Soon.
Yes, soon.
Katerina.
Jay.
Until.
Soon.
Paris, 1993
* * *
In the year 1400, Charles VI, the King of France, known as both the Beloved and the Mad King, issued an edict called A Charter of the Court of Love, which officially declared February 14 to be an annual celebration of love. He hosted a gigantic party that was attended by the royal court and included a huge feast, a jousting festival, poetry, dancing, and song competitions, and a royal mediator to settle any and all sorts of amorous disputes and disagreements. It is believed he chose the date because it is the date that St. Valentine of Rome, a Christian priest who married Roman soldiers and their girlfriends despite such unions being banned by imperial authorities, was buried in the year 273. So while most people in the world blame America for the orgy of flowers and cards and candy and dinner dates and presents and expectations and disappointments that Valentine’s Day has become, the blame actually should fall on the French and their insane ruler. That being said, I dig Valentine’s Day. If you’re single, there is literally not another day of the year when you have a better chance of finding new love, whether that love lasts ten minutes or a lifetime, and if you’re not single it is an opportunity to be as cheesy and as corny and as lovey-dovey as you please, to be as over-the-top with love and affection as you want to be, but without the possibility of mockery, or even with mockery, but also usually accompanied by a smile and some love returned. I want a big Valentine’s Day. I truly don’t give a fuck if Katerina gets me anything, or gives me anything beyond a true smile, a sweet kiss, and the privilege of falling asleep with her, and if I get one or two or all of those things, I will have a wonderful day. Her schedule has picked up, as Paris Fashion Week for the fall collections is coming up, which means she’ll be wearing, with all of the other models, clothes made by the designers that will be for sale in the fall, months and months from now. She has multiple castings every day, she has fittings, meetings with companies that might be interested in hiring her, with photographers and bookers. I offer to go back to my place and leave her to do whatever she needs to do, and come back when it’s over, but she says no, that the best parts of her day are when she can forget about all of it and just hang out with me, even though I am, in her loving words, a half-grouchy unemployed fuckboy, which is kind of true. I decide to make a big bold statement. To try to show her what she means to me, how much she means to me, to give her not only love but something more, an outward expression of my love. We still haven’t said it to each other, and we don’t need to because we both know, I know and she knows, it’s in our eyes, our touch, our kiss, it’s in the way our hearts beat when we see each other after being apart, the way our hearts rest when we lie in each other’s arms. And even though we haven’t said it, I want to show it, in some way more than day-to-day expressions, in some way that will remind her of my love when we’re apart. So I go home and I get my stash of traveler’s cheques I put the entire stack into my pocket. I start walking rue du Bac to Pont Royal across the Tuileries I know the stack will be considerably smaller after I get what I’m going to get in place Vendôme. And I am happy to do it. I am almost skipping on my way money doesn’t mean much compared to love, and I would rather be penniless than without her, take whatever I have take it all, just let me be with her let me be. I walk to the far corner of the place even the cobblestones are fancy and perfect most of the other shoppers are men in suits and coats I am rocking khakis a long underwear shirt a white T-shirt over it combat boots and a black wool seaman’s hat. I stand in front of the door. It’s tall and wide ancient oak, trim around the top a half-circle above with the name in fancy old script. There’s a doorman in a red uniform opening and closing the door I walk in and nod he smiles and chuckles at me. I walk past and inside there’s a security guard just past the door I nod and smile at him he stares at me like he wants to shoot me. I walk around the store I know what I am here to buy each room is filled with glass cases jewelry on velvet displays I have no idea how much it is all worth but more than every generation of my family has ever seen and more than every generation will ever see. Rooms are organized by price level, there is the expensive room, the very expensive room, the incredibly fucking expensive room, the unfuckingbelievably expensive room, there is a grand staircase leading to a second floor where your bones have to be made of platinum to even start up the stairs. I go to the expensive room where almost everything costs more than I have ever spent on anything in my life. I look for the little necklace with the diamond-studded pendant in the shape of a heart I find it. I stand in front of it there are lights embedded in the ceiling they make everything glitter and shine each bend of gold, each bend of platinum, each and every diamond in every one of the rings, necklaces, earrings, bracelets. A woman walks over she’s wearing lovely tailored clothing and a name tag that says CECILE, she’s probably forty undoubtedly elegant and sophisticated and fancy, she asks if I need any help I smile and say yes, thank you. I point to the necklace with the diamond heart pendant, ask if I can see it, she smiles and says of course and takes it out of the case. There is a tiny price tag on it I’m scared to look at it. Cecile sets the black velvet display on the counter I stare at it Cecile watches me I don’t move she speaks.
You want to see it?
I’m scared to touch it.
She laughs.
It won’t bite.
I look up at her.
I know, but I’m still scared.
She reaches down takes it off the display holds it up, a white-gold chain and the heart made of diamonds shining as light bounces off of it, glittering as it gently sways. I stare at it and my heart beats faster it makes me nervous.
For a girlfriend?
Yeah.
You must love her.
I smile.
She’s pretty fucking badass.
She laughs.
That’s kind of a wonderful compliment.
An easy one to make.
I can tell you she will love this.
I know.
Should I wrap it up for you?
I stare at it shining glittering swaying I don’t know how much it costs I’m scared to look. I also don’t really give a shit. Money comes and goes, comes and goes. I need it for food and books and booze and shelter, don’t really care about anything else, don’t care about clothes or fancy trips or cars or watches or rings or stereos or anything else money can buy I certainly don’t care for them more than I care for Katerina it’s not even close, not even fucking close. I look at Cecile, smile, nod, speak.
Yes, please.
She smiles.
Excellent choice.
Cecile turns with the necklace and display reaches under the counter for a box starts assembling my little present. My heart starts beating I’m nervous. Nervous to see how much I am going to spend, nervous about walking out of here carrying the necklace, nervous about seeing Katerina when I have this for her, nervous thinking about giving it to her nervous imagining her reaction I’m nervous. I watch Cecile as she puts the display into a red box with gold trim and gold lettering, as she wraps a red ribbon around the box, as she puts the box in a small red bag more gold trim and more gold lettering. There is a cash register behind her she rings it up I’m fucking nervous she turns and tells me the price $4,200 almost half of my remaining funds. I take a deep breath it’s actually not as bad as I thought it would be, if I keep living the way I’m living less booze not much food borrowing Katerina’s books instead of buying them, living as simply as possible in every way, my cash will last longer and I can look for some type of job, get paid cash under the table, work at a bar or a bookstore, I’ll figure something out. And whatever joy the necklace brings to Katerina is worth whatever the cost, whatever joy it brings is worth far more worth more than everything I have, everything I own. I hand over a giant stack of traveler’s cheques, Cecile counts them and gives me change in francs, hands me the bag, s
miles.
She’s going to love it.
I smile.
Hope so.
Thanks for coming in.
Thank you for your help.
I take the bag turn walk out nod to the security guard who probably thought he was going to get to beat me up, nod to the doorman who probably thought he was going to get to watch the security guard beat me up, walk into place Vendôme it’s cold the sun is starting to go down I take rue des Petits-Champs until it turns into rue Étienne-Marcel until it turns into rue aux Ours I go back to the apartment press the buzzer my heart still pounds every time I do it she’s not there. The little red bag is in my hand it makes me nervous my pocket is full of all of my remaining money, if someone tried to mug me right now I’d let them have the money before the little red bag they’d have to knock me out or kill me to get the bag away from me. I walk to La Perle order a coffee it’s filled with fashion people you can tell by their clothes, their animated nature, they all look very busy and very stressed but don’t seem in a hurry to go anywhere or do anything, they’re just very busy and very stressed. I drink my coffee it’s hot and strong a minor-league replacement for the charge of cocaine it should make me more nervous but it makes me less. Speedy drugs, and caffeine is a speedy drug, always calm me down, make me more lucid, it is the primary reason why I love them, caffeine cocaine speed they calm me down my hands are steady and true holding the bag the little red bag for her. I pay for my coffee walk back to her building push the buzzer. I wait ten seconds fifteen, I hear the world’s greatest sound, yes it is the world’s greatest sound the entry buzz, I open the door walk inside up the stairs the door is cracked I enter. She is sitting at her little table wearing her pajamas, there is a chair on the other side of it with a bow tied around the top of it. I smile she smiles it’s a big true smile all I need in this world is some love and a smile. I hold the little red bag behind my back walk toward her we’re both still smiling I speak.
Hi.
Hi.
How was your day?
Busy. You?
Mellow.
I lean over kiss her she smiles motions to the chair.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
I smile, sit down, keep the bag behind my back.
My own chair.
You like it?
I love love love it.
Both real and symbolic.
A table for two.
No.
No?
Not a table for two, a table for us.
I smile.
The best present I have ever gotten in my whole life. Thank you.
She motions toward the table.
There’s something else.
I look, see a small box, a black ring box, sitting.
For me?
Yes.
Are you proposing to me?
Not yet.
I laugh, reach for it.
Thank you in advance.
I open the box not sure what to expect I can’t imagine wearing a ring I can’t imagine her getting me one. I flip the top open there is a key sitting in the space where a ring would be, a small gray metal key upright in the velvet. I take it out stare at it, put it in the palm of my hand. It’s light and cold and the most valuable thing I have ever held, at least to me. I look up, smile. She speaks.
You’re my dude, Writer Boy.
And I can come and go as I please.
Open door, open heart.
Open door, open heart.
Yes.
Can’t think of anything that would mean more to me, or that I would want more.
Me too.
Thank you
Welcome.
And now.
Yes.
I reach around for the little red bag.
For you.
I set it on the table. She looks at it, at me, back at it, back at me, smiles.
No shit?
No shit.
What is it?
Open it and see.
Are you proposing to me?
Not yet.
I’m nervous.
So am I.
You really went there?
I did.
They let you in?
Shockingly, yes.
She looks at the bag, picks it up, smiles.
Even if it’s empty I’d be happy. That you made the effort.
It’s not empty.
What is it?
I laugh.
Just open it.
She takes out the box.
It’s not a ring.
Don’t know.
Yes, you do.
Not telling.
She sets the box on the table, stares at it.
If this is what I think it is.
I don’t know what you think it is.
She looks up at me, smiles, light brown like cocoa into pale green.
I went and looked at it after we saw it.
Don’t know what you’re talking about.
It’s too much.
Don’t know what you’re talking about.
She smiles, takes off the ribbon, looks up at me looks into me, lifts the top of the box slowly lifts it, it comes away, she holds it for a moment, stares at it and smiles and moves it away there are no lights overheard but it doesn’t matter. It glitters and shines, her smile wider wider wider, she stares at it and smiles wider.
I can’t believe you did this.
She takes it out of the box, glitters and shines.
How did you pay for this?
I had some extra money.
No, you didn’t.
I did, and I wanted to do this, and I want to see it on you.
She holds it up glitters and shines she smiles.
I want you to put it on for me.
My pleasure.
I stand walk around behind her she watches me smiles. I reach around she’s holding the necklace in front of her neck, I put my hands on top of her hands intimate, my fingers entwined with hers intimate, I take the ends of the necklace white gold from her fingers intimate. I move it slowly down so it sits on her chest shoulders neck over her freckles, I bring the ends around she reaches up lifts her hair thick lustrous red, I open the clip slide the delicate little loop into the clip close it, let it go she lowers her hair. I move my hands around her neck down her shoulders arms find her hands entwined, I lean over look at the glittering, shining heart on her neck glittering and shining she whispers
It’s beautiful.
I’m happy you dig it.
Thank you.
You’re my sweetheart, Model Girl.
I…
I kiss her neck.
You don’t have to say it.
I…
I already know.
Yes.
Yes.
Hands entwined I kiss her neck, lick her neck, kiss her lips softly.
Yes.
Yes.
Lips and tongues softly.
Yes.
Yes.
Glittering and shining.
Heart.
Happy.
Valentine’s.
Los Angeles, 2017
* * *
How do you see the rest of your life playing out?
I don’t know.
If you could write it, what would you write?
I don’t know.
Yes, you do.
Yeah, I probably do.
Tell me.
I just want peace. To love my wife and kids, to do something that makes me happy, to be able to wake up every morning and look at myself in the mirror and not hate what I see. I don’t give a fuck about money or fame or any of the rest of it anymore. I did it and it left me empty. I still love writing, the actual process of it, sitting alone in front of a blank screen and spending the day or the night or both putting words on the screen, so maybe I’ll try to write a couple more books.
About what?
I don’t know.
No ideas?
Not really.
Why?
; Don’t know.
Yes, you do.
People always ask me how I write books. I always tell them I don’t really know. That I have books inside me, that they grow inside me, that at a certain point I feel full with them and that my job is to translate them. That the process of writing is just getting out what’s there, in my mind and my heart, in my soul, and doing it as accurately and precisely as possible. I don’t use outlines, I’ve never read any of the books I’ve written, and except for the first book I’ve never allowed them to be edited. I don’t really know how it happens. I think and I feel and I put what I think and feel and what’s already inside me into words on the screen and eventually there’s a book. And I might have ideas but ideas don’t do it. I have to wait for a book to be there. In its entirety. Before I start. And I don’t have one right now.
Yes, you do.
I don’t.
You’re just scared.
Why do you say that?
I know you.
Maybe.
You want peace, and writing brings you peace, but everything you’ve done and everything you do creates chaos and pain.
Unfortunately.
You should have known.
Known what?
If you burn the world down, it’s very likely you burn yourself in the process.
You’ve always been smarter than me.
Did it hurt?
So much.
Still does?
Every day.
We’ve never really talked about it.
If you have questions, ask.
What happened?
Complicated question.
Give me the truth, as simply as you can.
I wrote a book, it came out, I lied about it.
Simple as that?
No.
Tell me the real version.
I wrote the book. Obviously it was based on my life. I took all kinds of liberties. Changed shit, made shit up. My only goal was to write the best book I could, to break people’s hearts, crush them, to move them deeply and in ways they had never felt, make them understand the pain and horror and rage and sorrow and self-hate that I felt as an alcoholic, a drug addict. To make them understand. To take them to hell. To make them understand hell. To show them a way out. To change them in some way, the way books have changed me. I wanted people to love it or hate it. To write it in a way that it confronted them, offended them, delighted them, scared them, forced them to take a position on what I wrote and how I wrote it. I worked so hard on it, had so many dreams tied up in it. I had this sign on the wall in front of where I wrote it that said BARE YOUR SOUL, and I did, I fucking did. And I believed in it, so deeply. I was in my 30s and my friends and family all thought I was crazy. That it was time to give up. That I was a loser, a bum. That it was time to end the I’m going to be a famous writer gig. But I didn’t. From the moment I started writing that book, I knew.