They laugh, we open the other bottles, start on the food, though Katerina doesn’t touch it. She and Laura talk about clothes, designers, Katerina has all sorts of gossip about them, has walked in shows for many of the designers Laura likes, is already booked for the fall shows, which are at the end of September. She does one or two a day, doesn’t really eat in the weeks leading up to them so she’s thin, wears the fancy clothes and has her hair and makeup done, does the walking, which she calls prancing, collects her checks. Says the shows don’t pay that well, but they help her get the editorial jobs, which pay very well, and help get her campaigns with B-list designers, which pay extremely well. Says she has a couple model friends, but that the business in general can be vicious and competitive, and that the other models can be vicious and competitive, and that she is friendly with everyone, but generally avoids complications. She wants to work, make money, save money, wear beautiful clothes, beautiful jewelry, go on crazy ridiculous spontaneous trips, drink champagne, snort cocaine, dance, fuck, do everything she shouldn’t, have magnificent times, the best times, times that she will remember when she’s old and can’t walk and her grandchildren are tired of her talking about all her amazing times, she wants to be free, unencumbered, liberated, her own woman, to live and feel and work as she pleases, as free as she should be and can be as a twenty-one-year-old in Paris who makes good money, she wants to do as well as she can for as long as she can, see where life takes her, maybe go home, maybe go somewhere else, maybe stay in Paris, who knows. Philippe, who has been reading a business plan, temporarily dropping his gig as garbageman and taking up his role as the heir to his family’s business, looks up.
You don’t want to marry Jay?
She laughs.
I don’t want to marry anyone.
Laura wants to marry me.
Katerina looks at Laura.
Really?
Laura smiles.
He won’t be a garbageman forever.
Philippe holds up the business plan.
Eleven more months.
Katerina smiles.
Wedding, kids, the whole bit?
Philippe nods.
If she’ll agree to it.
Katerina looks at Laura, who is still smiling.
All in good time.
Philippe sets down the plan.
And I need to sow my wild oats for a while.
Katerina laughs.
With Jay.
Phillipe nods.
Yes, with Jay. Fucking professional oats sower.
I laugh.
I’m not a professional anything. Never have been, never will be.
Katerina punches my arm.
Isn’t he cute. The rebel without a cause.
I laugh.
I have a cause.
At the same time, Philippe and Katerina say
Burn the world down.
I laugh.
Write books that burn the world down.
Laura speaks.
What do you mean by that? Burn the world down?
Write books that change people. How they think and feel and live. How they view the world, how they view themselves. Books that confront them. Books that scare them. That make them either love the book or hate it. Books that force people to take a position, that inspire people to either burn them and ban them, or love them and defend them. Books that divide. Books that make the world irrevocably different than it was before they were written. Books that make history because they changed the world.
Philippe laughs.
I’ve never heard you say so many sentences in a row before.
Katerina laughs.
I wish he’d do it more often.
Laura looks at me.
Really think you can do that?
Somebody in every generation does. Why not me?
What if you don’t?
I will.
But what if you don’t.
I have faith in myself. I don’t know why, but I do. And I’m going to do it, I have no doubt.
But what if you don’t.
Then I’ll die trying, and I’ll die without regret.
Laura smiles.
I like that.
Thanks.
You might actually do it.
I smile.
I actually fucking will.
Katerina lifts her bottle.
To burning the fucking world down
We all raise our bottles, say
To burning the fucking world down
And we drink
Drink
Drink.
To burning the fucking world down.
The ride is a little over three hours. Laura and Katerina keep talking, Philippe goes back to his business plan, I read Les Miserables, which is a lame and corny Broadway play, but is an amazing and epic fucking book. We arrive in a small cute French town it has a boulangerie, a boucherie, a pâtisserie, a wine shop, a bookstore, a couple restaurants. We take a taxi to a smaller town that has more or less the same shit. We pull up to a series of small limestone buildings, like a mini-château complex, on the edge of the town. They look a couple hundred years old, slightly beat-up, as if they were once beautiful and could be again. As we get out of the cab, Philippe holds up the business plan.
My family is thinking of buying this place. We’re supposed to be undercover guests. See if the hotel is any good, if the restaurant is good, if the wine is any good. Don’t use my last name while we’re here.
I laugh.
Some spy shit.
He nods.
Some super hotel spy shit.
Katerina speaks.
Can I kill someone? Like a real spy.
Philippe points at me.
Him. If he blows my cover. Take him the fuck out.
We laugh, walk through the gates into the hotel, check in. Philippe uses a fake last name, which makes me want to laugh, but I don’t. The inside of the hotel is the same as the outside, probably nice once, could be again, a bit run-down and in need of some love. We go to our rooms, agree to meet in the restaurant for dinner in a few hours. As soon as the door to our room is closed, Katerina and I are on each other, lips tongues hands bodies clothing off we fuck against the wall, on the desk, on the floor, in the bed, after we cum I stay hard inside her keep kissing her slowly my hands on her body our eyes open lidded after a few minutes we start fucking again in the bed, slow and deep I move as far inside her as I can I stay there slowly thrust my hips against her we cum again, I stay hard inside her, I stay hard inside her.
We fuck four times before dinner.
Shower together.
Hold hands as we walk to the restaurant.
Dinner is fun. Food is mediocre. Wine is delicious. I drink too much of it. So does Katerina. So does Philippe. Laura is the only one of us who isn’t insane. She almost drinks too much, but also knows she’ll need to help Philippe back to their room, so she stops long before we do. We eat dessert. Crème brûlée. I love crème brûlée, though this isn’t any better than the crème brûlée I can get in America. And it’s too burned on top, the crème isn’t crèmey enough. I eat three of them anyway. I’m tired and hungry after traveling and fucking all day, my body still hurts from getting my ass kicked, Philippe pays the bill we go back to our rooms. As I stand at the sink brushing my teeth Katerina comes behind me, puts her arms around me.
Ready to fuck some more?
I’m tired.
That’s a first.
What?
A man who doesn’t want to fuck me.
I laugh.
I want to, but I’m tired and drunk and I hurt everywhere.
She kisses my neck.
I have a solution.
Yeah?
Yes.
She steps away, takes my hand, leads me out of the bathroom, sitting on the glass table at the foot of the bed are two long lines of cocaine. I smile and my heart immediately starts beating faster, if I were a dog I’d start drooling.
Where did you get that?
I’m a model in Paris.
Is it good?
Magnificent.
Not the Saint-Denis train station bullshit?
I’m a model in Paris, Jay. You think I do that garbage?
No.
No, I don’t.
Get wired and fuck all night?
That’s the idea.
I find my pants, take out a roll of francs, pull one off and roll it into a tight tube. I get on my knees in front of the table, Katerina next to me, I offer her the bill.
Ladies first?
I want to watch you go.
My pleasure.
I put the bill in one nostril press the other closed lean over put the bill at the base of the line inhale. Powder moves quickly and easily through the tube and into my nose, it stings burns very slightly chemical very slightly bitter. My heart starts pounding. I close my eyes take a deep breath. Heart pounding. Every bit of insecurity inside of me disappears, every bit of doubt. Heart pounding. I open my eyes everything is brighter, clearer, crisper. Heart pounding. I look at Katerina who is somehow more beautiful, no makeup and deep-red hair everywhere light-brown eyes and freckles and lips somehow more beautiful. Heart pounding. She smiles.
Good?
Yes.
As advertised?
Better.
Happy.
So.
She smiles takes the bill does half her line and we fuck on the floor do more fuck in the bed do more fuck in the shower do more take a bath and play with each other do more go for a walk through the grounds of the hotel into a vineyard find a ridge and sit and watch the sun rise we walk back to the hotel and fuck again in the bed we fuck again.
We fall asleep in each other’s arms, the sun is high and the birds are singing, we fall asleep in each other’s arms and the sun is high and the birds are singing.
* * *
Philippe and Laura leave Puligny-Montrachet after two days. Laura has work, and Philippe has garbage to collect. And his mission is complete, he has seen the hotel, can report back to his family, he thinks they should buy it and fix it and make it fancy.
Katerina and I stay for a week.
We sleep late.
Drink coffee at the local café every afternoon.
Read.
Go for walks in town through vineyards along roads long simple walks in the countryside sometimes we hold hands it’s warm and simple and calming and right, sometimes we bump hips and shoulders it’s playful and flirty and cute and right, sometimes we talk we have long conversations about books or art or how to live or why to live they’re intense and passionate and thought-provoking and right every minute every hour every day we spend together is right, right, right.
Sometimes we eat at the hotel restaurant, sometimes we go to one of the places in town, sometimes we don’t eat, we just stay in the room and get wired and fuck, again and again, again and again, we stay in the room and get wired and we fuck again and again.
I try to write, but I can’t. Whenever Katerina is near me I want to talk to her, listen to her, touch her, kiss her, hold her, allow myself to be held by her, look into her eyes, see her smile and hear her laugh, be inside her, feel her heart beating and feel my heart beating, whenever she’s near me I can’t think or feel or experience anything but her and I don’t want to think or feel or experience anything but her maybe this is because it’s new maybe it will fade right now it’s real and it’s wonderful and it’s overwhelming and it’s right.
August becomes September I have nothing waiting for me in Paris, or anywhere else, but Katerina does. I tell her we should never go back just find a little hut somewhere nearby a little hut for the two of us she laughs and says it’s time I have nothing waiting for me in Paris but she does.
Final night we go out for dinner drink champagne toast smile flirt play footsie hold hands and bump hips as we walk when we get to the hotel we do two final lines split a last bottle of champagne and fuck all night our lips and our tongues and our hands and our eyes all manner of things hard and wet and deep again and again and again. I fall asleep inside her I don’t want to ever leave I fall asleep my arms around her I don’t want to ever leave I fall asleep my heart beating I don’t want to ever leave. She said we can never say I love you and I won’t say it but I know.
I know.
I know.
I love you.
* * *
We wake up and check out. Katerina wants to pay the bill, I pay it even though I can’t really afford it. The hotel gives us a ride to the train station we both fall asleep as soon as the train pulls out. I wake up just before Paris there’s a coffee waiting for me, Katerina smiles, speaks.
Hi.
Hi.
Almost home.
How long?
Soon.
Soon like an hour or soon like now?
Maybe fifteen minutes.
Fuck.
She laughs.
Don’t like Paris anymore?
Nothing to do with Paris.
Don’t want to leave me?
No, I don’t.
She smiles.
That’s cute of you, Jay.
I’m a cute dude, Katerina.
A cute monster.
Won’t disagree with that.
Seems like we were gone a long time.
We were.
More like six years than six days.
A fun, sweet, amazing trip.
Yes.
Yes.
She smiles, I smile.
Thanks for the invite.
Thanks for accepting it.
I’m happy I did.
We should do it again.
Maybe.
Maybe?
Maybe.
Definitely.
For now we say good-bye.
What do you mean?
Exactly what I said. For now we say good-bye.
Good-bye can mean an hour or a day or a month or forever.
Probably not forever, though you never really know. But it’s going to be for a while.
What do you mean?
She laughs.
Exactly what I said.
I thought we had a great time.
We did.
So?
Great times end.
I don’t understand.
I told you before we left there were rules, and I told you I didn’t want to fall in love.
You told me to never say I love you.
One thing leads to another.
I’m not saying it.
And I’m not letting myself go there.
Too late.
Maybe for you, not for me.
Too late.
No, it’s not.
It is.
You have books to write, the world to burn down, I have clothes to wear and shows to be in and pictures to smile for and money to make.
I’m not gonna stop you from doing any of that, or from doing anything you want to do.
No, you’re not.
What’s that mean?
You know what it means.
It’s too late, Katerina.
Maybe for you, Jay.
I’ve looked into your eyes, and I’ve felt your heart beating, and I’ve seen your hands shaking, don’t fucking pretend this is just me.
Where am I from, Jay?
Norway.
Where?
Oslo.
Where?
Don’t know.
What do my parents do?
Don’t know.
Are they still married?
Don’t know.
How many siblings do I have?
Don’t know.
When I was a little girl, what did I dream of growing up to be?
I don’t know, Katerina.
A doctor, Jay. I wanted to be a doctor.
Cool. Go do it now. Go back to school.
I’m from East Oslo, a place called Grünerløkka. My father worked on an oil rig in the North Sea and was lost in an accident when I was fourteen. My mother nev
er recovered from it, and spends all her time staring at the ocean and praying for my father’s return. My brother, who is two years older than me, wanted to be a lawyer. When I was fifteen and in school, I got scouted and signed and brought to Paris to be a model and guaranteed fifty grand a year. Now I make considerably more than that, and half goes home to my brother for school and for my mother, and half goes into an account so when I can’t do this anymore I won’t have to marry some dumb, old, rich, perverted fuck.
I’m sorry.
For what?
That I didn’t know.
I didn’t tell you.
And I’m sorry for your pain.
We’ve all got our pain.
Doesn’t mean I’m not sorry for yours, and doesn’t mean I wish you didn’t have it.
Thank you.
I won’t ever be a burden to you, or fuck up your plans, or stand in your way.
You already have.
Bullshit.
And you will continue to.
How?
A boyfriend is bad for business. Maybe not if you’re a supermodel and the big jobs come easy, but that’s not me, and that’s not my life. The shows are coming up and this is one of the two busiest times of the year. I should be meeting designers, and photographers, and editors, and the owners of companies, most of whom are men. I should be out hustling and booking jobs, not fucking you in some run-down château in the country.
Five minutes ago you said you loved it.
I did.
So?
So I probably lost a couple gigs because of meetings I canceled.
Sorry.
Don’t say it again, don’t be fucking sorry for me.
I stare at her, don’t say a word, just stare. And pain, the kind that hurts worse than anything physical, starts to envelop me. Comes from somewhere deep, as deep as anything inside me, maybe my heart, maybe my soul, maybe my spirit, maybe my brain, probably all of them, heavy and crushing and overwhelming pain, the kind that makes people drink, stay in bed for weeks at a time, reach for the motherfucking revolver and pull the trigger. She can see it, feel it, knows it, looks away and looks out the window, we’re in Paris now, entering the station, the same station we left a week ago. I clench my jaw, shake my head slightly, try not to cry. As the train slows, she looks back at me, eyes light brown like cocoa into pale green, speaks.
Spend your time on your books. Read and look at art. Live your crazy life and chase your crazy dream. And as much as I might want to be part of it, it’s not going to happen, Jay. I’m not going to be part of it.