Free Plum Blossoms in Paris by Sarah Hina Page B

doesn’t answer right away, so I explain, “Jingoism—it’s like patriotism run amok.”
    He nods absently. “Yes. An American specialty.”
    Sobered, I nod my assent. Strange how I should poke at my own country, but that I turn snippy and defensive when an outsider agrees with me. There’s always a forked road to navigate, and pride is a less treacherous path than honesty. “We are loud with our patriotism, I admit. But we also have the eyes of the world watching us, so it is easy to trip and fall.” I shrug and glance over at him. “Besides, France is easily as patriotic. It just manifests itself in different ways here.”
    Mathieu releases my hand and, mixing his stereotypes, starts gesturing like a Hot-Blooded Italian. “Yes, it does. Like not invading foreign countries that have done nothing to us. Like not isolating ourselves from the rest of the world by flaunting environmental treaties. Like not having a president too simple-minded to articulate a coherent thought without the help of tutors, yet who says, ‘Bring it on,’ like a cowboy drunk with power. Like not forgetting about the poor in our country, and making sure that everyone has health insurance. Like—”
    “Touché.” So much for the language barrier. I turn and grasp his hand with both of mine, pressing upon him my urgency. “Let’s not—yet. Okay?”
    He runs his free hand through his hair. “I apologize. It is difficult for me. As you said, the eyes of the world are on you, and everyone knows America’s”—he smiles wryly—“indiscretions.” He clasps my hand more tightly. “But they are not your indiscretions. I should not direct my frustrations toward you.”
    “But you will,” I murmur, a little sadly. We carry the weight of our countries on our shoulders. And America is always the heavy.
    Mathieu pulls eagerly on my hand as we enter a square whosemuted loveliness smooths our foray into raucous politics. In spite of the idea behind our walk today, I have only had eyes for Mathieu. But now I admire the exquisite lamppost at the center of the square, and the slender trees encircling it, which extend nerves of branches that must cast film noir shadows at night, when the bulbs incandesce into a tight galaxy of luminous moons. There are cars parked near small boutiques, but otherwise, the square is tranquil and nearly deserted. The white buildings framing the symmetrical sides are five stories high with white shutters—Parisians seem suspicious of height and color—and are just high enough to block out the sun. A small, nervous dog (there are no other kinds here) relieves itself on the far curb, in no hurry as its owner, a smartly dressed older woman (there are no other kinds here), removes a compact from her purse and dusts her nose.
    “It’s lovely,” I sigh, content to stop and stare. But Mathieu and his plan pull me toward the far corner of the square and through a small Roman archway. An ancient doorway boasting the ubiquitous brass plaque confronts us. “What’s this?” I ask.
    “It’s the
Musée Delacroix
,” he announces, opening the door.
    “Oh.”
    I must admit some disappointment. From what I remember of the Orsay and Louvre, I was not taken with Delacroix.
    Mathieu laughs and, sensing my hesitation, waves me through. “Nobody can understand France, or Paris, without appreciating Delacroix. Baudelaire hailed him as the father of French modernity.”
    “Oh.”
    I will not let him know that the name
Baudelaire
means as little to me as
Proust
, or
Balzac
. They should mean something, but American education extends only so far, grazing the surface of world literature and history with the same level of introspection that a hand skimming the water outside its boat understands the ocean below. I was a biochem and evolutionary biology double-major incollege, so there were whole buildings on campus never ventured into. Hey, I was busy. Liberal arts majors were the floating people who spent too much time in coffee