I’m sitting in the airport lounge at Orly, waiting for a
plane down to Nice, on my way to the Cannes Film Festival because I have a song
in a movie that’s premiering there. This is a long-anticipated trip to the
French Riviera for a week of glamour and glitter and the languid turquoise
waters of the Mediterranean. I'm expecting endless parties, shots and yachts and Bain de
Soleil-covered Euro-trash slime with expense accounts, their pockets full of
designer drugs.
The only problem is, I’m
a basket case, a complete and total wreck.
I’ve just been cruelly abandoned by my Swiss lover in Paris, left in a
tiny Eight Arrondissement hotel room with a broken shower and I can’t stop
crying. In my thoughts, I feel as though
there’s been an attempt on my life, so
I’m now referring to my horribly sadistic now-ex lover as The Assassin.
As Murphy’s Law would
have it, on the plane I’m seated next to a woman with a squalling toddler who
won’t stop screaming and throwing spit-covered cookies the entire way, no
matter how many times she slaps him and yells, “ARRETE!” I’m feeling like screaming out loud myself,
chain smoking in the lav and popping what little crumbs of Xanas I can find
left in the bottom of my make-up bag.
The only good part of this situation is that I am meeting
Steve, the film’s director, and even thought I don’t know him that well, we had
an instant rapport—more like a psychic bond. He can make me laugh, and we both
have the exact same taste in men. Steve’s waiting for me with the rest of the cast in
Juan-Les-Pins
When we land,
I have the option of taking a cab for $96.00 American dollars, or a bus
for , like six bucks. I opt for the bus due to finances. The bus makes
God-knows-how many stops on the way to Juan_Les Pins, and isn’t air
conditioned. Needless to say, the crying hasn’t abated. Finally the bus dumps me and my suitcase off
in the middle of the town square nowhere near the hotel so of course it’s ninety degrees at four in the afternoon and I have a
hoof it.
By the time I finally get to the hotel drenched in sweat,
the crying has stopped, having been replaced by a growing rage, a by-the-book
classic case of Hell has no fury like a
woman scorned. A mere twenty minutes ago, I’d been contemplating suicide,
but now I’m having a miraculous epiphany similar
to what Helen Keller must have experienced at the pump when Annie Sullivan
spelled out the sign language for “water” into her hand.
It dawns upon
me: what I need is another cock in me as
soon as possible to erase any trace of my beastly beloved Assassin. I mean, if one can’t get laid on the fuckin’
French Riviera, one must really be a
loser, baby! With game resignation, I
steel myself for what is sure to become a one-woman slutfest, “Debbie Does
Cannes”! If I can’t get a tumble or two
during the Festival, there’ll be plenty of time for suicide later!
The hotel is sumptuous, a converted old villa surrounded by
wildly colorful exotic gardens, and my room has a view of the water with a
massive yacht on the horizon. A good
omen, I think, as is the huge bathtub with a working shower. I run a bath, guzzle a couple of cocktails
from the mini-bar, lick up the Xanax dust from the bottom of my pill box, and
relax on the gigantic soft bed, a cool washcloth over my tear –swollen eyes,
the sea breeze from the open French doors gently caressing my body. With utmost
care, I apply super-vixen make-up and select a skintight, midriff-baring royal
blue crushed velvet dress with a hip-level slit up one side, earrings that
would put any chandelier to shame, fishnets, and disgustingly high
platforms. I feel like Brigitte Bardot
on a lost weekend and get down to dinner just when everyone is being seated.
We have our own private dining room with a full staff of
tuxedoed waiters just for us hovering anxiously, pulling out the chairs for
each woman present. There are freshly
cut, sky-high bouquets of flowers everywhere—the room is redolent with their
heady fragrance. The place settings
feature nine million forks, fine china plates stacked on top of each other and
way too many wine glasses and goblets for a crowd of Americans. On top of the floral notes in the air is the
tantalizing aroma of Provencal cuisine. Taking it all in, I’m now a ringer for Marilyn Monroe in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes:
“A girl like I could get used to
this!”
In fact, I’m feeling so good, all thoughts of murderous
revenge on The Assassin have temporarily been banished from my head. I’m actually participating in small talk,
able to put aside my obsessive, pathetic psycho-drama and be the scintillating
dinner conversationalist I was pre-Paris.
Steve is being brilliant, sarcastic and witty, and as the
encyclopedia-sized, calligraphed menu finds its way into my hands, I’m not even
forcing myself to laugh at what he’s asking for “dangerous” vin rouge.
When I look up to see the wine stewards’ reaction (when, if
ever, is expensive wine referred to by a diner as dangerous?) I’m momentarily stunned. Isn’t a sommelier supposed to look like a
French version of W.C. Fields, a fat,
balding old man with a Dali-esque mustache under a gin (or perhaps vin rouge)
blossom nose?
Well, this one
didn’t. Mais non!
This sommelier
couldn’t have been a day over twenty-four and, to be perfectly frank, adorable
can’t begin to describe him! He has a shiny midnight pompadour more
elegant than hoody, a swarthy sun-kissed complexion, slanting liquid black
eyes, dazzling white teeth, and excruciating cheekbones. His lips are full and it’s clear he’s amused
at Steve’s comment, trying unsuccessfully to maintain decorum and not let his
mischievous smirk show.
My menu fell—by accident?—from my hands onto the table and
knocked a couple of forks onto the marble floor with a loud clatter, which
happily focused the wine steward’s attention on little old moi. Steve immediately shot me a knowing glance
which no one at the table caught, but which the wine steward didn’t miss. Thus begins a three-way flirtation, a ballet
of veiled glances, raised eyebrows, lightning-quick smiles and half-French,
half-English double entendres, which lasts for the duration of the dinner.
Halfway through the third course, I get out a cigarette and,
just as I expected, the wine steward is, at the speed of light, holding a
flaming match before me. Like a 1940’s
movie star, I steady his hand with mine, and gazing into his eyes, slowly
French (how utterly apropos!) inhale.
Man, what’d ya do to rate that? asks Steve’s sister, the star of the film, sounding vaguely
annoyed.
“I’ve been lighting
my own smokes all night!”
Steve beams approval from across the table, then gets out
his own cigarette, to see if he warrants the same kind of service. Happily, he does.
After dinner, stuffed to the gills and more than a little
tipsy due to the endless variety of wines Steve just happened to order, we repair to the hotel’s bar to drink
more. As luck would have it, our
gorgeous sommelier is our server there, too.
In between bringing little wire
baskets housing bottles of finely aged
wines for Steve’s approval, we speculate upon the sexual orientation of our
mutual crush, exclaim over how dashing he looks in his tux and crisp, starched’n’spotless
white calf-length apron, and make good-natured bets on who can pick him up
first.
Much to the
amusement of the film’s entourage who’ve by now picked up on our hijinks, this
goes on for three nights of us sitting in the bar, giggling like maniacal
sex-crazed teens, flirting and being flirted with shamelessly. Midway through the third night, I’m just
impatient -and drunk- enough to make my move.
“Encore de vin rouge, Mademoiselle?” asks the sommelier, his eyes intent upon
mine, one eyebrow raised in a question I’m surely not imagining.
“Oui merci, Monieur,”
I reply, breathlessly, daintily holding my empty glass to be filled, the
very picture of Finishing School Etiquette.
Then, momentarily abandoning my pidgin French and turning into Ms. Hyde,
lapsing into the All-American hoarse whisper of a john soliciting a hooker, I
say,
“So… what’re you
doing later?”
Steve practically chokes on his vin rouge, while Mssr.
Sommelier’s eyes open wide, and he whispers back,
“I am off… eh…at eleven, but… eh… we must meet in the park
across the street.”
Fortuitously, it’s 10:30, so Steve and I finish our wine and
to go lurk in the shadows, under a eucalyptus tree shrouded in fog for our Liason Dangeruese. Presently the wine steward appears in his
street clothes—Euro-Trash Au Go-Go—and we walk to a nearby tiki bar called
Pam-Pam.
Seated on rattan
chairs with Hawaiian print pillows, our conversation nearly drowned by the
incessant techno pounding from the speakers,we order Perrier menthes because
we’re too drunk to ingest any more liquor.
We grill our conquest, discover that his name is Gregory, he’s been
working at the hotel for only a few days, has two tattoos, and is
straight. With that last detail
revealed, Steve gracefully bows out, with a You Win shrug. Greg and I hang out for awhile, conversing
mostly in pantomime, halfway due to the techno, but mainly because neither of
us is too adept at each other’s native tongue.
We leave the bar and walk along the beach, then go back to his car so he
can drive me to the hotel.
By now, the ocean fog has become thick and murky, I’m
wearing Greg’s jacket over my slinky dress to ward off the chill. It’s so damp that the windshield of his car
is covered in condensation, and he can’t get the motor started. We sit inside the car as he tries over and
over to fire the engine, the whole time muttering “Aaaah, merde!” under his breath.
To me, the car sounds
suspiciously like my own back home when the weather is wet. In fact, a couple of weeks ago, I’d called
AAA because my car wouldn’t start, and when the tow-truck arrived, the driver
told me to turn my key in the ignition, and whacked my distributor cap sharply
with a wrench, which started the car immediately. Just inebriated enough to think I could save
the day by employing this technique, I rummage in Greg’s back seat and discover
a kid’s wooden baseball bat. Grabbing
the bat, I get out and open the hood.
“Try starting it now,”
I instruct,, miming a key turning in the ignition, and as he does, I
wallop the distributor cap as hard as I can.
A shower of sparks worthy of Bastille Day sprays up from the engine, and
the car starts immediately. Amazed, Greg
jumps from the car.
“Incredible!” he
says. “How… eh… how you do this?”
Tottering on my red patent leather heels and hefting the bat
like a crazed cross between Babe Ruth and Mamie Van Doren, I yell victoriously,
“I’M FROM AMERICA,
BABY!”
We head off to my hotel, and just inside the heavy iron
gates, he stops the car and we engage in what is known in archaic American
slang as “parking.” Greg gently traces
the contour of my jaw line, caresses my hair, and then draws my face towards
him in the first genuine French kiss
I’ve ever had. His technique is so good,
it’s all I can do not to burst into rousing rendition of “The Marsaillez,” or
at the very least, “Frere Jacques.”
After a few more
breathless moments, he asks if I’d like to go back to his place, and although
tempted, I realize that even though The Assassin didn’t kill me, I’ve been severely maimed. Perhaps I’m not anymore quite the harlot I’ve
always thought I was, maybe I should think this thing through, sort out my feelings
before leaping into bed with yet another years younger Euro-trash Don
Juan. All emotions aside, my experience
tells me that waiting always makes thing hotter. WE make a date for the next evening.
Staggering through the lobby, high on mixture of liquor and
lust, I have to wake up the night clerk to get the key to my room. It’s not until I’m about to brush my teeth
that I notice the reason why the clerk gave me such a strange glance: there’s crimson lipstick smeared all over my
face and chin. “Coquette the Clown,” I
say to the mirror, right before passing out.
Word travels fast—over petit dejeuner, everyone involved in
the movie is snickering, elbow nudging, and grilling me for details. Apparently, I’m the only one of the entire
lot of us getting any Cote D’Azure action.
Even Steve’s mom, a perky mother hen with a Pixie-cut, shakes her head
and comments upon how cute Greg is. Now,
it’s almost like I’d have to follow
this thought even if I didn’t want to.
The think is, I do want to,
and right now, I’m kicking myself for not having cast caution to the wind last
night.
My
rationalizations—as if I need them—are many:
Greg is tres jolie, The Assassin can go to hell. I will definitely not get attached to Greg and will probably never see him again after this
week, The Assassin can go to hell. I
will undoubtedly be merely the first in a long line of summer flings for Greg,
so his feeling won’t be hurt, The Assassin can go to hell. I’m on vacation, goddamit, and it’s de r in
the South Of France, it’s de rigeur to
give into whims like this… The Assassin can go to hell. I’m not getting any younger—or richer, for
that matter—and there is, therefore, a limited window of time when tryst like
this will still be available for me to take advantage of, The Assassin can go to hell. In fact, The Assassin can eat shit and die before going to hell, and I’ll be
wearing a skimpy bikini with lots of clunky jewelry, high hells, Jackie O.
sunglasses, my shoulder blades itching from the angel wings about to sprout
therefrom. There will be a Cartier halo
over my head, and I’ll be sipping a champagne cocktail while cheering loudly as
The Assassin fuckin’ fries for his transgressions against me.
I cannot wait until tonight!
Greg and I meet in the same place but immediately take off
for his place in Golfe Juan. He lives
right on the water, the marina in front of his building is a veritable forest
of sailboat masts. His apartment, in a
quaint old house, is furnished in bare bones, simple bachelor pad
accoutrements: heavy carved ‘70s
furniture, a few pieces more modern and nondescript, a smallish collection of
CDs, mostly techno and reggae, many books on wine. Not too many clothes in the closet, nothing
interesting in the medicine chest. He
immediately fires up a huge spliff, puts on some music, and begins opening wines
for me to sample, telling me about his recently completed thesus on the
vineyards of France.
We engage in a bit
more small talk, smoke a little more hash, and taste more wine before settling
onto the couch, which, in my state, has me singing the chorus LaBelle’s “Lady
Marmalade” in my head. “Voulez-vous
chouche avec moi, ce soir?”
I hold my disposable camera
up and snap a photo of us looking stoned and beatific, and he finishes seducing
me, not a difficult task at this point.
Fondling me and whispering in French, we move to the bedroom, have a
great little romp in the pitch darkness, and fall asleep.
I wake up with sunlight streaming into the bedroom, no
sheets left on the bed. Greg grabs me
from behind and asks in a husky, sleepy voice, “Ca va?”
“Oui, ca va bien, merci!”
I answer, running through pretty much the entire extent of my French vocabulary.
“How about you, are you okay?” I ask, twisting around to look at him.
He grimaces, and simultaneously lighting a cigarette and
slipping on his shades groans insolently, “I hate to speak English in the morning!”
Far from being an off-putting remark tome, I consider this
the sublime epitome of Euro-trashiness, and have to conceal my delight at his
heartfelt statement.
“Oh, me, too!” I
assure him in perfect English, amending it to “Moi aussi!”
Casting me a baleful glance, he begins to get ready for
work, offering me the first use of the shower in a gentlemanly way.
Back at my hotel, everyone is eager for details, which I’m
far too much of a lady to give out, although I do tell them about Greg’s
fabulous early morning comment, which
results in the entire cast and crew groaning over breakfast everyday, “I hate
to speak English in the morning!”
We see each other a couple of more times before I leave, and
it’s fun—a perfect little vacation romance.
The morning after I arrive home, I hear French being spoken on my
answering machine, and pick up, amazed he’s calling me, especially so soon.
It turns out to be
The Assassin- God only knows why- and with satisfaction I inform him that the
only reason I answered was because I thought he was Someone Else. Later that day, I get my photos back and send
Greg a copy of the one I took of us on the couch, along with a
first-grade/primary-reading-level note about what a good time I’d had with him.
The Assassin continues calling, and even thought I’m
ignoring his many contrite messages, one day I pick up the phone without
screening and we have an illuminating conversation. I can’t fight the fact that I’m still
desperately, ridiculously in love with him, and a few weeks later, we have a
glorious face-to-face reconciliation. As
for Greg, naturally, I never heard from him. Our little rendezvous was mutually
beneficial, lots of fun, and I’m endlessly grateful to him for helping restore
my injured self-esteem. Not only that, I
have to point out that he made me realize a profound fact of my own life: I, too, hate to speak English—or any other language
for that matter—in the morning.
#
The story you’ve
just read is from my book Escape From Houdini Mountain. Purchase it on
paperback or Kindle here:
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