Katerina Read online

  *

  I vomit on a table full of people and full of food at the Texas Star. I get thrown out and permanently banned no more Texas girls for me, though there hadn’t been any for a long time.

  *

  I buy a gram of coke and a half-gallon bottle of whiskey Louis is away with a new boyfriend they’re skiing in Switzerland. The idea of Louis on skis makes me laugh I imagine he spends more time looking at ski pants than he spends actually engaging in the activity of skiing. Either way he is gone and he is happy and I am happy for him and I am alone and I get fucked-up. At some point, I don’t know when, I call San Francisco. I suspect I do it more than once though I do not know. When I wake up I see the phone off the hook and the number next to it, I wait until an acceptable hour and I call again, I want to apologize I’m embarrassed and ashamed I just want to apologize. A woman I do not know answers the phone asks for my name though I suspect she knows it already, when I tell her she says please do not ever call here again, there is no one here who wants to speak with you.

  *

  Thanksgiving I get invited to a turkey dinner. It’s at American University in Paris I go with a couple students who occasionally drop by Polly. The dinner is in the cafeteria even though I’m the same age as some of the students, a year or two older than others, I feel much older, feel like school was a decade ago. The cafeteria has large tables formally set, a turkey and mashed potatoes and corn and stuffing on each, white wine and beer to drink. I don’t eat much drink a fair amount but not enough to lose my mind. After dinner people mingle around, talk about Christmas plans, about the end of the semester, about school gossip who’s fucking who, who’s fucking the professors. I meet a girl named Natalie from Los Angeles we have a couple mutual friends we decide to leave and have a drink elsewhere. Natalie has olive skin dark eyes long black hair long thin elegant hands, she’s wearing all black a button-down shirt opened low, a skirt and black tights, black leather boots. She’s smart and funny and has read a million books, she’s studying art history and wants to be a curator. We go to La Rotonde she digs it there, I tell her it’s too fancy for me she laughs. We have a couple drinks talk about art she tries to explain why I should dig Salvador Dalí, I’m not buying it melted clocks don’t turn me on. A couple of her friends from school show up one of them has a boyfriend with her who is a writer living in Prague, he went to Exeter and Brown and he’s published stories and he’s won awards and he believes he’s the next great American novelist and he doesn’t think much of me. For most of the time we ignore each other, as I tell Natalie the story of how I ended up in Paris he interrupts me.

  You’re a writer?

  Yeah.

  Where you published?

  In the Seine.

  That a magazine?

  It’s a river. The big one. Over there.

  I point out the window. Natalie laughs, he does not, asks me another question.

  Did you study writing?

  Nope.

  And you’re not published.

  Nope.

  So you’re an aspiring writer.

  If that’s how you think of it, it’s not how I do.

  Publish a story you’re a writer, until then, you’re aspiring.

  I’ll never publish a story.

  Why not?

  I don’t want to write little stories. I don’t want to be in some dumb journal no one reads with ten other people and their little stories. I’m here to write books. Big crazy dangerous books that fuck people up and change their lives.

  Hemingway died a long time ago, tough guy.

  I don’t give a fuck about Hemingway.

  Then why are you in Paris?

  Because many of the best books ever written were written here, and many of the best writers who ever lived, lived here.

  Prague is the new Paris. It’s where everything cool is happening.

  You’re cool?

  I’m a real writer.

  You might have a fancy degree, and you might have published some preciously composed story somewhere, but you’ve got no chance against someone like me.

  Oh yeah?

  Yeah.

  Writing isn’t a competition.

  Yes, it is.

  No, it’s not.

  Then why do they publish a list every week telling people what place they’re in? Why do they count the number of copies sold and the number of languages translated? Why do bookstores have special places for certain books, and why does history remember the winners and forget the losers? You might have a fancy fucking degree, and you might have skills I don’t have, and you might live in the new hot place for writers to live, but you’re never going to beat me. You can think you will, but you won’t.

  He laughs.

  You’re pretty cocky for a nobody.

  Once or twice a generation some motherfucker burns the world down. This generation it’s going to be me.

  He laughs again.

  Why do you think that?

  I didn’t finish school, and I walked away from everything I cared about when I came here, and I got nothing to lose and nothing to go back to. When you get scared and tired and lose your confidence and wonder whether you’re doing the right thing, you got shit to fall back on. I got nothing, not one fucking thing except my faith and my belief and my desire and my rage, and you can’t teach those things, and you’ll never find them if you don’t have them, and you don’t. You might think you do, but I can look into your eyes and see you don’t. You got no chance against me, man. None. You might as well give up now.

  He laughs again.

  You’re out of your mind.

  Yes, I am.

  And you can go fuck yourself.

  Been said before, I’m sure it will be said again.

  He stands, looks at his girlfriend.

  Let’s get out of here.

  She nods, stands, looks at Natalie, speaks.

  See you tomorrow?

  Natalie smiles.

  Yes.

  They leave we watch them go. When they’re gone, Natalie turns to me, smiles, speaks.

  He’s a dick.

  Yeah, but so was I.

  I thought it was hot.

  Thanks.

  I want to fuck. Right now.

  Wonderful.

  How far away do you live?

  Not far.

  Let’s go.

  We leave walk Saint-Placide is about fifteen minutes away the entire time I think about what it’s going to be like to kiss her, taste her, be inside her. We get to my building walk into the courtyard up the stairs it’s tense in the best way tension can exist, each glance each touch each breath loaded. I take her hand it’s warm the feel of her soft smooth skin turns me on makes me hard. When we get to the door, the red scarf is on the handle. I shake my head.

  Fuck.

  What?

  We can’t go in there.

  Why?

  My roommate is in there with someone.

  We can find a café, wait.

  Fuck that.

  She laughs.

  Got another idea?

  We’ll find somewhere.

  We walk back down the stairs into the courtyard I see the mailroom. It’s small and empty, it’s late no one should be getting their mail now. I lead her into the mailroom there’s a light switch on the wall when you hit it the lights go on for two minutes turn off automatically. I start kissing her, her tongue is soft and heavy it tastes like red wine I press her against the wall. My hands wander so do hers I open her shirt take out her tits lick them suck her nipples they’re hard in my mouth. She reaches into my pants whispers I want you inside me I tear her tights, rip them off her legs there’s nothing beneath them. There are two bins next to us for garbage and discarded mail. I lift her onto one of them she spreads her legs I step between them and move inside her deep, hard, wet, home. I kiss her, move slowly and go as deep as I can we interlock hands moan as both sets of our hips move, find each other, move. As we start to move faster, harder I hear the door click
, the door open, the lights go on. I turn my head, shocked, see a man step into the mailroom. It is my old friend.

  The Baker.

  He looks at me I look at him our eyes meet I’m shocked. He sees me, Natalie, what we’re doing, he smiles, nods, speaks.

  Bonsoir, monsieur.

  I smile, the Baker who hates me, respond.

  Bonsoir, monsieur.

  He walks toward the mailboxes, which are against the far wall. I’m still hard, still inside Natalie, I turn to her she looks shocked, slightly confused, slightly nervous, slightly amused. I smile at her, shrug, she laughs smiles back. I hold her hands a little tighter she holds mine, it’s a ridiculous situation nothing to do but smile. We both look toward the Baker, who is casually opening his mailbox as if we aren’t there, or he hasn’t seen us, or as if he often walks into the mailroom to find people fucking on the trash bins. He takes out his mail, takes his time looking at it, acts as if he doesn’t know we’re there, as if he doesn’t know I’m inside Natalie, as if her shirt isn’t open, as if her legs aren’t wrapped around me. He separates his mail, one pile in each hand, turns and walks toward us. He stops at the trash bin next to us, opens it, drops his mail inside. Natalie and I watch him the entire way, as if we don’t believe what is happening. He looks at me, nods again, speaks.

  Bonsoir, monsieur.

  I smile, respond.

  Bonsoir, monsieur.

  He closes the bin, pats me on the back, leaves, hits the light switch on his way out. Natalie and I burst out laughing I’m still inside her, her legs are still wrapped around me. I lean forward kiss her she kisses me back and our hips start moving again, gradually faster, gradually harder. When we finish we walk to a café on the corner have a drink come back to the apartment the scarf is gone she stays the night leaves before I’m awake.

  *

  The Baker is now my best friend. I walk into the boulangerie and he greets me with open arms and a hearty bonjour. His wife smiles at me. They give me a baguette straight out of the oven, crispy on the outside warm on the inside, instead of one of the cold ones from the bins. They ask me how I’m doing and we chat about the weather for a minute or two. When I leave I say merci, they tell me they’re looking forward to seeing me tomorrow. I walk out and laugh, ahhh the joys of Thanksgiving.

  *

  I go back to writing, drinking, writing, drinking, sleeping. I think about the writer in Prague, wonder what he’s doing, if he’s in a café, if he’s reading, if he’s looking at art, if he’s working. I can imagine the story he told his friends, other writers from fancy schools, young and published, living in the new Paris. I imagine them all laughing at me, poor fool, delusional idiot, drunk talentless shit-talker. I work as hard as I have ever worked, drinking only to keep the sickness at bay. I want to prove myself. I want to make him remember me. I want him to walk into a bookstore and have to confront a book with my name on the front of it. I want him to have to read it. And I want him to hate it. And hate that I was right. And hate that he remembers me. And hate that I won. A chip on my shoulder. Yeah, there is, a big fat fucking chip. Whatever gets me up in the morning, forces me to work, to take risks, to do the best I can do, to keep the faith and the belief and the discipline, whatever it takes, I hope that chip is there forever.

  *

  I write 75 pages in ten days. A book called Waiting for Sarah, a doomed romance, the book based on Le Misanthrope that I had put away, but came back to, with the new pages and the old I have 125 in total. I take a day off I want to walk to Sacré-Cœur but it’s raining and it’s cold, the rain is almost snow. I don’t own a waterproof jacket and I don’t want to get sick, so I take the Métro, rue du Bac to Abbesses. When I sit down in the charming old shitbox of a train car I look up and I see Katerina. She’s in an ad for a chain of fancy clothing stores, she appears to be skipping down a street, she’s wearing a cute dress and carrying a fancy bag and has delightful shoes on her feet, she’s smiling wide her crazy beautiful hair flowing behind her. I laugh, I had been thinking about her earlier in the day, she had told me that the idea of turning Le Misanthrope into a novel was a terrible idea, I was wondering if I should find her and give her the pages and ask her if she was right. Life is weird. When you think about something and it appears in front of you. When you think about someone and they call you or you bump into them. When you want something and in some unexpected way you get it. Doesn’t happen all the time, but it happens enough. I don’t know why or how or if it’s just luck or coincidence or if we only notice when it happens and don’t when it doesn’t, which is most of the time. But I notice today and I laugh and I look up at the roof of the charming old shitbox of a train car and I ask God if he’s messing with me, playing with me, sending me a message of some kind, I don’t know if anyone hears me or if I’m just a fool talking to a metal ceiling but I like thinking that seeing her wasn’t just luck or coincidence but the deliberate act of someone who cares for me, or is sending me a message. I say thank you, God. I nod with respect. I look back at Katerina skipping and smiling and beautiful, and I hope wherever she is that she actually feels that way, that she’s smiling, skipping, that her beautiful red hair is flowing wildly behind her, that she’s happy and content, that God is watching over her.

  *

  I read the pages. I ask the Baker for a box he says anything for you, mon ami! I find some rocks at square Boucicaut. I walk to Pont Royal. Pages and rocks into the box. The box into the Seine. A big nasty green and brown loogie after the box. It’s easier the second time. Like getting punched in the face. First time hurts the worst, every time after it’s a little less.

  *

  But it still hurts and I still deal with pain the only way I know how to deal with it. I drink I wander I drink I pass out I drink I get into fights I drink I wake up without knowing where I am or how I got there I drink.

  I drink.

  I drink.

  From a few minutes after I’m up until I descend into oblivion.

  I drink.

  December in Paris.

  It’s cold the temperature in the thirties.

  There’s rain and sometimes snow.

  Louis goes home to see his family in Lyon.

  Philippe to Beaulieu-sur-Mer.

  The days are short I’m lucky if I am awake for three hours of sunlight. Or graylight. Or whatever light there might be, it makes me cringe I prefer the darkness.

  I have a three-day blackout I was in a bar in Montmartre I wake up on the sidewalk near place Jeanne-d’Arc I don’t know what I did or where I went or why.

  I go back to the apartment I’m cold and sick, I spend the day in bed I’d rather be cold and sick with weather than sick with withdrawal.

  I call my parents they want me to come home for Christmas I tell them I can’t afford it they offer to pay for it I tell them I love them and I appreciate it but I’d rather stay I don’t want them to see me in the state I’m in.

  Two-day blackout, day in bed.

  Sick.

  Vomit every morning with the first drink sometimes bile sometimes blood sometimes both. Vomit several times more every day sometimes bile sometimes blood sometimes both.

  I spend Christmas alone I go to Maison de Gyros for a special dinner I go to Polly for a special drink the streets are empty so I wander I walk into Notre-Dame it’s crowded with worshippers celebrating the birth of Jesus, I sit in the back row and I cry whatever I thought might happen when I came to Paris it wasn’t this I’m sick and alone and I don’t give a fuck about anything anymore and I don’t know how to stop it, so I sit and I cry. I stay long after everyone else is gone I sit alone in the back row and I cry.

  Two-day blackout one in bed.

  It snows an inch or two it stays on the ground it’s cold I’m cold.

  Two more days.

  Blackout.

  Bed.

  Another day.

  Blackout.

  Blackout.

  Black.

  Out.

  *

&
nbsp; I wake up in a bed. It’s not my bed. It’s big and fluffy the sheets are white and clean. There are pillows tons of pillows I’m in them and surrounded by them they smell like flowers or detergent made to smell like flowers. I’m under a giant comforter it’s heavy and it feels wonderful the crisp soft cover, the weight of it on my body, I open my eyes. I’m in a large simple bedroom. There are simple, modern nightstands made of pale wood on either side of the bed, lamps and glasses of water on each. There are stacks of books on the floor, stacks and stacks of books piled against the wall, on the edges of the room. The walls are covered with crayon drawings of flowers red and blue and pink and purple and green, prints of famous still-life paintings of flowers are tacked or taped next to the drawings. There are huge French windows the sun is streaming through them. I sit up, reach for the glass of water closest to me. I’m not wearing a shirt or socks but my boxers are on. The water is cold and tastes good, my mouth is dry I can feel it moving down my throat into my stomach, which is empty. My head hurts and the streaming sun makes it worse though it’s beautiful, the sun, streaming, and it makes me smile. I don’t know where I am or how I got here or how long I’ve been here, but this is the best place I can remember being for as long as my memory can take me right now. I finish the water put the glass back on the nightstand move over to the other side of the bed reach for the second glass. As I start to drink it I hear footsteps coming toward me, I watch the door the water moving down my throat into my stomach cold and crisp it’s wonderful. Katerina walks into the bedroom. I lower the glass, smile, she’s wearing white cotton pajamas with little flowers all over them, carrying two cups of coffee. I wonder, very literally, if I died and this is some version of Heaven. She smiles and speaks.

  Hey, Writer Boy.

  I smile.

  Hi.

  She walks to my side of the bed.

  Move over, give me some room.

  I move over, she offers me one of the cups.