“You don’t like it?”
“I love it.” Sylvie sipped her wine, giving herself some time to find the words to explain to a virtual stranger the depth of her ambition and the barriers that had stood in her way over the last five years. “I’m writing a book comparing the feminist theory of Virginia Woolf, a British author, and Simone de Beauvoir, a famous French philosopher.”
“Wow. That sounds…” Ade looked like she was searching for the right word.
“Boring?” Sylvie asked, anticipating what a scientist would make of her arts and culture major.
“Impressive.” Ade drank her wine. “I’m in awe of people who can read meaning into the world through stories. I don’t have that skill.”
“How do you see the world, if not as a culmination of everything that came before?”
“I see it now. As it is. Take the animals: you think they’ve survived by feasting on a diet of history? No way. They’re all about what’s in front of them, here in the present moment. Fight or die. Fed or famished.”
“Nicely put.” Sylvie leaned into Ade’s space, intrigued by her take on the world.
“It’s not like I don’t respect your field of expertise. I’m genuinely envious of the curiosity it takes to keep studying something that’s recorded in books and doesn’t have a physical presence in the real world. I mean, I love the theory of marine science and all, but take me to a tank, even better, the ocean, and I’m in my happy place.”
“But feminist literature isn’t just books.”
“It isn’t?”
“Look around you.” Sylvie nodded toward someone scribbling in their notebook at a nearby table. “I’ve seen that person perform her poetry at an open mic night near the cathedral. She’s published several novels and is about to go on a European tour with herpublisher.”
Ade tilted her head, as if she needed more of an explanation.
“That mural up there is by a female graffiti artist based in Lyon. Her work is famous across the south.” Sylvie paused. “That boutique in the corner, just off the square,” she pointed, drawing Ade’s gaze toward an elegant shop front, “is owned by a Parisian designer who has opened in all the fashionable French cities.”
“Okay. What’s this got to do with our conversation? I’ve lost our thread.”
“Feminist literature is all around us. Its values, beliefs, and victories won these women a place in art and culture. Without the social commentary of the likes of Woolf and de Beauvoir, women would still be relegated to second place, second class. Maybe even silence.”
“A part of me struggles to identify with all that. Women’s rights are so tied up with binary gender. Isn’t it much more complex? I feel like my right to be, in this moment, is because of who I am, not what’s in my pants.”
Sylvie shrugged. Ade had a point, not that she was going to roll over and accept it too easily. But the gender studies of the past were fast becoming literally stuck in the past. Was her work even relevant anymore?
She drained her glass and signaled to pay their bill. “Let’s go watch the film, and we can continue our debate.” She enjoyed nothing more than an interesting tussle of ideas, but Ade’s ability to cut through her rhetoric had touched a nerve. She pictured the textbooks piled high on her desk back home and the matching stack in her office. Was she merely a collector of artifacts, of stale ideas gone to die inside the pages of a dusty hardback? She’d spent her whole career trying to leave a legacy of something worthwhile, to say something that no one had ever said before.
Was Ade right? Did it all just belong in a museum? The career ladder that she was intent on climbing stretched further out of view. What did it mean for her future if all she focused on was the past?
CHAPTER EIGHT
The beamed ceilinghung low across the bed. Ade blinked. Had it moved? She ran through the reels in her photographic memory to check everything was in its place.
The realtor had described the space as “versatile,” but that really only meant the sofa bed could be put up and down to suit the needs of its occupant.
Aside from Steph, Ade hadn’t invited anyone into her domain in the seventeen days she’d been in Montpellier and saw no immediate reason to. She’d only just unpacked completely and found the perfect home for her clothes and accessories in the bones of the apartment.
She’d warmed to the place. A couple of weeks in, she could now see beyond its scratched walls and faded drapes to a charming French pied-à-terre. Steph had worked hard to clean its surfaces and soften its edges, and while Ade hadn’t appreciated her efforts at the time, she’d made a difference.
The city was beginning to feel a little less alien, which was mostly due to the role she’d gladly taken on at the lab and the friendship she’d struck with her supervisor, Sylvie. Plus she’d mapped out her commutes, memorized her tram timetable, and picked a favorite quiet space on campus to escape to.
The lab was a home away from home. Much smaller than what she was used to in Monterey, the downsize was welcome. The boss of the marine center had spotted her proficiency from day one, so on her shifts, she was left pretty much to her own devices, which was just the way she liked it.
As for Sylvie, she was providing ample induction on and offcampus. Ade drifted to the dark cinema on Sunday night. The velvet of the seats had itched where it had met her skin, so she’d shuffled and brushed against Sylvie, her bare arm warm to the touch. She’d tried to focus on the movie, and despite it being an English language title, much of it had passed her by. She grasped at snippets of the story but couldn’t fathom why the female main character had stuck around when she was so obviously downtrodden by her male antagonist.
As they’d wandered back to their old town apartments, Sylvie had chattered about the deeper meaning behind the cinematography. She’d seen more in the pauses between the dialogue and the raise of an eyebrow. Ade had been baffled by its subtlety, wishing they’d gone for an action movie where she could follow a car chase without her head hurting.
She rubbed at her face, waking herself up. She hoped that her frustration hadn’t been too evident at the theater. The last thing she wanted to do was accidentally offend Sylvie or her interests. She smiled, remembering how passionately Sylvie had spoken of her work. She’d opened up to Ade in an unexpected way. It made her feel good.
