Nobody's Interesting Life

Madeleine was not waiting for me upstairs. The house lights flashed several times directing the audience to return to our seats. I decided to follow their advice. When I got to my seat, Madeleine was there waiting. “Where were you?” she whispered. “I came up, but you weren’t there,” I said. “There was a big line.” “I figured.” The show continued. Either I am unable to remember exactly what happened, or it was not memorable. Probably both. I believe Ariane escapes with Bluebeard’s former wives, convinces the townsfolk not to kill her husband and then annuls her marriage. Something like that anyway. What I do remember is feeling a tremendous amount of guilt; guilt for thinking of the Japanese girl on the subway and guilt for talking with and giving my number to the girl in a turquoise dress and red stockings. For the rest of the evening, I showered Madeleine with affection. When a man begins to contemplate infidelity, every woman that catches his attention becomes a more interesting pros...

On Thursday I took Madeleine to the opera. A friend working on Ariane et Barbe- bleue gave me the tickets. I have not seen many operas and this particular show did nothing to increase my appetite for the art form. I am always impressed with the beauty and ability of the voices, however, having studied the craft of acting, I find it difficult to ignore the lack of believability in the performances. Moreover, the set design of this show, though detailed and elaborate, was, for the most part, confusing. By intermission, Ariane had opened the forbidden seventh door, found the lost and presumed dead wives of her husband, and was banished with them to the dark, hidden regions of Bluebeard's castle. Madeleine and I followed the rest of the patrons to the foyer. " Je vais aux toilettes , " informed Madeleine. "I'm getting a drink," I said. "Want anything?" " Un coke ," she said. I loved the way she said " un coke " and she knew i...

Madeleine and I walked home that night without saying much. Something I said at dinner upset her, but I thought it might pass. She held it until we arrived at her flat. Once the door was shut, her jacket and boots off, she started. "I don't like when you say those things," she said in french. "What things?" I tried to indicate in my tone that I was not interested in the conversation. "Sleep with a Jew," she persisted. "That was a joke, obviously." "Yes. Yes, I know it was a joke. But how do you think it makes me feel, saying those things? How do you think it makes me look?" "I didn't want to express my opinion, that's all it was." "Since when do you not want to express your opinion?" "I don't know. Since this time." The answer did not satisfy her. She went into the bathroom and shut the door. I stripped down to my underwear and climbed into bed. I stared at the bathroom door. Something was b...

Madeleine and I arrived at the restaurant last; a cozy, affordable establishment in the ninth agrandissement . With the exception of Marie-Claire, our dinner companions were all friends of Madeleine’s and all students at La Sorbonne. We had a real united nations to dine with. Omar, an Egyptian. Estelle, a Jew. Patrick, a Christian (not only in word, but in deed). And Luc, who could not be described adequately by his religious affiliation or ethnicity, but rather by his claim to have read the entire Comédie Humaine – an accomplishment that, if true, would have endeared him to me, if only he wasn’t so oft to repeat it. Without fail, within a half-hour of any conversation, Luc would inevitably allude to his conquest of Balzac’s oeuvre. Moreover, every opinion or thought expressed by Luc, regardless of subject, seemed to find its origin in this story or that of the staggering collection. I once found the occasion to quote Aquinas to him: “Beware the man of one book.” Either the insinu...

I got off the metro one stop after the Japanese girl and walked to Le Danton . No one greeted me so I found a table at the window facing the street. A young male server approached. I ordered a café crème . He asked me if I would like to see the menu. “No,” I said. “Is André not working today?” I asked in French. “ Non ,” he said. “Are you Evan?” he asked in English. “ Oui. C’est moi .” “He left a letter for you. I will go to get it.” He held on to the menu. “French onion soup and a ham and cheese, that’s right?” I smiled. “That’s right. But just the coffee for now.” “ Bon . I will bring you the coffee and the letter.” I nodded and he went to do as he said. I had been coming to Le Danton to write for almost a year now. Madeleine would chide me about going to the Latin Quarter. She’d tell me it was a cliché and no longer a place for artists, but for wannabes and tourists. I’d tell her that I didn’t care and I liked it anyway. I liked the people and the atmosphere an...

After our sport, Madeleine went to the bathroom to take a shower. I went back to sleep. She woke me about an hour later to say goodbye and remind me of our dinner plans that night. She smelled the way women do and wore tight grey jeans and a black, scoop neck tee-shirt. I assured her I hadn't forgotten. She kissed me on the forehead and left for her morning class at La Sorbonne . I lay there staring at the ceiling a little while, letting the sun pouring in from the bedroom window warm my face. It was very comfortable under the giant duvet and I always had a rough time. Nevertheless, I extricated myself from the bed a few minutes later and made my way to the shower. Once clean, I ate a breakfast of eggs and sausage, washed the dishes, put on my own tee-shirt and jeans, and left for the Châtelet station. The walk through le Marais was as pleasant as ever. I resisted the smell of chocolate croissants and spinach and cheese paninis and arrived at the metro without incident. I go...

A man is strapping explosives to his body with the full intention of blowing himself and hundreds of innocent men, women, and children to eternity. A boy in Africa is being forced to kill his parents and rape his sister. While these things were happening, I was contemplating the stiffness of my erection as it moved in and out of Madeleine. Madeleine's last name was Paquette. She was a Parisian woman of twenty-four. Her father was a Frenchman with direct lineage to the reign of terror, and her mother was an Iranian. Or, as she preferred to call herself, Persian. Madeleine had inherited all the best features of her parents. She had dark skin and perfect ears like her mother. She was five feet, six inches tall and had retained her father's green eyes. She was one of those women that commanded a second look if you passed her on the street. Undeniably striking. In addition to benefiting from her parents genetically, she was also the recipient of their immense wealth. I was...

I wrote to her, On fickle paper and meager hopes, Could it be? Over? It was. And nobody was listening, And perhaps no one ever does. So ode to you, Woman You broke my heart (tore it to pieces really). I ate your chocolate, And vomited all over the sidewalk, For nothing really. Nothing at all. Now you have every card, But don't play a single one Still, I wrap my hand around what's left. Not for you, But for me. No, it's for you.