“Oh, kiss my ass,” the bearded man spat.
He was quiet for a few minutes but started up again when the pilot announced a baggage-identification check. A few of our fellow passengers had gone missing and we couldn’t proceed until their luggage had been removed from the plane. This involved unloading the cargo hold and spreading its contents out on the runway. In groups of twenty we were instructed to disembark, identify our suitcases, and reboard. The process took over an hour, and we didn’t take off until two fifteen, by which point the whole thing had become a terrible comedy. The bearded man brightened with his third glass of champagne and fell asleep shortly afterward. Her crossword puzzle finished, his wife put her head on his shoulder and quietly, so as not to wake him, chewed the end of her pencil.
February 8, 2002
Paris
Yosef called yesterday afternoon, asking if I’d found the time to read his screenplay. I told him I hadn’t and he said, “Well, I read your book and hated it.” He translated my laugh as “Tell me more, please,” and went on to offer a detailed critique of Barrel Fever.
It didn’t bother me, as the book is almost ten years old and I hate it now too. On top of that, it’s sort of exciting to know someone who’s that direct. I listened to him, certain that, should I hate his screenplay, I’d never admit it. The directness will always be one-sided.
February 9, 2002
Paris
I met Yosef at the Viaduc des Arts and we took the train to his riding stables in the Bois de Boulogne. Before leaving I’d resolved to be more interesting, but by the time we reached the Métro station, I felt that I’d failed and it was too late to make up for it. He’s a very nice guy, but I couldn’t seem to remember what friends talk about. “What did you have for dinner last night?” I asked. “Did your dog sleep well?”
He asked me a few questions in French and then resorted to English, saying, “I forgot. It’s easier for you.” I wanted to say that French was fine but felt it would be burdening him even further. “What will you eat tonight?” I asked. “Will your dog stay up late?”
The stables were large and broken up into different areas. In one building, a teacher instructed a group of young women in how to apply a horseshoe. He kept telling his pupils, “Decontractez,” which means “relax.” Yosef said it’s the most used word in any sports-related conversation. He said that the French invented both laziness and the belief that rules were meant to be broken, and I wondered if he was saying that because he’s Swiss.
We walked around in the mud and rain and then visited the stable café for a cup of coffee. It was a large, sad place, nearly deserted. Through a glass wall we could see teenage girls on horseback trotting around in a circle. While we sat there, Yosef told me of the time he visited Munich and stole a bicycle. It’s the second episode of petty theft he’s admitted to, and again he made it sound very reasonable. “All around me, people were riding bikes and enjoying themselves, so I thought, Why not me?” He said he’d planned to return it when he was finished, but the police stopped him before he could even leave the park. “It was,” he said, “a real fiasco.”
On the train back, Yosef asked what kind of animal I might be if I were suddenly transformed into a cartoon character. I didn’t quite understand the question, so he offered an example, saying that he himself would be a bear. “Sometimes I am cuddly like a panda,” he said, “but if I get in a bad mood, watch out!” I tried to imagine him as a cartoon bear dressed in a raincoat and yellow sneakers and decided that, with his red hair and penchant for stealing, he’d probably make a much better fox.
“So come on,” he said. “What are you?” I’d never given it much thought but figured I’d probably be an ant. When Hugh and I moved into the new apartment, I carried everything but the furniture, making six or seven trips a day from the old place to the new one. When I pictured all our belongings, it seemed futile, so I never thought beyond the load I was transporting at the time. Books, shoes, pots and pans, the television: I was like an ant deconstructing a scrap of bread.
Yosef seemed dissatisfied with my answer and announced that I’d most likely be an oyster. “Because sometimes you look at me and I have no idea what you are thinking.”
“How can you tell if an oyster is looking at you in the first place?” I asked. “They don’t even have eyes, do they?”
“Well,” Yosef said, “you know what I mean.”
It seemed vaguely insulting to be compared to an oyster. I wanted to replead my case for the ant, but instead I just let it go. He invited me to his house for a piece of pie, but I begged off. “I’m super busy right now,” I said. Then I came back to my apartment and took a bath, counting the hours until Hugh came home.
Over coffee Yosef taught me the word beauf, which is short for beau-frère. It means “brother-in-law,” but the shortened version connotes an element of tedium. A beauf branché is a brother-in-law who mistakenly considers himself to be hip.
February 12, 2002
Paris
Sunday at three a.m., an American couple had a fight on the street in front of our building. I’m guessing they were in their late twenties, both drunk. Apparently the girl had had her jacket stolen at the bar.
Her: Well, I told you to watch it.
Him: That isn’t the point.
Her: Then forget about it. I can get a new fucking passport.
Him: Well, I’m not going to forget about it. I’m not.
Her: You’re just mad because you gave it to me.
Him: Hey, that is not the point. Yes, I gave it to you. It was expensive. It looked damned good on you, but that is not the point.
Her: Oh, please.
Him: The point is that you just stood there and let them laugh at you.
Her: They weren’t laughing.
Him: They were. You said that stupid stuff and let them laugh because—(He grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her against the wall, a separate slam for every word.)—you (slam) don’t (slam) have (slam) any (slam) self- (slam) respect (slam).
She recovered herself, and then, as if it were a scene memorized from a play, they started again from the top.
Her: Well, I told you to watch it…
March 2, 2002