Devon L. Vasconcellos, Class of '99

We have been here too long. So long, in fact, that everything that once endeared me to France now repulses me. The pinks, reds, and purples of the flower-gardens in front of houses and shops have surrendered to the gray and brown of winter. The Seine, once animated by canoes on the water and sightseers with small, rosy children clad in vibrant rompers along its banks, now appears to be struggling to keep its water flowing. Our lazy afternoon drives in the country, when we have been able to take them, have become mundane against winter's dreary backdrop. This is one of the coldest Januarys Paris has seen this century, all the newspapers triumphantly announce. Our kitchen table has accumulated a stack of these papers. We are sitting on opposite sides of the table, discussing our upcoming voyage. I tell Scott I hope the Murphys will be able to join us in Barcelona, but he says they will probably stay in the Riviera through winter. He is looking out the window, bored of being inside all day, disgusted with the snowstorm that overstayed its welcome days ago. I wonder how long it has been since the geranium on the windowsill was watered. I take the plant to the sink, but it looks hopeless. The telephone rings. Scott reaches for it and answers, "Hello?"

I water the geranium anyway. And the other plants in the window.

"Well hello, Mr. Ober! I wasn't expecting your call! Zelda and I were about to go out for dinner.... "

I wonder what could be so important that our agent would call on a Sunday evening.

"No, I haven't received any letter.... Well, Mr. Ober, that's a very generous offer! Zelda will be thrilled to know they think so highly of her story.... "

I finished a new story recently, and Ober must have sent it to College Humor. I have been writing stories for them, and Swanson, the editor of the magazine, must have liked the newest one enough to offer even more than the eight hundred dollars Scott had convinced him to pay us for each story.

"No, sir. That was Zelda's story. I made only the most superficial changes to it.... No, sir. It's all hers.... Yes, that's the story. 'A Millionaire's Girl,' that's the one.... Well yes, I guess it is similar to 'Jacob's Ladder' and 'Magnetism,' but I assure you, the only contribution I made was in the editing marks you saw on the manuscript."

I imagine that Ober is pointing out that I should be flattered to know both he and Swanson thought Scott had written my story.

"Yes, I understand.... Yes, I know.... Well, I can't commit to anything without talking to Zelda first, but we'll discuss it and I'll get back to you tomorrow."

I can only guess what Ober has proposed.

"Yes, sir. I'll talk to you then. Thank you so much for calling. Good-bye," Scott ends the call.

The sun is setting, and streams of orange light are beginning to filter in through the living room window, turning everything in the house golden. Soon the sun will have fallen below the horizon, soon the outside world will have surrendered its snowy picturesque beauty to the frigid winter darkness. If we are going out to eat, I want to leave soon. We gather our coats and scarves and make the two-block walk to Café Roulard. The restaurant is crowded, and after a few silent, awkward minutes we are seated at a table near the door. It is hard to hear anything over the conversations of those who still await seating, those who speak of the depression in America, trips to Marseilles, and shopping at Cartier. During dinner I sit quietly, hoping the conversation will stay away from the topic of Scott's phone call. We went through it all when Ober said magazines would pay more for my stories if they were "by F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald," and I don't want to argue about it again. Not tonight.

Just as Scott got his way when he wanted me to agree to the joint by-line for the extra three hundred dollars per story, though, he is winning now. "I know this might not please you at first," he says, his voice even and his words logical while his eyes plead with me, " but just hear me out and I hope you will understand. As you know, Ober called, and well, he was under the impression that I had written 'A Millionaire's Girl,' and The Saturday Evening Post offered four thousand dollars for it. They had no idea you wrote it, either. So Ober thought it would be.... better.... for everyone if we just went ahead and published it in the Post in my name. He said it's really too good for College Humor. Isn't that exciting for you?"

I don't know what to say to him. He really seems to think he can just explain away any problem that arises, as if I were a child who doesn't understand why she can't go outside and play in the snow without mittens. He thinks I should happily sacrifice my story for the sake of his budding career. I look down at my coq au vin and concentrate on extracting images from the sauce as one would find elephants and trains in the clouds on a spring day, but all I see are downturned mouths and unhappy faces. "Four thousand dollars, Zelda! We could finally take that trip to Africa you've always dreamed of! Think about it. We'll stay in the best hotels and see all kinds of exotic animals - elephants and zebras and tigers. We'd be crazy to pass up all that money just because they want to publish the story in my name."

It's just about dollars to him. And he knows we don't need any more money. If I agree to let the Post publish the story as Scott's, we won't use a penny of it on any trip to Africa. We won't go to Africa because that's my dream, not his. My dreams stopped coming true years ago, shortly after he wrote "The Beautiful and Damned". I lean back in my chair and begin to notice that every time the door opens, the night air sneaks in, piercing my exposed skin. I eat quickly, silently hoping we can leave soon.

When we return home, it is still too early to be tired but I want to go to sleep. Scott says he will stay up to work on his book. Sure enough, though, when I peek into the living room after changing into my nightdress, Scott is sitting by the window, flipping through the dark leather book where he keeps a record of all our writing. I can't see his face, his back is toward me, but I know the glazed look he gets in his eyes when he looks at that damn ledger. Night after night, he's captivated by these reminders of his success. I don't think he even distinguishes my work from his -- in his ledger maybe, but not in his mind. If we publish the story in his name, we won't go to Africa and I won't see any of that four thousand dollars. We've been through this before, and I know he will just deposit the check in his account and record it on page 143, my page, of his ledger.

Next morning I wake up early. I take out a piece of my best stationery and write on it, "A Millionaire's Girl," and directly below, "by F. Scott Fitzgerald." I take out another sheet and do the same, and then another and another, scrawling the words more furiously each time. After the fourth sheet, I return the blank stationery to its package and look at the pile of papers on the desk. I remind myself that each sheet represents one thousand dollars and convince myself that it's not worth arguing about. Not worth arguing about. Scott always wins anyway, and it's not worth arguing about.

I am scheduled to meet with Lubov at the dance studio at nine. It's still before eight, but I want to leave now. Scott is asleep, so I leave a copy of the title and by-line -- the last one I wrote -- on the kitchen counter, throwing the other three sheets off the balcony and watching them flutter down onto rue Pergolèse. On my way to the studio, I see one of the copies lying halfway off the sidewalk, balancing just above the street. I pick it up, fold it into halves, fourths, eighths, then shove it deep into a corner of my dance bag.

At the studio every step I take reminds me that, for all its bleakness, France still retains one last shred of splendor. Dancing with Lubov Evoroba is the only part of Paris that has not grown sour in my months here. I studied with other coaches in America, but none could ever compare to Lubov, the only one who truly understands my passion for ballet, the only one who understands when I want to skip lunch and stay late into the evening. Dancing. Just dancing, to become a Pavlova, nothing less. Certainly Scott will never realize that I dance for the same reasons as he writes -- to capture a moment, to give it eternal life, to perfect the art. Sometimes that art requires sacrifices, yes, and I am not afraid to throw all my passion into my dancing. I remember when I began my ballet lessons with Lubov two summers ago, on a whim, really, because Scott was staying in a lot, working on "He Thinks He's Wonderful" and another story that never materialized into anything worthy of a name, Scott, who could never understand dancing except in twos at balls and social gatherings, told me after three glorious, invigorating weeks at the studio that he wanted me to spend less time at the studio and more time at home. "Zelda," he would say, "I don't like what these dancing lessons are doing to you. Is that Lubov Evoroba forcing you to practice this much?" I always assured him that I loved to dance and, if anything, the hours I spent at the studio made me feel more alive than I had since I was a girl. We don't discuss it anymore, but I know he doesn't approve of my dancing, or of Lubov. I keep hoping someday he will be able to understand.

When I return home, Scott is out. The note I left on the counter is now lying by the phone with illegible pencil scribbles occupying one corner. Next to it is an envelope addressed to Scott, from "Harold Ober, Reynolds Agency." I peek at the letter inside. It must be the one Scott and Ober were talking about yesterday, about the Post wanting my story. "I like it a lot and some of your lines about California are very amusing, indeed." Amusing? The best story I've ever written is nothing more than amusing? And when has Scott ever written anything amusing? No, I am not flattered that Ober and Swanson mistook my story for Scott's, not at all. They think he must have written it just because it's good, since surely Zelda could never write anything good. I think back to my description of the main characters in the story: "they were both dusted with soft golden brown like bees' wings." Scott would never take the time to look at bees, or even pictures of bees, to know what color their wings are. If he ever described bees in a story, they would be yellow and black, and they would buzz about at an outdoor party on a summer evening, annoying the partygoers and trying to extract pollen from their wine glasses. Scott's contact with nature has always been limited to rolling down the windows when the car becomes too warm, on a drive in the country.

As I begin to realize how nonsensical my thoughts are becoming, the fierce turbulence gives way to the tiniest traces of inspiration, the eye of the hurricane. As I have been trying to do for years, I now sit down at Scott's writing table and allow the words to flow out of the storm brewing within me, onto the paper and into a lovely calm, creating a place where even the most delicate paperwhites remain untouched by the elements.

After writing a few lines, though, I lay down my pen and stand up, turning around slowly, looking for something, anything to focus my attention on. My eyes are drawn to the kitchen window, where that pathetic geranium has wilted and dried beyond repair, and I wonder where Scott has gone. I remember when not dead geraniums but live vibrant tulips -- on the kitchen table, in a garden, or adorning the window of a flower shop -- served as a reminder of the young lieutenant who looked like all of the others I met at balls and parties but who, in my young, idealistic heart, I knew was unlike anyone I had met before or would ever meet again. The young lieutenant who my father insisted was not good enough for his youngest daughter but who quickly convinced me of his devotion simply in the way he touched my hand as we took long walks in the days before he left to carry out his military duties. And three months later, after the war had ended, he was living in New York and had found a job, determined to prove himself to my father, and I remember all the telegrams he sent to me while he was there, but I remember one in particular. I memorized every word the day I received it as I read it over and over, telling myself that I wasn't reading it incorrectly, that it really was from Scott, that my dreams were all going to come true, just like my father used to tell me they would as he tucked me into bed every night when I was a little girl. By the time he moved to New York, Scott had already asked me to marry him, but I couldn't say yes because my father still did not approve -- I sensed that he secretly hoped I would marry the son of a friend of my father's, a pleasant enough man, I suppose, but he didn't have that excitement about him that I associated with writers like Scott -- and neither could I say no. For several weeks after his proposal, our communication became tense and awkward, and finally Scott stopped sending telegrams but sent tulips instead, until finally, on March 22, 1919, a date I will never forget, I read the message that broke our silence: DARLING I SENT YOU A LITTLE PRESENT FRIDAY THE RING ARRIVED TONIGHT AND I AM SENDFNG IT MONDAY I LOVE YOU AND I THOUGHT I WOULD TELL YOU HOW MUCH ON THIS SATURDAY NIGHT WHEN WE OUGHT TO BE TOGETHER DONT LET YOUR FAMILY BE SHOCKED AT MY PRESENT. All at once I knew that my father would understand that Scott was the one I loved, not any other nice young man who aspired to be a banker, and he would understand that I could no longer be the Southern belle my parents had raised me to be. And I was right. My father did not object to our marriage, and when I started writing stories and even getting them published he told me he was proud to have such a smart, talented daughter. My father understood me then in a way that Scott seems to understand me less every day.

I have finally realized what I think I have known all along, what I can no longer bear to ignore. I will never be known as anyone but "the wife of that great writer, Scott Fitzgerald." Even when it's my name beneath the title of a story in a magazine, it's still his name. I cannot bear that reality. I sit down once again, only this time I'm not going to delude myself. I am no longer writing in hopes of becoming a "writer"; I am not writing to see my name in print or even for the money. No one will see this, because I am writing it for me.

I write for three hours, maybe four. I write until all the writing is out. When I have finished, I am hungry, but I do not feel like eating. I turn on the stove to boil water for tea. As I wait, I read through what I have just written. Much of it is nearly illegible, I was scrawling the story so furiously. When the pot has boiled, I pour water into my cup and add a teabag, relocating the teapot to the back right burner, where it rests while we're not using it. While trying to decipher the words I wrote just hours -- even minutes -- earlier, I begin to stir the tea with a spoon, contemplating the merits of this story. Still standing before the stove, I stare at the last page, oblivious to everything else around me, until the sound of a car honking its horn out on the street returns me to my surroundings and I notice that while I have been replaying the story in my head, my tea has been steeping uncontrollably.

Few things can ruin an afternoon more than excessively strong tea. I quickly drop the sheets of paper from my right hand and rush to the sink to remove the offending teabag from my cup. Not until I have squeezed the excess liquid out of the teabag and have disposed of it in the garbage can do I hear the crackle of paper burning. I turn around and see golden flames rising from the edges of the pages, the only copy, of course, of this story. I don't hesitate, but I grab the damp dishrags from the sink and leap across the kitchen, turning off the burner with my left hand as I extinguish the fire with the rags in my right.

The top page of my story, the last page I wrote, is the only one to escape being blackened or completely reduced to ashes. I gather the mess of charred paper, setting the legible page aside and shoveling the other sheets into the garbage can with the teabag. Now I throw the dead geranium away, too.

I read over what I can still make out of my story: "and then she knew... wasn't what she would ever have dreamed, but... that being in love is simply a presentation of our posts to another individual, mostly packages so unwieldy that we can no longer manage the loosened strings alone. Looking for love is like asking for a new point of departure, another chance in life. One person never seeks to share the future with another, so greedy are secret human expectations."

I take this paper, the last remnants of a moment. I do not want to lose the little I have left, so I go to the bedroom and hide the page, now reduced to less than half a page, in the side pocket of a small suitcase in our closet before setting about tidying the kitchen.

As I clean up the last traces of burnt writing paper, my eyes become teary. I try to convince myself they are irritated by the smoke that pervades the apartment, but there isn't very much smoke at all, and finally I give up and cry. I don't make any attempts to control the tears or the increasingly loud sobbing. Not understanding what has upset me so greatly, I assure myself that there will be another day, and there are other stories to be written. But I know it's more than that. And I know I was wanting Scott to read this story, to begin -- finally -- to comprehend what I have been trying to say to him. Scott has published too many books and stories to count -- although certainly that ledger of his would quickly reveal exact numbers -- and The Saturday Evening Post thinks I am a certifiable writer, for whatever that's worth. Nonetheless, we live together, silent in our days, yet screaming, pleading with each other to listen.

I am still in the kitchen, trying to sort out the thoughts that are racing through my mind, when Scott sneaks into the house without my notice. Still teary. "Zelda," he cries, "tell me what's wrong."

He has found me before I can regain my composure. I make a futile attempt at restraint. "Oh, Scott," I whisper, trying to keep my voice from wavering, "You don't even know what my story is about."

"'A Millionaire's Girl?' Of course I do. I read through it before we sent it to Ober, remember?"

With this statement, I cannot keep any more tears in. Between sobs I mutter, "But you don't know what it's about. You don't even want to understand what it's about."

"Why do you say these things?" As he pulls me toward him, the spice of his aftershave creeps up my nose and makes my tender eyes sting. "You know I love you, Zelda. Now let's clean you up and get some dinner."

How ironic that in the first months after we met, as I waltzed with other men in Scott's absence, my mind would wander to memories of him, but now that Scott is here with me, I long only to be at the studio, alone, dancing. I throw his arms off me. "You don't want to understand my story, and you don't even want to understand me. Why can't you just try to understand?"

He finally walks over to the coffee table, where we keep our most recent works in a disheveled stack. He reaches for my manuscript and begins reading, slowly easing his body down onto the sofa as he reads. Following him to the living room, I sit down next to him, facing him, I glance at the paper but do not need to follow along to know every word. I focus instead on his face as he reads the last page, his lips moving slightly. "'So far they have kept their quarrels out of the divorce courts,'" I hear in my head, "'but somehow I think you can't go on forever protecting quarrels, and romances born in violence and suspicion will end themselves on the same note; though, of course, I am a cynical person and, perhaps, no competent judge of idyllic young love affairs.'"

He has finished reading the story, but he continues to stare at the manuscript. I see his eyes scan back and forth as he rereads the last few lines, squinting slightly, his lips parted as he takes it all in. I do not move, waiting for his reaction. After a second he tosses the stack of papers onto the coffee table and stands up. "Okay, Zelda. I've read the story," he says. "Now can we get dinner? You'll feel better once you've eaten."