You Deserve Nothing (2 page)

“How should I take it? He’ll never change, he’s been teaching for thirty years. He’s harmless, no one takes him seriously, the kids mostly love him. They think he’s hysterical. They also think he’s a good teacher. He isn’t a threat to anyone.”

Mia rolled her eyes. “Of course he’s a threat. Of course he’s harmful. You can’t just excuse him because he’s old or because he’s been doing the same thing for thirty years. He makes whatever good work Colette may have done unimportant. You don’t celebrate a teenager’s body in front of the entire school at a fucking academic achievement ceremony, O.K.?”

“You’re right, of course. Still.”

“No.”

She’d been raising her voice steadily and a group of girls a few tables away had begun to look over at us and whisper.

We often sat together in the cafeteria and argued. We leaned in and spoke intimately about one thing or another. We were young and both famously single. Conversations like these only furthered the rumors of a secret affair. It wasn’t uncommon for a brave tenth grader to raise her hand and ask, giggling, when Ms. Keller and I were getting married.

Lowering my voice, I said, “Look, I realize that what he said was inappropriate. I recognize all of that but can you not see the humor?”

“It’s that attitude which has allowed him the freedom to make those comments. No one says anything. He’s tolerated as a silly man. That’s just Mickey. He’s harmless. So he goes on commenting on his students’ bodies and sniffing their perfume. I don’t find him charming at all. That he’s an old man oblivious to the world around him makes it no better.”

“Can’t I be offended and amused at the same time?”

Mia let out a frustrated breath. This kind of thing was always a source of tension for us. She was too easily offended and carried every offense with her for days.

* * *

And so now with Mickey’s sudden approach and landing, Mia becomes stone.

“Right down the shitter. The years just go rolling on by,” he says refilling my cup. He tilts the bottle toward Mia who has covered hers with her palm. “Mia?”

She shakes her head and says nothing. If Mickey registers this slight he gives no indication.

“So what are the big plans this summer? Going anywhere good?”

Unwilling to endure Mia’s silence I answer. “Going to Greece, back mid-August. What are you up to, Mickey?”

“Greece, huh? Great great. I was in Greece oh, I don’t know, twenty years ago maybe. Met a Swedish girl there. My God. What a body. The islands right? You’re going to the islands?”

“Santorini.”

“
Oui
. Been to Santorini.
Trés beau
. But the girls are in Mykonos my friend. Everyone’s naked. Naked women and gay men. Not bad odds. I’d say go to Mykonos. See what happens. Find a girl. Not bad. Not a bad way to spend a summer. Mia? Plans?”

But Mia is already getting up. She slips her feet into her sandals and walks away. Mickey looks at me for an explanation.

“You should ask her.”

“O.K. Well, women. I’ll go grab her. Have a great summer, Will. Mykonos. I’m telling you. Girls for miles. You take good care of yourself, O.K.?”

“I will and thanks for the tip, Mickey. You have a great summer too.”

He levers himself to his feet, groans and heads off to find Mia. She eludes him and eventually works her way back to me. I smile at her.

“You’re a bad person,” she says, forgiving me.

* * *

Mia and I together on the
métro
home with old shopping bags on the seats opposite us. They’re full of end-of-the-year gifts—bottles of good champagne, a tie, a scarf, chocolate, cologne, perfume, candles. The train is nearly empty.

“Are you going on Sunday?”

“I promised Mazin.”

“Can we go together?”

She won’t say, “Let’s go together,” or, “We’re going together.” She can’t be that loose. Afraid that she’ll be imposing, she maintains a slight sense of formality and caution.

“Obviously, we’ll go together. Have you seen the address? Quai de la Tournelle. It’ll be opulent.”

“You think?”

“I do.”

The
métro
stops at St. Paul and Mia collects her things. “O.K., I’ll see you at graduation?”

I continue on, change to the four at Châtelet, get off at Odéon, cross Boulevard St. Germain, and walk down the rue de Seine. I pass Bar du Marché, full of people, mostly tourists, sitting on the terrace in the sun drinking expensive beer. I begin the long climb to my apartment—one hundred and seventy-seven steps. Today the stairs feel particularly steep, winding up and up, the bags heavy in my hands.

In a few hours the sun will spread a long rectangle of light across the floor. There’s a large fireplace, a wide bed up a ladder in a mezzanine, a window that opens to the street.

The sun is low, the Eiffel Tower silhouetted against the sky to the west. I can see the golden cupola of l’Institut de France. To the south, the dark dome of the Palais du Luxembourg. Below, the cafés are crowded with people. Across the street, Pauline’s window is open. Her boyfriend Sébastien stands shirtless washing dishes. A white Alsatian is stretched out in the sun fast asleep in front of Claude et Cie butchers. Down the rue de Buci, the little brown mutt keeps guard in front of the Café Conti and I stand in my window looking out, feeling the summer expanding in front of me. That familiar sense of freedom, a feeling inextricably linked to childhood, to having once been a student myself—released.

Pauline walks into the kitchen and kisses Séb on the shoulder. She sees me in my window, waves, and turns away to wrap her arms around his waist.

Watching them I imagine Isabelle, the two of us standing here looking out across the rooftops, the cold air slipping in, her back warm against my chest.

I used to think of her often. Washing dishes after dinner, I spoke to her. When it was cold and the heaters still weren’t working I brought extra blankets to bed and pretended to hold her. In the evenings I came home to messages on the machine. Listening to her voice was like setting her free in the room. I made dinner and talked to her.

“Cut them thin,” I said. “So thin they can’t hold their own weight.”

“I know, you’ve told me a thousand times.”

“My mother cut onions like that.”

But I never called her back.

She stopped leaving messages. Her voice was no longer there.

But there were still days when she appeared in front of me while I was standing at the window, and I could almost remember the way she smelled.

* * *

Sunday. On the street there are cool-eyed women everywhere. Bar du Marché is overflowing with people standing on the sidewalk waiting for tables. I cross Boulevard St. Germain at a jog, dodge a woman on a scooter. She smiles. I glide down the steps at Odéon and am on the
métro
in five minutes.

When I enter the gates of the school there are people milling around. Parents, grandparents, families from all over the world, all dressed for the day, summer dresses, hats, suits, video cameras. Walking through the crowd I hear French, Arabic, German, Korean, and Italian. But in the courtyard, and then in the foyer where people are waiting, it is mostly English, accented and punctuated with those other languages.

Just as I reach for a drink Mazin picks me up off the ground.

“Dude.”

“Dude,” I say, “put me down.”

Laughing, he drops me, steps back, and puts his hand to his chin as if inspecting a painting.“Nice threads.”

“Damn right. Hands off.”

“I need to go have my picture taken for, like, the millionth time with my brother but I’m going to see you tonight, right? Party
chez moi
.”

“I’ll be there, Maz.”

He leans in, “Dude, did you see Carolina?
Dude
, girl is off the hook!”

I shake my head. “Mazin, go away.”

* * *

That evening as Mia and I walked along the Quai de la Tournelle there was a strong wind blowing from the north.

We arrived at a perfectly maintained building. We could hear laughter from the balcony above us.

I entered the code and pushed open the heavy wooden door. As it closed behind us the street noise was gone and we stood in a wide courtyard. I’d walked past the building for years without a glance. And now, with a magic code, here was an immaculate courtyard. A neat rose garden. A purling fountain.

At the carved wooden doors I pressed an engraved silver button. A tall woman with long dark hair loose around her shoulders let us in—Mazin’s mother. She wore a black satin dress and a wide hammered-gold bracelet on her wrist.

She kissed both of us and, although we’d never met, she knew who we were.

“Welcome. Welcome,” she said, ushering us into the enormous apartment. In other rooms we could hear people talking, glasses clinking.

“You’ve both done so much for our boys. We’re very happy to have you here. Please, have something to eat, some champagne.”

The apartment was full of people—students, parents, friends and relatives. She led us down a wide hallway, which ran the length of the apartment. A bar had been set up against the wall and a serious-looking Frenchman in a tuxedo stood pouring champagne. When we got to the table he filled two delicate flutes with Krug and handed them to us.

The buzzer rang. “Please excuse me,” Mazin’s mother said. Across from us was a large dining room where a long table was spread with white tablecloths and platter after platter of Lebanese food. Beyond the tables were floor-to-ceiling windows, which opened to the terrace. Outside, there were people standing, talking, smoking, leaning over the railings, looking through the wide plane trees at the river below and out to the Île Saint Louis. On the bridge a man was tuning a guitar.

“Holy shit,” Mia whispered and then Mazin, dressed in a suit too big for his thin frame and looking drunk, came into the dining room. His face brightened.

“Mr. S.! Ms. Keller!”

He kissed Mia and when I reached to shake his hand he gave me a look of pity, brushed my hand aside, and hugged me.

“Dude, you changed my life,” he said. “We hug.”

“Nice place you’ve got here,” she said.

“It’s ridiculous,” he whispered. “Came with the move. Sort of embarrasses me so can we talk about something else please? Are you hungry? The food’s awesome. It’s all from Diwan. Do you know Diwan?”

From the buffet we could see a vast salon. A giant gilt-edged mirror hung above a fireplace. There were long sumptuous couches, a low glass table, and high ceilings laced with intricate moldings. The room was full of students. When they saw Mia and me some stiffened and hid their glasses, but most of them smiled or waved.

Mike Chandler was standing in the far corner of the living room with his elbow on the fireplace speaking in French with someone’s father. Mia and I sat on two large leather chairs. I watched Mike, his gestures, his serious expression, his calm, the way he held his glass by the stem. None of it was contrived, none of it was the behavior of a teenager playing at adulthood. He’d been this way since birth.

These kids like Mike Chandler who were fluent in several languages and cultures, who were so relaxed, so natural in exquisite apartments at elaborate parties, who moved from country to country, from adult to adolescent with a professional ease, were not the standard at ISF.

Most were kids who’d been plucked from an Air Force base in Virginia and deposited in Paris, who resented the move, refused to adapt. The move only strengthened their faith in conservative American politics. They refused France. Their rebellion was, by default, an adamant rejection of their new home and all things French. Their families bought food from the commissary at the American Embassy. Kids who’d return from weekend trips talked excitedly about the Taco Bell and Burger King they’d found at Ramstein.

Not these kids though, and as I looked around the room I felt proud of them for their apparent sophistication and also of myself for having become part of a world that was previously unknown to me.

Mazin’s mother passed and tried to convince us to dance. We refused but on her second round she took Mia’s hand and pulled her away.

Left alone, I finished eating, and then walked outside. Ariel Davis and Molly Gordon were leaning back against the railing.

“Hey Mr. Silver,” Molly said.

Ariel smiled. I rested my elbows on the railing and looked out over the street.

“Big plans for the summer, Mr. Silver?” Molly asked.

“Going to Greece, you?”

“Staying here.”

“I’m going to be in your seminar next year,” Ariel said lighting a cigarette. She looked at me and ran her fingers through her black hair.

“Good,” I said.