Katerina Read online

  Why you so sad?

  He nods toward the grave.

  Jim, man.

  Yeah, he’s in there somewhere.

  He’s everywhere, man.

  Everywhere?

  Yeah.

  Where you from?

  Nova Scotia.

  Canadian?

  Yeah.

  And they like the Doors in Canada?

  Live for them, man. Live for them.

  I stare at him for a moment. Look at the girl and her tears, look at all the shit spread everywhere, written everywhere, hear the shit still being played, look back.

  You really like the Doors?

  Yeah, man. Live for them. You don’t?

  No, man, I don’t.

  Why you here then, man?

  Was just wandering around, looking at the graves.

  This is the one, man. Jim is here.

  I laugh. He seems offended.

  Why you laughing, man?

  The Doors kind of sucked.

  He shakes his head.

  No.

  I nod.

  They did. That corny fucking organ. Those awful lyrics. That Light My Fire nonsense, it all kind of sucked.

  The girl looks up at me, horrified. The dude looks like I’ve just spit in his face.

  You should respect the dead, man.

  I laugh.

  You think all this shit everywhere is respecting the dead?

  It’s what Jim would have wanted, man. It’s all for him.

  Another reason he sucks.

  The girl starts crying. I laugh. The dude recoils. He puts his arm around her, comforts her. I feel a little bad for being an asshole, but not really. He looks up at me.

  You should leave, man. You’re upsetting my lady.

  I’ll leave if you agree to pick up whatever shit you’ve left here.

  Why, man?

  Because this is a beautiful place.

  Yeah.

  And all this shit makes it ugly.

  It’s for Jim, though.

  He’s fucking dead. Has been since you were a baby. It doesn’t make a bit of difference to him.

  Yeah, you’re probably right.

  So pick up whatever shit you put down, maybe a bit more, and I’ll walk away. If not, I’m just going to sit here and make fun of you.

  I’ll make that deal.

  Cool.

  Cool.

  Tell your lady I’m sorry.

  She looks up.

  And if she ever wants me to light her fire, I promise to take her higher.

  I laugh, he shakes his head, the girl looks down at the grave and looks like she’s going to cry again. I walk away, past all the garbage, past all the dumb mementos, I stuff my pockets full of crap to throw into the first garbage can I see, I pass three more young men on their way to see the tomb, they’re smoking weed, which normally I would be in favor of, but not here.

  One million under the ground, two to three more interred.

  Their peace.

  Their rest.

  Their eternity.

  Fuck Jim Morrison and his stupid grave.

  *

  Place des Vosges is my new favorite place to read. I bring a blanket and wear my beret sometimes I borrow a turtleneck from Louis usually black but occasionally red. Vosges is a sweet little park, a perfect square divided into four perfect squares, fountains and grass in each square, some fancy old trees in the middle, all surrounded by luxurious red-brick apartment buildings filled with rich guys and their beautiful wives and their perfect children. Something is different about the grass. It’s thicker, more comfortable, like a tickly mattress, like a field filled with feathers stuck upright into the ground, it’s green like a summer leaf not a speck of brown anywhere, I imagine some grass expert created it for some royal motherfucker to enjoy, after which the expert was killed by the royal motherfucker, probably by guillotine, so no one else would ever have the secret extra-green fluffy grass formula. It’s a comfortable park. Mellow. Not heavily trafficked like Luxembourg or the Tuileries. I can read in peace. I can think deep thoughts all day, the deepest motherfucking thoughts I’ve ever thought, enhanced by the turtleneck and the beret, and I can think them without being interrupted. I can watch the young couples walk by and imagine what my life might have been like with my girlfriend from home, so nice and sweet and stable, so domestic, so promising, or I can watch young couples and imagine life with Katerina if I were a billionaire who could buy her mom a big house and pay for her brother’s school and allow her to stop modeling, except when she fucking felt like it. I find peace in place des Vosges. Peace and calm in the fancy green grass amongst the beautiful buildings and the happy people, peace and calm are things I do not know, have not known, in some ways they make me uncomfortable, I know rage and madness and mayhem, peace and calm make me want more, more, more. It’s still warm but not hot, sometimes cool but not cold, the leaves on the trees are starting to turn, a blanket a book a bottle of water a cigarette or two deep thoughts and dreams that will never come true. Peace and calm I like it. Solitude I like it. Alone in the world as it lives around me I like it. Use whatever dumb analogy there shelter from the storm or the eye of the hurricane or an island in the stream I find it here in place des Vosges. Sometimes I stay past the sun setting I lie and stare up at the sky no stars the lights of Paris drown them out, but I can imagine and I place them where I want to see them the stars of mind the stars of my heart the stars of my soul stars that I create the stars of my life in the night sky above me. I can dream on them. Wish upon them. Sometimes cry because of them. Miss them and yearn for them and hope they will fall for me or into me or upon me the stars of my life real and imagined in the night sky above me place des Vosges.

  *

  Even though you see it everywhere, even though it looms day and night over the entirety of the city, even though it is unavoidable and inescapable, I have thus far successfully dodged stepping on the grounds of or going to the viewing vistas of La Tour Eiffel. One morning I say fuck it and have a strong coffee and put on my sneakers and walk over and work my way through all the motherfuckers selling dumb souvenirs and get in line and ride the elevator up and stand on both viewing vistas. Whatever tourists are still in Paris all seem to be there, I look around it’s a nice view but it doesn’t make my heart sing. I leave. I’ll never go back. Fuck La Tour Eiffel. Paris is the Seine. Paris is the smell of coffee on a sidewalk. Paris is the crumbling limestone of a million buildings that would be palaces anywhere else. Paris is a bottle of wine as the sun sets, a beautiful woman smoking a cigarette under an umbrella as it starts to rain, a book you’ve never heard of left on a bench. Paris is sex in an alley. Paris is a forgotten painting in an empty wing of a museum that takes your breath away. Paris is a cathedral where God is no longer worshipped. Paris is not some big dumb piece of metal with a bunch of assholes selling T-shirts and scarves and bad drawings of the big dumb piece of metal. Paris is your broken heart after it has healed, the dawn sky red yellow orange and blue just before the sun appears, the party you’ve always dreamed but have never found. It is not some big dumb piece of metal. I’ll never go back there and I’ll see the city without it, despite its presence. I’ll never go back. Fuck you, La Tour Eiffel.

  *

  I can’t stop drinking.

  I try but I can’t.

  I go to AA meetings and I go to churches and pray.

  I get down on my knees next to my bed and I ask for help.

  But my hands start shaking and my mind starts spinning and my heart starts racing and the only way to stop them is to start again.

  So I do.

  It makes me hate myself, it makes me ashamed of myself, it makes me want to die.

  But I can’t stop.

  So I forget about my dumbass rules.

  Or at least the ones regarding alcohol.

  I take.

  I drink.

  I consume.

  What I need.

  I can’t stop.

  *


  At the Banana with Louis and a group of his friends, four or five men and a couple of women. They call me the token straight and I am most likely the only heterosexual man in the joint. It’s loud and bright there are men wearing dresses and men in thongs dancing on pedestals, waitresses with deep voices some stunningly beautiful some fully transformed, others as they are. I dig the disco music it’s bright and happy and makes you smile even when you don’t want to smile. One of Louis’s friends thinks I’m gay, and they are debating the subject, trying to decide if I am in a deep closet or if I am just a straight man who can live with and hang out with gay men. I stay out of the debate, watch the crowd and listen to the disco and drink my gigantic fruity delicious drink, and whenever they ask me my opinion, I just say hétéro. After an hour or so, Louis taps me on the shoulder, speaks.

  We have decided how to settle this debate.

  Thank God, it’s been stressing me out.

  Really?

  No, not at all.

  Well, we have decided.

  Excellent.

  One of Louis’s friends, a tall blue-eyed blond man from Rotterdam named Stijn, who is crushingly handsome, and who if I were gay I would definitely want to fuck, leans forward.

  Have you ever been with a man?

  You mean fucked one?

  Yes.

  No, I’ve never fucked a dude.

  Stijn looks at Louis.

  You see?

  I laugh.

  He doesn’t know.

  Laugh again.

  What don’t I know.

  Louis speaks.

  Whether you like fucking a man or not.

  Maybe the fact that I don’t want to is indicative of the fact that I probably wouldn’t enjoy it.

  One of Louis’s other friends, a dark Frenchman named Guillaume, who is also crushingly handsome, chimes in.

  You don’t know until you try.

  I don’t want to try.

  Stijn speaks.

  Because of your closet.

  I don’t have a closet, just keep my shit in piles on the floor.

  They laugh, Louis speaks.

  I can confirm that, I have the only closet in our apartment.

  Stijn speaks.

  I can see it, I know it, you’re gay.

  I laugh again.

  I’m not.

  One of the women, a beautiful young blond French named Melanie, who is an actress, speaks.

  He’s not gay.

  Guillaume speaks.

  Why do you think that?

  Because I can tell when he looks at me that he wants to fuck me.

  I laugh again, speak.

  True, I do.

  A third friend of Louis’s, a swarthy Italian photographer named Lorenzo, speaks.

  Maybe he’s bi, and he’ll fuck all of us.

  We all laugh, Louis speaks.

  There’s one way to settle this.

  He looks at me.

  Pick one of us, make out with him for one minute, see if your cock gets hard.

  Can I pick Melanie?

  You make out with her after one of us. See which makes your cock harder.

  It’ll be her for sure.

  Stijn speaks.

  No way. Once you taste one of us, you will never go back.

  I look at Melanie.

  You down with this plan?

  She smiles.

  I am.

  You got some gum so my breath will be fresh when we start? I want to make sure you enjoy this.

  She smiles again.

  No gum required, Jay, I’ll enjoy it.

  I smile, turn back to Louis and friends.

  If I do this, you gotta agree that I’m just a hetero who hangs out with gay dudes and stop giving me shit all the time.

  Lorenzo speaks.

  Unless your cock gets hard.

  Unless my cock gets harder than when I make out with Melanie.

  Louis speaks.

  I accept that deal on behalf of all of us.

  I speak.

  Cool.

  Guillaume speaks.

  Now you choose. Who do you want?

  I look at them. All handsome motherfuckers, all in great shape, if I were gay I’d want to fuck them all. Before I can choose, Stijn moves forward, puts his hands on my cheeks, pulls me toward him, starts kissing me. I do not resist, I kiss him back, lips and tongues, his hands are strong, his lips and tongue strong, aggressive, we both stand, kiss, heavily, deeply, I can feel his scruff on my face, his breath heavier than a woman’s breath, his tongue bigger and thicker. Fifteen seconds, twenty-five, forty, he runs one of his hands down my neck, my chest, my stomach, he reaches for my cock

  Which

  Is

  Not

  Hard.

  He kisses me deeper, heavier, more aggressively, tries to reach into my pants, unzip them, I let his hand wander, he goes in, puts my cock, which is still not hard, in his hand, keeps kissing me. Louis yells une minute, I step away, smile, look at Louis, speak.

  Not hard.

  Stijn looks hurt, turns to Louis.

  I can’t believe it.

  Louis laughs.

  Not hard.

  I look at Lorenzo and Guillaume.

  Satisfied?

  Lorenzo speaks.

  Maybe you try with one of us?

  I laugh.

  No, now I get to try with Melanie.

  I turn to Melanie, smile.

  Ready?

  She smiles, stands.

  Yes.

  I step toward her, lean in, my hands on her hips, start to kiss her, slowly, softly, our lips barely touching, tongues dancing, her breath sweet and light, I take one of her hands in mine, the other around to the small of her back pull her into me, lips heavier and deeper, tongues heavier and deeper, I’m immediately hard, completely lost, lost in her kiss, her body against mine, our hands entwined, the faded smell of her perfume, lost. When Louis calls une minute we keep going lips and tongues and hands I can hear him and his friends laughing below the music we keep going. After a few moments I step away, though I don’t want to, and I look to them, smile, speak.

  Anyone need to check.

  Melanie bumps me playfully.

  I will.

  I smile, she reaches for my cock, which is as hard as it gets, gives me a little squeeze, looks at them.

  C’est comme une barre de fer.

  They all laugh. I lean toward her, whisper

  Get the fuck out of here?

  She leans forward, whispers so I can feel her breath on my ear

  Oui.

  I turn back to Louis and friends, smile.

  Been a wonderful night. Happy we resolved our debate. Louis, the scarf will be on the door so don’t bother coming home.

  They laugh.

  Melanie and I leave we get a taxi sit in the back lips tongues hands she takes my cock out I cum in her mouth before we’re halfway home. We go back to the apartment I tie the red scarf on the door and return the favor she cums in my mouth and it’s magnificent. We spend the night saying oui, oui, oui.

  Oui.

  *

  At Polly drinking off one of my free nights Omer tells me Katerina came by looking for me the night before and she asked Omer where I was she wanted to see me. I thank him for the information, and I do not go looking for her.

  *

  Fashion Week approaching you can feel it when it happens Flore and Deux Magots are busier than normal the crowd elegant and sophisticated and beautiful. I avoid going near them I don’t want to see her, I don’t want her to see me. I avoid the 1st avoid the 8th avoid the 4th. I don’t go out with Louis many of his friends work in fashion as assistant designers, stylists, makeup artists, bookers, photographers their world becomes smaller when the shows approach. I stay home read and write go to bars in Montparnasse to sex clubs in Pigalle places I won’t see Katerina or anyone who reminds me of Katerina, on most nights I get blind stinking drunk usually alone. Two friends from school in America leave a message
with Louis they’re spending the fall riding trains around Europe a last bash before they go home to become cogs to save vote obey and fucking die they’re coming to Paris I go out to the Saint-Denis train station and buy three grams of shitty blow figure we’ll get wired get drunk go fucking crazy. They arrive tan and happy they’ve been in Portugal, Spain, Italy, Greece, the South of France staying in the sun before the weather turns, coming north as it does. As I come home from Café du Bac, where I often spend my afternoons drinking coffee and whiskey, I find them sitting on the ground outside the door to my building. I smile, speak.

  Boys.

  Kevin, a rail-thin skinny motherfucker with long black hair, who actually looks like Jim Morrison, which makes me laugh, and who was my roommate for two years at school, stands, gives me a hug, a strong hug for a strong friendship, speaks.

  My man. Been too long.