Coq, page 15
Liam is unintentionally taunting us, driving in circles, too close, like he wants us to buy drugs off him. Wes is texting. I threaten to take away his phone if he doesn’t hurry up and get on a bike. People are looking. Joan waits patiently, her long tanned legs resting comfortably on either side of the frame. Mona in her headscarf is an elderly ET.
“I can’t get my shoes on!” Emma whines.
Dan gives me a pleading look.
Oh for fuck’s sake, I think. “They’re going to be too big for her,” I holler, untying my laces with a seventeenth-century violence. I carry my shoes to my niece and soften my tone. “Emma, honey. Try these.”
Emma doesn’t hesitate. She has Allison-Jean’s gargantuan feet and though my sneakers are two sizes too big, when doubleknotted, they manage to stay on.
The cement plaza is cold beneath my bare feet. A quick survey of our group reveals that most of us are underdressed. The temperatures have been unseasonably warm for September, but today is cloudy and grey and a breeze that felt refreshing when I stepped off the train now feels menacing. Mom would know if it was going to rain.
Our guide introduces himself as Ben, which is disappointing. I was expecting a Fabrice or Jean-Luc. He mounts his bike and says, “Welcome to Versailles,” with a sweep of his long, graffitied arm.
I try to listen to his speech but the green flip-flops are pedicure-grade, disposable. I’m wearing lettuce. I do my best to secure my feet, but the toe straps are dangerously thin. My seat is too high, but it’s too late to make adjustments. Ben has already started pedalling with Dan and Joan hovering behind him, followed by Emma, Mona and the boys. I file in at the rear, behind Dad.
Our tour begins outside, around the gardens and orange groves, away from the front gates. Goosebumps stipple the backs of my arms. Dad wobbles, meandering in and out of my way at regular and irritating intervals. Within a few minutes we are so far behind the rest of the group, we’ll need a tugboat to catch up.
“Stay to the left!” I shout, as his giant wedding bike starts careening into the narrow part of the lane that I’ve managed to carve for myself.
“What?” he hollers, glancing over his shoulder at me.
Oh my God. “Watch the road!”
“Well, I was, until you started shouting at me.”
“You keep cutting me off.”
“Claudia,” he says, gripping the handlebars, “when’s the last time you rode a bike? Look how far behind we are. Keep up.”
I move further to the shoulder, take a deep breath, and focus on riding in a straight line. I try to appreciate the elegant statuary and beautifully mapped gardens sprawling from either side of the path, but every time I look to the side, my heel slips from the pedal, which causes the pedal to maniacally spin and shred the back of my ankle. I feel a warm trickle of blood, followed by a piercing drop of rain, and then another.
Ahead, my father is talking. I can’t hear him. He lifts a hand to point to some landmark in the distance.
“Watch where you’re going!” I yell, as he once again starts drifting into my lane, forcing me onto the cobbles.
“What?” he calls.
He’s on me now. I try to brake, but his pedal is caught in the spokes of my front wheel, my handlebars hitched to his fanny pack. We are attached.
“Claudia!” my dad yells. “You can’t crash into me.”
I try to pedal with one foot. A parade of bicycles is approaching from the other direction. I attempt to ring my bell, but it’s buried under the fanny pack. Dad steers with the accuracy of a toddler. A potato could do better. The oncoming stream of cyclists whizzes by. We jump the path, sail on top of the grass and crash spectacularly. A fresh crack runs the length of my phone screen. Dad’s horrible hat with the ear flaps is pinned under my bike.
I climb out from under the mess and reach for Dad’s hand. He trembles, wears a look of worry so pronounced I feel a sort of woozy despair. “Are you hurt?” I ask.
Blood seeps through his pants at the knees. He cradles an elbow. “I can’t ride a bike anymore,” he says with a ghastly expression as though stunned by his own revelation.
I’m equally stunned. He literally drove a bike off a wharf, into the ocean. How is he surprised by this mishap? Did he think the first accident was an isolated incident? A fluke?
“You can,” I say, despite the obvious. “You just need to focus on what you’re doing.”
“I’m old.”
It is both a fact and a declaration. I take his arm and gently haul him to his feet. He assesses his wounds while I dismantle the wreckage, resetting the bikes on the pavement, collecting euros, which are scattered through the grass like forgotten shell casings, Dad’s room key and tube of Voltaren.
I blow the stardust of glass from my shattered screen and tuck my phone back inside my pocket. People ride by us unperturbed. I brush dirt from my father’s hat, tear the flip-flop from the wheel spokes. I tape it back together with a handful of Band-Aids.
The rain is light, but steady. I help Dad remove his rain poncho, which has managed to stay tucked into the corner of his fanny pack. Together, we drape it over his head. I survey the crash site once more, as if it’s a hotel we’re about to check out of. A glint in the grass. I bend to examine the object, assuming it’s a missed coin or lost button.
“What is it?” Dad asks, gripping his handlebars for support, the bloodspots on his pants blooming like ink poppies.
I pinch the item between my fingers and hold it up between us. It’s a shell: plain, common, cloudy, the size of my thumbnail, exactly the kind Mom used to collect. The kind we used to paint or stack or glue to tiny wooden boxes. There’s still one in Wes’s room, in the back of his bedside table drawer, with a minefield of forgotten relics: elastic bands from when he wore braces, parts of a geometry set (mismatched because we buy a new one every year), wrestling figurines, a petrified Sour Patch Kid.
Dad takes the shell and turns it in his palm, running his finger over the fan of ridges. He says nothing, but I can tell by the look on his face that he’s remembered something. Something private. Something specific. Something special.
The sky opens ceremoniously. Dad clamps his hand around the shell and slips it into his pocket. Side by side, we walk our bikes down the path, shaking the rain from our hair.
twenty-eight
Have you gotten laid yet? Georgia texts.
I don’t tell her that the only people in our party getting laid are the septuagenarians. And maybe Wes. Fuh.
I’m in Versailles, I text back
Perfect. Maybe you can find a man to tie you up in the King’s room, coronate you in the guardhouse, canonize you in the hall of mirrors.
The last thing I want is to be “canonized” in the Hall of Mirrors. No one needs to see me without armour and the only men in the vicinity are a grizzled tourist in a MAGA hat and a painting of a Royal draped in so many robes he could be hiding a passel of pigs beneath them. Plus, he probably has syphilis. Or lice. Likely both.
We are midway through the tour of the Chateau’s interior and I’ve stopped to decompress in the washroom. Mona’s cleaned up Dad’s road rash and sorted his coins. The kids, to my surprise, are enchanted by Versailles. By its over-the-topness, its size and arrogance, its daring. They gaze at chandelier planets, run fingers over forbidden furniture, marvel at the details: pheasants hidden in the wallpaper, sin in the drapery, tiny embroidered rosettes, the finely chiseled cheekbones and the swirling ears of sculpted boys and men. In Nova Scotia, treasure hunters have razed an entire island in search of treasure. In France, you just walk through a gate.
No sex, I finally reply to Georgia and instead tell her about my upcoming interview with the recruiter and the CEO. She asks how I’m feeling about that; the idea of starting a new job and it catches me off guard. I pause in the Hall of Mirrors, en route to our family meeting spot outdoors, to consider it. How do I feel? That is the horror of this place. Paris is making me feel: lonely and for God’s sakes, frightened. I need my recognizable self back. I need familiar, I need boring, I need predictable. I need safe. I want roosters in my kitchen, and Sunlight. The happy basset hound I see walking by the strip mall on my morning commute. The ancient pictures on my office bulletin board. My robe. My aloneness.
The Hall of Mirrors is crowded. The sun must have come back out because it leaks through the windows, casting people in golden chessboard squares. They move in and out of the light, taking it all in, or perhaps ignoring it completely. The rumours of this place. The luxury and deceit. The debauchery.
I weave through tour groups and families, note things I missed on my first pass through. Pedestals, trumpeters, gilded leaves. Maybe I should accept the job. Why choose Glen or Felix when I can have a new office, a new title by my name. An excuse to buy a beautiful new suit, soft and exquisitely tailored. Maybe I’ll buy it here, in the fashion capital of the world.
I’m lonely.
I traipse down the stairs, toward the sun. My stomach aches with hunger. For the next part of the tour, we are riding to the local market and having a picnic brunch by a canal. I’ll ride shotgun with Mona, and make Dan ride with Dad in the rear.
A rustling in my purse. Hooves, the pleasing scratch of paper. The origami horse, sensing my want. Worse, sensing my need. For a man. And it feels shameful, anti-feminist, archaic. This is why I like Georgia. Also why I desperately miss Cathy. Cathy, who could work a chisel, parkour a park bench, fix a door. So practical. I imagine her texting me now: of course, you should take the job! Glen wants to get back together? Hard NO. A guy on a plane? Seriously, Claud? She would not be asking if I got laid on my mother’s memorial trip.
Ben, the guide, is straddling his bike when I re-join my family. The lines outside Versailles are airport long and I’m grateful Mona booked the private tour, even if it’s cost me my shoes and my dignity. Bruises are already forming where Dad and his bicycle bowled me over.
I debrief Dan, nodding toward my father. “He can’t pedal in a straight line.”
“He said you cut him off.”
Oh my God. I can’t even. “Just remind him to keep his eyes on the road.”
“Kind of defeats the purpose of a tour if you can’t view the sights, no?”
“Whatever. I don’t care what you do. It’s your turn. With him.”
Dan shrugs and I mount my bike.
Mona pedals with surprising vigour, her scarf flapping daintily in the breeze. Her poncho is a pleasing yellow and matches Dad’s blue one. She wears a cheerful expression and it makes me want to seize the lushness of the moment. The colour. Teen children whom I adore cycling at my heels, a high-limit credit card in my wallet, strong legs, green grass. I glide with my feet off the pedals, then with no hands. I feel giddy and childish. Alive.
“Auntie Claudia,” Emma cries behind me. “Watch out!”
I hit the brakes and skid. Someone’s dropped a backpack. I crank my handlebars and bump Ben’s back tire with my front one.
“Sorry,” I holler, coming to a full stop.
He gives a little wave. The backpack’s owner has returned to retrieve it. He apologizes in another language, swipes it from the ground.
“Neither Mom nor Grandpa knows how to ride a bike,” Wes says behind me.
I resume pedalling with a scowl.
Ahead of me, Ben clears his throat. I’m driving in the wrong lane. I tug on the handlebars to correct course. Oh. I’m driving down a hill. Ducks in my path flee.
“Brake!” Mona yells.
Too hard. The bike stops and I skim the handlebars with my face.
“Wow,” Ben remarks.
I dismount and drag the bike uphill. “These aren’t normal bikes.”
“The end of your nose is bleeding,” Liam points.
Great. The recruiter will think I have impetigo or fucking nose shingles. “Where is the canal?” I yell to Ben.
“You nearly rode into it,” he says. “Market’s just up here. Five more minutes.”
I ride the remainder of the trip in silence and stroll the market alone. I buy a little cup of freshly squeezed orange juice and immediately think of Mom. I understand now why Dan cried in the restaurant over garlic mashed potatoes. I can almost smell her. The powdery scent of her drugstore makeup, the earthy aroma of her fingertips when she braided my hair after gardening, her scandalous fur vest.
The picnic spread is lovely. Wine, sausages, cheeses of all persuasions, baguettes, honeyed pastries, sparkling water, pastel petits-fours.
“We saved you a seat,” Wes says, motioning to a luscious patch of grass facing the Grand Canal. I join my brood cross-legged and begin assembling a plate. Everything tastes rich, cared for, important. I stuff myself like a bourgeois, ignore that the grass is wet, and lift my face to the sun. All that food and all I remember is the orange juice. All I feel is her.
twenty-nine
“Hold still.” Joan grips my chin like it’s a buffet plate, her other hand waving a makeup brush dangerously close to my skinned nose.
“Don’t press too hard,” I caution, squinting.
“I have to press hard if I’m going to cover it,” she sighs, swirling the brush in a blob of concealer she’s squirted onto the inside of her forearm.
I close my eyes and she gets to work, dabbing, stroking. She switches brushes, uses her fingertip, a Q-tip, a tissue. After a solid ten minutes, she finally says, “There,” and spins me roughly in the hotel room’s office chair to face the mirror.
I lean forward, examine her work. Still a bit pink, but not nearly as embarrassing as when we started. I’ve kicked Wes out to get ready for my interview. Mona’s gone for a pedicure and Dad’s offered to take the kids out for dinner. To McDonald’s.
Joan wipes the remaining dollop of concealer from her arm and changes into baggy jogging pants and a crop top. Before leaving for her cousins’ room, she fixes a lock of my hair. “Good luck,” she says, halfway out the door. “And don’t forget to talk to Grandpa about the protest.”
I’d forgotten about the protest. “You can talk to him,” I call after her, unsure whether she’s too far away to hear. Dad would appreciate the ask coming directly from her.
I wear a simple black blazer, a white shirt, and a scarf I picked up in Versailles. I contemplated pulling my hair back into a chic low bun, but Joan said that would accentuate my “giant nose.”
I slide lip gloss and eye shadow palettes off the desk and open my laptop. Thirty minutes. I check that I have the latest version of Zoom downloaded on my computer. I creep the CEO’S personal Instagram account. I skim key words in every article written about food tech in the last thirty days. I open and close my mouth like a singer preparing to take the stage.
Fifteen minutes. Check mole for cancer, teeth for pulp. Apply another smattering of deodorant. Test the lighting in the room. Search for a pen. Read the abstract of an academic paper titled: Plant-based and cell-based animal product alternatives: An assessment and agenda for food tech justice. An incoming FaceTime from Glen. Why is he FaceTiming? I’m suddenly self-conscious. Unsure about the scarf, ashamed of my nose, my age, my penchant for Wagon Wheels and Justin Bieber. I know it’s ridiculous. Glen having seen the mangled remains of my crotch, as if I’d given birth both times to a tank battalion instead of a baby.
I accept his call.
“What’s wrong your nose?” he asks.
For fuck’s sake. “Is it that bad?”
“Looks raw.”
I wait for him to tell me why he’s calling. It better not be on behalf of Wes, and a campaign for another bender with Célestine.
“I’d like to take the kids out, tonight. If you don’t mind. There’s a game at the Stade. Vivienne has a friend who can get us tickets.”
I used to hate these offers. Glen always had a friend who could get him tickets. Box seats. Skip-the-line. Front row. Fast-pass. Free flights. And the kids would always come home exhausted, happy, and souvenired.
I took them to the library. Or the cold city pool.
“Yeah,” I say, with a prick of envy. “They’d love that.”
“Wes said you had a big interview tonight. Thought it might help.”
“Interview’s in ten minutes,” I reply, examining my nose in the mirror. “Gotta go. Just make arrangements with Dad. He’s taking them to McDonald’s.”
We hang up. I clear the room of visible debris and reset my laptop. The normal protocol would’ve been to meet independently with the recruiter first, then interview with the CEO second. Alone. But here we are, having a threesome.
The CEO is quirky and charming. From the UAE via Cornwall, England, according to the recruiter’s last email. She surfs and keeps bees. Cats instead of kids. We hit it off. She has a background in food retail, knows my current employer, has shopped at Petit Vert. She speaks passionately about her company’s ethos, scope, and vision. She explains in great detail the role she is recruiting for, and why she thinks I’ll be a good fit. The recruiter looks like he might whack off because it’s going so well. A rare chemistry.
“The position would be in Rotterdam,” the CEO says and the screen immediately freezes, all of us locked and pixelated. The recruiter’s a Minecraft character, the CEO a hologram, and I look as though I’ve been caught mid-colonoscopy.
Rotterdam? Did the recruiter not think this was an important detail to share? I adjust the volume on my computer to make it appear as though I’m doing something to solve an unsolvable problem, and my head moves across the screen, a disembodied Marie Antoinette. I wonder if I’ve somehow got myself into a recruiter’s version of a catfishing scheme.
The call resumes, the audio skips and then resolves.
“I hope that wasn’t a sign,” the CEO says, referring to the glitch. “We have an office in Toronto, but I’d want you here.”
I don’t know Rotterdam, but if it’s anything like the rest of Europe, if it’s anything like Paris, I’m not sure I could cope. The population density, the “oldness,” the psychology of it all. The risk. I can’t imagine moving to Rotterdam. Can’t even fathom it.
