Tableau Vivant

Dearest Iqbal-

Have I told you lately about my friend Lauren? After a stint at the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation she decided to strike out on her own in a valiant effort to redefine her life. She coincided this with dumping her boyfriend of 8 months and leaving her apartment on the upper west side. No more philanthropy, no more coddling, no more cozy apartment. Kids in Africa can take care of themselves, and so could Benjamin Santos, and, God, who needs a fire place. In a fit of independence she melted daddy's credit card and poured it into key hole of her former abode on her way out.

She found herself serving coffee in a cafe that catered to over-employed 20-somethings. That's where I met her, in the coffee shop. (As you know, I'm not an over-employed 20-something, but I like the cut of their dresses and the tailoring around the shoulders of certain men's shirt so it affords a nice place to sit and look). She approached me, probably cognizant that I didn't belong, and offered me a coffee menu. I perused it and ordered the sumatran because the list of adjectives beside it was so inclusive that there was no way I could not absolutely love it. She laughed, probably at my feigned indecision, and returned soon with the coffee.

And while the cut of her dress didn't flatter the way the girl two table's over did I noticed a certain charm to her carriage and her voice. The way she asked "And should I bring sugar to the table?" lead my mind to wander, before bringing it around with a definitive "absolutely." 

I watched her go, quite avidly.

As I was wrapping up I decided, "Well, I don't come here all that often. If I leave my number the worse thing that could happen is it becomes a little awkward the next time I'm here, if I even ever return. Why not?" I scribbled my number and my name down on the receipt and left, quite happy with myself.

Out in the fresh air I breathed deeply, but as I exhaled all my confidence and self-satisfaction slipped out of my mouth and left me deflated but for a nugget of fear. I began to sweat. What if she's offended? Sexual harrasment of sorts? Or worse: what if she's thrilled with my boldness, but my handwriting is illegible. 4's for 9's, or 2's for 7's. We'll never find each other and next time I come in she'll be angry for leading me on and standing her up.

I dashed back in, my hands fumbling through my pockets pretending I was searching for my cell phone that perhaps I'd left behind. The table was cleared. Mistake made. Done and in the past. I turned around and headed for the door.

"Change your mind?"

I spun around, there was Lauren. Far less attractive when seen at eye level and not bearing gourmet coffee, but still charming I suppose.

"Why no. I was just afraid...."

She held up the receipt, I could read the numbers quite clearly.

"Do you want it back?"

"No."

"Well, then get out of here."

I left. The whales belly no longer holds Geppeto. I was scared, but less so. A few days went by before a strange number appeared on my cell phone.

"Hello?"

"Robert? It's Lauren, the waitress at Cafe Tableau Vivant."

"Oh, hi. Yes."

"Well you left my number, I assumed there was something you wanted to say that you didn't want to say quite then."

"Well yes. Shall we... what would you say to a drink or a walk or something sometime?"

"Alright."

So we got tea and walked along the river front with a cool breeze blowing. She told me about her childhood growing up between yachts and royalty, about her well heated trip to the north pole, about being accosted by somali pirates outside the Straits of Hormuz, and about ignoring the invitations of a certain hotel heiress. "Oh anyone can tell you: Iran was better under the Shaw. How can we even have this conversation?"

We came to the Brooklyn Bridge and decided to cross.

"I love it over there in Brooklyn. It's all half done and plenty of non-white people to make you feel smaller."

"Smaller?"

We stepped over the water.

"Did you know that more than 150 people died in the construction of this bridge?" I asked realizing the only currency I might have with this mystic trust fund receptacle was knowledge.

"Maybe, but look how worth it was," as we gazed up the stones upon stones reaching into the sky. She put her hands against it and rubbed them down, making her hand red with little scratches. I took that hand in mine.

We marveled for a moment at the Statue of Liberty.

"Isn't it a shame that she's stuck? She can't move, totally unchanging," she said wistfully.

"Why a shame?"

"Well, what's the point of liberty if you can't change or move?"

"Well, it's the institution, the notion of liberty, that is unchanging. That can't change. If that changed than we'd all be like her, turning green from the oxygen and unable to switch hands."

"Maybe," she said.

We landed in Brooklyn.

We perused a used book store or two. She was taken by anachronistic pornography. "Can you believe this turned people on?"

"What will they say about what turns us on?"

"Probably that it's hot." She giggled.

We eventually, crossing under two bridge and out of the trendy areas replete with Czechoslovak furniture stores and couture wedding dress galleries, ending up in her "hood." 

We sat at an Indian restaurant that was open air. The seats of the booth were cracking and upholostery was spilling out. A waiter walked up.

"The usual, miss?"

"Si." 

"And you, sir?"

No menu was offered, "I'll have the same."

"Indian? 'Si?'"

"Welcome to New York, cowboy." She laughed at her own with-it-ness. 

The food was wholesome and green, wrapped in a thin bread. A vague taste of curry and vegetables and was surprisingly nice. The bill came to 9 and a half dollars, which I happily paid. 

Outside she took my hand and led me to her apartment. Drunk off nothing but roti and bad breathe we stumbled upstairs. I did not know what to expect. The building had "character" and "history." I gently reserved judgement, not out of generosity but for fear of feeling myself a fool if the inside was magnificent. 

A strange site once the three locks were released: a dirty futon on the floor, the smell of mold, maybe a cockroach (not sure now if I saw it or it's appropriateness was so perfect that my mind's eye was insistent). Along a wall was an exposed closet bar, hanging from it was seemingly hundreds of dresses, clearly designer, often beautiful. In a corner was a pile of shoes: pumps, sling backs, espadrilles, ballet flats. In the center, dominating the room, was an antique apothecary table with a sculpture, in copper, of an elongated horse in mid stride. 

I must have been staring at it for she mumbled some name, an artist I didn't recognize. "It's an original. Nice eh? I feel it matches the room."

The horse's upturned head and devout snout, insisting on dignity, threatened to trample the room, but maybe she was right. Maybe the defiance and self-regard was fitting. 

I quickly realized that I didn't belong here. I had nothing but affection for Lauren. I desired, and still do, an intimacy of sorts with her, but certainly not closeness. I left. 

Since then, we have seen each other a few times. A movie here, a butterfly exhibit there, but nothing serious or even vaguely romantic. To increase to you, who are so far away, the reality of this I've included a photograph of Lauren that I took -- after our first date, post any romantic possibility. You will note the lightness of it, derived from a deep connection unencumbered by real world evidences.

-Robert de Saint-Loup