You Deserve Nothing (6 page)

That was it. He kissed me again and my heart was pounding, pounding. I had to get out of there.

I went to Ariel’s. It was late. I took a taxi. She was in bed and I crawled in and told her everything. I knew she was furious. I rolled onto my side, smiled into the dark and fell asleep.

I
spent the summer in Santorini. Each morning I woke in my small room and ate breakfast on the terrace overlooking the sea. I’d smile at the old woman who served me, walk out to the pool, find a chair, and read in the sun. In the afternoons I’d sit in a taverna on the water and eat fava and grilled octopus and drink beer. Afterward, I’d sleep, read, and watch the kids diving from the rocks. Later I’d go for a run high above the town along the ridge and toward Imerovigli. On the way back I’d stop at the rose church and sit on the wall and watch the sunset. Often, a white dog, thin and wolf-like, would run with me and then sit at my side panting as the sun fell.

Once there was a woman leaning against the wall, her face pretty in the orange light. We stood together, the two of us and the dog, and though I wanted to, I didn’t speak to her.

The sun fell lower and lower, the wind came up, the sweat on my skin began to dry. Eventually, she left, nodding at me, smiling shyly and I watched her walk slowly down the path toward town.

Except for the few words of Greek I spoke to the sweet woman who brought my breakfast, I’d barely spoken to anyone since leaving Paris.

Good morning.

How are you?

Thank you.

A beer at the bar in town. Dinner too. I made no effort to meet anyone. I never approached the women who looked at me. After dinner I sat on the wall of the old fort and rolled cigarettes, smoked them and watched the moon rise. I listened to conversations, lovers whispering together, hidden away beneath the castle walls.

Sometimes in the evening I’d say something out loud just to remind myself that I was there, that I was capable of language.

“Jump,” I’d say.

Or, “Telephone.”

Or, “Isabelle.”

Lying in my bed staring up at the ceiling I’d listen to those words floating around the room.

A few days before I left, I walked down to Amoudi Bay past the donkeys transporting other tourists up the steep path back to Oia. I walked past the tavernas and around the high rocks above the water. It was late in the afternoon, the wind had come up, and the small beach was nearly deserted. I spread my towel out over a flat rock and stood on the edge looking down over the water.

I felt the air warm and soft. I dove out and fell down into the cool water, breaking through the surface, suddenly surrounded, deeper and deeper. I stayed down as long as I could, waiting until I needed to return. And bursting through there was an intense jolt of joy, as if only here, in the water, with the warm wind and the taste of salt in my mouth, could I feel, could I shake my memory clear, shock away the familiar numbness. I put my head down and swam hard for the small island and its chapel built into the rock. I lay pressing my chest, my legs, stomach, palms, face against the hot stone, water pooling around me, warming in the sun. The water dried leaving a thin layer of salt tightening my skin as if the sky itself was pushing against me. The sky, the water, the warmth, the wind, the stone beneath me, I wanted to keep it, fold myself into it. Or it into myself.

* * *

I packed my small bag. The old woman from the hotel put her hands on my shoulders and said something I did not understand. I climbed into a taxi and waved to her. She stood with one hand on her hip, the other moving back and forth through the morning air.

Sitting in the airport, waiting for my flight to Paris, I thought of her round cheeks, thick hands, her black skirts, the sympathetic looks each morning as she brought me extra honey, her sad, encouraging good-bye. I looked down as we arced out over the island, the sea below a plate of blue, the sun just rising over the water. She’d pitied me.

GILAD

T
he school buses looked like those you see parked in front of Trocadero belching tourists onto the esplanade. Big things with comfortable, reclining seats. A whole fleet of them. The school invented bus stops, certain corners in each
arrondissement
where you’d get picked up. The first day of school there were nervous parents throughout the city standing on the sidewalk holding their children’s hands waiting for the buses to arrive.

I waited alone that first morning, so sure of myself, and when the bus came I climbed on to find it packed with Americans. Why that surprised me I can’t imagine. It had always been the same everywhere I’d been. I’d spent so much time on my own in the city, communicating in French, that I’d forgotten where I’d be going to school.

Usually it was straight directly from the airport to the compound, to embassy welcomes, to neighborhood parties, to school orientations. There had never been a time to forget that you were foreign, that you’d be driven around, kept apart. So the shock of climbing onto that bus and seeing the kids dressed as they were, speaking as they did, was terrible.

There were baseball hats turned backward, Knicks jerseys, and so on. The usual American shit. I found a seat and leaned my head against the window and listened to the same conversations.

Where are you from? Where did you live before this? Do you speak French? Do you like it here? Do you know John? Did you know Kelly? How was your summer? Have you seen Julia? Ben looks so hot. On and on.

It made me tired. It was worse here as we passed through the city, stopping to collect more along the way. I wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted to find more of Paris, to make Parisian friends, to escape from this world. For the first time in my life, I was sure I could become a local, could be swallowed up by a place, could move unnoticed through the streets and this, this international school, this bus, was yet another American badge.

There was a black metal gate that ran the length of the school’s property. We turned into the parking lot and followed a line of other buses as they pulled up along the curb to let students out.

You’d think that the International School of France would be a collection of beautiful buildings, ivy, lawns, and a Gothic bell tower maybe. Something academic, regal, scholarly. I imagined something traditional, something elegant.

The school reminded me of visa-processing offices, of vaccination centers in Africa, of aging hospitals. It felt like bureaucracy and routine. Having attended so many of these schools, I was used to the sudden rush of kids speaking English in their American uniforms—Gap, Banana Republic, Nike, Abercrombie and Fitch, and so on.

I’d been so sure that this school would be something beautiful.

There was a tall man with a silver ponytail and glasses standing in the foyer loudly directing traffic.

“Please move down the hall to the auditorium. Don’t worry about finding your lockers, just move down the hall, find a seat and sit in it.”

He wore a rumpled suit and waved his hands as if sending airplanes to their hangars.

“Please do not stop at your lockers. Go directly to the auditorium. What did I just say, what did I
just
say?”

In the auditorium a few hundred cramped seats descended to a large stage. I found an empty place on an aisle. The kids who knew one another talked about their summers, gossiped, scanned the crowd for familiar faces, people to smile at, people to hate, and so on. The same scene everywhere. First day of school, the usual gossip, the usual team making.

“Please, everyone sit down. This won’t take long. Please. Quiet. Everyone. Everyone.”

It’s a universal language that headmasters, school directors, and principals speak. Whatever the title, you hear the same cadence, the same rhythms, the same techniques. Everyone. Beat. Everyone. It has to be a learned code. A sort of prayer to quietness. And amazingly, the room quiets.

“My name is Paul Spencer. I’m the head of the upper school. I know many of you and quite a few of you I don’t know.”

“What up, Spence?” someone yelled from the back of the auditorium.

Mr. Spencer smiled. “Clearly some of you are enthusiastic about the new school year. That’s good. Indeed, while my name is Mr. Spencer, I’m popularly known as Spence. You’re welcome to call me either.”

Spence continued. We were welcomed, encouraged, informed, welcomed and encouraged once more and then released into our day. There was nothing about France in his speech. Nothing about the city and its relationship to the school or how lucky we were to be there, or what an honor it was to be studying in a city like Paris. There was nothing in his introduction about how Paris would be an integral part of our education, about the way that art and culture and language and food would be incorporated into our daily experience at the International School of France. And that’s what I remember most from that first morning—the mundane nature of the experience and how the city I’d fallen in love with had been totally ignored. The city was irrelevant to the school.

ISF was its own country.

* * *

After the speech we had twenty minutes to find our lockers and make sure that the combinations we’d been given worked with the built-in locks. I found mine, number 225. I stared into it for a moment, reached into my backpack, took out several pens and placed them on the bottom of the locker. I took long breaths not knowing what to do. I kept my right hand on the door and moved it on its hinge—open and closed, open and closed. I don’t remember how long I was there but eventually I turned and walked away. I didn’t know the school at all but you walk as if you do. I wanted to get outside. Already they were looking at me. He doesn’t talk to anyone. He just stares into his locker.

I walked out onto the field behind the school, a wide green lawn running the length of the building and edged by tall poplar trees. Beyond the field toward the school cafeteria were some picnic benches.

One of them was set to the side beneath a small pine tree. I sat there looking back at the school, a strong wind blowing the poplars from side to side. I liked those trees and the way they moved so slowly. I sat at the table until I heard the bell ring—a strange electronic reproduction of a church bell.

* * *

He was wearing jeans and a white shirt, his hair dark and cut short. The desks were arranged in a circle with his at the front of the classroom. He was sitting on its edge, holding one of those classic teacher’s grade books—dark green and spiral bound.

The lights were off. The curtains had been pulled back and the windows were open as wide as they’d go. Through them I could see the swaying poplars.

He glanced up at me and smiled when I walked in.

He had striking green eyes and very long eyelashes, which made him look feminine. He had a few days’ stubble and was very tan. His jaw was square but he had round boyish cheeks. Each of his physical features seemed to contrast another. I couldn’t tell what he was—old or young, tall or short, sharp or soft.

I paused at a desk beneath one of the windows.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Can I sit where I want?”

“Sure. Wherever you’d like. What’s your name?” he asked me.

I told him. He nodded marking something in his grade book.

“I’m Mr. Silver.”

Other students began to trickle in. He smiled at the ones who acknowledged him and ignored the ones who didn’t.

He continued to write in his grade book until there were ten of us there. Nobody spoke. Nobody seemed to know anyone else. The bell rang. He kept writing. He made us wait. Then he looked up and read our names from his book. After each of our names he smiled or nodded or said hello.

Then, after he’d finished, he pushed himself off his desk and stood.

“So, welcome to Senior Seminar. For those of you who don’t know me, and it looks as if we have a lot of new students here, my name is Mr. Silver. Two facts are important: you’re all seniors. You have elected to be here.

“I’ll assume that you will be responsible, engaged, active, and enthusiastic members of this group. We will meet here every morning for approximately one hour, four days a week for nine months. That’s a lot of time. It is also no time at all.

“I will not, as I do for my tenth graders, give you a list of rules and expectations. I have no papers for you. No list of supplies. What you need to know is not complicated.

“As I mentioned before, the class is a seminar. I take this seriously. We will sit here every day and discuss literature. What that means will be up to you. I gauge the success of our class by the amount of talking I do. If I’m compelled to speak often then I will consider the class a failure. If I speak little then it is a success.

“Your own success will be based on three factors—the quality of your participation, the quality of your writing, and your enthusiasm for both.

“I would like not to give quizzes or tests of any kind. If, however, I believe that you’re not reading what I ask you to read I will provide you with the kind of tests I give to my younger students. I will begin the year by treating each of you as adults. This means that you may use whatever language you like. You may express whatever opinions you have. You may refer to your personal experience. As long as you demonstrate an enthusiasm for the work we’re doing here you’re free to express yourselves as you wish.

“There are several exceptions. I will not tolerate cruelty to or disrespect of other students. I will not tolerate bigotry. I will not tolerate rudeness, bullying, or violence of any kind. Outside of those restrictions, you’re free. Freedom. A problem we’ll talk about in more depth later. What you say in this room will remain here. I will not discuss what you say with anyone else—not your parents, not other students, not faculty.

“Again, there are exceptions. If you indicate that you’re planning to harm yourself or someone else I will not keep that information private. If you indicate that you’re a victim of abuse I will not keep that information private. If you indicate that you have broken the law or plan to break the law I may not keep that information private.

“Outside of these exceptions you have my word that I will keep your secrets.

“I will expect you to arrive in class prepared, having done the work I’ve asked you to do. I take for granted that you are intelligent men and women capable of independent thought and that you are here because you want to be. Why you want to be here is a question we’ll deal with later in the year but I absolutely do not accept the notion that you’re here against your will.”

A slight, compact, red haired kid raised his hand.

Mr. Silver coolly looked him in the eye until he put his hand down.

“I will answer any questions you have at the end of class. I’d like to finish first. Ideally we will arrive here each morning and forget, for an hour, that there is a world outside the classroom. However, I’ve been teaching long enough to know that this will not always be the case. The world will enter the classroom. You’ll become angry with me. You’ll disagree. You’ll be bored. You’ll be infuriated. And I may be as well. I expect all of that. But at least now you know my dream.”

He smiled.

“To arrive here excited. That’s what I want, for all of us to arrive here excited and to spend our time together happily challenging one another, to think, to push ourselves, to do beautiful work.

“In the first week I’ll introduce existentialism and so will talk more than usual. Then we’ll read Jean-Paul Sartre’s famous lecture in which he explains and defends existentialism against its critics—something I’ll have to do myself as many of you will yourselves become critics of existentialism. Or at least, I hope so.

“I will depend upon your ability to be critical, sharp, and alert. I will make mistakes. I will say things that are not true. I will make arguments that are unsound. I expect that you will correct me. I expect that you will challenge me, question my logic, and consider my assertions critically.

“So, I have ten copies here of Sartre’s lecture
Existentialism is a Humanism
. This will be our first text. For those of you who read French I encourage you to read it in the original too. All of you need to read this translated edition by Monday. The first fifty pages should be finished by Thursday.

“Let me end by saying this. Fling yourself into it headfirst. Everything can change, but only with abandon.”

I wrote that down. It was the first note I took. I had one of those black and white marbled composition books. Brand new. I wrote in black pen across the first page, “Everything can change but only with abandon.”

He took the stack of books from his desk and moved slowly through the room handing them out. We were quiet. I’m embarrassed to say it but I had chills.

I watched him—the way he placed the books on our desks, the way he moved through the room, and then the way the girls looked at him. From the beginning I envied him.

“Are there questions?” he asked.

The curly-haired guy on the other side of the room raised his hand again.

“What’s your name?”

“Colin White,” he said in a heavy Dublin accent. “Sir, you said we have a choice to be here but I didn’t sign up for this. They just put me here.”