Just One Day(20)

Up above, Paris carries on, doing her thing. Mothers sip coffee, keeping eyes on their kids as they scooter along the sidewalks. Vendors at outdoor stalls hawk fruits and vegetables. Lovers wrap their arms around each other, never mind the heat. A clarinet player stands atop the bridge, serenading it all.
I’ve hardly taken any pictures on this trip. Melanie teased me about it, to which I always said I preferred to experience something rather than obsessively record it. Though, really, the truth of it was, unlike Melanie (who wanted to remember the shoe salesman and the mime and the cute waiter and all the other people on the tour), none of that really mattered to me. At the start of the trip, I took shots of the sights. The Colosseum. Belvedere Palace. Mozart Square. But I stopped. They never came out very well, and you could get postcards of these things.
But there are no postcards of this. Of life.
I snap a picture of a bald man walking four bushy-haired dogs. Of a little girl in the most absurdly frilly skirt, plucking petals off a flower. Of a couple, unabashedly making out on the fake beach along the waterside. Of the Danes, ignoring all of this, but having the time of their lives playing cards.
“Oh, let me take one of the two of you,” Agnethe says, rising, a little wobbly, from the game. “Aren’t you golden?” She turns to the table. “Bert, was I ever that golden?”
“You still are, my love.”
“How long have you been married?” I ask.
“Thirteen years,” she says, and I’m wondering if they’re stained, but then she adds, “Of course, we’ve been divorced for ten.”
She sees the look of confusion on my face. “Our divorce is more successful than most marriages.”
I turn to Willem. “What kind of stain is that?” I whisper, and he laughs just as Agnethe takes the picture.
A church bell rings in the distance. Agnethe hands back the phone, and I take a picture of her and Bert. “You will send me that one? All of the ones?”
“Of course. As soon as I have reception.” I turn to Willem. “I’ll text them to you too, if you give me your number.”
“My phone is so old, it doesn’t work with pictures.”
“When I get home, then, I’ll put the pictures on my computer and email them to you,” I say, though I’ll have to figure out a place to hide the pictures from Mom; it wouldn’t be beyond her to look through my phone—or computer. Though, I realize now, only for another month. And then I’ll be free. Just like today I’m free.
He looks at one of the pictures for a long time. Then he looks at me. “I’ll keep you up here.” He taps his temple. “Where you can’t get lost.”
I bite my lip to hide my smile and pretend to put the phone away, but when Captain Jack calls to Willem to take the wheel while he visits the head, I pull it back out and scroll through the photos, stopping at the one of the two of us that Agnethe took. I’m in profile, my mouth open. He’s laughing. Always laughing. I run my thumb over his face, halfway expecting it to emanate some sort of heat.
I put the phone away and watch Paris drift by, feeling relaxed, almost drunk with a sleepy joy. After a while, Willem returns to me. We sit quietly, listening to the lapping of the water, the babble of the Danes. Willem pulls a coin out and does that thing, flipping it from knuckle to knuckle. I watch, hypnotized by his hand, by the gentle rocking of the water. It’s peaceful until the Danes start bickering, loudly. Willem translates: Apparently they’re hotly debating whether some famous French actress has ever made a pornographic film.
“You speak Danish too?” I ask.
“No, it’s just close to Dutch.”
“How many languages do you speak?”
“Fluently?”
“Oh, God. I’m sorry I asked.”
“Four fluently. I get by in German and Spanish too.”
I shake my head, amazed.
“Yes, but you said you speak Chinese.”
“I wouldn’t say I speak it so much as murder it. I’m kind of tone deaf, and Mandarin is all about tone.”
“Let me hear.”
I look at him. “Ni zhen shuai.”
“Say something else.”
“Wo xiang wen ni.”
“Now I hear it.” He covers his head. “Stop. I’m bleeding from my ears.”
“Shut up or you will be.” I pretend to shove him.
“What did you say?” he asks.
I give him a look. No way I’m telling.
“You just made it up.”
I shrug. “You’ll never know.”
“What does it mean?”
I grin. “You’ll have to look it up.”
“Can you write it too?” He pulls out his little black book and opens to a blank page near the back. He rifles back into his bag. “Do you have a pen?”
I have one of those fancy roller balls I swiped from my dad, this one emblazoned BREATHE EASY WITH PULMOCLEAR. I write the character for sun, moon, stars. Willem nods admiringly.
“And look, I love this one. It’s double happiness.”

“See how the characters are symmetrical?”
“Double happiness,” Willem repeats, tracing the lines with his index finger.
“It’s a popular phrase. You’ll see it on restaurants and things. I think it has to do with luck. In China, it’s apparently big at weddings. Probably because of the story of its origin.”
“Which is?”
“A young man was traveling to take a very important exam to become a minister. On the way, he gets sick in a mountain village. So this mountain doctor takes care of him, and while he’s recovering, he meets the doctor’s daughter, and they fall in love. Right before he leaves, the girl tells him a line of verse. The boy heads off to the capital to take his exam and does well, and the emperor’s all impressed. So, I guess to test him further, he says a line of verse. Of course, the boy immediately recognizes this mysterious line as the other half of the couplet the girl told him, so he repeats what the girl said. The emperor’s doubly impressed, and the boy gets the job. Then he goes back and marries the girl. So, double happiness, I guess. He gets the job and the girl. You know, the Chinese are very big on luck.”