The Coin, page 9
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hen I was little, I eradicated the entire bottom tier of the crystal chandelier hanging above my parents’ bed. They would shower together, even after ten years of marriage. They were very close, very similar, I never heard them fight or argue, and I never heard them have sex. Just a lot of talking, from the head. While they showered, I would enter their bedroom and climb on their bed, a thick, bouncy mattress with a red velvet cover. I would jump, higher and higher, until the tips of my fingers could touch the chandelier, and then I would snap out a jewel in my palm. Some evenings, I would manage two crystals, and I would climb down from the bed, hold the crystals to my ears, looking at myself in the mirror, spraying on some of my father’s cologne, pretending to be Marie Antoinette. I didn’t know who Marie Antoinette was, I just knew she was a queen, and in my mind, this was good.
W
e landed in Paris on a Monday morning, just in time for the workweek. I didn’t want to leave the hotel so Trench-coat ordered coffee to our room, something bitter and black in white china, I liked the sound of it touching my teeth, and offered me a Doliprane 1000. He opened the door for a bellboy who had brought back our clothes ironed on plastic hangers. Today will be a great day for you, Trench-coat said, placing a coin in the boy’s palm. It was a two-euro coin, wide and heavy, a golden planet encircled by a silver ring. All week I marveled at the coin’s grace, at times I held on to it, hard in my fist, waiting to come by the right person at night, to give it to them with all its powers.
Trench-coat had packed for me, he was very attached to my clothes, especially the silk items, which the bellboy had brought back glistening and smooth. He had also packed me a pair of Golden Goose sneakers. When I took them out, I was disgusted at having touched them, because they looked dirty and distressed, like they had been worn for five years at least, or for two years by someone who had really lived. They’re new, Trench-coat told me, they make them like this. I read the text on the dust bag, For dream use only, then touched the scuff marks, they were printed. Are you sure about this? I asked. They don’t look very presentable. Trust me, Trench-coat said, the right people know.
Before we left the hotel room, Trench-coat instructed me on how to talk to the sales associates at Hermès. The great majority of people are refused a Birkin, they get told that there aren’t any available in the store, which is a lie, they just don’t want to give it to them. After consultation with Ivan, Trench-coat decided that the best strategy was to act as natural as possible, because I already owned a Birkin, I already belonged to that very small and particular group of people. What kind of Birkin would you like? Trench-coat asked me. The same, but smaller, I answered. Very well, he said. When they ask you, say that you would like the same one, but smaller, although between us, any Birkin would do, a Kelly as well. But say you want a Birkin. A woman of your age should know her place in the world, the Kelly is for older women.
Trench-coat and I entered the elevator. My perfume echoed in the small space, combining with Trench-coat’s, which was from a sample of Spice & Wood by Creed. What kind of woman are they looking for? I asked. Someone elegant, he answered, looking at my reflection in the mirror. Hold your mother’s Birkin firmly but casually. Like it’s small change for you, but like every cent counts.
We left the hotel, in our uniforms, and started walking up Rue Saint-Honoré. All week the weather was oppressive, like we were living in a beautiful old house with low ceilings. Ordinary people looked good, and it wasn’t some great cultural triumph, it was just that the high street shops sold nicer clothes. There was no Target, no Walmart, no Macy’s, and therefore no mixing of colors, and hardly any prints. Shapes were sleek, and, perhaps most importantly, bodies were slim. It’s the surest way to make a piece of clothing look good, or to make a person look good in general.
I felt calmer there, and I understood, for certain, that I was doomed to fail in America, that the family curse would apply to me as well. I was too selfish to stick out the years before I’d qualify for a green card.
Yes, you’re right. Everybody in my family was selfish. Even when they died, they did it selfishly, ensuring that their interests would live on. You too, you’re selfish. You could have left but you decided to stay. You could have been quiet, but you keep asking questions.
When we entered the store nothing caught my eye. There were belts with H buckles, bracelets with H clasps, sandals with H vamps, and the iconic bags and scarves of course. I found it all very boring and banal. I looked down at my shoes, then up at Trench-coat, wondering what was next. You’re not supposed to look down, he whispered to me. From now on, you only look up, or higher, never down. If you have to look at something, do it from the corner of your eye, never show enthusiasm.
Trench-coat knew exactly where to go, and we found the receptionist on the second floor, standing by the horse saddles. He gave her his name, and she looked him up on her list. We had an appointment for four in the afternoon, but Trench-coat had told me that only one or two Birkins were sold in the store each day, and we would have a better chance if we came earlier, although not too early, because they had to reject some customers before anything else. The whole model was based on rejection, people want to belong to a club that doesn’t accept them. It was only noon, but we pretended this was the correct time of our appointment, and the receptionist pretended we were right.
We waited for a few minutes, and then a sales associate named Charlie came and took us to a private room in the back. I saw the eyes of the other customers following us, wondering if we’d be successful. The store was full of people, young and old, mostly women, of all nationalities. I had the feeling that the great majority of them were after the same thing as us, a Birkin or a Kelly, and that a non-negligible number, especially the young girls all alone, were part of the same scheme.
Charlie asked me what I wanted and I answered him, A Birkin, in black, gray, or bleu nuit, I don’t wear much color in general. I answered like I was a bit bored, like his concern was burdening me, like he was my maid asking me what I would like for lunch. And to my surprise, Charlie, with his small eyes and hands, did not obey my call to servitude. Instead, he answered back in the same currency, looking bored by me, by my looks, as if I were the burden, as if my natural beauty were invisible to him. He pointed at my mother’s Birkin and said I already had one. Yes, I said, but this one is too large. I suppose one can never have too many Birkins? he asked. But I just looked away. It must be a test, I thought, only a vulgar woman would agree to such a statement. He then turned to Trench-coat and told him that there weren’t many Birkins around, that the stock opens at unexpected hours, but he would go and check. I changed strategy, and instead of fighting back, I gave him a coy smile. I thought, If anyone is going to score this bag, it’s going to be Trench-coat, not me. I’m here as an accessory, I’m Trench-coat’s Finesse collection.
Charlie came back with a big orange box. Inside was a gray Picotin handbag. The Picotin was cylindrical, with an open top that was squeezed shut with a thin strap and a padlock. I suppose it was inspired by horses’ feed buckets. Try it, Trench-coat said, not flinching, implicitly instructing me how to react. Charlie unboxed the bag and put it in my hands. It was not the Birkin, it was lighter and more supple, but it also had feet. I hung it on my left forearm and looked at myself in the mirror. I had dark circles under my eyes, the Golden Goose sneakers made me look boyish, the silk pants had already wrinkled around my crotch. The bag was dead to me, like something sold in the stalls on Fifth Avenue and Fourteenth Street, but Trench-coat was smiling euphorically. I forced myself to look at the bag, to feel something. I switched sides and hung it delicately on my right arm. I touched the handles like they were precious, as precious as the hands of children. I like it, I said. I couldn’t fake a smile with my eyes open so I closed them and made childish dolphin noises. What do you think? I asked Trench-coat. Everything looks great on you, he answered, but I wanted to get you something more formal, this is good for every day. Then Trench-coat looked at Charlie, asked him what he thought. Charlie said that the Picotin was an elegant and timeless bag, something of that sort, and it was the right size for me. Then he asked Trench-coat what he did for a living, and Trench-coat told him, I’m an art dealer, a bit like you. Out of politeness, Charlie asked me what I did. I looked in the mirror and told him I was an actress, mostly children’s theater. After that, we sat on the couch, we got to know Charlie, we accepted the champagne. Every detail he revealed, the country of his birth, which was Belarus, his immigration, his dream of becoming a shoe designer, brought him closer to our hearts and lower to our feet.
Eventually Trench-coat looked at his Rolex and told me that it was already three o’clock. He gave Charlie his number and asked him if he would like to join us for dinner. As I was getting ready to leave, Trench-coat gave it one last shot. Was it possible that the stock had opened while we were talking, Monsieur, could you check for a Birkin, it would make this young woman very happy. Let me check, Charlie said. Madame, do you have a minute? The minutes rolled by, I felt my stomach turn, I was hungry. But then Charlie came back with a small black Birkin, size 20. Trench-coat very quickly pulled out fourteen thousand two hundred and seventy euros in cash from my mother’s Birkin, the size 35, and said, We’ll also take the Picotin, why not. I don’t know where the cash came from. It wasn’t, and then it was, and then it wasn’t again. Charlie asked for my passport and registered the Birkin and Picotin under my name.
In the taxi I fell asleep in Trench-coat’s lap. At the hotel, the handbags stayed downstairs in the lobby with Trench-coat. When he came up, I was already underneath the covers, flipping through the television channels. He showed me the thick stack of green bills and put it in the hotel safe. Tomorrow we’ll go to George V, he said, it will be easier there, Ivan knows someone. I nodded, already absorbed by the screen, then I ordered steak tartare from room service and watched a porn star being interviewed on CNN.
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t George V, I got a baby blue Kelly and a small Constance with a golden buckle, which I learned would be more profitable for us than the palladium. The store manager, Paul, was bribed by Ivan, and when we entered the store, Paul greeted us like we were old friends. Oh, it’s so great to see you again. Until when are you here again. How is it going this year. I saw some sketches of the new line, fantastic.
While they spoke, I examined my reflection in the mirror, from the side, following Trench-coat’s instructions. My new earlobes were swollen, a bit red. I wondered how I’d gone half a lifetime never wearing earrings, what a waste. I looked more feminine in them, they softened my features. I knew that there were other things, many things, that I could do to look more beautiful. These days, even the most hideous monsters can become desirable with the right makeup and surgery. I resented this, of course, because it was unfair to women who possessed natural beauty. And yet I knew that if I were to be truly natural, unwashed, and unshaved, I would be untouchable, unbearable to look at.
The night before, Trench-coat had taken me to a photo booth in the Concorde metro station and then immediately delivered the photos to Ivan. The next morning, he appeared with more cash and a fake passport, thin and flimsy, from the Republic of Armenia. Trench-coat scheduled the appointments at Hermès under his name and registered the bags under mine. I needed a new passport, though, to not arouse suspicion. Trench-coat said that I’d get a new passport for each bag, but not to get too excited, because these passports were not good enough for becoming a fugitive, only for buying handbags.
Paul asked me what I was after and I ran through my script. It was effortless and in no time Trench-coat pulled out eighteen thousand euros and that was that, I had the Kelly and the Constance, registered with my Armenian passport. When we exited the shop, Trench-coat started skipping and dancing around the boulevard. He had invited Paul for dinner, and I was sure that Paul was gay, his pelvis gave it away, it tilted backward. Just as I thought that, Trench-coat nearly got hit by a seven-seater Peugeot. I need a hot shower, I told him, and he understood what I meant. I wasn’t keeping up with my rituals, I had been neglectful. I was becoming like the filthy and rich, a fishy pussy with a floral neck.
I walked alone to the hotel, crossing a row of furniture shops. It was the magic hour, when the stores closed and plazas transformed into homeless camps. They were not like the homeless of New York, they were migrant workers. Some fifty men and women were spreading their tents and sleeping bags along the storefronts. Their hair was clean, their sleeping areas were tidy. Some of them were already cozy, watching the screens of their smartphones. Others were having dinner, canned and packaged. Behind them, sofas and beds were lit in the display windows. There was a small group of men on folding chairs, chatting in a language, I suppose it was Eastern European. They looked like the middle-aged men of some provincial town, chitchatting, feeling at home. I crossed the street, it was theirs now.
I walked down an alley, then took a left, passing by a park with a large bronze statue. On the gate of the park was a big sign and just two words, in English, square closed. It reminded me of the locked park across from my apartment in New York.
I had my shower and I got into bed but there was a word that I had caught from the men’s conversation, molya. It had gotten stuck to my tongue. I kept hearing the man’s voice in my head, and he reminded me of Sasha.
I picked up the phone and called him, but there was no answer. I suspected that he hadn’t taken it well, my affair with Trench-coat, but that he wouldn’t admit it. I wrote him a long message explaining that Trench-coat and I hadn’t even kissed. There is nothing between us, I wrote, it’s purely recreational. The next day Sasha called me, very casually. I invited him to the gala that Curls was organizing in February. Sasha had a lot of money, more money than me, and I wanted to steer him in the right direction, I wanted him to do something good with his money, other than wiring it to his dysfunctional family in Russia. And I wanted something else from him, I had a dream that he would lend me the facade of that building on Fifth Avenue, just for a week or so, and let me put up a billboard and say and show whatever I wanted there. But on a personal level, on a romantic level, I had no respect for Sasha. I knew that I would continue to betray him, I just didn’t know for how long.
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t the Hermès near Lutetia we were treated well, I was given a chair to sit in while we waited, and Trench-coat discussed the store’s design with the receptionist. They walked along the edge of the floor, pointing at materials, like they were explorers in nature, naming the flora and fauna. I watched the women in the store, and I had the impression that they were real customers, the French women were older and alone, the foreign women were accompanied by men. Judging by their complexion and style, they were foreigners from exotic countries, rich wives and daughters from failed states, banana republics, and friendly dictatorships. Their style was different, extroverted, heavy on the bling and makeup. It said we may be terrorists or crooks or gangsters, but at least we have pride, and we smell fantastic.
In the corner of the store, near the porcelain, I saw one young woman, blond, very slender, carrying a Louis Vuitton mini duffel bag. I felt that she was a part of our scheme, that she was my competitor for the day’s last Birkin. As I walked by, I fired an arrow of contempt at her, to make her feel small, so that she would fail in her performance.
At last, the salesman came, and he was very transparent, his body flexible, he wasn’t holding tightly to his character like the other sales associates. He was Malaysian, with taught, maple skin and long lashes. His name was Mubarak. He had just become a French citizen, he said, and his friends wanted to go to the Pride parade in Tel Aviv, but he was still hesitant. I told him I was Palestinian and had just become a citizen of Armenia. Sometimes, maybe even most of the time, telling a stranger that you’re Palestinian is a handicap, it makes people withdraw from you, it makes them unsure or suspicious. But other times it’s like showing a hand of four aces. You get a pat on the back, you get Yasser Arafat’s V sign, you get free stuff. And that day, when I told him, Mubarak sold me a size 35 Birkin in crocodile skin, the color of ganache. Happy Pride, Vive la Palestine, Eid Mubarak.
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e went to celebrate at the Lutetia hotel bar. Trench-coat ordered for us, since he was a man of languages and naturally esteemed by servers. There was a couple at the bar, sitting on high chairs, colleagues maybe, playing naive. The man had smooth hair and a mole on his chin. The woman kept looking at my Hermès shopping bag, sitting on the chair next to me, then at Trench-coat.
The wine arrived, and it wasn’t to Trench-coat’s taste. He argued with the server, told him that it was not what he’d ordered and that the glass smelled of bleach. But the server couldn’t understand what Trench-coat was saying. It occurred to me then that Trench-coat’s French was not good, that there was no accord between how he held himself and who he really was. Even the woman at the bar looked away in embarrassment.
Yes, Trench-coat’s company was a celebration, but things were beginning to shift between us. He began to take weight, to get heavy, he was stirring some feelings in me and they were making me tired.
No, I’m not tired of you. Not yet. There is still something material between us, I still have things to say. But in the end, I will get tired. Or I will get bored and I will end it.
Back in our hotel room, Trench-coat went to see Ivan in the lobby, and when he came back, he took his eye cream out from the minibar, not even offering me any, patting it on his eyelids with his middle finger, which I thought was very rude. He said he was going to dinner again with Paul. Did you invite Mubarak? I asked. When he said no, I said I wasn’t coming either.
I knew that Europeans like Paul were racist and that they looked down on people like us. It was only one glorious summer in the sixties and my expensive clothes that made them act otherwise. I knew this because I felt the same about Mexicans, Native Americans, Ukrainians, Africans, and all kinds of East and South Asians. The racial hierarchy is not dichotomous. These Europeans could kiss my ass with their fine hypocrisy.
