Unlike the past, I didn’t come to you in search of something—not independence or validation or comfort. I didn’t expect you to heal what was broken. I wasn’t there for your magic or your love. I had found love elsewhere, and I brought him to you. 
Eddy Boudel Tan is the author of two novels, After Elias and The Rebellious Tide (summer 2021). His work depicts a world much like our own—the heroes are flawed, truth is distorted, and there is as much hope as there is heartbreak. As a queer Asian Canadian, Eddy celebrates diverse voices through his writing. When he isn't plotting his next story or adventure abroad, he serves home-cooked meals to those living on the streets as cofounder of the Sidewalk Supper Project. He lives with his husband in Vancouver.
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I was barely a man when I first saw you from the train.
One month of travel felt like an accomplishment at the time. Every new terminal and cobblestone square moved me a little less with each arrival. Even so, the carriage of that train felt humid with anticipation as I sped toward you. All I could see through the window were concrete walls as grey as the skies back home, but I imagined what lay on the other side. I smiled at the sight of palm trees inside the cavernous Gare de Lyon—a detail that seemed unmodern, nostalgic. My closest friend and I marched down a crowded street, sweat meandering down our necks and pooling in the wells of our collarbones. Our backpacks were emblazoned with maple leafs, strong and free. The heat was unforgiving, but you were kind. You serenaded us by the Seine. In reality, the young man with the charming accent sang to Andrea, but in my memory that song was for me. Andrea and I booked a room on the third floor of a hotel near Place de la République. We slept in a single bed; its sheets riddled with tears like bullet holes. We shared a dimly lit bathroom with the other guests on the floor. Despite the poverty of the setting, we adored this room. It felt like independence. At night, the most primal sounds of love echoed against the walls outside our window, a wild crescendo of baritone and soprano. We lay in our bed and laughed like schoolchildren, so grateful to be there in that room, to exist so close to a square that symbolized revolution, yet all I could think about was the man’s song by the Seine. I felt an ache in my chest, a longing for what wasn’t for me. The sky was on fire as we strolled across the Pont des Arts. I gazed over the edge at the citadel of stone that stood in the middle of the river. From the blaze of the shifting sky to the breeze perfumed with all the garbage and glamour of civilization, everything around us crackled with life. In that moment, I willed you to never change. I returned five years later with a lover. He had nursed my pathetic heart with care until it could beat again—not quite with the aggressive sense of purpose it once did, but with less of the aching that had hollowed it out. He was tender and kind. I told myself I deserved these qualities. I wanted to love him. I wanted this even more than I wanted to love myself. We came to you for help. You could heal us. But as soon as I stepped onto the street outside Gare du Nord, car horns blaring and the concrete greyer than I remembered, I knew I was mistaken. You weren’t going to change a thing. I longed for the noise of the street when we found ourselves in the stillness of our little room. It was quiet as he kissed me, my limbs stretched out across the bed. “The walls are so thin,” I said, gently pushing his hands away. We walked along Rue la Fayette and I realized how gritty you had become. You had always been as rough as you’d been refined, but the metal cages that protected shop windows and neon crosses that burned green through the night struck me as vulgar. I searched for the scent of the magic you once revealed to me, but it was elusive. You kept it hidden away. I convinced myself I had grown since my first visit, no longer a wandering boy but a man. After all, I now had access to the pleasures you offered. Samuel and I distracted ourselves with bottles of wine in basement bars bathed in candlelight and cigarette smoke. We dined at overpriced bistros, desperate to prove my progress in adulthood through an elevated standard of consumption. It wasn’t hard to accomplish since Andrea and I survived off baguettes and cheese five years earlier. This seemed like growing up at the time. |
Despite the diversions, it became harder to deny the widening gulf between Samuel and me. I promised him a romantic outing one night. He wanted to take a boat down the Seine, but I chose to take him to the top of a spear-shaped tower instead. He was a gentleman. He hid the disappointment well despite being led a thousand feet into the air when all he wanted was to float along the river.
It was selfish, but I needed evidence that you were still familiar. From that vantage point, you matched my memory of you. Your languid boulevards. Your alabaster-hued rooftops. Samuel stared vacantly at the view and didn’t see any of this. All he could see was that I cared more about myself than I did about him. Eager for more evidence that you were not so different, I took Samuel to the Pont des Arts. There was a chill in the air, giving lovers more reason to huddle closely together. A handful of padlocks were linked within the metal lattice that ran along the perimeter of the bridge. With a closer look, I saw that the locks bore combinations of initials and messages of love, painted with nail polish and permanent marker. I wondered if Samuel and I would have left a lock on that bridge had there been one to leave. The years went by, and you barely crossed my mind. I didn’t frame any photographs from the last visit. The laughter on that threadbare bed, Andrea and I unaware of how fleeting youth would be, seemed more a dream than a memory. You lost your hold on me. Another seven years passed before we were reunited again. The palm trees still stood in Gare de Lyon, but I remembered the green fronds looking less tired. A woman swaying unsteadily with liquor on her breath shouted at me while I sat at a bar, and I recalled the young man singing songs on the banks of the Seine. You had changed again, but I didn’t mind this time. Unlike the past, I didn’t come to you in search of something—not independence or validation or comfort. I didn’t expect you to heal what was broken. I wasn’t there for your magic or your love. I had found love elsewhere, and I brought him to you. “I hate this city,” Thomas said to me after an irritating exchange with a dismissive waiter. “I really hate this city,” he said again as we ran through the labyrinth of tiled corridors to catch the last train of the night, which never showed up. He wore the contempt on his face, and I couldn’t stop laughing. We spent too much at a restaurant with a Michelin star. We ordered takeout at a Turkish shawarma stand. We lost ourselves in your grand boulevards and piss-stained alleys, staying far away from the spear-shaped tower. The overcast sky began to clear as we walked across the Pont des Arts. The metal lattice that lined the bridge’s sides had become so heavy with painted padlocks over the years that they were removed as a safety precaution. There was so much love it had become dangerous. We wandered along the river to the citadel where you were born. For centuries, Henry IV has guarded the centre of the Pont Neuf from atop his bronze horse. Surrounding him was a chain-link fence that had become invaded by padlocks. Like those that once lined the Pont des Arts, these locks were painted with names and promises. When one bridge closes itself off to love, people will find another. A young man approached to sell us a lock. We chose one the colour of champagne and carefully inscribed our initials. After attaching it to the fence, on this bridge that has been a part of you for many lifetimes, we threw the key into the river. We kissed each other, then I sang him a song. You hadn’t changed after all. I had. |