Kiss Me as John 1955

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                  “What if I kiss you just as John?” Cary told her.

                  “As John? Well, it would be simpler that way.”

                  “It’s rare to find a woman who...

                  “Who…?” Grace probed him.

Cary, the American from New York, leaned in and kissed Grace. If only she knew what it was like to look upon the great buildings of New York, where skyscrapers rose up into the horizon as far as the eye could see. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want a rich man. I want someone who loves me,” replied Grace with a smile. If only she knew that on Wall Street, all of America was prospering. “But I’ll never leave France!” cried Grace. If only she knew how he had sullied his hands with labour, how he had toiled to get here. “France may be beautiful, but I’m a New Yorker!” replied Cary. “I’m an American,” he went on. “New York? That’s the last thing I need. I’ll never go to America! I’ll never leave France!” she went insisted, her voice growing louder.

Cary adored the South of France, especially the Côte d’Azure and the landscape of Provence. Its storybook villages, like Saint Paul de Vence, enchanted him. The seaside towns, too. He was not there for long, though – a few days, perhaps just long enough to take a boat out on the Mediterranean with Grace. She was a waitress at the hotel Lutetia, and she served hordes Americans every day. She nicknamed them all John. It was a good nickname for them. Simple, and not too long. The name John said a lot about a person. They were too rich, and didn’t know how or where to spend their money. Even the Monte Carlo casino couldn’t satisfy them. Grace saw them riding in their sedans along the Croisette or on the Promenade des Anglais. Cary adored France. It was so beautiful and easy-paced compared to New York, the bustling city that never slept, where Frank Sinatra was spreading the news. New York, New York! 

              “Frank Sinatra! He’s so handsome. I love his voice, and his music,” Grace had said when he was having breakfast.

              “You know he’s American, right?” Cary had replied.

Americans were always happy to talk about the things that made them proud. When they came to France, they strutted to buy the most expensive wine and perfumes they could find in Provence, but Cary had eyes for only one thing. The next day, he was catching a United Airlines flight back to New York. It would be a fleeting moment of tenderness. Tomorrow, he would still feel the bittersweet memory of that boat ride. He’d remember Grace’s tender kisses. As for her, she’d go back to work at the Lutetia, for she refused to come to New York. Yet Cary had told her: “You’d live like a queen, with your throne on top of a skyscraper!” She had smiled. These Americans always promised great big things, but in France they knew the charm of a narrow street, of rough-hewn white stone and the picturesque landscapes of Cézanne. Cary moored the boat on the jetty and held Grace’s hand as she stepped onto land. “Monsieur’s room is ready,” a dockhand told him. Grace slipped away quietly. She worked in the hotel, after all – if the boss found out she’d been cavorting with an American guest she’d be out on her ear. Cary returned to his room, and packed his bag. Tomorrow he would return to New York.

Alan Alfredo Geday