nodded to Dean. “You must come out to New Jersey with me sometime, to see my little company.”
We all shared a cab uptown, Christoph and Dean chatting about scientific stuff while Astrid pressed me to continue on with
them to some new nightclub.
“Sadly, I have work in the morning,” I said.
“You’re
writing
, of course?” asked Astrid. “Forging the uncreated conscience of your race in the smithy of your soul?”
“Actually, at the moment I’m answering phones.”
She shook her head, face stern. “Maddie, for God’s sake, you’re an
artist
. I insist that you stop
indulging
in such distractions.”
I shrugged. “And our landlord insists on the rent.”
“A peasant,” she said.
“
Bien sûr
.”
Astrid gave my knee a consoling pat. “
Courage
, my sweet…
ne désespères pas
.”
She leaned forward toward Christoph, who’d claimed it was his pleasure, as the evening’s host, to ride up front beside our
driver.
“Darling?” She snaked her hand through the little divider window, touching his hair. “Why don’t you bring this marvelous Dean
out to New Jersey with you
tomorrow
? There’s really no point in our leaving for Southampton until Friday morning.”
Ten o’clock was agreed upon all around, as the cab pulled up in front of our building.
The four of us climbed out into the sultry evening for a round of doubled air-kisses—that display of affection Dostoyevsky
described as the “gesture Russians tend to make when they are really famous.”
Astrid and I exchanged ours last, and she held on to my shoulders for a moment, whispering, “I
do
love you, Madissima.”
She’d let her guard down, just for that instant, and I realized I’d never heard anyone sound so fragile and alone.
Leaning in, I kissed her cheek for real.
“Do they
ever
eat?” asked Dean.
We were in our kitchen dipping fat broken pretzels into a jar of Nutella.
“Biennially,” I said. “Tiny little salads, dressing on the side.”
He examined his pretzel. “So they’re like, what,
air
ferns?”
“Or vampires.”
“Should I wear a suit tomorrow, you think?”
“God no,” I said. “He’d find it distressingly plebeian.”
Dean laughed, pushing the Nutella toward me.
13
I was at the Catalog early the following Wednesday morning. By nine o’clock there were four of us manning the lines.
“I started out
so
excited this morning,” said my fellow order-taker chick Yong Sun, stepping into the phone room.
“What about?” I said.
“Well, I was running late, so I caught a taxi to my subway station, and the driver asked if I was Korean.” She took a sip
of her coffee.
“White guy?” asked Karen, who was at the desk next to mine.
Yong Sun nodded. “I thought, ‘
Finally
, one of you people got a clue!’ you know?”
“I’m so proud, on behalf of my ignorant race,” I said.
“So I asked him how he could tell,” she continued, “and he shrugs and goes, ‘You smell like garlic.’ ”
“Fucking white people,” said Yumiko, across from us. “So fucking stupid.”
We’d had variations of this conversation before, but I still found it morbidly fascinating.
Yumiko’s parents had come from Japan, Karen’s from China, Yong Sun’s, obviously, from Korea.
The three of them spent a lot of time ranking on each other’s respective heritage, explaining the hierarchy to me as Japan
first, then Korea, then China, in order of current economic supremacy.
Karen would always snap back in response to that that everyone in the room could kiss her American-born ass, because if it
weren’t for China, “
your
stupid countries wouldn’t know how to read or write, and we’d all be out of a damn job.”
I always made a point of thanking her for our employment, not to mention fireworks, dim sum, and pasta while we were at it.
Yumiko glanced at an old copy of
Vogue
someone had left on her desk. “So how come rich fucking white people dress like such shit all the time?”
She
We all shared a cab uptown, Christoph and Dean chatting about scientific stuff while Astrid pressed me to continue on with
them to some new nightclub.
“Sadly, I have work in the morning,” I said.
“You’re
writing
, of course?” asked Astrid. “Forging the uncreated conscience of your race in the smithy of your soul?”
“Actually, at the moment I’m answering phones.”
She shook her head, face stern. “Maddie, for God’s sake, you’re an
artist
. I insist that you stop
indulging
in such distractions.”
I shrugged. “And our landlord insists on the rent.”
“A peasant,” she said.
“
Bien sûr
.”
Astrid gave my knee a consoling pat. “
Courage
, my sweet…
ne désespères pas
.”
She leaned forward toward Christoph, who’d claimed it was his pleasure, as the evening’s host, to ride up front beside our
driver.
“Darling?” She snaked her hand through the little divider window, touching his hair. “Why don’t you bring this marvelous Dean
out to New Jersey with you
tomorrow
? There’s really no point in our leaving for Southampton until Friday morning.”
Ten o’clock was agreed upon all around, as the cab pulled up in front of our building.
The four of us climbed out into the sultry evening for a round of doubled air-kisses—that display of affection Dostoyevsky
described as the “gesture Russians tend to make when they are really famous.”
Astrid and I exchanged ours last, and she held on to my shoulders for a moment, whispering, “I
do
love you, Madissima.”
She’d let her guard down, just for that instant, and I realized I’d never heard anyone sound so fragile and alone.
Leaning in, I kissed her cheek for real.
“Do they
ever
eat?” asked Dean.
We were in our kitchen dipping fat broken pretzels into a jar of Nutella.
“Biennially,” I said. “Tiny little salads, dressing on the side.”
He examined his pretzel. “So they’re like, what,
air
ferns?”
“Or vampires.”
“Should I wear a suit tomorrow, you think?”
“God no,” I said. “He’d find it distressingly plebeian.”
Dean laughed, pushing the Nutella toward me.
13
I was at the Catalog early the following Wednesday morning. By nine o’clock there were four of us manning the lines.
“I started out
so
excited this morning,” said my fellow order-taker chick Yong Sun, stepping into the phone room.
“What about?” I said.
“Well, I was running late, so I caught a taxi to my subway station, and the driver asked if I was Korean.” She took a sip
of her coffee.
“White guy?” asked Karen, who was at the desk next to mine.
Yong Sun nodded. “I thought, ‘
Finally
, one of you people got a clue!’ you know?”
“I’m so proud, on behalf of my ignorant race,” I said.
“So I asked him how he could tell,” she continued, “and he shrugs and goes, ‘You smell like garlic.’ ”
“Fucking white people,” said Yumiko, across from us. “So fucking stupid.”
We’d had variations of this conversation before, but I still found it morbidly fascinating.
Yumiko’s parents had come from Japan, Karen’s from China, Yong Sun’s, obviously, from Korea.
The three of them spent a lot of time ranking on each other’s respective heritage, explaining the hierarchy to me as Japan
first, then Korea, then China, in order of current economic supremacy.
Karen would always snap back in response to that that everyone in the room could kiss her American-born ass, because if it
weren’t for China, “
your
stupid countries wouldn’t know how to read or write, and we’d all be out of a damn job.”
I always made a point of thanking her for our employment, not to mention fireworks, dim sum, and pasta while we were at it.
Yumiko glanced at an old copy of
Vogue
someone had left on her desk. “So how come rich fucking white people dress like such shit all the time?”
She
Similar Books
