Katerina Read online

  The room is beautiful. Oak-paneled ceiling with murals painted into large squares. Tall mirrors on the walls with paintings of bamboo and palm trees between them. Brown leather banquettes with a blue-and-yellow checkerboard floor, white tablecloths and napkins, stainless silverware. It’s as classic a restaurant as exists in Paris, imitated and revered. Philippe thanks the maître d’, discreetly passes him a tip. A waiter arrives and Philippe orders, two bottles of Bordeaux one for each of us, foie gras de canard, toasts, escargots de Bourgogne, deux filet de boeuf, sauce béarnaise, frites. When the wine arrives, he raises his glass, smiles.

  To not looking like a POW.

  I laugh, raise my glass, drink.

  For the next ninety minutes we eat drink laugh. There is a parade of people who come to our table to say hello to Philippe, some are his friends some are his father’s friends, he introduces me to all of them as Jay Bush, nephew of President George Bush, tells them I’m in Paris to learn French and spread the gospel of big wars and cheap oil. I speak with a fake Texas accent, tell everyone big wars and cheap oil are both underrated, they all leave befuddled and confused. The food is magnificent, and easily the best meal I’ve had since I arrived, and probably the first true French meal. The foie gras melts in my mouth, the snails are marvelous little bits of rubbery magnificence, the steak rare and bloody, the béarnaise sweet and heavy, the frites crispy and hot. Philippe orders one of every dessert on the menu and we take a few bites of each profiteroles glacées, mille-feuille, crème caramel, mousse au chocolat, tarte Tatin, le Mont-Blanc Angelina. When we’re done I’m half-drunk and my stomach feels like it’s going to explode. When the check comes, Philippe waves me off and pays it. I thank him and when he says don’t worry about it I thank him again.

  We leave and decide to cross the river. Philippe wants to go to Les Bains Douches, says it is the first and potentially last time I have ever been dressed well enough to get past the doorman and he isn’t going to let the opportunity pass. We take rue Danton to place Saint-Michel, walk across Île de la Cité and Pont au Change to place du Châtelet. It’s ten o’clock and it’s not late enough to go to Les Bains so we cut over to place Edmond-Michelet and look for a place to drink for an hour or so. On the first floor of an old corner building, there’s a small bar called La Comédie. There’s a large green awning, a sign, tables outside a few of them taken but most not. We walk inside sit at the bar the place is a simple old-fashioned French drinking establishment, my favorite kind of place. A tall thin bartender with jet-black hair and eyes matching walks over smiles and asks us what we’d like, we order drinks start looking around. The patrons are mostly young and, like us, appear to be having a few drinks before going elsewhere. Philippe asks me if I see anything interesting I say no the bartender brings us our drinks straight double bourbon for me, scotch on ice for Philippe. He smiles pays asks the bartender her name she says Petra, he asks where she’s from she says Oslo. As we drink we talk to her in between her serving other customers, she came here a year ago, her best friend is a model, she lives in the neighborhood, she was a ballet dancer but got hurt, she’ll go home at some point but for now she’s happy. We order a second round, a third. As Petra delivers the drinks the bell at the door rings she looks toward the bell, smiles, waves. Philippe and I turn to see who she’s waving at and I laugh and my heart jumps and my head spins and I’m high.

  Tall and thin and pale.

  Long deep dark-red hair.

  Freckles on her cheeks across the bridge of her nose, light-brown eyes the color of cocoa, thick pouty lips like cherry pie, no lipstick.

  She smiles and walks toward us she’s wearing a little black dress and a pair of Air Jordans. Petra pours a glass of vodka when she arrives she playfully punches my arm, speaks.

  Nice shirt.

  I laugh.

  Thanks.

  What the fuck are you doing here?

  No idea.

  Just ended up in my local?

  Yep.

  Petra hands her the vodka, speaks.

  You know him?

  Kind of.

  How?

  He tried to fuck me at the Musée Rodin, and again at Musée d’Orsay.

  Philippe laughs.

  Good work, Jay.

  I laugh.

  I didn’t try to fuck you.

  She smiles.

  Absolutely you did.

  I didn’t.

  You thought about it.

  Maybe.

  And you would have if given the chance.

  Maybe.

  Philippe laughs.

  Maybe my ass.

  She looks back at Petra.

  Remember the almost-cute American writer I told you about, the one who ruined Jean-Luc’s day?

  Yeah.

  That’s him.

  He’s cute.

  Almost.

  Yeah, you’re right, almost.

  He’s tried to fuck me twice.

  Petra laughs.

  I believe you.

  Philippe motions to an empty stool.

  Join us for a drink.

  She smiles.

  Yes.

  And so we drink, talk, laugh. She’s also from Oslo, is a model, not a supermodel but a real model, does editorial and runway shows, lives in a loft in the Marais, makes money, when she’s not working she wanders around France, Italy, Spain. She likes books, art, clothes, alcohol, cocaine. She laughs quickly and easily, gives better than she gets, and is charming as fuck. If she didn’t scare the shit out of me, I’d be desperately in love with her, and every moment I’m near her, I want to know her more, talk with her more, laugh with her more, I want to touch her heart, know it, feel it. I get up to go to the bathroom, piss, look in the mirror as I wash my hands, tell myself to calm down, to walk back, get her name, get her number, calm down, as I open the door to step out she steps in and closes the door, flips the lock, and drops her bag on the floor. She smiles.

  Alone at last.

  We’re inches apart.

  Yes, alone at last.

  I have to leave in a few minutes, I’m going to meet some friends.

  She takes my hands.

  But I want to play before I leave.

  She leans forward softly kisses my neck.

  Play?

  Kisses my ear.

  Yes, I want to play.

  I’m hard, I want, she knows I want.

  You’re a cute boy, Jay.

  Softly kisses my lips.

  Thank you.

  You still writing that dumb book?

  I put my hands up her skirt.

  No.

  Run the tips of my fingers along the insides of her thighs.

  No?

  You were right.

  Around her ass.

  Yes, I was.

  We both move toward each other kissing deeply slowly heavily, lips and tongues, her hands are immediately in my pants, I lift her off the ground set her on the sink tear off her thong. She says now I ask her if she has a condom she says now, Jay, now.

  I step between her legs.

  Move inside her.

  She’s tight and wet, leans back against the mirror.

  Forward.

  Deeper inside her.

  Forward.

  Tight and wet.

  She moans pulls my face to hers kisses me. I start moving inside her, slow hard and deep, her hands gripping the sides of the sink, my hands on her shoulders, we’re looking into each other’s eyes pale green and light brown like cocoa.

  Do you like my pussy, Jay?

  Deeper.

  Yes.

  Harder.

  Does your cock feel good in my pussy?

  Faster.

  Yes.

  Pale green.

  Do you love my pussy?

  Cocoa.

  Yes.

  Deeper.

  Tell me.

  Harder.

  Tell me you love my pussy.

  Faster.

  I love your pussy.

  H
ands gripping.

  Tell me how good your cock feels inside me.

  Gripping.

  Feels so good inside you.

  Deeper harder faster.

  Fuck me, Jay, fuck me.

  Deeper harder faster.

  Eyes locked.

  Fuck me.

  And hearts and souls and bodies.

  Fuck me.

  Locked.

  Fuck me.

  I’m hard and deep inside her fucking her on the bathroom sink her tight little black dress still on her thong on the floor my pants at my knees our eyes locked, our hearts and souls and bodies locked.

  Cum inside me.

  Cum inside me.

  Cum inside me.

  Blinding breathless shaking overwhelming exploding white God I cum inside her my cock throbbing we’re both moaning eyes hearts souls bodies one.

  One.

  White.

  God.

  Cum.

  Cum.

  Cum.

  I close my eyes let out my breath.

  Cum.

  I lean against her both breathing hard I’m still inside her smiling. She takes my hands lifts them and places them around her body, she puts her arms around me, we stay still and breathe, hard inside her, tight and warm and wet around me, we breathe. She gently pushes me away, we look into each other’s eyes, she smiles.

  That was fun.

  I smile.

  It was.

  I like how you feel.

  Me too.

  She moves me away, moves off the sink.

  I’ve gotta go.

  I pull up my pants.

  I want you to stay.

  She picks up her bag.

  We’ll see each other again.

  She puts her arms around me, pulls tight.

  How do I find you?

  Come here. Tell Petra you’re looking for me. Or tell me if you have a local, and I’ll come there for you.

  Polly Maggoo.

  She laughs.

  That place is a dump.

  She lets me go.

  Give me your number.

  She shakes her head.

  We don’t need numbers. We’ll find each other when we want to find each other.

  At least tell me your name.

  She smiles, kisses me.

  Katerina.

  She turns, opens the door.

  My name is Katerina.

  She leaves, and I watch her walk away, through the bar, out the door, into the night.

  Tall and thin and pale.

  Long deep dark-red hair.

  Freckles on her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose, light-brown eyes the color of cocoa, thick pouty lips like cherry pie, no lipstick.

  Katerina.

  Her name is Katerina.

  Los Angeles, 2017

  * * *

  Hi

  Hi

  Hi

  Hi

  Hi

  I think that’s enough.

  Hi

  Come on.

  Hi Hi Hi Hi Hi Hi

  Really?

  Hi

  Should I just give up?

  Yes.

  Hi

  Hi :)

  Hello

  What are you doing?

  Watching TV.

  What are you watching?

  Dumb political bullshit. People yelling at each other.

  Why do you watch it?

  It passes the time.

  Not writing?

  Not really.

  You have enough money to be retired?

  Definitely not.

  Why aren’t you writing?

  Just finished a job, trying to figure out what to do next.

  What job?

  I wrote a pilot for a TV series.

  Was it good?

  No idea.

  Will it get made?

  Probably not.

  Why?

  The network hired me to write a show about the apocalypse. I turned it in and they said it was too violent and too dark. I told them it’s the apocalypse, that means the end of the world, most of the population dies and civilization ends. They asked for a blue sky version of the apocalypse.

  What does that mean?

  A happier, gentler version.

  That’s stupid.

  Yes, it is.

  So what are you going to do?

  I don’t know.

  Why don’t you write another book?

  I don’t know.

  You should.

  Maybe.

  Not maybe, yes.

  Maybe.

  Why did you stop?

  I didn’t.

  I don’t count those books under a fake name, or the books about aliens, or any of that Hollywood nonsense.

  That made me laugh.

  Do you count those?

  I didn’t actually write them.

  Then they shouldn’t have your name on them.

  It’s more complicated than that.

  Because your name means more money?

  More or less.

  I never imagined you’d sell out.

  Neither did I.

  I loved the first books you wrote, before you sold out.

  You read them?

  Yes.

  Thank you.

  I remember when I saw the first one. In the window of a bookstore next to a sign with your picture. I almost started crying. And then I read it, and I did cry. Many times.

  I’m sorry.

  Don’t be sorry.

  I made you cry enough.

  We both did terrible things.

  Still sorry.

  And mostly I was so happy for you, Jay. You did it, it was amazing, you said you were going to burn the world down and you did.

  You’re gonna make me cry.

  It had been so many years.

  It took a while.

  Ten years?

  From the time I arrived in Paris to the day the first one was published it was twelve.

  I thought about you in those years and wondered what happened.

  Now you know.

  Did you ever think about me?

  I did.

  You know who this is now?

  I do.

  How?

  I looked up your name, the name you use on here.

  Like it?

  Made me smile.

  I thought you’d do it the first day.

  It was fun not knowing.

  And now?

  I’m happy I know.

  It’s been so long.

  It has.

  We got old.

  Never thought it would happen.

  I’m glad you know now.

  So am I, Model Girl.

  That made me smile.

  Good.

  Hi.

  Hi.

  Hi.

  Hi.

  Hi.

  Enough

  Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi.

  Paris, 1992

  * * *

  It’s the third week of August. Paris is empty. Or rather, Paris is empty of French. Except for those who work in restaurants, bars, cafés, and stores, everyone else is gone. I don’t know where they all went, maybe the South, maybe Spain or Italy, maybe America, but they aren’t here. There are no disdainful looks on the Métro. No judgment oozing from the cafés. No scowls when they hear my accent. No laughing when I use improper grammar or the wrong tense. The old French have closed the boulangerie and are away somewhere, and can’t be rude to or ignore me. The general air of superiority that hangs over Paris is gone. I hope wherever it went, and wherever all the French went and the bakery couple went, someone is scowling at them and making them feel dumb. They all fucking deserve it.

  Yes, Paris is empty, except for the tourists. I have been here long enough, and speak French well enough, and know my way around the city easily enough, that I don’t consider myself a tourist anymore. I’m not a French, and I could live here for fifty years and would never be one of them. I won’t call myself an ex
-pat, which is a term that whenever I hear it makes me think of an ass-pimple, and makes me think the person using it is an ass-pimple. I’m not a resident, and have overstayed my legal term of visitation, would probably get kicked out of the country if I somehow got caught, but I’m not a tourist anymore. I’m just a motherfucker in Paris. A nobody in Paris. A young man lost and wandering in Paris. A dreamer in Paris. And because I’m not one of them anymore, I hate the fucking tourists. I hate their dumb guidebooks. I hate the way they ask for menus in English. I hate it when they stop in the middle of the sidewalk because they’re lost. I hate it when they stand in front of paintings like idiots who spend all their time in front of the TV, just staring but having no idea why they are looking at it or what they are seeing. I hate their cameras, and the constant posing that goes on everywhere, fuck those fucking cameras I wish I could throw them all into the Seine. There are English, Canadians, Australians, hordes of Japanese, armies of Scandinavians that I can’t tell apart, and masses, endless invading masses of Americans. I hate the Americans the most. Goddamn, if they aren’t the worst. And though I am still American, and love American liquor and American drugs, American cars and American food, American cigarettes and American music, American girls and American swearwords, American tourists are just awful. They wear bright ugly clothing. Most of them are fat. They wear baseball hats backward. They’re loud. They act like they’re naïve, but they aren’t, and they’re actually just trying to garner sympathy, which they are not going to get in France. They get upset because everyone hates them and they don’t understand why, but they do understand why, and it’s because they act like idiots. And the yapping, it never stops. Yes, the French are rude. Yes, Paris is beautiful. Yes, the food is amazing. And yes, we won that war and we kicked Nazi ass and saved civilization, but it was fifty fucking years ago, stop fucking bringing it up. Stop bringing it all up. And please, please please please, stay the fuck home in August. Just stay home and go fishing. Or go to the Monster Truck Bash. Or shoot some guns into trees. Or jump in your RV and drive somewhere filled with other Americans, where you can have a giant BBQ and drink warm beer and throw up in your cooler and stay the fuck out of Paris.

  When I decide I can’t take it anymore, can’t hear one more fat dude in a camo T-shirt talk about how the Big Macs in France taste different, I decide I’m going to leave Paris. Go on my own vacation. Be like the French, except for the ones who are stuck working and serving the scourge of tourists. I’m going to run as far and as fast as I can until the calendar reads September. I meet Philippe for a drink. I ask him where I should go and he says to Hell. I laugh and tell him I have that trip planned for later in life. He says avoid the South, which is packed and miserable in the summer, and avoid the coast which is cold and packed and miserable in the summer, he says go somewhere no one else wants to go. Both of my grandfathers were French immigrants to America. Both came from Alsace after WW1. One was from Strasbourg, the other from Nancy. One died when I was two, and the other spent most of my childhood in prison after he got caught embezzling money from his clients (he was a lawyer before getting sent away). I can’t say I have any real connection to them, but I think it would be cool to see where they came from, where I come from. I ask Philippe about going to Alsace, riding trains and hitchhiking my way there, tell him I like the idea of going back to the homeland, to the place where my people come from. He scowls at me, asks me if I’m dumb. I tell him yes, I may very well be dumb, though I’m not sure why it has taken suggesting a trip to Alsace for him to realize it. He asks me how dumb I think I am, I tell him I’m probably a 6 on a Dumb Scale of 1 to 10. He tells me I’m higher than that, probably an 8, maybe a 9, I tell him I’ll go to a 7, but no higher. He says I’m an 8.5 minimum, but probably a 9. I ask him what has brought on this sudden analysis of how dumb I am, he tells me anyone who wants to spend their summer vacation in Alsace is incredibly dumb, and he wants me to acknowledge it. I laugh, ask him why going to Alsace is so dumb, he tells me that all the French leave Alsace in the summer and go south, that the only people in Alsace right now are Germans, and they’re even worse than Americans. I tell him I want to see where my grandfathers came from, he laughs.