“How about a field trip?” Mom says the next morning after we’ve finished our room service breakfast. “I’ve got some free time. We could go see the garden that Isamu Noguchi designed.”
“I thought he was a sculptor.”
“Of course. But he worked in many mediums. He designed paper lamps, too. One of the first ones that he made was as a gift to his sister.”
His half sister, I correct in my mind. I know all about Isamu Noguchi’s family. His mother, Leonie Gilmour, was an American writer who fell in love with Yone Noguchi, a Japanese poet. She thought they were married, but they weren’t, not officially. She went back to America to give birth to her son, and while she was gone, Yone made plans to marry another American woman, a journalist for the Washington Post. But when this woman, Ethel, found out about Leonie and the baby, she broke up with him. Leonie had another child, Ailes, with a different Japanese guy. Isamu got to grow up with his sister. They played together, maybe fought with each other. He made presents for her. I feel a little bit jealous about that part. It would have been nice to grow up with my brother.
“Noguchi designed parks, too,” Mom says, continuing with her art history lesson. “Did you know he had a plan to design a sculpture that could only be viewed from outer space?”
“Cool,” I say. “Where was it constructed?”
“It never got made. But you can’t say he wasn’t ambitious.”
We take a cab to the seventh arrondissement, where there are a bunch of military-related buildings.
“Here it is,” Mom says, paying the fare and stepping out of the taxi.
I follow and look up at an imposing structure, the UNESCO World Heritage Center.
We wander to the entrance of a garden. It’s not all flowers and bushes, but rocks and asphalt. Here and there is a pine tree.
“This is the Garden of Peace,” Mom says. “Originally, Noguchi was asked to design just the patio, but he convinced everyone to let him do an entire garden. He was the first sculptor to do such a thing.”
She leads me to a platform, from which we can see the whole thing laid out below. “This is the dais. Traditional Japanese gardens don’t have this little stage. You’re not supposed to be able to see the whole thing at once. Most Japanese gardens are revealed little by little, but Noguchi wanted to do things differently.”
She points out the area designated for tea ceremony, where there are rocks for sitting instead of the usual tatami mats. “And see that big rock over there with water pouring over it? That’s the Wa no Taki—the Fountain of Peace. All of these stones came from Shikoku. He had them shipped over from Japan.”
These rocks are from the island where my father and Junpei live. I suddenly feel connected to this place.
We step off the dais and amble along the path, checking out cherry and plum trees and bamboo and magnolias. Little streams run through the garden in imitation of rivers, and the rocks are meant to be mountains. Across one stream, there are stepping stones. Mom holds my hand as I make my way across.
“See those smaller stones?” she asks, indicating three rocks in the water. “Those are tsue ishi. They’re for resting a cane or walking stick while you cross the stream.”
I never thought a garden could be a work of art before. I love all the little surprises—the pond shaped like the ideogram for heart, the three tall stones which represent Buddha and two disciples. And I’m so glad Mom is here to make sense of everything.
I like knowing that Noguchi did a lot of different things. Maybe I can be a manga artist and an indigo farmer, too. Noguchi combined plants and art. Why not? I can be American and Japanese. Maybe I can even come back and live in Paris one day.
When we come back from our expedition, I can see Hervé through the café window. He’s wiping down a table by the door.
“Shall we stop in for some hot chocolate?” Mom asks. “I could use a cup of coffee.”
“Okay.” I lower my eyes, trying not betray my pleasure at seeing Hervé.
The bell jangles as we push the door open. Butterflies rise up in my stomach.
He looks up and smiles. “Bonjour!”
I’m frozen for a moment, suddenly shy. Mom puts her hand on the small of my back and ushers me inside. Great. Now I look like an invalid, like someone who needs help getting across the room. I try to shrug away from her.
Just then I hear a high-pitched voice squeal, “Hervé!”
I glance across the café. It’s obviously not coming from that elderly woman’s lapdog, shrill though the thing may be. And then I notice the table of French girls against the wall. They look to be around the same age as Hervé, maybe sixteen. They obviously know him. When he goes over to their table, he flicks his towel playfully. A girl with a high ponytail and puffed up glossy lips, hooks her hand over his elbow.
“Looks like our Hervé is quite the ladies’ man,” Mom says in a low voice.
I remember what she said that first day about French waiters. Maybe he flirts with every female that comes in here. Maybe he makes every girl feel special, but I’m the only one stupid enough to think his attention means something.
The girls rise at once, and Hervé leans in toward Ponytail. They kiss, twice on each cheek. He doesn’t kiss the other two. He’s never done that to me. That girl must be a good friend or more. And so what am I to him? A tourist, I guess. A customer. His father’s friend’s daughter.
“You know what? I think I’ll skip that hot chocolate,” I say. “My stomach feels a little strange.”
“Oh, dear. Did you catch a bug?” She puts her palm on my forehead and frowns. “You don’t seem to have a fever.”
“Something I ate, I guess.”
“I’ll go with you.” She starts to get up, but I shake my head. Right now I need some time alone.
Back in our room, I open my laptop and check my e-mail. Still no word from Whitney. I imagine her wandering in the woods, holding her cell phone to the sky, trying to pick up a signal. There are a dozen messages from people I’ve never heard of with the subject “Gadget Girl.” One girl wonders if Gadget Girl and Chaz will ever lock lips, but writes that she loves the story no matter what. And a guy wants to know when the next issue will come out, and how he can get his hands on all of the previous ones. The fan mail makes me feel a little better. There’s also one from Broken Pencil. I click it open and find a glowing review of my manga. “Quirky,” the reviewer writes, “drawn in an appealing faux naïf style.” He likes the storyline, too. This is so cool! I wish I had someone to share it with, but Whitney is the only one I want to tell.
It’s funny, but since we arrived in Paris I haven’t felt like drawing Gadget Girl and Chaz Whittaker. Nor Hiro Tanaka, for that matter. Instead of the heroic hermit I’d originally imagined, I’m thinking now he’s more like the Wizard of Oz—a cowardly guy who hides behind a made-up facade. I feel like digging up all of his plants and leaving him on his own, but that story wouldn’t make sense. I’m totally blocked. Just when my superheroine’s popularity has peaked, my well of ideas has gone dry.
Instead of the girl with gadgets, I’ve been drawing a young woman with dark hair and almond eyes and a lanky guy with curling sideburns. They meet in cafés and street corners and in front of the Eiffel Tower. I don’t have a story for these images. Not yet. But now, after seeing Hervé with those French girls, I think that maybe I should tear out these pages and start over.