Katerina Page 4

  Henry said:

  And God knows, when spring comes to Paris the humblest mortal alive must feel that he dwells in paradise.

  When the phone rang I ignored it. When I had to piss I read as I walked to the bathroom and I read as I pissed. When I heard people outside I ignored them. When someone knocked on the door I didn’t respond. I read and smoked and drank and laughed and burned and dreamed and knew. When I read the last word on the last page I knew. I finished my second bottle of wine. Took a shower. Came back to my room. Got dressed and went for a walk and took deep breaths of freezing air and smiled in the darkness and whispered to the stars and I knew. When I started shaking from the cold and my legs were aching I walked toward the building where she lived, I went to see her. She was with friends. Sharing stories about their breaks. They met a guy, they went to Hawaii, they finished their graduate school applications, they got drunk and hooked up with an ex, they got in a fight with a brother sister mother father. She smiled when she saw me stood up and put her arms around me, I smelled her hair kissed her neck her lips took her hands in mine and whispered I missed you, I missed you. She asked where I had been she thought I was coming earlier, I said I went for a walk and stared at the sky and the stars, she laughed and asked me if I was high.

  I smiled.

  In a way.

  Coke?

  Nope.

  You don’t like weed.

  No, generally I do not.

  Santa bring you something weird?

  I nodded.

  He did.

  What?

  A book.

  She laughed.

  Porn?

  Some people think it is.

  Really?

  Yeah, though it’s not.

  I told her about Tropic, how I got it, read it, how it affected me, about Paris, about my plan. She was surprised, confused.

  You’re moving to Paris?

  Yeah.

  To be a writer.

  Yeah.

  But you don’t write.

  I will.

  You think it’s that simple.

  Yes.

  Why not go to writing school?

  Who went to writing school?

  Everyone who wants to be a writer goes to writing school.

  Maybe now. But not a single writer I love went.

  I bet some of them did.

  You can’t teach what they do.

  So how’d they learn?

  They just sat in a room alone and wrote and learned.

  Do that in San Francisco.

  Paris.

  San Francisco.

  Come with me to Paris.

  You finished this book when?

  Couple hours ago.

  You’ll probably move on by next week.

  I won’t.

  I’m not going to change my life to go to Paris so you can be a writer.

  If you had a dream, I’d go with you.

  My dream is San Francisco.

  It’s different.

  Why?

  There are a million people who go to business school.

  There are even more who are aspiring writers.

  It’s not going to be that way.

  What way is it going to be?

  I’m going to be better than everyone else who’s trying.

  Better than people who go to Harvard or Princeton or Stanford?

  Yes.

  I’m not going to Paris, Jay.

  I’m not going to San Francisco.

  I was looking forward to seeing you.

  So was I.

  I thought we’d smile, kiss, hold hands and walk to the bar, have a few drinks, come back here.

  We still can.

  My friends all thought I was crazy for being with you. They warned me, he’s a drunk and a fuck-up and he’ll fuck you over somehow. I never thought it would be over a book, but I guess it is.

  I’m not fucking you over.

  I fell in love with you, we made plans, we talked about a future.

  We can still have one.

  On a writer’s salary? We going to buy a house, have kids?

  You say you want a career? You’ll make money.

  I don’t want to marry an aspiring writer who spends his life scribbling away in some room while I pay his bills.

  Wow.

  I’m sorry.

  You’re not, though. That’s what you think. Cool. You made a mistake, I’m an asshole, I’ll never be shit.

  She didn’t speak, just stared at the floor. I stood.

  I’m gonna go.

  She looked up.

  I’m sorry.

  Yeah.

  I am.

  Me too.

  I smiled, a sad smile, we both knew we were done, whatever we were was gone, this was it. I leaned over, kissed her, let it linger.

  I turned and left, didn’t give her a chance to say anything, don’t know if she would have anyway. I walked out of her house I could hear her roommates getting ready to go out I went back into the night. It was cold dark I could see my breath feel my heart beating feel my heart breaking. Because as much as I loved her, and I loved her more than anyone or anything in my life, and as much as I wanted her, and as much as I might have been able to imagine a future with her, it wasn’t going to happen. Whatever dreams there were had just vanished. I was going to Paris alone. To find my way or destroy myself. To become a writer or fail as spectacularly as possible. To feast to starve to wander to die to become, to scream at the sky and sleep in the gutter and dance on the graves of my heroes. And maybe she’d be right, and I would end up a piece-of-shit failure, but maybe she was wrong, and I’d actually do something. Whatever it was, I knew what would happen with her. She’d finish school and go home and go to business school and get a great job and meet a great guy and go on great dates and great trips and she’d take him home to meet her parents and they’d think he was a great guy and he’d buy her a beautiful sparkling ring and get on one wonderfully healthy and successful knee and she’d act surprised and say yes and cry and they’d get married in a great Napa wedding and live in a great apartment in the city until she got pregnant, at which point they’d move to Marin and they’d join a club and have a couple great kids and the kids would go to great private schools and they’d vacation in Hawaii and Aspen and they’d be some kind of happy and some kind of completely fucking miserable and it would all be great. And I’d go to Paris and roll the fucking dice.

  I went to my room and looked at the book again, blue cover sitting on my bed. I opened it read the first page and laughed when I finished and I knew knew knew. I fucking knew as much as I had ever known anything. Paris. Alone. As soon as I could.

  As soon as I fucking could.

  Los Angeles, 2017

  * * *

  I’m lying in bed, Jay, thinking about you.

  Wonderful.

  We used to spend so much time in bed.

  Yeah?

  Yes.

  Was it fun?

  Most of the time.

  Most of the time?

  Sometimes you were so drunk your cock wouldn’t work. That wasn’t much fun. Or your breath smelled like vomit. That really wasn’t fun. Or you had been sleeping in the streets and smelled like a garbage can. Not fun either.

  So that gives me a timeline.

  It does.

  You knew me when…

  Yes.

  I apologize.

  No need.

  There probably is.

  I owe you one as much as you owe me.

  For what?

  So many things.

  Such as?

  Another time. We can talk about this another time.

  Okay.

  Where are you now?

  In my office.

  What’s your office like?

  It’s a little barn behind my big house.

  What’s on the walls?

  Nothing.

  They’re bare?

  Painted white. But otherwise, yes.

  You used to cover them with pictures and sayings and write on them and draw on them. I remember you wrote You Are a Chump Loser Motherfucker on the wall. It made me laugh.

  Yeah, that phrase traveled with me. Made me want to be better than I am.

  And why no more?

  Don’t know.

  Yes, you do.

  Don’t care anymore.

  Yes, you do.

  I am what I am.

  There’s a desk?

  Yeah, it’s an office. There’s a desk.

  Couch?

  Yeah, big one. Comfortable one.

  Still listen to punk and metal?

  And love songs from the ’80s.

  LOL!

  I’m not gonna lol you back.

  What would you do if I knocked on your door right now?

  Call 911.

  Seriously?

  I still don’t know who this is, or if I actually know you.

  Why do you chat with me?

  It’s something to do.

  I saw you a couple years ago.

  Where?

  You didn’t see me.

  Would I have recognized you?

  Yes.

  Where were we?

  I came to one of your readings. It was crowded, and I sat in the back.

  Where?

  It was in a theater.

  They’re all in theaters now. What theater?

  If I told you, you would know who I am.

  So tell me.

  No.

  Guess that’s your choice.

  I’m surprised you don’t know.

  I have a timeline now.

  I wonder sometimes what it would have been like.

  What?

  Everything.

  If you knew me then, probably not very good.

  Maybe, maybe not.

  You would have changed me?

  Inspired you.

  No, you wouldn’t have.

  You never know.

  And that is why you wonder.

  Yes.

  Yes.

  Yes.

  Yes.

  I wonder.

  Time for me to go, old mysterious friend.

  Why?

  I got shit to do.

  What?

  Stare at an empty screen and hate myself.

  Sounds fun.

  It’s what I do.

  Good luck.

  Enjoy your bed, your thoughts, your wonder.

  Let me know when you start wondering.

  Yes.

  History

  * * *

  I needed money for.

  A plane ticket.

  Food.

  Rent.

  Booze and drugs.

  Books.

  In no particular order.

  I didn’t know how much, but I knew it was more than I had, which was two thousand dollars. I thought fifteen or twenty would last a year or two. I didn’t plan on living in the Ritz or de Crillon, or eating at Le Voltaire or Chez Georges. I didn’t plan on traveling. Find a cheap place live simply. Twenty-five would last longer.

  It was winter in a college town. I could get a job but it would take too long. Dealing was the only way. Buy the white, sell the white. It was cold and people stayed inside and got drunk and did drugs. Buy the white, sell the white. It was the only way.

  I took my two grand to my dealer and bought 40 grams. I cut in 10 grams of NoDoz and sold all 50 grams for five grand. Bought three ounces, which is 84 grams, and cut in 20 of NoDoz, and sold it for ten grand. There wasn’t enough demand at the school I attended, so I went to three others that were nearby. I took the ten and bought six ounces, which is 168 grams, and cut in 40 grams of NoDoz and sold it all for just over twenty grand. It took three months. I kept the money in a safebox. A huge pile of dirty green bills.

  When I wasn’t dealing, I was reading. The French. Hugo and Dumas, Baudelaire and Rimbaud. When I wasn’t reading I was getting drunk. School didn’t matter anymore. What the fuck would I ever do with a degree. Stick it on my wall? Bring it with me when I went to apply for shitty jobs? Wipe my fucking ass with it? Deal read drink sleep. It was simple and focused. I needed money. I needed release. I needed to feed my brain. Deal read drink sleep. She found a new boyfriend, went on her couples spring break, I heard they were perfect for each other, he was from New York and wanted to be an investment banker. Whenever I saw her I turned and walked away. If we were in the same room or same bar I wouldn’t acknowledge her. She tried to say hello a couple times and I ignored her. I wasn’t trying to be a dick, or play some game, I just couldn’t see her or speak to her because it hurt me. Despite the decision I had made, I loved her. And it hurt me more that she moved on so quickly, seemingly so easily. I wanted to hate her, but I didn’t, and I couldn’t hate her, I loved her and it hurt me to think about her, remember, imagine her with someone else, seeing her or hearing her voice made me want to curl up in a ball and cry. I loved her and it hurt me.

  The end of the school year was coming. Everyone was making plans. Move to NY get a job, move to Los Angeles get a job, go to law school, medical school, business school, move to Chicago get a job. The closer it got the more I felt it. I wanted out. To get the fuck out. Three weeks left. More or less had enough money to go. I went to a bar with some friends. The bar was crowded, loud, dense with smoke. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t have anything to say to anyone. Though I had spent the last four years with many of the people in the bar, their world wasn’t mine anymore. They were going on to bright futures and careers and degrees and accomplishments, money and mortgages and responsibilities and retirement plans. I was going to Paris, to walk and read and drink and smoke and write and dream and starve and rage and scream and smile and laugh and fuck and hurt and get lost and sit by the Seine and watch the world go by.

  I saw her. She was with her friends, boyfriend nowhere to be seen. I hadn’t been with anyone since her, felt in some way that if I was good she might come back, even though I knew she wouldn’t. I saw her with her friends and I wanted her, more than I ever had wanted her, more than I had ever wanted anything. Wanted to kiss her, press myself against her, taste her, hear her moan as I moved inside her. Our sex life had always been sweet, simple. Lots of candles and soft music and clean sheets and quiet tender moments. It was loving and respectful and boring. In that bar I wanted to take her, ravage her, devour her. I wanted to fuck her. Long and deep and hard and wet. For the pure physical pleasure of it. For the blinding moment when I’d cum. I sat and watched her talk to one of her friends, laugh, move a lock of hair from her eye, take a sip from her glass, I watched her lips, her tongue.

  I wanted.

  Wanted.

  Wanted.

  I stood and walked over, she saw me coming, and she looked surprised, but smiled. Before she could say anything, I leaned to her ear and whispered.

  I want to fuck you right now.

  She laughed.

  I do. Right now.

  She looked at me, slightly confused, embarrassed. I kept going.

  If I could, I’d wipe the bottles and glasses off that table and take you on it.

  She kept looking at me, still smiling, still surprised.

  Are you high?

  I am.

  Blow?

  Yep.

  Go away.

  Let’s go outside.

  Why?

  Because I want to fuck you.

  I stepped toward her, kissed her, slowly and deeply, and after a brief moment, she kissed back. When I pulled away she smiled, and I took her hand and without a word we walked out of the bar together. She asked me where we were going and I didn’t respond. We walked around the back of the building to the parking lot. It was dark, quiet, the lot was full, four rows of cars every spot taken. I saw her car a black European SUV in the back corner of the lot I walked toward it, holding her hand. As we neared it she reached into her pocket for her keys, I shook my head and took her other hand. We went around the back of the SUV and I started kissing her. She kissed me back, I pressed her against the back hatch, my hands wandering. She pulled away.

  What if someone sees us?

  My hands kept wandering.

  They won’t.

  The inside of her thighs.

  What if they do.

  Up her shirt.

  Who cares.

  The small of her back.

  I do.

  Her ass.

  I leaned forward, kissed her, lips and tongues and breath. She was wearing a button-down shirt, a short skirt, my hands went into them, beneath them, pulled them open, lifted them. I kissed her neck started softly biting her nipples through her shirt my hands pulled her thong off one of her legs. I guided her hand to my cock, she opened my pants took it out, I put both hands on her ass and lifted her against the car and moved forward inside of her.

  Deep.

  Hard.

  Wet.

  We both moaned. I started moving slowly inside her kissing her tasting her pressing her deep hard wet inside of her faster harder deeper dripping moaning lips tongue nipples hard faster harder deeper her hands on my chest my neck one of my hands on her ass the other on her tit faster harder deeper.

  Dripping.

  Moaning.

  It was dark and quiet and we were in a parking lot fucking against a car I opened my eyes she was looking at me I looked at her our lips and tongues brushed she started to shake I smiled looked into her eyes faster harder deeper and as she shook, I came inside her, my brain exploded into a blinding white wave of

  Joy

  Pleasure

  Peace

  And God

  It moved through me

  Inside her

  Deep hard and wet

  Throbbing

  Shaking

  She moaned and I moaned and we came, we came, we came.

  We came.

  Joy

  Pleasure

  Peace

  And God

  We stood there for a moment. I was still hard inside her. My arms were around her, her arms around me. I kissed her neck. I whispered I love you. She whispered back I love you, we stood for a moment together, she set her head on my shoulder stood and breathed, we stood and breathed on each other’s necks, both still feeling, still feeling, still feeling, hard and wet and deep. She moved me from her and closed her shirt. When she was done, I smiled and I kissed her one more time and I turned and walked away.