The Quiet American
“Well, some of them are really, reallly rude.”
The sudden loud English breaks my reverie. I’m in Paris, and I was staring off into the bottle-dotted depths of the Seine outside of the sort of hostel known for housing loud Americans, Aussies and any other twenty-something who honestly believes they’re “traveling” and not just on holiday. The bar inside is decked out in colorful plastic furniture with clean chrome lines and crushed velvet accents. The music they are blast-casting out here on to the patio is bassy and basic but the waves of the river, and all the rubbished pooled at the base of a nearby bridge, move out of sync.
“Like, I took a train once between San Francisco and LA and, you know, it’s like a five hour ride.”
“Rhite, rhite…” another man tries, in heavily accented English.
“And this girl was putting on makeup—literally, the entire time!”
“Oh vov.”
“I think her tits were fake too. It was brilliant.”
The Englishman’s head is shaven and he is wide enough to play rugby, with a huge yellow Nike swoosh plastered across his red tee shirt and a devil crest on his left sleeve.
I cringe and shift. In my experience, Manchester United fans are the Yankee fans of the football world. His friend by contrast is slighter, with shaggy brown hair, a diamond earring and an endless sort of summer tan. His shirt is teal, without writing; he keeps twisting his facial hair up close to his chin. They didn’t come here together, and they won’t be taking the same tours in the morning. For now, it is enough to simply laugh and smoke with a stranger in a strange land. I’m down wind, but they don’t notice.
“I fink da ting viv da States es dey are da best in da voard and sometime dey act may-bee better, like better den us?”
“Well, it’s like if they are the most powerful nation in the world, you’d expect them to be best at everything,” the native speaker interprets.
“Yace, but al-so dey is arro—arrogant?”
“Quite right. They think they can just go over to Iraq, or wherever else really, and take whatever they want.” He drinks deeply from his pint, gulping revoltingly.
“Yace and I see dis youtube vid-yo, and dey are askin American to point to Irak and, and dey don’t!”
They laugh again.
I make up a wide range of angry excuses in my head for why the dumbest people in my country always stop to talk to camera crews. But when I can’t make any of them stick, I go back to resenting their cigarette smoke.
“Well it goes back to what I was saying before, with that woman on the train. I said to her, ‘Excuse me, I think you’re in my seat’, and she said, ‘I paid for a ticket too!’ Just like that, went right back to putting on her makeup! Can you believe it?”
“Yace, yace. And, and I see also dis vid-yo vere dey ask American vere are da con-contry vut start vid ‘U’ and dey know only one!”
“Yeah, there are loads of them, aren’t there? Uganda…”
“Ukraine.” He says with a nod of certainty.
“Uruguay. Loads of them…”
You forgot the United Arab Emirate, dickwad. I tell myself sulkily.
“Yace, yace, lohdz.” The chrome on his red plastic chair scrapes the new concrete as he rises, pulling up his belted pants as he goes. “I get nother beer. You vant?”
The first waves his hand away. I find I am looking down at the menu—a
boilerplate selection of drinks and snacks. I’m trying to calm down; to be fair. It isn’t without reason that these stereotypes of my countrymen exist, and it isn’t as though I didn’t just make assumptions about that prick based on his tee shirt.
But America is like my mother. Now, my mother is crazy, I know that. My saying that isn’t based on a two week vacation where I met her for the first time, or something she posted on Youtube. I’m not the fighting type—all I’m saying is, if you’re gunna criticize her, you better be ready to finish what you start.
Je demande, “Excuse moi, tu a bu cette bier?” I was even kind enough to point at his empty bottle.
“Um pardon, uh sorry, oh beer, oh yes! Yeah, this beer!”
“Sa bier.”
“Yes, this beer, uh, oui!”
“Alore, c’est bien?”
“Bien? Oh um, yeah, uh oui.” Lots of head nodding and then, “Alright.” Plus his best international, “thumbs-up.”
“Mais, bon. La vue de la Sein c’est tres agreeable, non?”
“Um, sorry ?”
“You don’t speak French?” I ask in a contrived half-accent. The way his eyes light up, I surmise he just plain doesn’t speak with women.
“Oh um, yes, ah, a little,” he says in English, pantomiming a pinch.
“En fait, tu ne parles pas en Francais?” I say, shaking my head, again guiding him to an answer I will accept.
“Um, no, not really well, I mean... no, nah.” He shrugs up his shoulders self consciously.
“Its just interesting to me,” I say, fully American, “I heard you talking about the States, but you speak no French.”
Quick enough he catches on.
“Fair point.” He smiles down at his ashtray, finally extinguishing his fag.
“Et tu habites ou?”
”Uh, come again?” he asks, laughing.
”Uh, come again?” he asks, laughing.
“Oh, sorry—I forgot. You live where?”
“Oh, England,” he says, his coffee colored teeth proud.
“That’s very interesting. And your friend, where was he from?”
“Oh, him? Ukraine. He’ll be back, um…. Would you like a beer?”
“No thank you. La bier ici, c’est tres cher pour moi.” After a blank look, “Too expensive.”
“Oh. Right.”
“You know it’s very interesting, I’ve had a hard time finding people to practice my French with. But everyone speaks English.”
He laughs a little.
“I don’t think I would go to a country where I wasn’t willing to speak the language. I mean, imagine coming all the way to Paris and not be able to comment on the loveliness of the river.”
“You think it’s lovely, do you?”
“Oh yes, it’s quite pleasant at night. People bring bottles of wine and blankets and play Pétanque, and—“
“Play what?”
”Um, it’s rather like lawn bowling.”
”Um, it’s rather like lawn bowling.”
“Oh. I hadn’t noticed. How long have you been here?”
“Don’t know. Bout’ three days, I guess. I haven’t been staying here of course. But you can get une demi for only 2 euros down there at that pub, too.” I say pointing at a row of buildings not 50 meters off. “It’s all very charming.”
“Sorry, a demi what?”
“A beer, you know, une demi. It’s just the cheep stuff. But you could pay what you’re paying here for three Kronenbourgs down there. How long have you been here?”
“Oh, I don’t know... a week. I leave in the morning,” he adds, altogether too hopefully. When I don’t smile, he goes on, “But you, you’ve only been here three days have you? Brilliant. And you saw this all in a guide book, then?”
“Guidebook? Heh, I left that paper weight in Spain. Enjoy your drink.”
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The Quiet American /
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