Ben is about to say something when someone taps me on the shoulder, startling me. I look up and see it is Erik. He has purchased a sandwich and a Coke. He is still wearing his Chapters vest.
So this is where you have been hiding these past weeks, Geneviève, he says.
Ah, Erik, I say, trying to be pleasant and polite but really feeling put off and annoyed. This is my friend, Ben. Ben, this is my colleague Erik.
They shake hands but Erik gives Ben such a stupid, territorial look—like one cat who glares at another cat that has come into its yard—that I imagine Erik may hit Ben with his Coke.
Nice to meet you, Ben says.
Erik only nods but does not say anything in reply.
Very awkward moment. Finally, to spare all of us any undue embarrassment, I pick up my bag and get up with my half-eaten baguette.
I say to Ben, Okay, I will head back to the store with Erik. My break is almost over anyway. I will talk to you later.
Ben is clearly taken by surprise that I mean to leave so suddenly, especially as he knows my lunch does not end for another fifteen minutes. Nevertheless, he says, All right, see you some other time, Geneviève.
As we leave, Erik gives Ben a ridiculous, overly friendly wave. It is the wave of triumph, like he has defeated another man and won a prize.
I need to do something about Erik once and for all.
* * * * *
When I enter the hospital room, my mother and sister are already there, my mother in the corner, looking out the window, Penelope in a chair at my father's bedside, leaning over him and speaking in tender whispers. I did not wish to disturb her, so I go to my mother and ask her what the doctors have said.
There is great, permanent damage, she says. He... he will not survive. He will leave us soon.
At this, we both start tearing up. I hold my mother and look at Penelope. She takes no notice of us, only continues to speak softly to our father who may or may not be able to hear her.
I ask my mother, Is there nothing that can be done? I have some money saved up, I can—
No, no. This is not something that science can fix. It is just... cruel fate.
It is difficult for me to explain how I feel at this time. Expression of tumultuous feeling is something for Leo Tolstoy to do for he is the master of such internal complexity. It is why Ben is so captivated by his work. The best I can do is to say, I wished to tear myself into three parts.
One part would run to the doctors and demand they look again at my father's case. This part of me would scream and wail and disbelieve anything they might explain to me; this part of me would shout in their faces that we can go to the moon and launch ships the size of small cities but we cannot wake my father so that his family can tell him we will miss him and that we will be okay? What a cruel joke!
The second part of me wants to hold my mother and sister—my father's girls who are together because of him and who would fall apart without him—and just stay at his bedside for as long as he is able to hang on.
The third part of me wishes to cry as hard as I can, run home, pack a bag and just go as far away from this heartbreak as I can. I do not know where Fiji is, but I think it would be the ideal place to spend the rest of my lonely, fatherless days.
Penelope looks up at me. Geneviève, come speak to Papa, she says.
I quietly let go of my mother and go to Penelope. I do not go to the opposite side of the bed from her even though it is closer because I thought my father lying there with one daughter on either side of him was too much like death. I go around the bed to Penelope's side and kneel on the floor because there is no other chair. For the first time since I was eight years old crossing the old boulevard on Bastille Day, my sister held my hand.
The doctor says Papa can hear you, Penelope says. Tell him what is on your mind.
I look at my sister, her eyes wide, then at my father, his eyes closed, and all I can think of is the last time my dear father and I spoke, me complaining about a poor haircut like a spoiled princess. I hated myself.
Papa, I...
A tear rolled down my face, followed by another, and another.
Papa...
Tears drop off my chin and onto the bed sheet next to his hand. I look at the wet, circular shadows they make and I take my father's hand in my free hand. It is still warm.
Papa, it is me, Geneviève. Does it hurt? (My breath becomes uneven at this point. My tears begin to speed up.) I love you, Papa. I know I do not say it enough, so I hope it is not too late. Papa, we all love you very much. Please get better, okay? Please... please don't die.
I hear these last words and my face turns red. Spoiled girl asking for the impossible.
Again.
And I am too far along in crying to say anything else. My breath goes in and out of my body simultaneously. I sob and shake. The more I cry, the more upset I get, and the more upset I get, the more I cry, until my mother and my sister are both holding me, wrapping me in their entire bodies.
And yet I continue clinging to my father's hand because it is still warm.
* * * * *
After Erik meets Ben, his gecko activities increase. Maybe he perceives that he has competition. Men are like that, I have found. The particularly troublesome ones do not even care if they have a chance. To them, what the woman wants is irrelevant. It is like they feel, if they can scare away or fight off all the competition, the woman will have no choice but to accept them for lack of other options.
In the following weeks, Erik shows up in my section more and more regularly. He calls me Genny and frequently brings customers from Self-Help or Mystery where he is into Literature and Fiction where I am to help them find something in Self-Help or Mystery. This is merely inconvenient and annoying. However, what really sets me off is his new habit of touching me every time he passes by or leaves me to go somewhere.
Excuse me, Genny, he would say and put his hand on my waist as he passes me in the aisle while I am stocking books.
I will be right back. Pat on my hip.
That disgusted expression you make is so hot, Genny. Rub on my shoulder.
Finally I cannot take it anymore. Every time he touches me, I feel like I should wash.
I ask Catharine if she has ever had any trouble with Erik, either personally or if he has ever made anyone else uncomfortable in the same way he makes me feel.
She pushes her glasses up on her nosebridge and looks at me very seriously. Why do you ask? Has he been harassing you?
The way she asks me this question, it causes me to say what women always seem to say: Well, I do not know if it is HARASSMENT...
I become defensive, as if HE is the victim and I am the villain for accusing him.
If you feel like it could be, Geneviève, then it probably is.
Catharine is a quiet, unassuming girl. She wears glasses, has tidy hair, and uses very little makeup. Aside from an occasional flare-up of acne in her T-zone, I think she is rather pretty. I ask her if he has ever looked at her strangely, gotten in her space, anything like that.
She looks at me like that is the most horrible thing she has ever heard. Not at all, she says. He is old enough to be my father.
In my mind, I think men typically do not consider that at all. I am much more cynical than Catharine is.
I say, I am only asking.
Look, Geneviève, Catharine says, workplace harassment is very serious.
Is it? I ask. To me, this is a genuine question because in modelling, it is commonplace, sadly.
But to Catharine, I sound sarcastic. Yes, it is. We have very clear rules about that kind of behaviour. I will talk to Erik.
No, Catharine, please do not do that. I am sure it is just a misunderstanding. I am new to Canada and divorced just recently, I do not know how to get on again with men, that is all.
Catharine gives me a sour look, like she does not know if she should believe me or not.
As a matter of fact, I do not know if I should believe me or not either. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I hate myself for being weak. If Marcheline was in the room, she would be shocked that I could say anything so cowardly. But that is Marche. Her defences are so strong now, she will fight any man because she has all the purple lipsticks. In a way, I taught her that men are the enemy and she believed me even though I do not believe it myself.
I hit geckos across the nose with a newspaper and they run away, yes, but it is all a bluff. I am like a bird that puffs itself up as big as it can when it perceives danger. If this does not scare a predator away, I have no recourse.
There is no plan B.
They will either get my reluctant acceptance or I will run away. My bark is worse than my bite also. Ever since my father died, fighting has not been my nature.
I say to Catharine, I do not wish to make a complaint. I would like to continue getting on well with the people here. I asked only to see if I am being sensitive.
Geneviève, she says, I cannot make a complaint for you. I will respect your wishes and not confront Erik. However, you must promise me that if you continue to be uncomfortable, you must let me know. I will not tolerate any kind of harassment amongst my staff, okay?
You see, this is why I do not mind a twenty-five year old girl being my boss: she has the indignation of youth and the fire to see it through. I, on the other hand, have long since become resigned to say, Well, that is not so bad, or Things could be so much worse.
I nod to Catharine, smile, and leave her office.
Two days later, at our next shift together, Erik comes by the Hot New Fiction section while I am re-stocking the new James Patterson book. He says Good morning.
Good morning, Erik, I reply, glancing briefly over my shoulder, smiling, then continuing my work.
There is a lot of walking space in this area of the floor but nevertheless, Erik brushes by me very closely, touches my waist, slides his hand down a few centimetres to the top of my hip, and says, Your accent sounds hot when you say my name.
I stop.
He laughs and I swear he sniffs my hair as he moves away.
He says, I am going to get a Starbucks. Do you want one? My treat.
I glare at him for a second, then shake my head.
Okay then, I will speak to you later.
He saunters along to the Starbucks in the back of the store looking quite pleased with himself.
As soon as he is gone, I leave my rack of books and go to Catharine's office where I quit my job, effective immediately.
* * * * *
The death of my father was sudden and shocking enough by itself. What was just as shocking was the realization that Penelope and I were left in the sole charge of our mother.
It is not that she was not a good mother. In truth, I think she was not any better or worse than anyone else's mother. She had her interests and her priorities and usually Penelope and I were at or near the top of the list, but not always. We were grown and had careers, she did not have to mother her children as much as other mothers her age did. This was not her fault, it was just the way things were.
Penelope had been working at the Hilton Arc de Triomphe for almost three years by this time. She lived in her own apartment and had her own activities. My mother and I saw her once or twice a month, not more than that.
Even as he lay dying, my father brought us together. We three had not been as close as that day my mother and sister held me as we all cried. Once my father was gone, we broke up very quickly, beginning with Penelope.
Not long after his funeral, Penelope applied for a transfer to another Hilton somewhere else in the world. She did not tell us about this until a couple of months later when her move was approved. She was on her way to Montreal to begin a deputy manager position for less salary. In her mind, it was the price she had to pay to escape from my mother and I.
My mother and Penelope did not speak much about this. Penelope had merely informed us that she was leaving. This was a news bulletin and not something to be debated or negotiated.
One night not long after Penelope has flown away to start her new life in Canada, I return home from a photo shoot and find my mother half drunk and crying in her bedroom with the lights off, a fresh bottle of sherry on her night table. She is still only using half of her bed at this time.
I enter the room slowly, fear rising in my heart. My pulse speeds up and my lips press together into a worried frown.
Mother? I ask. Are you all right?
She does not answer me. She only says, I have failed you girls. I have failed you both.
I am alarmed at this. My mother has always been cold, bitter, and practical, but never insecure about her inadequacies.
I say, Do not say such silly things. You have not failed anyone. Why do you even think that?
Your father is gone, your sister is gone...
You could not help those things, mother.
She manages to stop crying at this point and tries to sit up. She sees me kneeling by her bed much like I knelt by my father, fear and anxiety on my face, on the edge of tears.
She touches my chin. Did Penelope speak to you about why she is so angry at me? How did I wrong her? Can you tell me? Not knowing is such a terrible burden.
Oh mother, I say, you did not wrong her, nor did I. Penelope's problems are her own.
My mother looks at me expectantly; her eyes look shiny and white from the light in the hallway, like she is blind.
Even though my sister did not speak to me about her plans any more than she did my mother, I knew exactly why she had to do what she did.
Our mother was not a bad mother and I was not a bad sister. At least I do not think so. Our only crime was, neither of us were our father. That was enough for Penelope to leave home. But I cannot tell my mother this; she would not understand.
I say, You must not blame Penelope or yourself for any of this. It is not Penelope's fault. Distance is in her nature. It is just the way things are.
That much, at least, was true.
* * * * *
I do not even finish stocking the shelf. After I come out of Catharine's office, I take off my Chapters vest, hang it on the rack in the employee break room, take my things and leave.
I do not go anywhere in particular. Mainly, I wander through the mall, going in and out of stores, not really looking at anything, not really shopping.
To tell you the truth, it is very sad for me to leave Chapters. It did not pay very much, but I did not care because I did not need the money. It did, however, give me some stability. It is nice to have a routine because when one has a routine, one is less inclined to realize how little actually happens in one's life.
Working at Chapters was something to do and, thinking about my 's'il vous plait' made me realize, it was something for me to care about also.
I hang about the mall for a while like a teenager between classes, until it is almost time for Erik to take lunch. Then, I go to Bakery Garden to buy a baguette and Evian. Ben is not there, so I go home.
I go to Bakery Garden at around lunch everyday for the rest of the week to see if Ben will show up, and incredibly (at least to me), I see him on the third day when he well knows I do not have a shift. He is sitting at a booth against the wall writing in a notebook.
I go over without first buying food. He looks up as I approach and says with genuine surprise, Hey Gen. What are you doing here? It is Thursday.
Every day is the same to me now, I reply and sit down. I quit my job.
Oh no. Did something happen?
I shrug. I do not wish to talk about it right now. I only wanted to see if I would meet you here so I can get your contact and stay in touch.
Sure, of course.
He turns his notebook to a new page and writes down his phone number and email, which he rips out and gives to me.
I look at it and say, Ben the Writer, hm?
That is a typing error. It was supposed to be Ben the Waiter.
I laugh. I take his pen and leave my email and telephone number in his notebook too.
So what are you going to do now? he asks.
I am not sure. Just relax for a while, perhaps. I will try to work on this...
I open my bag and take out my last souvenir from Chapters: a copy of Anna Karenina.
Well then, he says, by the time you are finished that book, you will hopefully know what is next.
I truly pray it does not take that long, I reply.
I am right; it does not.
[à suivre...]
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