It’s about two Americans, a middle-aged man and a young woman, who are alone in Tokyo. They’re struggling to understand their foreign surroundings,
but they’re also struggling to understand their romantic relationships, which appear to be fal ing apart. And then they meet, and they have a new struggle—
their growing attraction to each other, when they both know that such a relationship is impossible.
It’s about isolation and loneliness, but it’s also about friendship. Being exactly what the other person needs. At one point, the girl asks the man, “Does it get easier?” His first reply is “no,” and then “yes,” and then “it gets easier.” And then he tell s her, “The more you know who you are, and what you want, the less you let things upset you.”
And I realize ... it’s okay. It’s okay if St. Clair and I never become more than friends. His friendship alone has strengthened me in a way that no one
else’s ever has. He swept me from my room and showed me independence. In other words, he was exactly what I needed. I won’t forget it. And I certainly
don’t want to lose it.
When the film ends, I catch my reflection in the theater’s bathroom. My stripe hasn’t been retouched since my mother bleached it at Christmas. Another
thing I need to learn how to do myself. Another thing I want to learn how to do myself. I pop into the Monoprix next door—which is kind of like a mini SuperTarget—to buy hair bleach, and I’m walking back out when I notice someone familiar across the boulevard.
I don’t believe it. St. Clair.
His hands are in his pockets, and he’s looking around as if waiting for someone. My heart swel s. He knows Sofia is my favorite director. He knew I’d
come here, and he’s waiting for me to appear. It’s final y time to talk. I soar over the crosswalk to his side of the street. I feel happier than I have in ages.
And I’m just about to cal his name, when I realize he’s no longer alone.
He’s been joined by an older gentleman.The man is handsome and stands in a way that’s strangely familiar. St. Clair is speaking in French. I can’t hear
him, but his mouth moves differently in French. His gestures and his body language change, they become more fluid. A group of businessmen passes by
and temporarily bars him from view, because St. Clair is shorter than them.
Wait a second. The man is short, too.
I startle as I realize I’m staring at St. Clair’s father. I look closer. He’s immaculately dressed, very Parisian. Their hair is the same color, although his father’s is streaked with silver and is shorter, tidier. And they have that same air of confidence, although St. Clair looks unsettled right now.
I feel shamed. I did it again. Everything is not always about me. I duck behind a métro sign, but I’ve unwittingly positioned myself in hearing distance.
The guilty feeling creeps back in. I should walk away, but . . . it’s St. Clair’s biggest mystery. Right here.
“Why haven’t you registered?” his father says. “It was due three weeks ago. You’re making it difficult for me to convince them to take you.”
“I don’t want to stay here,” St. Clair says. “I want to go back to California.”
“You hate California.”
“I want to go to Berkeley!”
“You don’t know what you want! You’re just like her. Lazy and self-centered. You don’t know how to make decisions. You need someone to make them
for you, and I say you stay in France.”
“I’m not staying in bloody France, all right?” St. Clair bursts out in English. “I’m not staying here with you! Breathing down my neck all the time!”
And that’s when it hits me. I’ve been fol owing their entire conversation. In French.
Oh. Holy. Crap.
“How dare you talk to me like this?” His father is enraged. “And in public!You need a smack in the head—”
St. Clair switches back to French. “I’d like to see you try. Here, in front of everyone.” He points at his cheek. “Why don’t you, Father?”
“Why, you—”
“Monsieur St. Clair!” A friendly woman in a low-cut dress cal s from across the boulevard, and St. Clair and his father both turn in surprise.
Monsieur St. Clair. She’s talking to his dad. That’s so weird.
She strol s over and kisses his father on both cheeks. His father returns les bises, smiling graciously. His whole manner is transformed as he
introduces her to his son. She looks surprised at the mention of a son, and St. Clair—Étienne—scowls. His father and the woman chat, and St. Clair is
forgotten. He crosses his arms. Uncrosses them. Kicks his boots. Puts his hands in his pockets, takes them out.
A lump rises in my throat.
His father keeps flirting with the woman. She touches his shoulder and leans into him. He flashes a bril iant grin, a dazzling grin—St. Clair’s grin—and
it’s odd to see it on another person’s face. And that’s when I realize what Mer and Josh said is true. His father is charming. He has that natural charisma, just like his son. The woman continues to flirt, and St. Clair trudges away. They don’t notice. Is he crying? I lean forward for a better look and find him staring right at me.
Oh, no. Oh no oh no oh NO.
He stops. “Anna?”
“Um. Hi.” My face is on fire. I want to rewind this reel, shut it off, destroy it.
His expression runs from confusion to anger. “Were you listening to that?”