8 I’ve Seated You Together at the Table
I’ve Seated You Together at the Table
Paulina also shut the door. Between the hairdresser, the iron pressers, the tailors, and the makeup artists, there was too much noise coming from Julie’s room.
And too many nerves. And she didn’t want to catch it.
She had already gone through all that chaos some years before.
Manuel Castro and Paulina Homs, young and in love, had exchanged vows at the Basilica of the Immaculate Conception in Barcelona, and since that May evening, they hadn’t swayed from them.
They held the celebration dinner at the Fonda Espanya, and they slept in a suite at the Oriente Hotel on the Rambla, thanks to a gift from the groom’s poker buddies.
Two days later, in a new car for the wedding, Paulina and Manuel traveled to Venice, down the foggy highway, the one that crosses Italy from west to east. Neither of them had been to the city before, and despite everyone’s warnings about the smell that emanated from the canals, they didn’t think it was too big of a deal.
Paulina came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around her hair. First while she was naked, then while wearing her bra and underwear, she looked at herself in the mirror the way all women do when they are in their late twenties: in search of defects where there are none.
She stood there for a good while, drying her hair with the professional blow dryer that the bride’s hairstylist had lent her.
She had arrived at the house with three metallic suitcases filled with tools of different kinds.
After, with the skill of having rehearsed it multiple times, she improvised a bun that gathered all her hair, showed off the bare nape of her neck, and gave her more of a stylish edge.
It perhaps made her look older, but she didn’t mind.
In order to avoid any wrinkles, Paulina had ironed the dress designed for the occasion the moment she had taken it out of the suitcase the evening she arrived at Júlia’s house.
She liked looking at how it hung on the handles of the mirror-wardrobe in the guest bedroom.
Before putting it on, she opened her travel makeup case.
She did her eye makeup discreetly, for the night, highlighting her turquoise irises.
For her lips, she chose an aubergine-red lipstick, because it was a special occasion and no one knew her in Paris.
After, with a tissue, she blotted her lips so as not to leave stains on the glasses and cups.
“You look beautiful,” the bride said as a chauffeur opened the door to the Citroen fit for a presidential ride.
“Today, there’s only one beautiful woman. Don’t get it wrong.”
“Do I look fine? I’m not too . . . ?” Júlia needed a little more than reassurance from her cousin, since they were always so honest with each other.
“You’re the most beautiful bride in all of Paris. Don’t worry. I feel awkward being here . . .”
Júlia had insisted that Paulina go with her in the car to the church.
“What nonsense. It wouldn’t make sense to go separately if we’re going to the same place.
No need to talk about it anymore.” The last thing Paulina wanted was to get on anyone’s bad side during such a nerve-racking time.
If Júlia had already decided, if this was how she had seen things going, surely there was no need to go over and over it in her head.
There was no more discussion then. On the journey from Croissy to Paris, sitting in the back seat of the car fit for Francois Mitterand, the two cousins held hands. They could barely speak.
“On days like today,” said the bride before sighing, “I miss the people who aren’t with us anymore.”
“Don’t think about it.”
“I know, but it isn’t easy.”
“You can’t let yourself. Let’s not let your mascara run from that eye look they did on you.”
“Too much makeup?” she asked, insecure.
“No, no, no. You look like a movie star.”
“You think so?”
“Of course, Júlia. You look spectacular.”
“Really?”
“Of course. But I forbid you from crying. Enjoy today. It’s your day.”
“Okay.”
“It’ll all work out.” She looked at her and squeezed her hand harder. “Come on, don’t worry.”
“Now I have a headache . . .”
And they remained silent, frozen, until they were two blocks away from the Fontenay-sous-Bois church, where the organist already had his hands on the keys and kept looking at the door compulsively.
As they had planned, Paulina stepped out of the car and walked the last stretch.
Right on the dot, she let the bride make her own entrance in the Citroen with the radio antenna, door handles, and window wipers they had decorated with bows.
Before disappearing into the crowd of wedding guests, she noticed the passersby watching her.
Maybe it was the electric blue outfit, or the wide triangular shape of the top of her dress that narrowed at her waist. It was, without a doubt, the prettiest dress she had ever owned.
The black lapels and cuffs that matched her shoes, and a single giant button, also drew the attention of the neighborhood people.
Some women watched her jealously, but others, she thought, seemed to do it with admiration.
Men shot her lecherous glances. With every step, her confidence grew.
With her hand, she protected her small round Chanel bag that paired with a long chain that was easy to snatch.
For some time she wanted to have a dress like this and wear it out.
And she had found the right occasion, the city, and the day.
Perfect. Things didn’t always work out so nicely.
That said, it was true she would have to walk a lot, and she just knew that her new shoes—the mid-heeled pumps—would start to hurt her, and she’d forgotten to put bandages in her bag.
The ceremony went by quickly, considering the way these things usually go.
The priest, an acquaintance of Alain’s who was highly sought after, got straight to the point.
They did not do the Eucharist, everything went smoothly, and they finished like they had to rush out of the church so as not to make the loyal 7:00 p.m. massgoers angry.
Seated in the second row, Paulina entertained herself by looking at the statues of the saints, the arches in the nave, and the members of the choir, who, between their Gounod and Schubert renditions, earned themselves a nice tip.
Julie looked happy. She smiled, and from time to time looked sweetly at Alain, her husband, which she could finally say in all its glory.
But despite Paulina’s worries, the bride did not tear up at any point.
As they left, some clouds hid the sun and a dry, evening breeze began to blow, which for a few moments frightened the women with the most revealing necklines.
The Chalet de la Porte Jaune was an old hunting relais in the middle of Bois de Vincennes, not too far from the church, on the outskirts of Paris.
Over time, the mansion and the wild gardens had grown closer to the city, and the entrepreneurial heirs of heirs decided to rent the space for banquets and conventions.
After touring several places that were either too run-down, or too big or too old or too far or too expensive or too dirty or too minimalist, Julie and Alain had finally opted for La Fermette.
The welcome cocktail hour would take place in the garden; the wedding reception was in a salon that just barely fit the hundred guests.
Based on the decor, it could look like a dollhouse or the mansion of a Massachusetts state senator.
Julie chose option A for the most important day of the first three decades of her life.
The guests, dressed to the nines, lined up to take the barge that could, in two minutes, transport them to the restaurant of La Fermette through ?les des Minimes after scaring a few ducks and swans.
Once aboard, Paulina stood next to a huge wooden face, no one having warned her that it was a figurehead.
Julie had decorated the entire vessel with flower arrangements so her guests wouldn’t think that she had forced them onto an amusement park boat.
The green and white of the decor dominated everywhere.
She observed the guests who, like her, had restrained themselves in the church and were now heading toward the reception, ready to celebrate to the fullest. Among the ladies, black gowns down to the feet or knee-length red were the most predominant, and from where she stood, she could see no shortage of blue shades, much like her own.
There were many padded shoulders, more straps than strapless dresses, more peeks of cleavage than full-blown décolletage.
Aside from one woman who had a peacock on her head—more alive than dead—she counted, roughly, more headbands than berets and wide-brimmed hats, more updos than loose locks, more fine jewelry than flashy costume jewelry.
Among the men, there wasn’t much color or variance.
Black reigned from head to toe, whether in a tuxedo or a suit, always over a white shirt.
Imagination had only been given free rein when it came to a bowtie.
There was one man, though, wearing a light-colored blazer, bold also in its cut.
Pipe in hand, he gazed out onto the landscape as if he were the captain of the ship as he whistled the notes of the sirtaki to himself in slow motion.
Paulina hadn’t seen him in the church. She would have noticed him.