Chicago
Televisions at the Indianapolis airport showed that Bush was ahead by 210 votes, with one district left to recount. Who ever thought the presidential election would come down to the number of people you’d find in a movie theater? It might be resolved tonight, but I doubt it.
I liked the Star Market in Somerville and was surprised that Tiffany goes instead to the corner store in her neighborhood, which is much more expensive. Even a coffeepot would save her money, but instead she makes it by the cup. I always thought that Dad would be good at teaching low-income people how to grocery shop. He’s smart with coupons and bulk-buying, but when you have no money and are miserable, I guess you can’t get too worked up over a ten-pound bag of pinto beans. When I was broke I shopped very carefully, but then again I was never clinically depressed. I keep reflecting on my conversations with Tiffany, and it’s frustrating. The slightest hint of criticism sends her over the edge, so I would wind up saying nothing. It’s probably for the best, as most people don’t really want advice.
November 19, 2000
New York
After landing in Denver, I ran to the smoking lounge, where I saw a woman hotboxing a cigarette while pushing a baby confined to a wheelchair. Bringing ordinary children into the smoking lounge is enough to earn you glares, but a baby in a wheelchair could possibly lead to a lynching. Boy, that took nerve.
December 14, 2000
Paris
Apparently I don’t have AIDS. The French bank received my blood test and approved my mortgage, so, though I haven’t yet read it on a piece of paper, I’m guessing I’m negative. This is sort of major, as, for the past fifteen years, I’ve just naturally assumed I was infected. Every time I sweat at night, every time I get a sore or run a fever, I think that it’s finally kicked in. It wasn’t always at the front of my mind, but it was always there. It sounds goofy, but it’s going to take a while for the news to sink in. I’m not disappointed; I just need to figure out what to do between now and the time I develop cancer.
Sophie and Philippe picked me up in a taxi and we went to a TV station in an ugly suburb. This was for a cable program called Paris Première hosted by a handsome anchorman who stood at a desk and read from slips of paper rather than a monitor. I’d been offered the option of speaking in English, but I just went ahead and did it in French.
The segment lasted maybe five minutes and it passed quickly. I then had my makeup removed and watched on the monitors as the host had a fit and yelled at the cameramen. There was something wrong with the placement of an object, and when it happened a second time he got even uglier. It was fun. My seven o’clock interview was canceled, so after the TV appearance Sophie and I went to the office, where I signed thirty books and then walked home.
Apparently the Supreme Court ruled in Bush’s favor, so last night Al Gore conceded. I had to call Dad for some information and the conversation got scary when he started talking about the election. He’s always been a Republican, but it saddened me when he started quoting Rush Limbaugh and trashing what he called “the liberal mainstream media.” It’s always the papers’ fault. Conservatives tell the truth. Everyone else lies. Dad was foaming at the mouth over how Gore tried to steal the election. “I’ve been so upset I haven’t been able to sleep,” he said.
Last night Hugh went to dinner with Leslie and paid $130 for a baked potato wrapped in aluminum foil. It came accompanied by a teaspoon of caviar. There was a bowl of borscht and a tiny dessert, but still, the centerpiece was a 35-cent potato. He was shocked by the price and tried to justify it by saying that in the past Leslie had often paid for his dinner. He’d saved money over the years, and now he was spending a little. Yes, but for a potato? “And I got to sit next to Yves Saint Laurent,” he said. This still didn’t justify $130, and he knew it. Besides, ten minutes after taking his seat, Yves Saint Laurent signaled the waiter and asked to be moved. For the past week, Hugh has been painting for Diane Johnson, and the potato amounted to two days’ worth of work.
2001
January 13, 2001
Paris
Yesterday at Shoppi I noticed a black man wearing a crocheted jester’s hat and bell-bottom jeans trimmed in lace. The first time I saw him, he was looking at fish and pushing a baby carriage. I dismissed him as a nut, but then I decided he was just a father, maybe a musician. At the fruit and vegetable scales I stepped over to look at the child and saw that it was a doll—white, maybe two feet tall, and dressed in a hooded down jacket. It wasn’t a baby but a little girl with matted blond hair that had obviously been washed with soap. Amy and I stood behind the man in line and listened as he held a conversation with her. “Hello,” he said, and then, in a higher voice, “I need gloves.”
It was, he explained, his daughter talking. “She is cold tonight, but so is everyone.”
The man said that he and Michael Jackson were both fathers, and that it was a lot harder than it looked. He kissed the doll on the head and told me that portable phones had improved the world’s mood. In the ’60s everyone was very serious, but now, due to technology, people were lightening up. The doll complained about the long wait and he comforted her, saying they’d be home soon. The man was buying two whole trout and four cartons of orange juice. He was very nice to the cashier and she was nice back, each of them wishing the other a happy New Year.
I told the story to Manuela last night, and she accused me of making it up. Then I told the story of Chantal’s father beating his dog to death with a stick. Hugh was there to back me up, which ultimately made my doll story more credible. Plus I had Amy as an eyewitness.
January 22, 2001
Paris
We had dinner at Peggy’s with Armistead and an American painter named Richard. Steven had told me about him, but it didn’t register until he mentioned he’d inherited the estate of the surrealist painter Leonor Fini. At one point, the conversation turned to a San Francisco cellist named Dorothy. “Oh, I’d love to go to her house,” Peggy said. “She’s bald.”
I love the way her mind works. Later she told a story about her and her best friend, Flicka, dating a pair of Samoan cousins when they were in their twenties. The guy she went out with was named Ziki Fuapopo, and the story she told involved his mother, a pile of cocaine, and a group of men dressed in lavalavas.
March 21, 2001