Fairyland: A Memoir of My Father Read online

  “Pneumocystosis means full-blown AIDS,” he repeated. He might only have a year to live. Or six months. “You have to make arrangements to graduate early and move home,” he said, “now that I have full-blown AIDS.”

  Such a strange expression, I thought to myself: “full-blown AIDS.” Why “full-blown”? I imagined being blown away, as in, “Wow, that really blew me away.” Or I thought of an orchid in the summer, its petals expanded to their full blossom, exploding with gaudy color, sticky nectar, and scent. I pictured something blown apart, like a dandelion, fully blown until nothing is left but the naked stem.

  Before that trip to Paris, my father’s illness was just a series of letters—HIV, ARC, AIDS—and the letters he wrote me describing the ailments that attended these acronyms. CMV-blah-blah-itis. Pneumo-blah-blah. No matter how much detail he provided about his condition, these were still abstract concepts scribbled onto a page. I returned the letters to their envelopes just as I put away the feelings these letters provoked. I wrote off Dad’s ailments as just more complaining.

  We were both famous complainers, after all. When we lived together in San Francisco, I bought him a card for his fortieth birthday depicting the front cover of a fictitious magazine, Bad Mood Monthly, with headlines like “143 Ways to Say ‘I Don’t Like It,’” “How to Make Your Loved Ones Feel Like Hell,” and “Whining & Dining.” We kept that card stuck on our fridge with a magnet for years. It was a playful reminder of our cranky natures. Calling Dad from my NYU dorm, I entertained him with tales of my miserable trip to the A&P and the walk home in the spitting rain, my arms straining from the weight of the grocery bags. He always laughed in the right places. Complaining was our inside joke.

  Not until he visited me that summer in Paris did I see how these ailments he detailed were not only real, but as his daughter they were my concerns as well. Each was like a heavy stone being laid on a road toward his inevitable death.

  THE CONVERSATION that had started at Fontainebleau continued later that night outside an overpriced brasserie in Montmartre. As Dad and I meandered after dinner, he started to list what he’d leave me: an old PC that barely worked, his computer table, his shelves of dusty, dog-eared books, and of course any profits from his writing.

  “I’ve named Kevin Killian my literary executer. He’ll make sure you get anything the books could make. I’ve drawn up papers.”

  “Okay.” I blinked at the apartment buildings and the people swarming around us. Swallowing hard, I avoided Dad’s eyes. A tightness gripped my chest.

  “More importantly, how soon can you graduate?” he asked. “Do you have money saved to leave at a moment’s notice if you need to?”

  Shut up, I kept thinking. “I don’t know,” I answered quietly, teeth clenched, “I have to see.”

  My twenty-year-old self was imploding. Wills, executor, computer table, graduate early? For months he’d told me not to worry or cry over his sickness. All that exists is right now, he told me. And then he comes to Paris, my Paris, where on a recent weekend I’d effortlessly cooked up rhubarb from the garden of Theo’s country house. With just a little water and sugar it was so delicious and so sweet. I’d looked forward to Dad’s visit for months. I wanted to share these discoveries with him, to introduce him to Theo and our life here. And he then comes to tell me that this life is over. That I must return home, that the time to worry is now. Because he has full-blown AIDS.

  Dad was unremitting. Dodging tourists on their way to Sacré-Coeur, he chased me around the narrow cobblestone streets, trying to hammer out this crazy plan of his. I felt a great weight pressing down on me, pulling on my shoulders and chest, like the lead apron dentists make you wear before taking your X-ray. I wanted so much to lie down, to unburden myself of this conversation and float away into the Paris sky. But my father pressed on, his energy renewed by determination.

  “You have to look into this,” he said, stopping me so he could look me squarely in the eye. “I think you should plan to move home by Christmas. Do you think you could move home by Christmas?”

  “Okay!” There was no question; of course I’d move home. If not me, who? But my head kept spinning, unwilling or unable to absorb what all of this meant.

  Before the introduction of protease inhibitors in the mid-nineties, AIDS was considered a death sentence. And that death was a hard death, promising either physical degradation (purple lesions, wasting syndrome,) mental degradation, or both. But for all the fear AIDS provoked, the nature of the disease was inherently confusing, especially as it was diagnosed in stages. You could test positive for the HIV virus without having symptoms. You could be sick with AIDS-related condition (ARC) without “having” AIDS. Only when you were diagnosed with certain specific illnesses—pneumocystosis, for example—did you have “full-blown AIDS.” Only then was death near.

  Before Dad came to Paris, I’d sought refuge in my ignorance about these stages, in the dense thicket of medical jargon that separated living with HIV from dying of AIDS. Dad was my accidental conspirator—downplaying his HIV status before he showed any symptoms, insisting he didn’t have AIDS when he was only suffering from AIDS-related condition, and only telling me he had full-blown AIDS when he felt it necessary for me to make plans to return home.

  He wanted me to enjoy my college experience as fully and for as long as I could. But the problem with this otherwise sensible strategy was that when it came time for him to tell me he was truly sick and dying, I was unprepared for the reality.

  I tried to recount my night to Theo. He already knew Dad was sick with an AIDS-related condition, but like me had a hard time grasping the distinction my father detailed. I raged at his “stupidity” before devolving into a puddle of tears in the bathroom.

  When I finally told Munca that Dad had AIDS, I wanted to throw up. I was sitting on the floor of our kitchen, leaning against the closed door in a parody of privacy. Munca seemed to respond to my news as though she were expecting the call.

  “Yes, okay,” she answered calmly. “What do you need from us?”

  Choking back sobs, I couldn’t answer at first. I felt dumb and foolish.

  “I don’t know,” I said finally. “Nothing, I guess.”

  Theo lacked the intuition to understand why I had a meltdown in the freezer section of our local grocery store later that afternoon, exploding into tears because of a conflict over frozen moussaka. And he didn’t know why I started crying the next day when, late to meet my father, I didn’t have time to buy fresh fruit at the open market.

  “But I need to eat a piece of fresh fruit every day,” I yelled.

  “What is wrong with you, Alysia?”

  “I always have fresh fruit. Don’t you understand? This is what I want. I don’t want this other life!”

  July 2nd, 1991

  Dear Alysia –

  Just got home and unpacked. It’s 11:20 pm SF time. I guess Paris time is 8:20 am July 3rd.

  Somehow I’m sad right now – back in the same old rut of medical appointments & visits to the same old tired cafés here. Paris felt so much nicer to be in, but I suppose the longer one would live there, the more one would just get into ruts there – take all the beautiful architecture for granted like you said.

  If I tried to imagine a “perfect daughter” I couldn’t imagine any one better than you. I could tell you and Theo really put effort into making my stay enjoyable – not only getting that nice hotel but also the places we ate, fixing food for me yourself, lugging around w/ me to the party at the Pompidou Center & the Jardin des Plantes. And I want you to know how much I appreciate your love.

  I’m sorry too that the state of my health is, understandably, a sadness for you. I think some of your irritation & grouchiness were probably because you feel bad & you get angry that this is my situation – our situation. But it would probably be better to know you’re angry because I have AIDS & that doctors haven’t found a cure for it yet than to shift your anger to all sorts of other things – not having time to get fruit o
r whatever.

  Sometimes I get really angry too. I got especially angry when I had to cancel my earlier planned trip to Europe – but as it turned out, I probably had more time to visit with you than I would have otherwise. Or I get angry that I can’t see like I’d like to. So I get angry & feel the emotions & then I realize – since there’s nothing I can really do to change things – I might as well accept life as it is. Hanging onto anger only wears one out – & it’s hard on those around you. And I realize there’s still a great deal in life to enjoy & be thankful for. In fact AIDS has become my spiritual teacher teaching me what’s important & what’s not & to let go of unproductive mental habits that aren’t really necessary.

  I really like that I can now imagine you more vividly in your environment – in Theo’s kitchen cooking, or sitting reading, or walking down the street or in the Metro.

  Will head off to the post office now.

  much love,

  your Dad

  20.

  AFTER DAD LEFT France, I was restless. I no longer wanted to wait in Theo’s empty apartment for him to return from work. Neither did I want to live off his meager wages for the remainder of the summer. I could have returned to New York, but there was nothing requiring me there before September and I didn’t want to leave Theo; we were still in love. So I went job hunting, diligently submitting resumés, signing up with employment agencies, working job boards and all of Theo’s contacts. But jobs in Paris were scarce, especially for young Americans on student visas. No one answered my applications and my follow-up calls were ignored.

  By the time I walked into La Criée I was three weeks into my search. I sat in a booth across from Véronique, the skinny brunette manager of this seafood chain in Neuilly-sur-Seine, a wealthy suburb north of Paris famous for its mayor, the future French president, Nicolas Sarkozy. The lunch hour had just finished and she was interviewing me. “La Criée hires new waitresses every summer,” she explained, barely meeting my eyes. “With the terrace open, it’s our busiest time of year.” She said all of this in French with me eagerly nodding along, hoping to elicit a smile that never came. “We’re looking for someone with restaurant experience. Are you experienced?”

  Everything about Véronique was stern, from the severe high ponytail that stretched her face taut, to her thin-lipped grimace, to her immaculately applied makeup and manicured nails. Véronique was the first person to answer one of my applications (and perhaps the last), so I boldly lied, telling her that I’d worked in a restaurant before (I hadn’t) and that I was planning to stay in Paris through September (I was leaving at the end of August).

  After asking me some questions about my studies, she looked me up and down and, after pursing her lips, gave me the job on the spot, along with my uniform—a pleated navy blue skirt, matching blue and white striped shirt, and a small folding corkscrew I was to keep hooked over my skirt’s elastic waistband.

  On my first day, I was trained by Maggie, an eighteen-year-old daughter of Moroccan immigrants. She’d left home at sixteen, quit school because it bored her, and had been living on her own ever since. Though two years younger than me, she was hard as nails and it was clear that she resented having to train me, this privileged, know-nothing American. She tsk’ed at my every question, rolled her eyes at my every mistake. And I made many mistakes.

  La Criée, “the Shucker” in French, was known for its raw bar. This meant that each appetizer and entrée required a unique fork and side. Oysters on the half shell, for example, required a tiny oyster fork be placed outside the salad fork, and were accompanied by a little dish of vinegar and minced shallot (mignonette). Lobsters required a separate set of flatware, including a lobster pick and a nutcracker. In addition to keeping track of these various tools and sides, there was the challenge of carrying everything. La Criée’s terrace was located a floor below the main restaurant. You picked up your order in the kitchen—say, a mixed raw seafood platter (fruits de mer) presented on a bed of ice chips—then you had to snake through the indoor tables past the front door and a large line of people waiting for a table, then gingerly descend a set of concrete steps to your customers on the terrace below. The steps were steep. My first day on the job I saw another girl drop a platter of cocktails on her way downstairs and burst into tears. I later learned that the cost of the drinks and glasses was taken from her paycheck.

  Véronique was the only French native on staff. The waitresses could have formed a model UN, with girls from Spain, Poland, Austria, Germany, Tunisia, and Thailand, Maggie the French-Moroccan, and me, the American. After a few days on the job, I figured out why. Management worked us like dogs. Only girls working under the table would put up with this shit.

  Everyone worked the five-hour lunch and dinner shifts four days a week. The girls each had one day a week on which they worked only lunch, but on this day you worked seven hours, polishing the brass bar, mopping the floor, pulling up and hosing the upstairs rubbernet flooring, and replenishing the wine and spirits from the dank wine cave. As exhausting as this work could be, it was a cakewalk compared to the dinner shift.

  La Criée had no busboys. Each waitress had to set her own tables, pour water, take orders, serve, and clear between courses and at the end of dinner, all in humid 90-degree temperatures. It was the hardest job I ever worked. From lifting and balancing trays of food and drinks back and forth in the restaurant, up and down the concrete stairs, my uniform was soaked with sweat by ten o’clock every night.

  The bartendress, a kinky-haired Tunisian, stirred up tall glasses of cold water and Torani crème de menthe syrup for each of the waitresses to swallow as we passed her station between the kitchen and the terrace below. She handed us the drinks when we whizzed by, as if we were marathon runners in our final lap.

  I was especially grateful for this gesture, because the bartendress was otherwise not my fan. The idiote Américaine, as she called me, didn’t even know how to properly uncork a wine bottle. And since 99.5 percent of my tables ordered a bottle of wine with dinner (this being France), my inability to open bottles became a real liability. I tried to smile my way through these trials. While my customers amiably chatted amongst themselves, I turned my back and struggled with the corkscrew. Screwing it in sideways, twisting it back out, and then screwing it in again, I probably broke one out of every five corks my first week. Each time I ran over to the bartendress so she could fix my mess, she sucked in her teeth and then cursed under her breath, “Quelle conne.” What a dumbass.

  All restaurant staff except management were fed simple pasta before La Criée opened, and, by the time it closed, we were all starving. Sometimes we’d clear an empty table and, standing together over the garbage bin in the kitchen, greedily slurp down whatever raw seafood the customers had left. There was still more work to do. Once we locked the restaurant doors and cleared and wiped all the tables, we had to empty the garbage. But the cheap bags, heavy with spent lobster and oyster shells, empty wine bottles and rock-hard baguettes, would easily tear, oozing a rancid summer-baked slime on our bare legs. Avoiding this mess required two or three girls to hoist and carry each bag from the downstairs to the Dumpster. When we finished with the garbage, we stacked the tables and chairs and hosed down the terrace. We performed these tasks as efficiently as possible. No one wanted to miss the 1 a.m. train, the last Métro back to Paris.

  On top of everything, we didn’t even pocket our tips. (Insult, meet injury.) In France service is compris, which means that the 15 percent Americans typically leave on top of the final bill is simply included in the final bill. La Criée pooled and distributed tips to the staff on a points system. If you were a new girl, like me, you got three points. More experienced girls made four or five points. Management like Véronique had eight points. If a table was especially happy with your service they might leave you change on top of the bill—this you could keep.

  After two weeks, I wondered if the labor and anxiety of this job was worth the slim paycheck. Working four nights a week, I barely
saw Theo. We clutched each other tightly during the few hours we shared in bed before he was off at 7:30 a.m. for his job. I missed him especially those days I cleaned the restaurant after lunch. The bartendress, busy steaming her glassware, would play a pop radio station—Oui-FM—and every sentimental song reminded me of Theo and the tenderness I was missing.

  My stomach rumbled with dread every day I headed off for La Criée. To calm my nerves on the long Métro ride from Theo’s place in central Paris to Neuilly-sur-Seine, I read a book my father had bought me before returning to San Francisco: L’Écume des Jours by Boris Vian. In addition to Vian’s book, he gave me Georges Bataille’s Story of the Eye (fittingly, since Dad was starting to go blind). My father loved Bataille and Vian and it delighted him that I could read them in French, since he could only read their books in translation.

  In Vian’s story, first published in 1947, the protagonist’s girlfriend suffers from a rare and fatal disease which causes a water lily to grow inside her chest cavity. Her breath grows thinner and thinner each day and the protagonist has to keep her room as warm as a hothouse and filled with flowers to prolong his beloved’s life. Reading L’Écume des Jours made me feel closer to my father. As I progressed through the book, I thought of him sick in bed. What was growing inside his chest cavity? And I thought of our year ahead in San Francisco. What could I do to prolong his life?

  My father was, in fact, not sick in his room but spending two weeks at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University in Boulder, Colorado. He’d been invited to teach a summer class called “Writing Against Death.” It was a great week for him. He reunited with several old friends, including Allen Ginsberg who, on learning Dad was sick, personally prepared for him a macrobiotic dinner. He wrote me about the week on his plane ride home: