Distractions En Route        

by Nina Rubinstein Alonso


Noah’s yelling into the phone, throwing his big theatrical voice, because Dragon Bistro put Tien Tsin peppers in his Gao Gao Noodles though he told them NO hot peppers. Sofia hears him hollering as she zips her bag and leaves. The campus is a rippling anxiety caterpillar, the library afloat in moonlight, as she’s quitting law school too, figures she’ll be asked why she’s serving lattés at the Stella Café in a cutesy apron. Noah, theater director at Brandon Arts, wants what he wants, scolds, “See a therapist, analyze your emotional issues instead of running away.” He softens his resonant voice when it suits him, but she’s not letting him turn her around, not this time.

She calls Adrienne, “I’ve left Noah and law school.”

“Seriously? Come visit.”
 
On the train to New York, pale winter landscape rippling by, Sofia opens a journal page and sketches a dozing woman, purple-striped scarf, reddish hair, mouth half open.

***

Wiping narrow fingers on a napkin Adrienne asks, “You’re sure?”

Sofia’s poking chopsticks into her dim sum, “Only why I didn’t leave sooner, sick of him, sick of being a law student/waitress, need to support myself,” knows Adrienne works for her mother’s international non-profit and has a trust fund.

“My parents split up decades ago, remarried, don’t seem to hate each other lately, but my mother questions anything I do, my trip to India, now David, a sculptor/computer-programmer. But our legal advisor’s going on maternity leave, and you have the background,” and helps Sofia land the temp position dealing with immigrant housing and legal defense.

‘Keeps options open, though no clue what’s next.”

“Who in hell knows that? I review grant applications, chat up donors.  It’s about being in the ‘now,’ my yoga teacher says.”

“Okay, but I need to paint.” 

“Nothing wrong with it being a job.”

Noah calls, “I’m seeing Stephanie, but you were with Dan, so?”

“Reviewing statute law,” aware theater students will do anything to get cast in his plays.

“I miss you,” complaining of insomnia despite screwing Stephanie.

“Going to yoga,” click. “Unbelievable chutzpah, telling me who he’s fucking, trying to pull me backward.”

Indian sitar music, sun salutation. The teacher, Evan, notices Sofia’s tense, says, “Breathe, relax.”

Adrienne’s meeting David after class so Sofia joins the others at Karma Chai, a basement café with spangled curtains and firefly lights. Matt says, “Noticed you at yoga lately.”

“Doubtful as this is my first class.”

He smiles, “Touché,” but shows her photos of his geometric drawings. “Pewter with ochre, too blah, had to add red.”

Sofia doesn’t say she finds his designs dull, finishes her chai, gets up to leave.

Evan asks, “Where you headed?”

“West 16th. You?”

“Nearby.” 

“Adrienne will be back soon, but I can make tea?” Sofia’s inviting him in because he walked her home, but lying as Adrienne’s staying with David. “Had to get off the treadmill with no one pressuring me,” the short version of leaving law school and Noah.

“Finished medical school,” he says, “but instead of an internship, went to India and found yoga, meditation, homeopathy, herbal remedies. Now I’m in a practice with a physical therapist and acupuncturist. Getting late,” and leaves.

Not attracted to him, nothing like meeting Noah at the Stella Café, hearing that this handsome guy wanted tomato but ‘no lettuce,’ on his Cubano. 

One evening he asks, “You’re not a waitress. Why are you here?”

“Something wrong with your café con leche?” How dare he say who she was or wasn’t?

“Educated, intelligent. I’m in theater, study people. Sounds bad?”

“Rude, as this is what I’m doing at the moment,” arrogant, labeling her. 

Never apologizes, but invites her out, and, despite ambivalence, she’s drawn to this sexy man, attends his Wizard of Oz production featuring munchkins from a local school. But after a few steamy months things slide negative as he’s loud, bossy, stubborn and quick to anger over anything not to his liking.

Saturday Adrienne announces, “My period’s late, could be pregnant, figure Mom will be difficult as David’s a sculptor working computer tech, also Chinese-American, not one of her ‘top drawer’ types.”

“What about his family?”

“He thinks they’ll be okay as they know me, and his cellist sister married an Italian violin teacher. I love him, but you know that?”

“Figured, as you’re always with him. What about this place?”

“Bought the condo last year, but his loft’s bigger, so we’re considering options, may keep it as an office or studio. His folks own Bright Happiness, the green awning down the block.”
 
“Where we get take-out?”

“Yes. Saw his stone sculptures at an exhibition, bought that gray piece by the window, met him and we clicked. Mom kept introducing me to investment bankers from the ‘right colleges,’ boring.”

Sofia’s mother calls, “I’ve been thinking.”

“About what, mom,” worried she’ll be offered a partnership to finish law school.

“My credit card has miles for free flights I’ll never use, and you only had that college trip to London, and travel gives perspective. Makes no sense to go into law if it feels wrong, as it’s challenging, even if you like it.”

“Seriously?”

“Also grandma set up a fund for you years ago, not large, but it’s grown, and you’re of age.”

She was thirteen when grandma died, recalls hearing about a fund, studied French but never visited Paris, went to college straight from high school, then law school, excited to get into top-ranked Epping. 

Noah calls offering “an antique diamond.”

“What?”

“You don’t love me? Tell me before I make a bigger ass of myself than I already have.”

“I’m traveling.”

“And a ring would cramp your style? I’ve stopped seeing Stephanie.”

“I don’t care. All I feel from you is pressure and control.”

“So I’m mister bigmouth wanting things my way, and a diamond can’t fix that?”

He views her exit as a dramatic gesture, hears her say she’s not coming back, but doesn’t believe it. “That’s how you feel?”

“No means no.  I’ll be in New York until June, filling in for a woman on maternity leave, not sure where after that.”

***

Adrienne’s mid-crosswalk when a car skids around an icy corner, jumps out of the way, falls. David calls, “Stress-fractured metatarsal, under observation for possible concussion,” and at the hospital Sofia sees the bandages.

“Shit,” Sofia’s crying.

David’s near the bed, hands in his dark hair.  

Adrienne’s mother Cecile and sister Sabine arrive, two blue-eyed blonds like cats from the same littler, know Sofia from college visits, but their glance at David is cool, as if his card isn’t in their file. They ask, “How are you, dear?”

“Shaken up, hurt, still breathing.”

The visit’s brief, Adrienne refusing the offer to recuperate ‘at home.’

“I’m home with David, Mom,” mother and sister glancing at each other narrowly as they leave.

“Glad they’re gone, staring daggers,” he says. 

“I’m staining seriously, so looks like… ”

Sofia asks, “Need privacy?”

“Don’t go. I have no secrets from either of you, a relief as I grew up on secrets.”

He dozes in a chair by her bed.

Finally Adrienne’s out of the hospital, but still staining. They’ve moved her things from the condo to his loft, leaving only a futon and two rugs.

Sofia’s temp job’s ending, unsure what’s next. “Barcelona? Paris? Maybe mom hopes I’ll wear myself out like a kid running around, then go back to law school?”

David says, “You’ll figure it out.”

Late August their rehearsal dinner is at the Bright Happiness, the wedding at the orchid-filled solarium of the Kroeger Museum. Adrienne, newly pregnant, wears ivory silk, David a white tux. The spiritual ceremony draws from the Books of Moses, the Gospels and Buddhism, accompanied by two guitar-playing friends. 

“You’ll be an aunt before we meet again,” Adrienne says with a hug. Later Sofia spreads a map of Europe on the floor, tosses a quarter, and, though the coin falls into the Atlantic, flicks it toward Paris.

Noah meets her at the airport, again offering that diamond ring. “Pretty,” she says. “But some day you’ll realize it would be a huge mistake.” He watches her walk through security and disappear, unable to accept her unambiguous ‘no,’ considers traveling to Paris to turn her around, maybe see his friend Jean-Pierre, a film-maker.

***

At the Eiffel Tower soldiers and military police carry weapons, scan crowds for terrorists. Heading back to Bastille, Sofia passes a rumpled couple looking like they spent the night in the park, and on Rue de la Roquette an African group’s roasting corn over a barrel fire, men in bright robes, the women’s heads wrapped with green, yellow and orange scarves.

At a café she writes in her journal, “This is Paris now? This is it?” Then turns old pages, rough sketches, notes on lousy boyfriends, ‘Not what she hoped for, fumbling, sweaty animal confusion,’ and, that night, dreams about running through fields, wakes remembering scrambled images.

The hotel clerk tells her how to find Cyber-Café where the dark-bearded manager speaks a mix of French and Arabic. But the computers are old, some letters worn off the unfamiliar keyboards, so she’s guessing what goes where, correcting typos. When the computer freezes the manager gets it working again, apologetic about the state of the equipment.

A short blond woman says, “At least it’s cheap.” Honor’s from the UK, works for the Paris branch of a British tech company. “Not fluent, but I manage, take art classes where the teacher tells me “Essayons encore,” ‘try again,’ possibly not sure what else to say?”

“I paint, too,” and they chat while Sofia sends emails letting everyone know she’s okay. Noah’s trying to sell a script in Hollywood, “Slim chance, but worth a shot,” glad he doesn’t mention travel to Paris as he did in an earlier email.

Honor logs off, “How about falafel in the Marais, heavily policed Jewish area.” At the restaurant a man flirt-smiles, which they ignore.

“Not your type? Not mine either, though Dad’s Jewish, Mom lapsed Catholic.” About Noah’s diamond offer, “Doubt means no, about clothes or rings the principle’s the same, that hesitation, feeling it’s wrong for you,” Honor says.

“Handsome, but so much about him drove me crazy. I liked the challenge of law school at first, but it drained me, had to get out.”

“He sounds like a bossy bugger, but coming to Paris involves more than escaping him and law school.”

“You like your job?  Or do you need change, too?”

Honor’s smiling, a scatter of freckles on her milk-pale cheeks, fluffy blond hair bouncing when she nods her head. “Is it an American thing, that work’s supposed to be your joyful identity? Misleading, creates great expectations, as Dickens says. Work is just work, not who we are, and labels make me feel boxed in. Meditation helps. Ever try?”

“No, but I’m curious.”

Honor takes Sofia to meet Jens, a tall, fair-haired Dane who owns a bookstore/publishing business on the Left Bank and shares his apartment with Honor’s friend Corinne and Laurent, a writer/waiter.

Jens says, “I started meditation in India,” then shows her a bowl of polished stones. 

“You meditate on stones?”

“No, just a way to show that thoughts have weight, each stone like a worry pressing the mind. When you meditate you let thoughts go, set ‘stones’ aside.  If they arise again, and they will, gently bring attention back to the idea of light in the heart.”

Sofia picks up a stone, “Noah,” then another, “law school.”

“Lighten the load,” he says.

Eyes closed, thoughts buzzing, but she tries to remember light in the heart, unsure what it means. 

After thirty minutes he says ‘that’s all,’ and asks “How was it?”

“Thoughts pouring, but quieted down.”

“Meditation can reduce emotional reaction.”

“I’ve been having intense dreams.” 

When they mentioned meditation, Laurent left the room, but he’s back, writing in a notebook, gazing through blue-lensed glasses.

“What’s with him?” Sofia asks Honor walking back to Bastille. 

“I’ve tapped his shell, no idea."

Next visit Sofia asks, “Tried meditation?”

“If I start being peaceful, my poetry may dry up and I’d be a boring lump of calmness.” 

Corinne says, “I told him meditation helps creativity, but he’s doesn’t believe it, thinks it would kill his muse, writes longhand with an old-fashioned ink pen, words so tiny they’re unreadable.” 

Sofia tries, “Use a computer?”

“I like to feel ink flowing onto paper, can’t do that clicking keys.” 

“Seriously?”

“Quite,” with a pompous tone, as if from another century.

Seeing his notebook, “Can I read a poem?”

“Sure.”

Squinting, “Your writing’s so tiny I’d need a magnifying glass.”

“I’m exceedingly private, working on a chapbook titled “Grenouille d’Or,” Golden Frog,” and she gives up.   

“Who knows” says Honor, “whether he’s madly talented or some kind of daft phony trying to reinvent himself?”

On Bastille Day the transportation strike starts, Metro and bus service cut to emergency levels, mobs flinging rocks, bottles and Molotov cocktails, reporters filming the chaos. Wanting to see Jens, Sofia dodges crowds, avoids a car in flames, reaches the bookstore where he’s covering windows with sheets of plywood.

He hugs her, “Glad you’re safe as things are a mess, no public transportation, rioting students, dissidents, immigrants, unions fighting government cutbacks, police with batons and tear gas, need to shut down. I’m driving to Denmark to visit my mother, hope you’ll come, Honor, too. Trains and buses might be running in a few days, but who knows?”

“Denmark?” Sofia asks Honor. 

“Paris isn’t charming at the moment, and I’m due for time off.”

Hours until they reach the Lubeck ferry, more hours driving to Copenhagen where Jen’s friends Berthe and Arne make room for their sleeping bags. She’s a potter, blond and pretty, and Jens says, “Lived together years ago, only friends,” then gently squeezes Sofia’s shoulder and strokes her dark hair, his flirting nothing like Noah’s.

They drive north to Vrads Sands where his mother Birgitte doesn’t seem surprised at her son arriving on short notice with two strange women. It’s a farm area, meals at a garden table, little to do except chat, meditate, take walks. Time drifts, their phones mostly silent, but after three days they decide to check e-mail at the next village’s internet-café.

Opening email Sofia feels like she’s arrived from the moon. Adrienne’s on bed rest, Noah’s in California trying to sell a film script, brunching with bigwigs, no mention of a possible Paris trip. Mom’s visiting friends in Vancouver while Dad paints the living room. She misses everyone, but has no desire to go back.  

That evening Corrine calls Jens, “Thugs threw bricks through Café Rosier’s window while Laurent’s poetry group was reading, accused them of mocking Islam, lots of fighting until police came. His arm’s in a splint.”

‘I need to go back, but you can stay,” Jens says.

“I’m coming, too,” says Honor. “Laurent needs help, and Corinne sounds overwhelmed.”

 Sofia says, “Me, too, though hard to picture him fighting.” 

“Who knows what anyone, even Laurent, will do when attacked,” says Jens. 

Paris buses are running on a reduced schedule, businesses still boarded up, police everywhere. The bookstore’s unharmed except for Arabic graffiti splattered across the plywood covering windows and doors.

“It’s been like this before but not so much,” Jens says.

Laurent’s favorite blue scarf wraps his arm. “Brutes,” he says, “and I question their so-called ideals, just out to bash and rage.”  

Jens invites Sofia to move in since Corinne’s gone to Barcelona with José, helps carry her suitcases. She settles into the apartment and, soon, his bed.

Days pass with fewer patches of violence, the government mediating between conflicting groups, the city quieter, but still tense. The Institute Des Beaux Arts reopens in the Quartier Latin and Honor brings Sofia to try a class and meet artist-director, Sun Li, a small woman with silver-streaked hair.

Holding pastels for the first time in months, Sofia’s still working when the model, a woman with low breasts and a scarred stomach, puts on her green robe. 

“Why in hell didn’t you tell me you were seriously into this?” Honor’s shaking her head,  hugging Sofia, “No wonder you were having nightmares. What were you doing in law school?”

“Being practical.”

“No parent would encourage you to devote yourself to art as they don’t want you poor.”

“Mom saved drawings and paintings, but when I got into Epping, an elite law program, I thought I was making the adult choice.”

“You could do law school, fine, but why continue if it makes you miserable?” 

“Money.”

“True, but compromises can be made, dammit!”

Sun Li looks at Sofia’s work and says, “For our next show?” The lavender nude’s curved in a fiery haze ringed by green symbols and graffiti.

“Yes, thanks,” says Sofia, her hands and t-shirt smeared with color.   

Noah emails that he’s sold a script to a friend’s film company, quit his east coast theater gig, regrets he’s too busy to fly to Paris to see her and his friend Jean-Pierre, and has ended it with Stephanie. Sofia’s glad for him, but doesn’t care who he’s sleeping with.

Adrienne and David’s baby arrives, Nicolas Xiang Lee, six pounds, seven ounces, and everyone’s well.  

When asked, Mom replies that art had to be her decision. Sofia asks why she didn’t encourage her more? “Worried how you’d manage financially.”

Laurent’s back to being a waiter and writing poetry notebooks. Corinne’s in Barcelona with José, and Honor’s moved into her old room.

Sofia tells Adrienne she’s setting up an art studio above the bookstore next to Jens’ office, also working part-time at the Paris branch of Adrienne’s non-profit, helping immigrants, urgently needed after the riots. Sometime they’ll visit India, but whatever’s next, they’re together.

* * * * *

Nina Rubinstein Alonso’s work appeared in Ploughshares, The New Yorker, Ibbetson Street, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, Broadkill Review, Peacock Literary Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, etc. Her book This Body was published by David Godine Press, her chapbook Riot Wake by Cervena Barva Press, and a novel, stories and poetry are in the works.