Hungry Woman in Paris (18 page)

In the wine cellar he gave me a tour of his collection. He kept his whites and reds separate; I’m sure he never made the mistake
of mixing his white laundry with his colors, either. Though if he did, he was the kind of man who would look good in pink.
Very manly.

“This is my most prized wine,” he said pointing to a bottle. I got close to see the wine label and he grabbed me from behind
by putting his arms around my waist. He nibbled on my ear and whispered something dirty in French. I couldn’t understand him,
but some things don’t need translation. We returned upstairs to his apartment and our eyes were glued to each other’s. Yves
got close to me and held my hands.

“Lick me,” I whispered in his ear. We kissed again furiously and tumbled to his plush carpet. The curtains were wide open
and the Eiffel Tower from upside down looked like I was looking up a woman’s skirt. He practically tore off my dress and fondled
my breasts.

“What wine would go well with my
chatte
?” I asked him. He licked my vaginal lips and thought about it for a few seconds, as if analyzing a fine wine, trying to make
out all the different flavors. “Let me do it again so I can get a good taste.” He smelled them and then licked them again.

“Hmmm, I have the perfect wine for you.” He put on his jacket and left me naked on the floor. I waited a few minutes, totally
confused, until he returned with a dusty bottle of wine from his cellar.

“Lie down,” he ordered me. He poured the wine on my vaginal lips and drank it off me. Seconds later I ejaculated and he drank
me, too.

“Hmmm, you are one of the few women I’ve ever been with who actually ejaculates… like a little fountain… Do all
American women go like that?” he inquired. I looked at him and laughed, “No, only the very special ones who don’t ever fake
orgasms.”

“You are dangerous.”

“Mais porquoi?”
I asked.

“You don’t lie. That’s a horrible thing for a woman not to do. You must lie to us; that is your duty as a woman.” He continued
pouring the wine on my naked body and he cupped my breasts and drank from them.

“I want to be a human food platter and have many men eat food off of me,” I confessed to Yves.

“
C’est facile.
Let me make dinner and I’ll eat it off of you,
chérie
.”

During wine class I sat in front of Yves and teased him with my eyes. Even though my mind was always distracted with sexual
thoughts about him, I managed to learn a thing or two. I always thought the reason why restaurant sommeliers poured a little
bit of wine in the diner’s glass was so that the person could sample the wine to see if they liked the taste. However, they
actually do that so you can make sure the wine cork did not ruin the wine. If the taste of the wine was marred by a bad cork,
that was the time to turn it away; otherwise, if you complained after a glass or two, the sommelier would probably take back
the wine and just recork it—as Yves admitted to doing on occasion—and return it back to you as a new bottle. The other valuable
thing I learned is that in Paris, at most nice restaurants, if you don’t finish your wine you can request to have it corked
and take it home.

“No one is supposed to give you dirty looks if you do that,” Yves said, empowering his novice wine students. Throughout the
class Yves and I would pretend nothing was happening between us, but when I walked by the metro he would pick me up in his
black Jaguar and we would go back to his apartment. Things were fun, but I knew it wouldn’t last. Once you open good wine
it has to end or go bad.

On the last day of our wine class we had a test. We had to answer questions like Where do the Beaujolais wines come from?
and When are you supposed to drink them? There were also tricky true-or-false questions. When we were done with the written
test Yves poured each of us a glass of red wine. We had to taste it and describe it using as many details as possible. The
color, the smell, every possible nuance that would give us clues as to where it came from. I looked at the glass of wine and
held it up to the light and studied the rich burgundy color. I tilted the glass to see how slowly the wine dripped down the
sides of the glass. I stuck my nose in the glass and took in the aroma with my eyes closed. I could smell the earth. I could
smell the sky. I could smell my past. The fragrance of the wine took me back to being eight. Everywhere around me were grapevines.
On the vine were the most beautiful grapes in California and maybe on earth. My mother picked grapes in front of me and my
father picked grapes behind me, with my siblings scattered around me. I imagined that the kind of grapes that made this wine
were the kind of grapes that I touched and soiled with my blood once. Being undocumented, my family was used to hiding from
the Migra, the INS, Immigration and Naturalization Service, or Homeland Security, or whatever you want to call it now. That
one particular day I stopped to admire a bunch of grapes that were hanging so beautifully, as though God had hung them there
for me to pick. Maybe it was the way the rays of sunlight hit them during that magic hour that made them so unique to look
at amid the many other bunches of grapes. They looked so purple, so plump and soft and just perfect. When I held the bunch
in my two hands I felt as though I was carrying a newborn baby or a warm heart. My father came by and tapped me on the head
and ordered me to get back to cutting.

“¡Rapido! ¡Apurate! ¡No mas corta, corta!” Fast, just cut, cut, he barked. I quickly grabbed my small knife and was about
to cut the stem of the beautiful bunch of grapes when a distant desperate voice yelled, “¡La Migra!” I was startled and accidentally
buried the knife in my hand. Blood dripped down my hand and onto the grapes. My blood was deep red; it looked like wine dripping
out of me. I yelled and my father put his hand over my mouth to shut me up. I wanted him to hold me and comfort me, but instead
he scolded me, “¡Callate!” Seconds later he whispered loudly, “¡Vámonos!” When he took his hand off my mouth I licked my hand
to stop the blood. Then we heard everyone running among the grapevines.

“¡Corranle!” my father yelled, ordering his tribe to run away. I yanked the bunch of grapes and took off running with my family.
My hand kept bleeding and my blood dripped on the dirt, leaving a trail. I put the bunch of grapes in my bleeding hand to
keep the blood from falling out of me. My hand throbbed and the cut felt like it was getting bigger as we ran from the Border
Patrol officers in the distance yelling, “INS!” My mother found a run-down shack covered with vines and bushes blending into
a hill, camouflaged by the greenery. We all ran toward it and hid inside. We lay low on the dirt. My blood kept dripping on
the dirt. No one noticed that I was bleeding and hurting because they were holding their breath, trying not to make a sound,
trying to be invisible. We all looked at one another in silent prayer that we didn’t get caught or separated. I rubbed my
hand against the earth to clog up my cut with dirt. It stung at first, but I finally made it stop.

After an hour of waiting in silence I got hungry and took my bunch of grapes, soiled by my blood, and ate one grape. I didn’t
care that it had my blood on it; I licked it clean. It could have been that I was just so hungry, but eating that beautiful
purple grape comforted me. Since there was no one there to hold me, the grapes comforted me. They numbed the pain of being
cut and then ignored. I continued to eat the grapes and each grape I ate was a prayer to God. The largest grape was for my
mother and then for my father. I prayed for each one of my siblings so that we would pick enough fruit and vegetables so that
we could leave this type of work and get an apartment in the city and never go hungry again…

I opened my eyes and saw the wine glass in front of me. I chuckled, because after that memory I did not know what to write
down. So I simply wrote on my test:
I smell the earth.
I didn’t care about my score on the test since I had already scored with Yves. He had ultimately taught me not to analyze
wine but to enjoy it.

A week after the wine class finished Yves and I had agreed to meet for lunch at Ladurée, on the Champs-Élysées. I entered
Ladurée and walked up to the hostess. I asked her if she spoke English and, after she nodded that she did, I explained that
I was waiting for a friend. She immediately cut me off and moved on to the next person. I clenched my jaw and stifled the
urge to yell. Sometimes you didn’t know if the French were just plain rude or if their English wasn’t good enough to lubricate
the social transitions necessary to be respectful… which is probably exactly what they say about Americans.

I decided to walk into the restaurant and search for Yves. He might have gotten there early and was already seated at a table.
I headed upstairs and found him right away, holding the knee of a beautiful Frenchwoman under the table. I quickly turned
away and continued looking at them through a mirror on the wall. My blood rushed to my heart and it beat faster.

Seconds later I felt so cold. I knew he didn’t love me, but I didn’t have to find out like this! I continued looking at the
mirror and observed that he was as charming as ever, fulfilling my stereotype of a Frenchman. The longer I stared, the more
I realized I wasn’t heartbroken; I was merely disappointed that he didn’t laugh as much with me as he was with her. And here
I’d thought I was funny. I went downstairs and waited for Yves to meet me as planned. I decided to get in line for the patisserie
boutique just to kill time. I was about to order four
macarons
when I turned around and saw Yves kissing his mystery date on the mouth. What a cocky bastard. He knew I would be arriving
in five minutes and he was so blatant. So I ordered a dozen
macarons
instead and made him wait for me. I wanted to leave the restaurant and make him wait around all night, but in reality I knew
he wouldn’t wait more than fifteen minutes. I was his exotic Mexican dish, but not his main meal. I took my beautiful box
of
macarons
and stuffed it into my raggedy purse. I knew my purse looked like I had stolen it from a homeless woman, but it was like
my loyal friend who had been with me through all the tough times.

“Chéri!”
I yelled to catch his attention. He turned in my direction and I surprised him by giving him the sloppiest French kiss. The
hostess looked at him with disdain and asked him in French if we were ready for our table. Throughout lunch I pretended to
be so in love with him. “Kill them with kindness,” a priest-turned-politician once told me when I was doing a story on him.
“You must lie to us,” I recall Yves telling me on our first night together. So I pretended that my life revolved around him
and his wine class.

“Yves, you are so funny and amazing… I think I’m falling in love with you,” I lied, then looked away as though I meant
it and felt vulnerable having said it.

He was so flattered by all my attention, but then he started fidgeting with his tie.

“Canela, maybe we should leave,” he whispered. He looked around to see what the people at the neighboring tables were looking
at since, just minutes ago, he’d been talking and flirting with a blonde. I purposely imitated the other woman. I was cruelly
mocking him, but this was the way I spared myself the feelings of being so disappointed by him. I’d known it was going to
end; I just hadn’t thought it would be that soon.

We strolled up the Champs-Élysées, holding hands. I stopped pretending I was in love with him, and just tried to keep a happy
exterior to avoid showing my disappointment. We walked past all the overpriced American franchises, up to the Louis Vuitton
megastore. Surprisingly, there was no line that day.

“Let’s go in here,” Yves said.

“Sure,” I said, excited about finally seeing what the big deal was about. I straightened myself up a bit before walking in,
as though I were entering the Vatican or the Smithsonian. The designer suit–clad doorman looking like a CIA agent opened the
doors to a marble palace. The store resembled a museum; the purses looked like priceless artifacts. There were tourists in
shorts standing alongside women in designer outfits. A trio of Muslim women in silk veils, looking as made-up and modern as
their veils permitted, walked around escorted by their bodyguard. They looked irked by the fact that it was so crowded. I
had to force myself not to stare at them or judge them. They had jewels and luxuries from head to toe, but they didn’t have
freedom. Sure, they could buy whatever they desired, but they couldn’t move free of their bodyguard’s watchful eye. They carried
large purses and occasionally would remove their Gucci sunglasses to inspect the bags and LV leather bracelets. If I were
them I would exchange all my jewels and luxuries for freedom, I thought. I shook my head. None of my business, I reminded
myself, and turned my attention to a pack of wild Chinese tourists, scurrying around buying up merchandise as fast as their
tour bus would allow.

“No, you cannot purchase two of the same items,” the LV saleswoman informed a woman in French-accented English while studying
the woman’s Chinese passport. The translator for the Chinese tourist explained, and the woman wanting to buy her two identical
LV signature bags pointed at a different bag. In the background I saw a Japanese girl named Miyuki from cooking school purchasing
several items. I thought about saying hi, but I was afraid to have her see me with Yves, so I turned away before our eyes
could meet.

Yves went to the men’s section, and then we made our way to the second floor, where it wasn’t so crowded. I spied a burgundy
crocodile bag, all by itself, radiating. The bag had caught my attention from a distance and I walked toward it until I saw
the price and my hand froze. Who the hell needs a sixteen- thousand-euro bag? Obviously
need
is not the appropriate word here. Who the hell wants a sixteen-thousand-euro bag? Ah, but these were not just bags; they
were status symbols, archetypal symbols. When the LV saleswoman would open the bags for the customers to see the insides,
the shoppers would inspect them, sticking their fingers inside to feel, probing them carefully the way a gynecologist would
examine a vagina. As I passed the countless counters I chuckled quietly, imagining hearing: “Yes, this vagina is very sturdy.
It never loosens. No matter what you stick in there, the elasticity and firmness will remain intact.” The female customer
would look at the price and think what a bargain it was. How else could you explain paying five hundred to two thousand to
sixteen thousand euros for a mere handbag?