Nobody's Interesting Life

"Do you like Murakami?" Kiyoko asked, seeing me with the book. "One of the few contemporary authors I read. Always wondered what he's like in Japanese." "Probably same." "Probably, " I said. " 'Language is dead' they say, but I think that's only an excuse for bad writing. She brought the tea. "I don't understand." "Nevermind. Not important." I sipped the tea. It burned my lips and tongue. I quickly pulled the cup away from my mouth. "Careful, it's very hot!" "Yeah," I laughed and so did she. "Let it cool down a little. I put the cup down on the table. "So where are these clothes?" "Hm! Follow!" Kiyoko sprouted into action like someone shot off a starter pistol and led me to one of the many racks of clothes. She slid some pieces aside and pulled out a light grey suit, presenting it to me like a newborn baby. She located a generic, white Calvin Klein dress...

Kiyoko lived about five minutes away from Saint-Michel. I arrived at her building ten minutes after eleven and called her from downstairs. "Moshi, moshi," she answered. "I'm here," I said. "Okay! I'm on second floor, 2A." A loud buzzer went off and I pushed open the massive door. "I'm in," I told her. "Yay!" And she hung up. The interior of the building, like the exterior, was old but well maintained. The staircase was wide and covered with a worn blue carpet. Two thriving jade plants guarded the base of the steps. I heard a door open. "Here," Kiyoko called down. I walked up two flights and met her outside her door. She was wearing black short shorts, a white tank top, and a yellow bra. Her legs were very thin, very smooth, and very pale, as if they had never been touched by the sun or the outside world. I wondered if they had. Her hair was tied back in a taut pony tail. She was beautiful effortlessly. She nodded a...

Kiyoko was studying fashion at the Marangoni Institute. She had been in Paris for almost a year, arriving from Tokyo a few months before the start of her classes the previous fall. We talked for nearly two hours, only breaking from our conversation to answer occasional questions from Andre's replacement and occasional compliments to me from Parisian men regarding the beauty of my girlfriend. The compliments were for Kiyoko's benefit and I believe in hopes that I would offer the information that she was indeed not my girlfriend. I made no such offer. Kiyoko was a master at the smile and blush and she used them to full effect upon receiving the two or three advances. "Parisian men sure love Asian women," I laughed. "They love all women," she said. I couldn't argue. When we couldn't possibly stay at Le Danton any longer, we left. Walking along the sidewalk, Kiyoko asked me if I'd model some clothes for her. She had a few pieces for men and thought t...

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...