That afternoon, I had a second call from an unknown number. Thinking I wouldn't let the phantom escape me again, I gripped the phone. It was not him, but an acquaintance, Chloé--whom I know from my Diplomat. It had been a while since we'd talked, but when we had met, she wanted to set me up with someone who lived in Annecy and worked for the UN. He was older, she said, forty-two. But I hadn't heard from her since we met.
¨Are you still single?¨ she asked through the phone. I felt a soupir rise and fall in my chest, deep and heavy. I replied in the affirmative, then added:
¨Was it you that tried calling me on Wednesday? Three times on an unknown number?¨
¨No,¨ she said. Another heart drop. I had hoped to sweet baby Jesus it had been Chloé, that my FWB had just left the silence between us, hadn't tried to get a hold of me at all. I still do not know if it was him or not. Chloé then explained that there was a young State Department officer that had arrived ten days ago, another lawyer, this time a tax lawyer, looking to figure out the social scene in Paris. I gave her the green light to connect us through e-mail, shot him a message, and he called me to set up dinner and drinks that evening.
We went to Les Editeurs at the Carrefour de l'Odéon, and the first order of business was wine. Looking at wine menus is painful for me right now, because I want to forget forget forget forget the hills of the Vaucluse, the luscious curves of the Vallée du Rhône, the land of these ruby red wines
that pour their souls into thin stemmed glasses on tables at restaurants like these. The land of the FWB. There are three wine shops or so on the rue du Bac and the rue de Grenelle and I pass them as fast as I can, I cannot bear to look at the bottles.
When the young diplomat was given his glass, I showed him how to swirl and smell for maximum effect. I cannot let go of these gestures anymore.
Instead I tried focusing on dinner. I had a delicious pavé de saumon with sweet mashed potatoes and for dessert, French toasted brioche with a caramel sauce and one tiny scoop of caramel icecream. This was followed by drinks at the Pub St. Germain (a kir royal au cassis for me thank you). This young lawyer was nice, but not my cup of tea. And it was completely platonic anyway, but nice to not be alone on a Friday night in my studio. I needed distraction.
We then wandered near the Fontaine St. Michel looking for a pub he had been to earlier in the week but whose address he could no longer remember, which lead us to cross the river to the Marais where I introduced him to the Lizard Lounge, which only makes me miss my adopted uncle Diplomat. When days were bad, or not so bad too, we'd get a drink and chat there. I cannot forget the people and places I hold dear, my mind conjures them immemorial.
This has been a long, rough week as an ex-pat: it's an emotional roller coaster, because when the going gets tough I want nothing more than a hug from the people who are farthest away from me. When it's really bad it makes me consider moving home, but I know if I just threw in the towel and got on a plane, I would not be content with myself either. I love my loves, but France is also one of my biggest loves. Why cannot I be content with simple things? I will never erase this country from my mind.
At the Lizard Lounge, the show really got started. The Young Diplomat ordered us several rounds of shots and I had a mixed drink, but I also have no tolerance, and France has slimmed me to the point that I have even less weight on me to hold back the alkie. I barely drink as is, which doesn't help either. But I wanted to forget forget forget.
We left the Lizard Lounge towards one thirty and then found our way back on the métro to Café Mabillon, where we made the ever wise choice of ordering absinthe. And mojitos. I was done in for. I wanted to erase my mind completely. My mind floated elsewhere, detached from my body and left me empty eyed and aloof. But this Young Diplomat was hitting on me like none other, though I was not responding to his advances.
¨You have these outstanding eyes,¨ he said. And all I could think was how FWB pulled me aside in Carpentras while we walked hand in hand and looked me straight in the eyes with a calm, soothing force and told me how green my eyes were, with specs of brown-ish red in them, he studied them, plumbed them nimbly, told me how truly beautiful they were. I heard his voice and the echo of his très joli in my mind.
¨What are you thinking about?¨ he asked.
This is the single dominion every human wants over another, the barriers that separate us, the one defense and sovereignty we have: no other human being can ever have access to our conscience, we are encased separately in bodies that close our thoughts off to the world. And yet this is what we want so desperately: to know what the other is thinking, the way Marcel wants to know Albertine's mind and never will.
¨Nothing,¨ I replied. ¨I'm drunk.¨
Oublies. Oublies. Oublies.
Tears were rolling lightly down my cheeks, but in the dim light were hard to see. I wiped them conspicuously. I'd been messaging my BFF in California about how I messed up, about how I pushed the FWB too far, how I really felt something for him, that all I could do was cry. She told me not to cry, to put my big girl pants on, to move on.
¨I'm trying,¨ I said. ¨I hate this.¨
¨I know you are. It sucks but it's the best thing you can do. You actually care when stuff ends.¨
And in my drunken stupor I added: ¨I just want FWBBBBBBB.¨
Young Diplomat asked me what I was thinking about again. I replied in the same. But eyes were probably floating up to thoughts of what I have allowed to escape me, because I did not have the patience to let things lie, to breathe.
But silence speaks louder than words.
And now for the silence of l'oubli.
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