“You smile a lot. And you have pretty American teeth.”
“Ha!”
In actuality, they were Chinese teeth. So said the dentist who removed four wisdoms in one sitting. I was twenty-seven and rushing to get them pulled before moving to France.
“Are you Asian?” the dentist had asked, two teeth in.
I’d nodded. My jaw plied wide with a device I can only describe as a mouth speculum. “My grandfather. On my dad’s side.”
“I could tell. You have Asian teeth. Big crowns, small roots. You typically only see that in Asian people.”
In that moment, I tried to picture my father’s teeth. My aunts’. My cousins’. Were their crowns larger than usual? And then, randomly, the image of Mickey Rooney inBreakfast at Tiffany’scame to mind. Stereotypical and offensive, and in possession of a set of oversized prosthetic teeth. Is that how the Western world saw us? Or just Hollywood circa 1961?
“American orthodontist. Jamaican-Chinese mouth.”
He smiles then, wide, like an American. “It works for you.”
“You missed a fantastic show this morning,” Anouk says, once our orders have been taken.
“Louis Vuitton?”
“Yes. They held it at their newfondationin Bois de Boulogne, and it is incredible. The building is like… wow. Have you seen it yet?”
“Yes, it’s genius. I’d love to spend a day inside Frank Gehry’s mind. The curved glass, the sails…”
“All of that,” Anouk continues. “And they installed these huge glass spheres in the garden.”
“Geodesic domes,” Alain adds definitively.
He and Sophie, a striking redhead, are seated to my left, at the adjoining corner table. They are doing that thing newish couples do: unable to physically separate. Her fingers in his hair, his hand on her knee, her lips buzzing his temple. I try to remember when I last felt the need to be touching my partner, but I cannot. It’s been too long.
“Domes, yes. And inside they constructed a runway and bleachers,” Anouk continues. “It was like being in a space station.”
She turns to me and smiles then. And something about her face takes me back to Cabo. Her youthful energy, her darling French overbite. That night at the shore.
“What?” she says, soft. Evidently, I’m not terribly good at hiding my emotions.
“Nothing.”
“I wish you’d been there. I was thinking about your project, on beauty and how we consume it, and I thought, Cecilia should be here. Next time, yes?”
“Do you miss it?” Clément directs to Anouk. “Doing the shows?”
“No,” she says. “I don’t miss the shows. The catwalk, the lights, the attention, yes. But not the craziness. The rushing, the constant changing of hair and makeup, people demanding things of you, prodding you, jabbing you, squeezing and zipping and tying you into clothes, rearranging your breasts… I don’t miss that. And the crowds backstage. Everyone gawking and staring and watching you change. So many cameras and little privacy. It’s why we were all buzzed out of our minds, on champagne and coke.… Okay, not all of us. But some. And then to go and do five or six of those a day. Five days a week. Three, four cities in a row. It was hell.”
“But there must be a high, no?” Sophie speaks up from her corner. Her eyes a deep violet. Her skin like porcelain. A leather motorcycle jacket is draped over her shoulders, a black silk dress kisses her curves beneath. I wonder if she has an actual job, or just “muses” for a living. I wonder what musing entails.
“There is a high. But like with everything else, it doesn’t last.”
Our dinner arrives shortly after, the tiny tables overflowing with sumptuous platters of roasted duck with green olives, sole meunière, and traditional cassoulet. Everything tastes sublime, rich, flavorful. The wine, the bread, the butter. We are far, far from the Land of Avocado Toast.
“CeciliaChen.” Clément claps his hands together suddenly, startling me. “That’s you, yes? You had that show at the Pompidou. TheFitzgeraldone.The Beautiful and Damned. C’était géniale!! Tellement!”
“Thank you.” I smile. I still find it awkward when complete strangers know and compliment my work. As if they’ve seen a part of me that I’d never fully expected them to see. Like being naked in front of someone new.
How peculiar, this artist thing. To bare one’s soul, and then on some level regret it. Over and over and over again.
“And your husband is François Charlot!Oh là là!” Clément continues, his enthusiasm growing.
