His, Body and Soul - Volume 1 Read online

  Olivia Dean

  HIS, BODY AND SOUL

  Volume 1

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  1. To us...

  I watch how the passengers change as the subway stations go by. The tourists got off a little while ago, and now I'm alone with the natives. Several stations ago, the suits and tailored skirts replaced the sweatshirts. A far cry from the bohemian Paris I dreamed of when I started studying. But oh well, I’ve been lucky enough to have my thesis accepted and even luckier to have found a place to live, I’m not going to complain if it’s in a ritzy neighborhood.

  Monceau: this is where I get off. Wow! It’s fancy. Extremely glitzy. Lots of tall, bicentenary buildings with huge doors. Here’s the park and the avenue with the same name…This is the one! I ring the bell that says “Loge” for the building caretaker, who responds immediately.

  “Hi, I’m Emma Maugham, I have an appointment with…” She doesn’t let me finish. The massive door opens with an ominous creak and I meet her in the marble foyer. She's wearing a meticulously tailored skirt suit, she almost looks like an English governess. Good lord, is everyone in this neighborhood dressed to the nines? She walks me to the elevator.

  “It’s on the 5th floor. Generally, whoever lives in your room uses the service elevator, but it will be out of order until the construction work is finished. Mr. Delmonte has agreed to share the elevator with you.” What a nice guy, this Delmonte.

  I haven’t seen my cousin in years, I wonder what she looks like now. She’s waiting for me in front of the staircase, and she too is dressed like she’s going to a formal garden party. She leads me into the room and sits me down for a steaming cup of tea. It’s small, but nicely arranged and tastefully decorated. There’s a tiny bed, a desk in front of the window and a kitchenette. Behind a door, there’s a small bathroom with a toilet, shower and sink. It’s like a dollhouse, but my cousin explains that it’s rather luxurious for this part of town. Not every ‘garret apartment’, as it’s called, has these kind of amenities. Usually, the bathroom is in the corridor. As for the shower…I think I’m going to like living here. At any rate, I don’t really need a whole lot. A bed and a desk are more than enough for the monastic existence I’ve dreamed of experiencing this year.

  If there’s one thing about Lexie that hasn’t changed, it’s how much she talks! Before long, I know everything about her life: how she arrived penniless, how she pieced together a living from odd jobs until she found this job as an employee of Mr. Delmonte’s house. She says ‘Mister Delmonte’ with veneration in her voice, I didn’t know she could be so formal. And then of course, how she met her boyfriend and how they’re getting married soon, moving into a little house in the suburbs…it takes an enormous amount of energy for me to not explode. How could such a smart girl decide to stop working just to go shack up with a man?

  It’s not that she had an exceptionally exciting job, but a job is still a job, especially in 2012! Not only does the logic escape me, but it also really annoys me. I think of the last thing my father told me in the Lansing airport: “When you see Lexie, make sure you don’t say anything rash! Whatever you think, keep it to yourself!” So when she tells me all the details of her magnificent love story, I smile idiotically. No matter what it’s all about, this story is the reason why I'm so lucky during this hectic time at the beginning of the school year. That and the generosity of this famous Delmonte, who's agreed to let me take my cousin’s room while I get my bearings in Paris. Mr. Delmonte. She’s been talking about him for two hours and I’m already annoyed by this person. Apparently he's filthy rich. He owns the building and only lives here every once in a while. I imagine him to be a tyrant in silk pajamas. Sexagenarian, I would say. Lexie doesn’t know what he does for a living. Does he have a specific kind of job? Is he retired? She says he’s single, probably an old bachelor, at that. Perfect, he’s not going to distract me from my studies…

  Lexie finally stops talking. I figure I’ve heard all there is to know. I decide to go explore the neighborhood while she finishes packing up her stuff. I’ll save the park for the weekend. Right now, all I want to do is find something to eat later tonight. I walk: I’ve been looking forward to walking around since I arrived in France. No more driving for the smallest errands. I’ll go for a stroll and buy my baguette in my neighborhood…But I soon get the impression that it doesn’t work that way in Monceau.

  I’ve been walking around for fifteen minutes and the only stores I've seen are a florist and an antique seller. Plus loads of doctors, psychologists and private clinics. It seems like the only thing you can do around my new home is get a Botox injection. So these people don’t eat? When I get back home, I find myself looking hungrily at an apricot poodle.

  Luckily Lexie was thinking ahead, she left me some food as well as a little map showing where the closest stores are. She drew a dollar sign and a skull and crossbones over a few of them. I get the message.

  “Don’t be shy – if you need me, call me.”

  “Don’t worry…”

  “And don’t forget to introduce yourself to Mr. Delmonte. And make sure to thank him…”

  “Of course…but why don’t you introduce me to him? Wouldn’t that be easier?”

  “He’s out of town. When he gets back, I’ll probably be on my honeymoon. Don’t forget, okay? I don’t want him to think my cousin doesn’t have any manners.”

  “Of course not! I wouldn’t do something like that!”

  “Oh, Emma!” she scolds me, kindly. “One last thing. You probably should pay more attention to your clothes…”

  She looks me up and down, like the governess did earlier. But my outfit couldn’t be any more ordinary. For a student who’s moving, I mean. Jeans, Converse sneakers, college sweatshirt…well maybe French students move into their new apartments wearing Chanel. Go figure…I get the feeling that I’m going to have plenty of surprises over the next few days!

  2. Back to school

  My appointment is at ten o’clock am in room 322. Mrs. Granchamps is waiting for me. She is exactly how I imagined she would be. She emanates wisdom and intelligence. She's calm, poised, you get the impression that each of her words is full of meaning, that every sentence is deliberate and deserves your utmost attention. I intuitively understand at the very beginning of our conversation that she’s already agreed to accept my thesis. I’ve been preparing for her questions for two months, but I’m afraid that my responses aren’t enough for her. The best thing I can do is be completely honest, completely thorough…

  Why feminism? No doubt because I realized that people in the outside treated me differently than my father did, which is originally why I never thought of myself as a girl…or a boy, for that matter. My mother died during childbirth. It’s odd for that to happen these days, dramatic and romantic, but it’s not unheard of. Anyway, it was just my dad and I. No new wife, no girlfriend…My father is something of a nerd. His passion: dinosaurs. He devotes most of his waking hours to dinosaurs and I wouldn’t be surprised if he dreamed about them at night. He probably met the only adult human being in the world who shared his passion. They got married, she got pregnant…After the accident, my father was the only paleontologist in the university of Lansing, Michigan. I had a happy childhood. I spent a lot of time at the university, in the laboratory with dad or in my grandparent’s backyard. My father managed alright. Of course, when I see photos of myself in a flowered dress and rubber boots, I realize that he didn’t teach me much about beauty or fashion, but I never lacked for anything and I was always happily satisfied with m
y life.

  When I was twelve years old, he solemnly summoned me to the kitchen, and announced that the time had come for us to divide up the household chores. From then on, I would have to make dinner every other evening. Same thing for the laundry. As for the housework, a chore that bored us both equally, we decided to keep the house as clean as possible and go on a cleaning rampage every other Saturday. There was just one basic rule to follow when it came to these chores. Whoever did it, did it the right way. Basically, what that meant was you couldn’t complain if the meat was too tough or a shirt badly ironed. This seemed naturally right to me and I naively thought that this was how it worked in every family. But reality soon caught up with me. When I went to dinner at my friends’ houses, I noticed that the division of chores between generations and even between adults was a myth. Actually, that’s not exactly true: the chores were divided between the generations, as long as the younger generation was female. I would come back home all wound up from these experiences. My father was perplexed. I could spend hours cursing society, the patriarchy, the bra and everything that I considered to hinder the freedom of women. When I came home like this, my father would tell me to calm down the ‘suffragette’ inside of me. But I know that he agreed with me, in his own way. When I told him that I wanted to study feminism, he supported me. He was the one who suggested I go see how things worked in other places. Which led me to Paris.

  I had dreaded this meeting, and now I can’t stop talking. Mrs. Granchamps looks at me kindly. Alright, I think. She takes notes. After a certain amount of time, she interrupts me:

  “I have to go teach a class, Ms. Maugham. I clearly understand what your motivations are, but I’m afraid we still need a little more time to pin down your subject. If you like, I noted a few classes you should attend – as long as you agree with me, of course. This will help you meet other students and better identify your research topic.”

  “Does that mean you'll direct my work?”

  “Yes, of course,” she says, before leaving.

  I’m relieved. Of course, I don’t have a specific topic, but I have a professor who’s rather well-known, and there’s no way I’m going to disappoint her. I read her prescription and decide to go to every class. A few are literature courses, a little bit of philosophy, sociology….it’s perfect and it’s…now! My first class in French literature is going to start immediately! Luckily, the classroom isn’t too far away and I avoid the embarrassment of being late for my first class. I sneak in right when the door is about to close. I take a seat in the first available chair and listen dutifully to the teacher. He introduces himself quickly. This is a class in medieval literature, a field completely unknown to me. We’re going to study a novel from the 12th century. I rejoice. I’m in Paris and I’m going to study medieval texts! I turn towards the girl sitting next to me, who’s taking out her book. Lucky me! I sat down next to a bimbo, a gigantic blonde with blood red nails and lips. She’s wearing a black cocktail dress…She’s probably not going to be someone who can help me…or make me look good, I imagine. By chance the professor, who’s probably attracted to her, asks her to read and translate the introductory section.

  I want to crawl under my seat. But Manon, which is her name, is able to do this with a disconcerting ease…and a real passion. The professor is obviously impressed. Me too. I swallow my hasty judgment. I’ll try to talk to her next week, I think while gathering my things together. But Manon is not just gifted, she’s also extremely nice. She waits for me in front of the classroom.

  “Emma? Is that your name?

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to go for lunch?”

  I accept eagerly. She does everything she can to make me feel comfortable. I find out that she’s also spent quite a bit of time abroad and knows it’s a responsibility to guide and help students in similar situations. She’s working on a master’s degree in classical literature, she tells me. Her great passion is dead languages. That and fashion! And also a certain Mathieu, her boyfriend, who meet us at the university cafeteria. A curious couple, these two. She’s as tall and beautiful as a supermodel, he’s small, poorly decked out, maybe a little chubby…They kiss passionately, with open mouths. I’m almost embarrassed. Luckily, they stop soon enough and devote themselves to their meals and their new classmate, soon to become a new friend.

  3. Parisian life

  It’s been a week already since I started living the high life! I’m joking. I live like a hermit. I leave my room at dawn and go to school, spend all morning in the library. Then I head to the cafeteria where I choke down some bland meat drowning in brown sauce. I try not to look at it too closely. In the afternoon, I go back to my spot in the library or attend a few classes in obscure literature or history. In the evening, I make my butter coquillettes, using a traditional French student recipe Manon gave me. I’m not bored, I don’t have the time to be bored. But I have to admit that, perhaps unconsciously, I excepted more from my Parisian life. A little craziness, maybe.

  I’m always alone in my large mansion. Sometimes I feel afraid when I come home at night. The building caretaker has generally left by then, no one makes a peep and all of the lights are turned off. I feel incredibly miniscule in this giant corridor, not even my footsteps make any sound. I sometimes feel like a ghost or a burglar. In any case, someone who doesn’t belong in this cold and solemn place.

  I have to say that I’m spared from the hustle and bustle of the capital in Monceau. Sometimes to the point that I forget to wake up…which is what happened this morning and, as I do ever morning, I lazily stretch and tell myself I have plenty of time to get to the library…Except today I have an appointment with Mrs. Granchamps in thirty minutes! Forget about taking a shower, I throw on my jeans, sneakers, a t-shirt and a jacket. I pull my hair back into something that resembles a ponytail, which to me seems very French. I grab my bag and zip down the stairs, no time to wait for the antediluvian elevator this morning. I jump down the last three steps and, after a quick look to my right – no governess in sight – glide across the marvelous marble floor of the entry hall. Right until my slide comes to a sudden stop.

  My head bumps right up against a man’s torso, I put my hand against it to steady myself. Two weeks without seeing a living soul around here and this morning, a torso suddenly appears in front of me! Nothing seems to make sense around here. I look up. A man, a very manly man, looks at me with a curious expression, as if I was a little lost cat. Tiny dimples frame his dark black eyes. He’s got the kind of look I would gladly linger over if only I wasn’t in a hurry! I quickly disentangle myself from the stranger and race away like a thief.

  “Mrs. Granchamps is ill today,” they tell me when I get to school. Looks like I’m in for a full day at the library! I can’t wrap my mind around it. First, my teacher stands me up, then this mysterious encounter. I can’t stop talking about it to Manon over our daily feast of brown meat.

  “Maybe it was the landlord. What’s his name again?”

  “Delmonte? That’d be a surprise. The guy I saw this morning was around thirty years old, he didn’t seem like a retiree…maybe it was his son?”

  “Did he look rich?”

  “I don’t know…he was wearing a suit.”

  “There are suits and then there are suits! How was it tailored? What kind of material? How many buttons did he have on his jacket? The shirt?”

  “He was wearing a…black suit with a grey shirt.”

  “You’re killing me here. And his shoes?”

  “Yeah, he was wearing shoes.”

  “Thanks. I think I have all the information I need to determine where this person comes from.”

  “Really?”

  “Emma! No, I was joking. Anyway, was he cute?”

  “Sure, I think so. Tall, brown haired, seemed interesting…”

  “Are you going to go for him?”

  “Given that I don’t know who he is, that I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again, that he’s probably the son of my lan
dlord and that, moreover, I came here to Paris to study and that I don’t have the time nor the desire to become infatuated with someone, I’d say no.”

  “What does that matter, we’ve been talking about him for an hour…”

  “You’re the one talking about him! Anyway, what do you expect, it’s close to the only thing that’s happened to me since I got to Paris.”

  That’s no lie. It’s true that the stranger made more of an impression upon me than I’d like to admit. But who knows, really. It all happened in less than a minute, which makes the experience seem even more interesting.

  It’s as if my body retained the memory of the instant when our two bodies collided. I barely remember what he looks like, and thinking about our bodies touching brings back the sudden sensation of heat that rushed through me.

  But I’m completely devoted to my studies. I didn’t come here for that kind of stuff. That’s all there is to say.

  My wish has been granted, I resume my routine even more enthusiastically. The weather is starting to turn cold in Paris and it gets darker earlier every evening. I read in my room at night. I thought I heard voices come out of Delmonte’s apartment that night. In the morning everything is calm, I must have been dreaming.

  4. Him again

  My analysis is too short. I’m full of preconceived notions. I’m gluing old concepts onto ready-made ideas.

  I’ve never received such harsh criticism before. Mrs. Granchamps pulled no punches. I leave her office defeated. I’m good for nothing. In any case, not for research. I don’t want to be the kind of person to act this way, but I run to the bathroom to cry. It’s too much. Two months of intense studying and meat in brown sauce far away from home and the people I love, for what? To be treated like a superficial idiot? I want to disappear.