i love new york - the equinox of september 11

8/4/2019 I Love New York - The Equinox of September 11

1/11

I Love New York

The Equinox of September 11

A short story by

Christophe Girard


2/11

Dear readers, if you want this story to happen between a man and a woman, or a womanand a woman, instead of two men, simply replace the name of the dancer with Sofia.


3/11

Perhaps the most painful and most wonderful of mans inventions is the word love. Howmany paths, happy trips, dates filled with passion and painful revelations? I have loved alot, I have also suffered. I know that I will still love a little, but I wont necessarily sufferless. How to escape from love, from the dazzling feeling that comes with it, from this

blinding light, from this burst of roiling water, from this over-ripe fruit plunging from a treeinto my heart? In order to understand where this sudden happiness will go and to healmy wounds, I chose to skip to the end of this love story and either reduce it to ashes ormake it live, to build it like a stele erected in eternity, in the cemetery of our temporarylives and nostalgic memories.

I am happy about this trip, to be able to strengthen this new romance that just began,though it has already lasted intensely for over a month. The Air France flight is notdelayed. I look at the Atlantic Ocean, so empty and endless, through my window, andsee other planes going in the opposite direction, carrying many other lives, destinies anddreams. My decision is taken, it neither moves nor excites me. It is an almost religiousand mystical decision. I am happy, and thankfully there is nobody sitting next to me, so Iwont have to endure a boring conversation that could trouble my serenity and solitude ormy happiness to come. Its a good decision. Mehdi doesnt know that I am going to seehim perform. I have already booked my tickets for both shows, the Rite of Spring andJewels. I have picked a hotel I really like near Union Square, as far from Mehdis homeas possible. My room is on the third floor facing lower Manhattan. I will turn my back tohim when I sleep; he lives uptown near the Metropolitan Museum and the FrenchConsulate, on the same block as the Frick Collection.

We are approaching JFK. The eternity of the flights first hours is fading. Passengersstand in line to use the lavatories, lights are turned back on, and the crew serves us ameal. We are flying over Boston and will be landing in only an hour and seven minutes.Though I am fine and relaxed, the euphoria I felt when we took off has disappeared littleby little. Is it really a good idea to come here and force destinys hand? Wouldnt it bebetter and more mature to keep away from what has now become a platonic love forthese next few nights? But its too late to go back. Too late, just too late.

When I went to New York for the first time I was 17. I had just gotten my bac and the firstmuseum I visited was the Frick Collection, near the Whitney and the Metropolitan. I dontreally enjoy Bouchers paintings, Fragonards perhaps a little more, but an uncle of minetold me that it was a very important collection, a must see. He also suggested that I visitthe Barnes collection, in Philadelphia, for which I still bless him. There were only threepeople there during my first visit, and I went back quite often, once with my eldest son,Tristan.

The pilot announces turbulence and says that our flights arrival will be delayed. To be

honest, Im not in any hurry, I enjoy each moment. I have no appointments besides theone with myself and my destiny, with or without Mehdi. It took me over forty years to


4/11

discover myself, without fear, without anger; I was only intimidated by intimacy. Somepeople seek help, but I am going down this path on my own. Its my way to complicatethings in order then to make them seem easier to simplify.

The driver waiting for me when I land is all spruced up. He is from Haiti and he hasdriven me twice in the past. I remember that he is the father of twins, Christophe,because of the King Christophe, and Antoinette, because of Louis XVI. Thats how hehad explained it. He says that I look younger though he knows I work more. He is happyto hear about Tristans marriage, even though he thinks Tristan is too young to havegotten married in times like these, while the world is rapidly changing, our planet isshaking in Haiti and Japan, and this damn thing is not about to end, you know. He iscertainly right, but I am no longer afraid of natural disasters. They can kill us, ruin us, butthey make us understand that we are temporary creatures.

Dsir, which is the drivers name, has excellent taste in music. Thanks to him, we lovetraffic jams and near LaGuardia, the traffic is stuck. We listen to Brad Mehldau, from thesoundtrack of Eyes Wide Shut, Kubricks last movie. The song title is "Blame It on MyYouth. Very nice choice. A dream of eternity invades me, and I sink into the thick, blackleather seat. There is a small bottle of mineral water nestled in the armrest, which I dontdare touch or drink. We look at each other in the rearview mirror. I have the feeling I amin custody and he is driving me to a strange prison.

The next song is Billy Joels "Got to Begin Again: here I am at the end of the road." My

God, Dsir knows about it. I have a bad feeling. "Ive got to begin again," Billy Joelsings. Mehdi is waiting for me. Ill surprise him. Not so fast. Be patient. "Though I don'tknow how to start," when Everything My Heart Desires starts, I hold myself back, fromuseless tears, from superficial emotions, from my weakness and personal shame. Itsonly pointless and contemptible sentimentality. And I really feel like crying I am moved,I am in love and my feelings are strong and proud. Danielle Brisebois has a wonderfulvoice. Dsir tells me this song is from the soundtrack of As Good As It Gets. What amix. He keeps driving. I had actually hesitated between staying on 54th Street or 57th orIrving Place near Union Square, with this wonderful hotel and its 12 rooms, each named

after a different writer. Mine is usually Edith Wharton.

"The day is my enemy, the night my friend," sings Ella Fitzgerald. We arrive at the hotelwhile this last song is playing. Id love to see Dsir again and meet his family. He is myguardian angel. I dont dare talk to him about the goal of my trip: to kidnap Mehdi, askhim to join the Paris Opera, get him a visa, so I can be his protector and help him buildhis career. And make him a star. Dsir undoubtedly believes that I am just an honestFrenchman, father of two children. He has no idea about my sexuality, or that I am inlove with this Tunisian dancer.


5/11

The Brazilian guy that I like is at the front desk. He tells me right away that he is now alsoa father of twins. He is so proud, but also worried. His words indicate a distance betweenthe two of us. We had flirted once, as he brought my luggage to the room, turned on theA/C, and checked to see if there was hot water in the shower since they had had a

problem with it recently and the plumbers didnt have a clue how to fix it. It had beenreally warm in NYC it was September, before Indian summer and my back hurt, so hehad massaged me, massaged me very well, and then I had massaged him. We hadstayed there, in silence, with some sense of mutual reserve and slight embarrassment,but no guilt. Sometimes when we would pass by each other, we would look away. Wewould stare at each other often enough, though. His name is Jefferson.

I love you for sentimental reasons," sings Nat King Cole. I am listening to it on my iPod. Iam in the Edith Wharton room, my room. The mood is perfect. I am in love and I am aNew Yorker for three days and two nights. Will I stay there, lying on this half Russian,half English bed, a bit too heavy and kitschy, and spend three days and two nightslocked in my room, listening to Nina Simones "I Put a Spell on You or "Ne me quittepas over and over again? I wont cry, I wont speak, I will hide No, I will go out for awalk, I will remember the terrible events of 9/11, when at 8:35 a.m. I left my hotel, thissame hotel, an airplane flying over our heads, and my secretary called me from Paris totell me that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center and the whole scene was anightmare. The doorman and I had noticed an airplane flying at very low altitude, whichwas unusual in Manhattan, but that was all. At the first drugstore I came to that wasopen, I had bought a disposable camera and taken my first pictures of the first tower on

fire, not knowing anything about the rest of the tragedy that was unfolding. People on thestreet were silent; they stopped every now and then to look at the towers, in the sameway that they would watch the launch of a rocket at Cape Canaveral: nervously, fixedly,anxiously. Cell phones stopped working. Lines formed at pay phones. Taxis stopped withall their doors flung open. Radios repeated the news nonstop.

Washington had been attacked; the Pentagon had been hit and the White House was atarget as well. Both towers in New York were burning. The smoke and the smell hit us.Some people walked barefoot from Wall Street. I was overwhelmed by a numb sense of

impotency, ready to accept this apocalypse, right before my eyes, without feeling afraidto die. We asked ourselves a lot of questions. Who had done this? A German womanbelieved it had something to do with an angry Africa; I thought it was China, the newworld power. We were talking nonsense; we were just trying to find answers. The smokeover Manhattan smelt of death. I took about forty pictures; they are all terrible to look at.The sirens were screaming loudly and incessantly. It was warm. I felt like making love. Ifigured that my meeting on Wall Street was cancelled. It was impossible to go downtownanyway. The police had blocked access to the entire area below 14th Street. I walked the20 blocks uptown toward my hotel feeling heavy, my life having lost its meaning, and

without any hope for the future. All the doors at the hotel were wide open, and it was awhirlwind, with a lot of guests and hotel employees talking in the lobby. As I was going up


6/11

to my room, I spotted Jefferson crying. His brother worked in the World Trade Center andJefferson couldnt reach him, all the phone lines were dead. His wife couldnt reach himeither.

We kissed each other and our mouths almost met. I was weeping, too. It was noon but Iwasnt hungry. Doors to rooms were all left open. A friend of mine had told me that duringthe floods in Florence and Italy in the 60s, people would make love anytime andanywhere in order to relieve their fear and eventually die with pleasure. I didnt want todie this September 11th, but I wasnt afraid to die either, because I wouldnt be the onlyone. I guess that made the idea less painful. Phone lines started to work again thatafternoon, around dinnertime in Europe, and I could call my friends and family to tellthem I was okay. Then I got a completely unexpected phone call. A journalist at RadioFrance Internationale, with a very beautiful voice, polite but determined, asked if I wouldagree to report on the situation in New York and talk about the first hours of the tragedy.He had run into friends of mine at a restaurant or bookstore somewhere in Paris around3 p.m., and they had given him my cell phone number. Caught by surprise, I accepted hisproposal. We agreed that I would try to cover several areas, interviewing people on thestreet near my hotel and in Union Square, where people gathered to find comfort in allsorts of activities: chanting Buddhist prayers, lighting candles, singing songs, hangingflags from the trees.

I was obsessed with the image of a young trader, wearing a grey suit and a white shirt,barefoot, walking up Broadway, holding his suitcase, with reddish eyes and a vague,

pained look on his face. Who was this man? Where had he been? I couldnt approachhim; he was surrounded by a solid wall of pain. I wanted to help him, but he walked fastand didnt stop or look back. Later that afternoon, on lower Fifth Avenue, a young womanapproached in anguish, crying her heart out and holding the picture of a young man, herbrother or fianc, asking everyone if we had seen him. It was horrifying to see her askingthe same question so many times to a silent crowd. I had never felt such an empty city,where people in pain and grief were suspended in their own miserable loneliness. In thedays to follow, we would see hundreds of people streaming down the streets, holding uppictures of their lost loved ones. People drove very fast and played patriotic songs, with

American flags hanging on their car windows, but it wasnt violent.

A feeling of love and death met within me once again these days, just as Montherlantwrote in L'quinoxe de Septembre. Back at the hotel, it was a beehive of activity, withcustomers coming and going, slamming their doors. Some of them lost their patience atthe front desk because they wanted to leave. Jefferson and Raja, the Sri Lankan,remained calm, impassive, reassuring, taking notes and telling guests that they wouldsee what they could do, but unable to promise anything since Manhattan was closed andthere were no flights out of any of the airports. I came across a hysterical Japanese

couple who had lost track of their daughter, a student in New York. The world hadcapsized. The powerful were weak. I spotted a girl I had met in Paris. She told me that


7/11

she always stayed here but avoids mentioning it, because it could make it harder to get aroom, and then we would see people we know staying there, and the whole idea was anightmare. I agreed. I looked at her mouth, her sweaty neck. She was tanned, but not toomuch, and wore a purple cotton shirt, and I noticed her round, hard nipples. I was

possessed by an insane desire. I wanted desperately to take off her shirt, undressmyself, kiss her and lick her breasts, like two luscious fruits, and make love to her rightthere, in the lobby of our small hotel.

Manhattan tasted and smelled like clay. This indomitable, brash, self-styled capital of theworld was now dumbfounded and unsteady. In order to be able to breathe, I went for awalk in Central Park. From 59th Street, we couldnt see a single trace of smoke, only abeautiful and stunning Manhattan. I felt like I had been having a nightmare and that,fortunately, nothing had really happened. People were jogging in the park, as usual,squirrels were waiting for food handouts, park employees were cleaning the paths. I sawa schizophrenic couple reading the Bible out loud. New York and Washington had justbeen attacked, and right there, before my eyes, life went on as if nothing had happened.This was unbelievable. Indian students were lying on the grass. Children were playingwith their kites. African women were pushing baby carriages filled with blond children.The park was crowded with all these young bankers who run every morning and evening,and sometimes at lunchtime. Some of them are quite handsome, and others are reallyugly. I also spotted women in their skintight athletic wear; they rarely smiled. They arelawyers, financial directors at Este Lauder or Calvin Klein. They are skinny, muscled,with no fat or cellulite. They have great bodies to die for, but where is the happiness and

joie de vivre in all that? Did they know that 9/11 had just happened and would change theworld from that point on? Running, walking, strengthening their abs and doing push-ups,they had followed the tragedy through their earphones. But they remained calm; theykept living their lives as if nothing had happened, so egocentrically. We would have moreinformation about it that night. President Bush would give a speech and talk to thecountry about the attacks. Giuliani, Mayor of New York, was on the frontlines.

I walked back down Sixth Avenue and returned to my reality, the one I had been livingsince that morning. I could feel 9/11 as if it were my own skin. I breathe it, I sweat it, I

stink of the destruction of the World Trade Center. I felt damp with beads of pain andsoaked by the tragedy of it. I almost wanted, in spite of the heat, to be in a sauna orTurkish bath. I thought about the Russian Baths near Avenue A. I felt like being naked,like being massaged by a very strong man and whipped with branches of eucalyptus. Iwanted to be exhausted. To feel a bit of this pain myself, like a personal sacrifice,because I am alive and it is so unfair.

* * * * * * * *

Its Wednesday night. Mehdi told me that we would have dinner together if I came toNYC. I send him a message. If he loves me hell come even if its late. I would if I were


8/11

him, but Im not Mehdi, and Mehdi will never be like me. I know Im taking a huge risk.Pride, trust, self-esteem, balanceall these words go through my mind. Jefferson toldme that I am in good shape, skinnier, tanned Will Mehdi see this too? What is he doingwith his life? I dont know much about him, as he never answers my questions. I intruded

into his life like an arrow, hard to remove. He left a flame in my heart.I get a message from him at 7 p.m.: "Welcome!!! Dinner at 8 or 8:30 p.m.?" I find it a bitlaconic, but Im happy to hear from him. We meet near Lincoln Center. We both think itsstrange to meet in New York, but he seems to enjoy my presence. We start talking abouthis projects, the decisions he is not able to make, his life with the journalist he doesntseem to love anymore, the house he just bought in Normandy, the one he rented in theBasque Country for the summer but where he doesnt want to go anymore.... He makessure we say goodnight in front of the restaurant and puts me in the first free cab, before Ican react. We meet the next morning for breakfast and then go together for a private tourof the Alexander McQueen exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum. McQueen was agenius; his dresses are filled with beauty and technique. It is a great show, well curated,with wonderful music. Mehdi recognizes Handels Sarabande. He must leave now forhis rehearsal, he is dancing tonight. He thanks me for arranging the visit to the museum.His messages are becoming more precise, I can feel the tenderness, but there is noaffection. I can hardly accept the truth, that he doesnt love me. We plan to meet the nextevening for dinner in Harlem. Tonight Ill have dinner with a couple of African-Americanfriends, Keith and Rusty, with whom Ill go for a run in Central Park before dinner. Keithlives in the Dakota on Central Park West with his wife and daughter. His place will be

our base before we head to the restaurant; we will shower there after our run. On ourway to the Dakota, I see Mehdi walking with a young man wearing a cap, his boyfriend, Ibelieve. I hide behind Keith, who is nearly six feet tall.

Its almost 8 p.m. and Mehdi had told me he was dancing that night. I am sad if he lied tome, but when I see him with this other man, I have to face reality. What a coincidence. Itake a shower. Keith showers with me, washing me as he used to when we were in SanFrancisco. His wife knows that we used to be lovers during our student years, so its fine.The sweet and tender moments that I spend with Keith ease the pain that I felt in the

park; the vision of this happy couple, walking and sweating, Mehdi and his lover. I cameto New York for something else: to ask Mehdi to move in with me in Paris I took thewrong way, I am suffering, I made a mistake. I must pull myself together, think about mykids, and about the man I have lived with for over fifteen years, who needs me, trusts meand whom I love. Every day that I spend in New York, every hour, is incompatible withmy feelings, my state of mind and, of course, my future. I am about to faint, and yet Idont do anything. A heart attack would be perfect, or if a yellow taxi hit me and killedmebut life doesnt work that way. It puts a mirror in front of you when you least want tolook it in the face, and over time, the mirror becomes a magnifying glass. I dont want to

miss the last part of my life. Life was so good to me until now, the happiness had alwaysoutweighed the sadness.


9/11

The next day, after a good nights sleep, I meet a happy Mehdi for dinner. We eat inHarlem, at a new restaurant. He doesnt understand why I hid when I saw him in thepark. He says he would love for us to run together in Central Park. He explains that he

was running by himself and on his way home, he met his Mexican neighbor, the man withthe cap. I feel so stupid and think that I am either too complicated or too jealous. Wehave a happy dinner. We drink a lot and talk about all sorts of projects. Life is suddenlybeautiful, I am happy, he is sweet, he flirts with the three women sitting next to us, andalso a bit with the waiter. Rehearsals were pretty hard; he would be dancing a verycomplicated piece within the next couple of days, on the evening of my flight back home.He doesnt ask me to attend his performance but maybe I should be the one to take thefirst step and ask. I could change my flight and take the last one at 11 p.m., but watchinghim dance and suddenly leaving would be too painful, alone with my memories on theplane.

We talk about all sorts of things, like two brothers, two ex-lovers, or two best friends. Weare not having the kind of conversation I was hoping for. And I had felt so happythroughout dinner. He told me sweet things, took my hand, and kissed me once. Mehdimentioned that he dreamt about going to France and that he needed me. But howexactly does he need me? I have a hard time remaining strong and unattached. InFrance we say en avoir le cur net, to find peace of mind. I would be glad to find myown peace of mind, but my heart is so heavy, so wounded and so loaded. Its my lastnight in New York, my last chance, the last chance, our last chance. Thats what I

believe, anyway, and have decided.

On the way back to the hotel, I drop Mehdi at the corner of his street. I will go to themuseum tomorrow, take a long ramble in Central Park, walk along the High Line, the newpark on old elevated railroad tracks in the Meatpacking District and Chelsea, and watchhis rehearsal. Thats what we had discussed and planned. Then I will leave New York,without the answer to my love story. My nights will be as long and as intense as my days;my happiness will be the same strength and the same intensity as my pains and mydisappointments. Will this New York equinox be the spring of my life or the autumn of my

maturity?

* * * * * * * *

The book ends here because the writer was found dead in the courtyard of his hotel. Didhe jump from the open window, after the Chinese masseur came for a last appointmentbefore he was to leave for the airport? The masseur was taken into custody, on suspicionof having a fight with his client and pushing him out the window. Only the victimsidentification documents were found in the room, no money, no letters. Were Mehdis

mixed signals and mercurial reactions now hot, now cold responsible for a final


10/11

desperate act? The autopsy would tell if this death were the result of a fight, or simply asuicide. Maybe it was just an accident.

Mehdi arrived at the hotel later that night, unannounced as a surprise on his friends last

evening in New York. Mehdi brought him a small hand of Fatima made of silver, a veryold one, which had belonged to his grandmother and was made in Sidi Bou Said, a townnear Tunis, to take to Paris so he would know that Mehdi loved him and had broken upwith his boyfriend a week ago and was just a bit too stressed out with the whole idea offacing a new life to even talk about it. Mehdi didnt know how to speak with such adynamic and enthusiastic Frenchman, didnt know how to express his deep love and truefeelings, but would find the right moment, the right place, and the right way of letting himknow.

Mehdi saw the body before it was taken away for autopsy, and understood that theirdestiny could have been different if he had done something a couple of hours, a coupleof days, a couple of nights earlier. Mehdi in turn wanted to die, as simple as that. He, thehero of Apollo, collapsed before so much absurdity, misunderstanding, and cowardice.

Mehdi read, once again, his fallen loves messages, and tried to imagine what his lastday had been like. He probably went for a walk in Central Park, happy at the pleasuresurrounding him there: children on the playground, rickshaw bikes filled with tourists,small groups of baseball players, old ladies in hats shielding their facelifts in a battleagainst age and death, the special road just for roller skaters and disco lovers that

brought to mind the good old times of Diana Ross and Grace Jones and where Latinos,African-Americans, Asians, and Bobos still mixed, the ice cream man and the hot dogguy, the child-prodigy juggler, proud parents amazed by their first baby, the dog pulling aroller skater, a bit lazy despite his bodybuilder muscles

He would have seen and loved all of it, this exuberance of life, before going back to hishotel, to say good-bye to his room and to Mehdi on his tiptoes to him, his favoritedancer.

Christophe Girard


11/11

B I O G R A P H Y

Christophe Girard, Deputy Mayor for Culture in Paris.

Deputy of Mayor Bertrand Delano since 2001 re-elected in 2008 Christophe Girard has launchedseveral major cultural projects, including the well-known Nuit Blanche. He benefits from a long andsound experience working for the fashion industry, for instance as head of the LVMH fashion and leathercraft strategy department. He also is a documentary film co-producer as well as a writer, since hepublished two books (a novel: La Dfaillance des Pudeurs, and an essay about homosexual parentingentitled Pre comme les autres).

He sits in several boards of directors including those of various higher education, academic, cultural andmedical institutions (Centre national d'art et de culture Georges Pompidou, Muse d'Art et d'Histoire duJudasme, Foundation for Arts Initiative, CENTQUATRE, Universit Paris VIII, Hpital Sainte Anne).Besides, he is a wine producer in southern France (Gigondas, Ctes du Rhne).

He has been a member of the French socialist party since 2005, and has been elected member ofRegional Council on march 21st, 2010. He attended and graduated from the British Institute in Paris, andhe is an alumnus of the Institut National des Langues Orientales (Japonais).

Publi Paris Aot 2011Edition numrique pour utilisation prive libre

Version franaise publie sur le site Yagg.com et Youscribe.comVersion anglaise publie sur le site Scribd.com et Youscribe.com

Toute utilisation commerciale est soumise une demande dautorisation auprs de lauteurEn savoir plus sur lauteur : http://www.christophe-girard.fr/a-propos

Coordonnes de lauteur : [email protected] : Arnaud Terrier

i love new york - the equinox of september 11

Documents