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Maggy |
When we approach,
the girls are indifferent to our presence until we exchange American hellos
and find that it's easy to smile when one meets a compatriot. Even the crying one smiles, in spite of her
woe. She's crying, the other explains, because
of what the world is like. Jim's head is
gone. Someone's chipped away the marble
bust or taken it whole to a place where it shouldn't be. My tears have all been used, but I share in
her sorrow. On the rough marble where
the head once was, someone’s written, "'CAUSE JIM IS ALIVE." I point it out to everyone, and everyone
feels better. Later Maggy will
share with me the details she perceived.
I only noticed nipples, as if all girls don't have nipples, but Maggy
instead will ask me later, "Did you notice that the one in the jean jacket
tried to commit suicide? Did you see the
scars on her wrist? She was more than just a cutter." I'm ashamed to admit that I hadn't noticed, although I do know that her nipples
were very pink. At least I have my
priorities straight, right? I say, "Are
you girls lovers?" and Maggy pokes me with
an elbow as if to reply don't ask, but they both nod.

I point out my initials to
Maggy and the lovers, and say, "This is mine." Ellen's, of course, is missing. She'd carved a big E on Jim's ear. I feel okay about that. I'm glad
that it's gone. Maggy and our new
friends add to the random collection of graffiti and symbols. I light the joint that's been given me, and a
few minutes later the colors I see are so much more like Crayola crayons. Cool. The day finalizes itself amidst distant black silhouettes of buildings
and towering tombstones in excellent symmetry. Cool. I find myself dancing
around the sepulchers, singing, "'Don’t you love her madly?'" I'm trying so hard for Maggy's sake, and
sometimes it's even easy. "'Don't you love
her ways?'"
The Dead Head in
the Levi jacket tightrope-walks on the edge of a marble bench, and sings as
well. "'Don’t you love her as she’s
walking out the door?'" This verse could
very well be symbolic and monumental and reeking with Ellen, but really, I'm
fine. The gravity of loss has shifted
away from the loss of Ellen and
I feel nothing for her at this moment, but victimized. For now though, I'll truck like a Grateful
Dead bear, dancin' 'round Maggy who's carving her initials beneath mine.
The girls will leave Paris in the morning. We part friends, but we don't learn their names. With Maggy there's always an adventure, always new friends to meet. I realize that where I see breasts, Maggy sees people. I should try even harder for her. When Maggy asks if I noticed the scars I say, "I think she's better now." I quote a poem to Maggy, who is so good for me: "'Come away, O human child!/ To the waters and the wild/ With a faery, hand in hand,/ For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.' It's Yeats,” I say. "The crying one reminded me of it."

Maggy sings, "'Look
away, look away, look away, Dixieland.' Sorry,
I don't know any poems." Once again she's
told a joke. She's quite different than
I had thought. I had thought her
deadpan.
I hadn't
comprehended it at the time, but we didn't go to Pere Lechaise for Maggy. Maggy went there for me; to bring me back to
an Ellen spot; to keep me from shying away from Paris. We wander the streets now as Ellen and I had
done, as if it were Maggy and I who had stayed in the Latin Quarter at that
very American hotel without the bidet. And yet Maggy isn't one bit squeamish about washing out my stinky
underwear at the bidet in our apartment.
- from Shakespeare & Co.