Die Once More
Page 10
She just shakes her head and goes back to typing. A pencil is tucked behind her ear, lending her appearance the slightest hint of naughty librarian. Interesting. Stop it, Jules, I chide. This girl is dangerous.
I look back to Faust, who has jotted down a note on the dating page, Eyes. Smile. He closes the book and taps it impatiently with his pencil.
“Speaking of smiling, I don’t get why you’re not supposed to smile in public,” he said, leaning back in his seat, his hands folded behind his head, displaying triceps that rival Ambrose’s.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“It’s in the etiquette rules chapter,” he says.
“Why on earth are you worried about French rules of etiquette?”
“It’s my first time outside the United States, besides Mexico,” he responds. “I want to do this right.”
I sigh. “You’ll probably be with kindred most of the time, but okay. What does it say?”
I reach for the book, but he puts a hand out to stop me. “No, no. I’ve got it memorized.” He tips his head back, stares at the ceiling, and begins counting on his index. “One. When you go into a shop, say ‘Bonjour, monsieur’ or ‘Bonjour, madame’ as soon as you step through the door, and ‘au revoir’ when you leave.”
He glances over at me. I nod. “Common courtesy,” I say.
He adds his middle finger. “Two. You’re expected to order one drink per hour in a café—you can’t just sit there all day on one drink.”
“That’s an approximation,” I say, “but yeah, it’s kind of like renting a table.”
He nods, satisfied. “There are about ten others. They all pretty much made sense. Except for the smiling one. It said you’re not supposed to walk around with a smile on your face, and I quote, ‘American style.’ What’s up with that?”
“Okay, New Yorkers excepted, most Americans smile a lot more than the typical European. And in Paris, people will think you’re either mental or stupid if you’re just wandering around smiling when there’s nothing specific to smile about,” I say, flipping through a travel magazine.
“But what if I’m happy?”
I glance up to see if he’s joking. He’s not. “Then grin, but don’t show teeth.”
“Seriously, dude?”
“Seriously.”
The closer we get to Paris, the jumpier I become, and unable to listen to Faust anymore, I signal the end of the conversation by closing my eyes. And with the lights out, up on my mind’s screen pops Kate. I see her face in a film reel of scenes from our shared past: her expression of fear when I grabbed her arm outside Vincent’s room the day she found him dormant. Her innocent wonder when I drew her portrait in the café and told her she was beautiful. And the look on her face at the airport when I told her I wasn’t coming back to France because I was in love with her. Astonishment. Disappointment. Sadness. All the emotions in a few seconds of reruns.
I skip over the scene where we kissed; I can’t even think of that one without the bottom dropping out of me. I focus on when I saw her last: in Paris during the battle against the numa. She hugged me and asked me to stay. Her touch filled me with everything I had been longing for. I had to force myself to break away and run straight back to America so I wouldn’t have to see her again. And here I am, halfway across the ocean on my way back to her.
My stomach twists, and I feel sick. I walk over to the minibar and get myself a tonic water. I grab two Perriers, throw one to Faust, and bring the other to Ava. I set it in the slot in her armrest and plop down in the chair closest hers. I don’t care if she despises me. I need a distraction.
Ava ignores me as much as you can with someone sitting three feet away from you.
“What are you writing?” I ask.
“Article,” she replies.
“On what?” I insist. Since her distaste for me has been established, and I no longer care about making a good impression, there’s something deeply gratifying in forcing her to speak to me when she so clearly doesn’t want to.
“Art,” she says, struggling to keep her eyes on the screen.
“Art. Hmm. Wow, that covers a rather broad range of topics. Are we talking contemporary, old master, medieval? Performance, sculpture, painting, video? Movements, schools, individuals? Art’s place in society, politics and art, gender and art . . .”
“Celebrity as commodity in Warhol’s portrait series,” she says, expecting that to shut me up.
It doesn’t. “And you’re writing this for . . .”
“ARTNews magazine,” she says, tapping her finger and glaring at me, as if to ask when the inquisition will be over.
“I assume you’re not writing it under your own name?” I prod, genuinely curious now. A lock of wavy hair has fallen down from her pencil perch, and I have the strangest urge to push it back behind her ear. Strange, because I’m sure that if I tried, she would bite my finger off.
She sighs and pushes her laptop an inch away, leaning back in her chair. “I publish under various pseudonyms, each of which is an established, but reclusive, authority in their respective artists. Jemima Hoskins, aka me, just happens to be the leading expert on Warhol in the sixties.”
“Doesn’t hurt that you were there,” I say.
She lets a small smile slip and nods. And as her mask dissolves, I can see her the way her kindred do. She is beautiful. Unique. Magnetic. I can see why Warhol latched onto her, like he did with other offbeat beauties of the day. She pushes the lock of hair behind her ear. Thank God. My impulse disappears and my finger is safe. But her magnetic pull remains.
“You’ve got an insider’s view on the early days of the Factory,” I continue. “There aren’t too many people around who can claim to have that.”
She shakes her head. “Almost everyone’s gone.”
Now that this door has cracked open, I want to push it further. I want to know this girl. I lean forward, genuinely intrigued. “What were they like? Was it a hotbed of creativity like we had in Paris at the Bateau-Lavoir? Were they as crazy and debauched as the stories say, or was it all a legend to build up the Warhol myth?”
About halfway through my question, Ava’s face changes. A memory flickers across her features—I see a flash of vulnerability before she turns back to stone. “Crazy. Debauched. Take your pick,” she says, pulling her computer to her and positioning its screen between us like a shield. “Everyone wants to relive the glory days of the Factory. I, for one, am glad they’re over.”
I look back to Faust, who has jotted down a note on the dating page, Eyes. Smile. He closes the book and taps it impatiently with his pencil.
“Speaking of smiling, I don’t get why you’re not supposed to smile in public,” he said, leaning back in his seat, his hands folded behind his head, displaying triceps that rival Ambrose’s.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“It’s in the etiquette rules chapter,” he says.
“Why on earth are you worried about French rules of etiquette?”
“It’s my first time outside the United States, besides Mexico,” he responds. “I want to do this right.”
I sigh. “You’ll probably be with kindred most of the time, but okay. What does it say?”
I reach for the book, but he puts a hand out to stop me. “No, no. I’ve got it memorized.” He tips his head back, stares at the ceiling, and begins counting on his index. “One. When you go into a shop, say ‘Bonjour, monsieur’ or ‘Bonjour, madame’ as soon as you step through the door, and ‘au revoir’ when you leave.”
He glances over at me. I nod. “Common courtesy,” I say.
He adds his middle finger. “Two. You’re expected to order one drink per hour in a café—you can’t just sit there all day on one drink.”
“That’s an approximation,” I say, “but yeah, it’s kind of like renting a table.”
He nods, satisfied. “There are about ten others. They all pretty much made sense. Except for the smiling one. It said you’re not supposed to walk around with a smile on your face, and I quote, ‘American style.’ What’s up with that?”
“Okay, New Yorkers excepted, most Americans smile a lot more than the typical European. And in Paris, people will think you’re either mental or stupid if you’re just wandering around smiling when there’s nothing specific to smile about,” I say, flipping through a travel magazine.
“But what if I’m happy?”
I glance up to see if he’s joking. He’s not. “Then grin, but don’t show teeth.”
“Seriously, dude?”
“Seriously.”
The closer we get to Paris, the jumpier I become, and unable to listen to Faust anymore, I signal the end of the conversation by closing my eyes. And with the lights out, up on my mind’s screen pops Kate. I see her face in a film reel of scenes from our shared past: her expression of fear when I grabbed her arm outside Vincent’s room the day she found him dormant. Her innocent wonder when I drew her portrait in the café and told her she was beautiful. And the look on her face at the airport when I told her I wasn’t coming back to France because I was in love with her. Astonishment. Disappointment. Sadness. All the emotions in a few seconds of reruns.
I skip over the scene where we kissed; I can’t even think of that one without the bottom dropping out of me. I focus on when I saw her last: in Paris during the battle against the numa. She hugged me and asked me to stay. Her touch filled me with everything I had been longing for. I had to force myself to break away and run straight back to America so I wouldn’t have to see her again. And here I am, halfway across the ocean on my way back to her.
My stomach twists, and I feel sick. I walk over to the minibar and get myself a tonic water. I grab two Perriers, throw one to Faust, and bring the other to Ava. I set it in the slot in her armrest and plop down in the chair closest hers. I don’t care if she despises me. I need a distraction.
Ava ignores me as much as you can with someone sitting three feet away from you.
“What are you writing?” I ask.
“Article,” she replies.
“On what?” I insist. Since her distaste for me has been established, and I no longer care about making a good impression, there’s something deeply gratifying in forcing her to speak to me when she so clearly doesn’t want to.
“Art,” she says, struggling to keep her eyes on the screen.
“Art. Hmm. Wow, that covers a rather broad range of topics. Are we talking contemporary, old master, medieval? Performance, sculpture, painting, video? Movements, schools, individuals? Art’s place in society, politics and art, gender and art . . .”
“Celebrity as commodity in Warhol’s portrait series,” she says, expecting that to shut me up.
It doesn’t. “And you’re writing this for . . .”
“ARTNews magazine,” she says, tapping her finger and glaring at me, as if to ask when the inquisition will be over.
“I assume you’re not writing it under your own name?” I prod, genuinely curious now. A lock of wavy hair has fallen down from her pencil perch, and I have the strangest urge to push it back behind her ear. Strange, because I’m sure that if I tried, she would bite my finger off.
She sighs and pushes her laptop an inch away, leaning back in her chair. “I publish under various pseudonyms, each of which is an established, but reclusive, authority in their respective artists. Jemima Hoskins, aka me, just happens to be the leading expert on Warhol in the sixties.”
“Doesn’t hurt that you were there,” I say.
She lets a small smile slip and nods. And as her mask dissolves, I can see her the way her kindred do. She is beautiful. Unique. Magnetic. I can see why Warhol latched onto her, like he did with other offbeat beauties of the day. She pushes the lock of hair behind her ear. Thank God. My impulse disappears and my finger is safe. But her magnetic pull remains.
“You’ve got an insider’s view on the early days of the Factory,” I continue. “There aren’t too many people around who can claim to have that.”
She shakes her head. “Almost everyone’s gone.”
Now that this door has cracked open, I want to push it further. I want to know this girl. I lean forward, genuinely intrigued. “What were they like? Was it a hotbed of creativity like we had in Paris at the Bateau-Lavoir? Were they as crazy and debauched as the stories say, or was it all a legend to build up the Warhol myth?”
About halfway through my question, Ava’s face changes. A memory flickers across her features—I see a flash of vulnerability before she turns back to stone. “Crazy. Debauched. Take your pick,” she says, pulling her computer to her and positioning its screen between us like a shield. “Everyone wants to relive the glory days of the Factory. I, for one, am glad they’re over.”
