Chapter 48
48
JESSE
Now
Jesse spent the morning seeking out sporting iconography and LA life for inspiration for future works. His first stop was the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, home of the 1932 and the 1984 Olympics, and already revamped for the 2028 games. On the tour through the impressive, open amphitheatre, a guide called Trent told Jesse that the Coliseum had been visited by American presidents, MLK, the Dalai Lama, Nelson Mandela, Pelé and even Evel Knievel. Jesse wandered around, drinking in the fonts and the history, while wondering whether Minnie might show up later. After Trent referred to the Coliseum as ‘the greatest stadium in the world’ for the fourth time, Jesse smiled quietly and peeled away from the tour to visit some other pertinent parts of the city.
He got an Uber to South LA so he could visit Mexican neighbourhoods and work out how he could tie Mexican iconography into his World Cup designs. An official World Cup logo had been unveiled last year, a rather underwhelming one, Jesse thought. But when he went to google it again, to remind him of its flatness, he was flabbergasted to see that the unveiling ceremony had happened at Griffith Observatory of all places.
Over lunch at El Mercado Paloma, a market rich with food stalls and pi?atas in all shapes, sizes and bright colours, Jesse sat at a counter, ate a chicken tinga torta and drank hibiscus flower water while imagining how his designs might be better than FIFA’s own. As he sketched with a biro on a napkin, he remembered some great work he’d done with Artie Donner, an American designer he’d met in London, with whom he’d later collaborated on an MLS kit.
Artie was from LA and Jesse had a thought. He fired off a text to see if they could get together. Artie replied:
Great to hear from you! I can do drinks tonight or tomorrow?
Neither was ideal, but Jesse said he’d be back in touch when he knew how his evening was panning out.
Great, short notice always suits me!
After lunch, Jesse took the Metro to Mariachi Plaza in Boyle Heights to see musicians for hire in another Latin neighbourhood that might influence his designs. Men in sharp silk and brocade charro suits played trumpets, guitarróns and violins, while Jesse walked among them, tucking dollars into their baskets and wondering how different LA might look through Minnie’s lens. He wanted to bring her here, break her from the press tour, tell her he thought he might love her.
At 3p.m. Jesse got an Uber to Sunset Boulevard, where he bought an ice cream and began his long walk to Griffith Park, making mental notes and iPhone notes about everything he had seen in the galleries, the Mercado and the square that he didn’t want to forget. How he could incorporate them into a beautiful new typeface the world had never seen before for his football designs. How the fonts for Remy could be tweaked a little before printing. He thought about his mother in France. How September brought a new light to the fields now empty of lavender. How lonely she might be, her first autumn and winter in France as a widow; how he knew it was the right place for her because Lars’ books and laughter lined the walls of the farmhouse. It was there that his imprint was greatest felt.
For almost two hours Jesse hiked, through trails, steps and brush, past locals and other tourists, up the East Griffith Observatory Trail, until he reached the vast park, a hidden gem atop a congested car-filled city.
Relief.
He stopped to drink water and take in the view, before continuing towards the grand white Greek-style building of the observatory, its three domes, one larger in the middle, shining in the golden hour like giant onions. He strolled past a sundial and neat lawns, until he stopped at an obelisk-like structure with a bronze armillary sphere on top and sat at its foot. Smooth serene statues of astronomers looking like Greek gods stood guard around the obelisk: Galileo, Hipparchus, Copernicus, Kepler, Newton and Herschel. Jesse sat, withered at their feet and took another lug of water from a bottle he’d bought from a vendor on the trail. He looked at his watch: 5.55p.m.
Perfect.
He didn’t look at his phone – what use was his phone now – as he scanned the faces of all who walked around him. Couples, families, hikers. A school group followed a harangued teacher thrusting an umbrella high in the air, back to the car park and their coach. An Indian couple kissed as they took a selfie. No one looked like Minnie.
Jesse briefly closed his eyes and tried to imagine his father standing protectively behind him, Jesse as an eleven-year-old boy. But he couldn’t conjure Lars now. He worried he had forgotten his father’s voice. He felt for Saraswati but his throat tightened.
For an hour Jesse people-watched, giving in to his solitude and becoming accepting of his situation. He watched the sun disappear beyond the haze of red smog over Downtown. He watched the illuminations of the city and its arteries start to sparkle, as if a light show were slowly turning on for him.
By 7p.m., Jesse conceded that Minnie wouldn’t be turning up and his ridiculous, romantic notion was just that. A notion. He texted Artie to say he was up at Griffith Park. ‘I could be on the Strip in an hour?’
‘Meet me in Los Feliz in forty-five minutes. Café Figaro,’ Artie replied.
Jesse had to get a move on down the Boy Scout Trail to the Glendower steps, and was soon on the leafy palm-lined boulevard of North Vermont Avenue.
The elegant trees gave way to low-rise buildings, boxy trees and the odd 7-Eleven, until Jesse saw an unassuming restaurant with a pale blue awning that looked like it had been plucked right out of Paris. The Café Figaro font looked like something from the fin de siècle and wood-and-wicker chairs all faced out onto the street so diners could watch the world (and the traffic… this was LA) go by.
Artie was already waiting for him at a table.
‘Jesse!’ she gasped, standing and extending two hands, which she took his in, and kissed him robustly on each cheek. She smelled of cigarette and tuberose.
‘Hey…’ he said, suddenly flustered.
She flicked her deep red hair over her shoulder.
‘I thought a little piece of France would suit you, sir,’ Artie said with a dazzling smile, the freckles on her face sparkling in the last of the day’s light. ‘Plus, it’s right around the corner from my condo…’