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Daniel Petersen
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From a safe distance, I watched Lana. Today, she was at an event where she talked with various Europeans.
“What’s your favorite city in Europe?” Lana asked a tall man with curly dark hair.
“Paris, my hometown,” Pierre responded. “What’s yours?”
“Dresden,” Lana replied unequivocally.
“Why Germany?”
“Many reasons.”
“I don’t like Germans,” Pierre complained.
Lana said diplomatically, “Rivalry between bordering nations is typical. Except for Canada —”
“History in America is so bad. Don’t you know about World War 2?”
Lana was tired of Europeans ridiculing Americans, particularly their knowledge of history. As far as she was concerned, arrogance is synonymous with ignorance.
“On the contrary, that’s all anyone seems to know. Can you tell me why World War 2 started?”
“Yeah, it was because of this guy named Hitler. Ever heard of him?”
“He was the effect of World War 1, not the cause of —”
“Why do you even care?”
“Why bomb innocent civilians when Germany was almost defeated?”
Pierre took a swig of whiskey and declared, “Justice!”
“Is there such a thing?” Lana challenged.
“C’mon, don’t be so passive.” Pierre demanded.
Sitting, quietly by the bar, Paul nursed his beer while surreptitiously listening to Lana and Pierre. He then stridently marched up to the two and barked, “Lana, you need to leave.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’ve received complaints about you.”
“What?”
“You’re creating a scene, Mrs. Steiger.”
“You’re the one raising his voice.”
“Your politics is alienating customers, so get out of here!”
“I’m leaving and don’t worry, I won’t return.”
Lana looked quite haughty, while Paul burst into uncontrollable laughter.
“Ha, ha, Lana you should see yourself. Man, you looked pissed. I really got you.”
Lana glared at the hysterical man as he wrapped his arms around himself tightly.
Finally, she said, “You’re quite impressed with yourself, aren’t you?”
Paul smirked. “You take yourself so seriously. No one cares what you think!”
Lana refused to respond as she threw a tip on the counter, turned around, and stormed out of the event. Before departing, a waiter dashed up and gave her a note. She paused to read it carefully.
I struggled to decipher her expression but could discern nothing. I snuck over to the waiter and asked if he knew who sent the message. But the guy was clueless. I paused and couldn’t help thinking that it must be her lover.
From the corner of my eye, I spotted Lana grab a taxi, so I quickly followed her to the French Concession.