Leaving Madeleine - part 23

Brigitte left for Hong Kong. I watched her walk through security at the airport and then waited until her plane took off to be sure I didn't squander any opportunity to be with her for even a minute longer. I had already begun to arrange things so I could join her in a little more than eight weeks. A pair of my closest friends lived in the city. I knew I could rely on them for a place to stay until I got myself situated.

Calvin Ng was a half-French, half-Chinese photographer with multiple tattoos including the symbol for infinity behind his left ear, and a full sleeve on his left arm with an hour glass connected at the elbow as the centrepiece. The sand was almost completely in the forearm section which, ever since he had it done, served as the topic for countless philosophical and psychoanalytical debates both real and as conversation starters with women. His hair changed colors more often than the seasons and the piercings on his body seemed to multiply every time I came for a visit. He could often be heard referring to a woman as a "petit oiseau" and, even with his post-punk, middle-finger-to-the-world disposition (or perhaps in lieu of it), it would not be uncommon of Calvin to be in a longterm relationship at any given interval of his post-pubescent life. It was unfortunately common however, that after the initial honeymoon stage of varying periods, Calvin's relationships tended to become turbulent. It was often only in times of separation that his passion would rekindle. As such, he would often break it off with a girl and get back together with her six or seven times before finally ending it for good. Anyone who knew Calvin knew he had a code, but they also were aware the man was unencumbered by what the majority of his friends and acquaintances considered moral standards. It wasn't that the bar was set at a level he was unable to reach, rather - though conscious of its presence for others - for him, Calvin had decided, he would live in a way in which no bar existed.

Unlike Calvin, Andy Tsai wore tailor-made suits, Ferragamo ties, and Prada shoes. He owned a Rolex and a Cartier watch, which he'd alternate between depending on his outfit. He opened doors for women and paid for dinners. He had an ex-wife and kid in Hong Kong, and a girlfriend in Taiwan. His girlfriend was pleasant and creative and probably the kind of girl he should've married. He initially intended to work in finance, but had recently decided to start buying and renting out real estate in Tokyo. If I could encapsulate the major difference between my two friends, it would be that Calvin strived to be pushed out of his comfort zone, while Andy resisted every effort in that direction, despite the enjoyment he derived the majority of occasions when his methods of deterrence failed. Despite their many differences, Andy and Calvin also had a great deal in common. Both came from money. Both were walking dichotomies in the way they could be unbelievably selfish yet incredibly generous and benevolent at the same time. Both also had very little trouble getting women. Though I hadn't put my finger on it at the time, I have since concluded that at the root of their shared way of being is an unconscious lack of empathy. Neither is malicious in the least, but it is as if in spite of their very different upbringings, by very different parents, combined with an absence of ever facing any true financial uncertainty, created within them the inability to understand why certain people would fail to meet their potential, or how a person could squander away the opportunities of a perfectly capable life. I would often find myself trying to convince one of them to put themselves in an angry friend's, hurt girlfriend's, or aggravated client's shoes. More often than not, my arguments would fall on deaf ears. Some experiences had softened both men over the years, and each have become more malleable in their own way. But if you, at one time or other, wanted to convince Richard or Andy to walk a short distance in unfamiliar shoes, you would be wise to prepare for a long journey.

Not surprisingly, the two men also shared an almost identical response to the email I sent to inform them of my intended move. They were thrilled that I would be joining them on their side of the world, but utterly disapproved of the prime reason for the change of continents.

Equally shocked by my decision were my friends in Paris. The separation from Madeleine had already thrown most for a loop, particularly because I left out the part about Brigitte. Everyone but Patrick was in the dark. During a dinner we had arranged to say our goodbyes, he asked me if I had slept with her already. I was honest with him, telling him I'd met with her the night we parted after the movie and pie. At first I mistook the pain in his eyes for defeat. But he assured me it wasn't because he felt he had lost her to me. Later, when I thought about it, I figured perhaps it was compassion for my soul. Or hers. Or that she damaged the image he had built of her. It wasn't until almost a year later that I learned what the pain in Patrick was really about, and that it was vastly more complicated than I could truly understand. Losing Brigitte made Patrick angry with God and, consequently, the fact that something so worldly (the affection of a woman he barely knew) could make Patrick angry with God, made Patrick angry with himself and question the level of his faith. Exasperating the issue was that Patrick had wanted to sleep with Brigitte himself but, fornication being a sin, he felt guilty about even the desire. Once I had been with her, Patrick thought perhaps if he had only slept with her before me, that she would be his. He expressed his frustration to God, complained and demanded answers. The answer came back that he already knew the answer. This in turn made it all the worse. I suppose I can't truly describe his emotions nor his thought process. Suffice to say, my relationship with Brigitte caused greater trauma for him than I had envisioned. I felt very low. He assured me his problem was his own. I tried to add some levity to the conversation by agreeing. I am not sure if I succeeded. I could only keep apologizing. The truth was, though given the circumstance it was not appropriated to say, I admired Patrick's ability and desire to strive for something higher than himself. I never seemed to be able to overcome my own carnality. In the end, I believe I did him a favor. But at the time, neither us could know. Even now, I can't be certain. The universe turns on such infinitesimal wheels and degrees. Regardless of the whole ordeal, Patrick and I remained friends. He insisted on paying for dinner and assured me I would always have a place to stay if I came back to Paris. I reciprocated his hospitable intentions and encouraged him to visit me in Hong Kong once I got settled. There was a table occupied by three above average women and I floated the idea of engaging them for Patrick's benefit. He declined. "You sure?" I questioned. He answered in the affirmative. I left it at that. 

Unlike Patrick, Madeleine didn't seem interested in wishing me well. I called her multiple times and left several voicemails. When those efforts failed to elicit any sort of response, I resorted to text messages. I deserved to be ignored, however I couldn't help thinking that she didn't know how underserving of her attention I really was. Finally, I decided to go the old fashion route and write her a letter. I started in French, but gave up after the first paragraph. I was spending more time thinking about correct grammar than expressing what I wanted to say. Upon switching to English, I made it to three paragraphs, but continued to compose a very poor correspondence. I didn't know what to say. I wanted to confess, but couldn't. I felt shame. I felt like a coward. I threw out what I had written and wrote something else.

Dear Madeleine,

I am moving to Hong Kong. I failed us. I failed you. I want you to be happy, but I won't lie. The thought of you loving someone else is difficult for me. Or perhaps it's the thought of you forgetting about me. Either way, I can't think of it. Should you ever have the inclination to speak to me again, I will always respond. 

Love Evan.

I went back and forth with singing in it with "love." But I did love her, so I left it there. I folded the letter and stuffed it into an envelope. I wrote her address on it and engaged in an internal argument as to whether or not to write a return address as well. Would she open it if she saw my name? After deciding not to include my name on the envelope,  I realized I had no return address and felt that my decision had been reinforced by reality. If she wants to read it she will, I thought. I put the envelope in my bag and resolved to mail it when dropping off my boxes to be shipped to my friend's address in Kowloon. 

I had a few more people to see before I left. I scheduled them in as if I was someone important. I arranged dinner with Marie-Claire and thankfully she had the good sense not to invite Luc. She seemed saddened, but excited for me at the same time. "I wish I could just pack up and go," she told me. I responded that nothing was really holding her back. She argued that there was her job and Luc and the fact that she was not getting any younger. I almost countered that none of the reasons she gave were convincing, but just offered a half-hearted nod instead. When desert came, Marie-Claire pulled a shopping bag from under the table which up to that point I had assumed was something she had bought for herself before meeting me at the restaurant.

"I buy you something," said Marie-Claire.

"Vraiment?" I protested.

Marie-Claire handed the bag across the table. I reached in and pulled out a tweed blazer. "I realize you don't need more clothes right now, but I saw it and it made me think of you. Regarde, no shoulder pads, like you like."

I tried the jacket on. It fit perfectly. 

"Merci," I said. 

"Bienvenue," Marie-Claire responded. I crossed to her side of the table and kissed her and hugged her tightly. "You have to promise to keep in touch," she said. 

"I promise," I responded.

We finished our food and had coffee. Leaving Paris was beginning to sink in. All these people that I cared about. I hadn't really thought about them until now. They're not enough to make me stay, I thought. But I will miss them and think about them just the same.

The last person to say goodbye to was Kiyoko. I debated whether or not to contact her as I had somewhat ignored her since Brigitte came into my life. She suggested I come to her flat and she would make me dinner. I thought better of it and said we should meet at a restaurant. My treat. After a bit of back and forth, we found a night that would work. It was only a week before my flight out of the country. I insisted on Les Deux Magots as I knew that would be the last time I'd be able to eat there for awhile, maybe ever. 

I arrived first and ordered a whiskey while I waited. Kiyoko came in about ten minutes later and I had a hard time evading my primal nature. Her red, billowing dress stopped high enough above her knees to turn heads, but low enough to maintain an element of class. Her yellow heels drew further attention to her perfect nubile legs and unblemished skin. Exposed shoulders eluded to her delicate frame and exquisite neck, accentuated by shining, silky hair and expert application of makeup. She was stunning. Upon her entry I was reduced to the mess many men find themselves in in the presence of a beautiful woman. I hid it as best I could while standing to greet her and pull out her chair. I caught more than few men stealing glances in our direction. One got caught by his wife and pleaded innocent. I stole a glance at Kiyoko's soft, taut thighs as she sat down.

"You look like, I mean, my knees feel a little weak," I told her.

"Thank you," said Kiyoko. I sat in my chair. She wasted little time. "I haven't heard from you in so long."

For whatever reason I felt the urge, or maybe urge is the wrong word, the freedom to tell Kiyoko everything. It was as if I had to tell someone about all the secrets trapped inside me, and Kiyoko, someone I knew little about and knew little about me, and someone I thought I may never see again, seemed like the best person. I wish I could say it was a connection I felt to her, or that something about her I found forgiving and understanding, but the truth was, at the time, It was something like the opposite. I didn't mind offending her or her possibly losing interest in me and wanting to never see me again. Everything was Brigitte now. Confessing was the kind of liberation I needed desperately. And so I confessed. All of it. My relationship with Madeleine. My trip with Brigitte. Every secret desire, every embarrassing, disarming thought and deed I had done in the past few months. Kiyoko sat across from me and listened intently. I stopped intermittently when we ordered our food, wine, dessert, and once when Kiyoko got up to go to the bathroom. But otherwise I completely monopolized the conversation. Kiyoko nodded and made occasional noises or comments, but never attempted to steer the conversation (if you could call it that) in a direction that included more about her. Finally I finished. I released the tension I had built up in my body. Kiyoko was quiet. 

"I'm sorry," I said. "I've talked the whole time"

"It's okay," Kiyoko replied. "I am glad you tell me this. It's a lot." 

"Yes. Sorry."

"No, I mean, you move, it's so big!"

"Oh. Yeah. Crazy."

"Yes. But I like it. So romantic. But I feel sorry for your girlfriend. From before."

"Yeah. I know."

"Stay together is hard sometimes."

"Yeah." 

I finished a café crème and got the bill.

"If you not meet this girl, what you think happen?" Kiyoko asked.

"I really don't know," I answered honestly.

"Mmm. I think same thing, but later."

"Who knows. I don't believe in meant to be."

"I don't understand."

"You work at it, or you don't. It ends because you wanted it to, or you didn't care enough to keep trying. It starts the same way."

"Mmm," Kiyoko nodded. "I understand now. But not agree."

"You're young," I teased.

"You are old," Kiyoko fired back. 

We laughed. I paid the bill and we stood up.

"What now?" Kiyoko asked.

"I should go home," I replied.

"Really?" Kiyoko pressed. 

"Yeah."

"Can you walk me home?"

"I'll put you in a taxi." I felt the existence of Brigitte gave me a very strong will, but I didn't feel like testing myself.

"Okay. Thank you," she kissed my cheek. "And for dinner," she kissed my other cheek. "French way." She wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me. I felt her breasts pressing against my ribcage. "Can you make me a promise?"

"Yeah. What?"

"We keep talking."

"Tonight?"

"No. Later. Hong Kong. Paris. Japan. Maybe you come visit."

"I promise we'll keep in touch."

Kiyoko kissed my cheek again and let me go. "Let's go get taxi."

I nodded.