You Deserve Nothing - Alexander Maksik [6]
“Holy shit,” Mia whispered and then Mazin, dressed in a suit too big for his thin frame and looking drunk, came into the dining room. His face brightened.
“Mr. S.! Ms. Keller!”
He kissed Mia and when I reached to shake his hand he gave me a look of pity, brushed my hand aside, and hugged me.
“Dude, you changed my life,” he said. “We hug.”
“Nice place you’ve got here,” she said.
“It’s ridiculous,” he whispered. “Came with the move. Sort of embarrasses me so can we talk about something else please? Are you hungry? The food’s awesome. It’s all from Diwan. Do you know Diwan?”
From the buffet we could see a vast salon. A giant gilt-edged mirror hung above a fireplace. There were long sumptuous couches, a low glass table, and high ceilings laced with intricate moldings. The room was full of students. When they saw Mia and me some stiffened and hid their glasses, but most of them smiled or waved.
Mike Chandler was standing in the far corner of the living room with his elbow on the fireplace speaking in French with someone’s father. Mia and I sat on two large leather chairs. I watched Mike, his gestures, his serious expression, his calm, the way he held his glass by the stem. None of it was contrived, none of it was the behavior of a teenager playing at adulthood. He’d been this way since birth.
These kids like Mike Chandler who were fluent in several languages and cultures, who were so relaxed, so natural in exquisite apartments at elaborate parties, who moved from country to country, from adult to adolescent with a professional ease, were not the standard at ISF.
Most were kids who’d been plucked from an Air Force base in Virginia and deposited in Paris, who resented the move, refused to adapt. The move only strengthened their faith in conservative American politics. They refused France. Their rebellion was, by default, an adamant rejection of their new home and all things French. Their families bought food from the commissary at the American Embassy. Kids who’d return from weekend trips talked excitedly about the Taco Bell and Burger King they’d found at Ramstein.
Not these kids though, and as I looked around the room I felt proud of them for their apparent sophistication and also of myself for having become part of a world that was previously unknown to me.
Mazin’s mother passed and tried to convince us to dance. We refused but on her second round she took Mia’s hand and pulled her away.
Left alone, I finished eating, and then walked outside. Ariel Davis and Molly Gordon were leaning back against the railing.
“Hey Mr. Silver,” Molly said.
Ariel smiled. I rested my elbows on the railing and looked out over the street.
“Big plans for the summer, Mr. Silver?” Molly asked.
“Going to Greece, you?”
“Staying here.”
“I’m going to be in your seminar next year,” Ariel said lighting a cigarette. She looked at me and ran her fingers through her black hair.
“Good,” I said.
“So, you coming out with us tonight Mr. Silver?” Ariel asked looking down at the street.
“Out where?”
“We’re going to Star and Stripe.”
“We’re all going,” Molly said. “You should come. Bring Ms. Keller.”
“Do you go out a lot, Mr. Silver?” Ariel asked.
“I’m out right now.”
“Good point.” She smiled at me again.
“Do you go to, like, bars?” Molly asked.
“No, usually I just stay home, drink tea, and read The Canterbury Tales.”
“I know you totally go out,” Ariel said laughing. “I saw you at Cab one night.”
“Did you? I try to avoid bars full of Americans.”
“Well you probably won’t like Star very much then,” Molly said.
The plane trees were creaking in the wind. Occasionally a couple passed beneath us. From time to time a taxi flew by, but otherwise all the noise of the evening was behind us in the apartment.
Ariel flicked her cigarette out in a long arc over the sidewalk below, where it landed in a burst of sparks. She looked directly