marlowe granados happy hour excerpt
Flying Books

Marlowe Granados On the Fizzy Paris Romance That Wasn’t

I was looking for a distraction, but he reminded me too much of myself

As part of our Kit Book Club series, we’re highlighting incredible new Canadian reads to add to your list in 2020. Last time, we featured Eternity Martis’s memoir, They Said This Would Be Fun. Up next: An excerpt from Toronto-based writer Marlowe Granados’s crackling debut novel, Happy Hour, which brings to life the gritty joys of wild dancing, misguided flirtations and female friendship over one steamy New York summer in the life of 21-year-old protagonist Isa.

Edith’s friend had a makeup line and needed models for a shoot. They were looking for a pair of friends, one of whom had to be Diverse. When Edith showed them a picture of me, they said I’d be adequate. Gala, of course, was a classic choice. The studio was on West Fifteenth near the highway. It was contemporary, with floor-to-ceiling windows that didn’t open; a kind of dead air circulated. It’s funny when you look to the street and know it’s so hot out, but inside it’s chilly.

Edith stopped by while we were getting our hair done. “You two are going to look amazing. I’m so happy you could do it!” I mentioned my recent run in with a certain boy, and Edith said, “Noel Christie? Oh, I know him, really tall and sometimes sad. You ran into him, so what?” Gala answered for me—her hair was covered in foil around the roots—“He rebuffed her once.” Edith rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t surprise me. He’s always seemed stupid.”

Gala had a coughing fit but had enough breath to say, “You love dummies.” That is one thing Gala is accurate about. Noel reminded me of someone I had known in Paris, and maybe that’s why I was stuck on the idea of him. Since we were waiting around for our hair to set, I told Gala and Edith the story.

marlowe granados happy hour excerpt
Happy Hour by Marlowe Granados, $25, indigo.ca

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There was this American bartender at one of those clubs where everyone ends up going late into the night. In Paris, there are only ever five good bars at a time. He was beautiful enough to be an actor, a bit like a young Robert Redford, he had these swaths of blond American hair. He’s lucky because even French girls dream of things like that. He was between countries because he had no papers to live in France and he couldn’t go back to America; his family cut him off after he quit the local varsity crew team. He dropped out of school and decided to move to Paris because his heart was set on painting. He always had girlfriends—wealthy, long-term, live-in girlfriends. I knew exactly what he saw in them—steady meals and warm apartments. That was a survival tactic. It’s a familiar story.

That summer, Paris was especially hot in the afternoon and cool in the evening. People love Paris, but they forget it smells like a urinal. Being there is like paying someone to be rude to you and deciding to like it. I was only in the city for a couple of days, staying on the floor of a famous photographer’s apartment with ten other people. I’d been invited to sit for a group portrait, and the photographer was shuttling all of us from events to dinners to parties. I felt stifled.

Before I left, I gave him my number in a rolled-up napkin. In the morning I realized I had never asked his name

One night, I ended up alone at this subterranean club with an unmarked door. All the bartenders were broad-shouldered and wore white T-shirts rolled at the sleeves. Whenever I ordered a gin and tonic, they served it with a lemon wedge, and I kept saying, “Non! Citron vert!” The third time around, the bartender was curt and said in plain American English, “Listen, I’d have to go upstairs to get a lime. Take what I give you.” I was furious. The drinks were eighteen euros! I handed him a bill. He leaned over the bar to take it from me and said, “You’re dancing by yourself.” Obviously, I was aware of that. “Oh, I know. It’s okay, I prefer it.” He smirked and handed me my change. Before I left, I gave him my number in a rolled-up napkin. In the morning I realized I had never asked his name.

He called me and said, “Meet me at Harry’s Bar at three.” Only an American with varsity lineage would make me meet him at a place with sport pennants tacked to the walls. We sat at a table downstairs. The place was shabby and filled with people who were not so close to my age. We looked at the menu; drinking cocktails in Paris is an easy way to lose money. He said, “Hemingway used to come here,” and I said, “That’s too bad.” He said, “I think about going home sometimes, but there’s nothing for me there.” I asked, “But what exactly is for you here?” He smiled with his eyes downcast. “Nothing of note. The economy treats me well.” What he really meant was women. He asked what was keeping me in London. I tried to think of something but came up blank. I said, “Nothing of note.” He laughed, “I’m sure wherever you go you’ll be fine. La petite délurée!” He ruffled my hair with his hand. It all seemed platonic. We even split the cheque.

“You split the cheque?” Gala interrupted me and whistled. “You must’ve really felt sorry for him.” Edith had pulled a chair over. “Go on.”

There’s a line I once heard in a movie that works well here: “There’s a little bit of larceny in everyone.” I had never met a man who understood things and was practical in the way I was. He could never judge me. He was eight years older and had worked his angle, from what I could tell, for years. There was something in his practised charm that comforted me. When he came into a room, people eyed him. He carried the air of being on display. People looked at him, and in their minds they were already calculating what they could offer. Shelter! Food! Friendship! This kind of effect is rare for a man; men are used to watching.

Later that night I went to his work and waited for him to finish up. We took a cab together. It was around four in the morning. The sun would be rising soon, and we were both quiet. The moon was still out and lit up the inside of the car. He slowly wrapped his hand around mine. We sat like that for a while, and right before we drove onto my rue, “Cet air-là” came on the radio. The whole moment suddenly swelled with meaning, and we kissed. So awfully cliché we both started laughing. It made my head light.

The makeup artists finally came over to do our foundation. While they smeared concealer under our eyes, Gala whispered to Edith, “Isa’s always kissing someone in the back of a cab.”

We got to my place and as we left the cab, the driver said, “Isn’t it wonderful to be young, beautiful, and carefree!” We hugged goodbye. We lingered for a while. We were both tired, and not in the sense of wanting to sleep. We sat on the steps outside the door to my apartment and held each other. He said, “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

The next day, I returned to London. There was a feeling of unfinished business I couldn’t brush off. London felt soggy, lonesome, and boring in comparison. I longed for his company, so I booked a trip back to Paris. For me, having to spend money on a train because I had an Infatuation was not ideal. When I came back, it was too close to August for the same crowds to be there. From the jardins to the quais, everywhere was sparse, less lively.

One night I stayed at his club late. The doors had shut, but the party went on. I had been waiting for him to finish work and sat with a beautiful red-haired American named Jordan. She was seeing the round Turkish club owner, who apparently had mysterious ties to crime. While he counted the night’s earnings in his office, he let her tango with the elegant Senegalese DJ. I watched them move across the floor with precision. Her red hair glowed in the light.

After coming off the dance floor, she sat quite close to me in a booth. “Anything you want, we’ll drink!” She ordered amaretto on ice with a lemon slice to squeeze. She’d say things like “Oh, the boy you like, he’s quite popular with women. But you’re different. You have no home for either of you to go to.” She threw her head back and laughed. “I can tell that you are much smarter than him.” I felt I could trust someone so alluring. “Do you really think so?” She repeated, “Yes, Isa, of course you’re much smarter than him.” And it was strange because I had never measured myself against someone in that way. It had never even occurred to me to think that. From then on, I could never unlearn what she had said. It changed everything.

He gave me a glass of water with some ecstasy sprinkled in. For about ten minutes I felt jubilant, and then, all of a sudden, the joy went away, drying out like hot laundry in the sun

After the bar, we all went to a house in Montmartre belonging to one of his friends. He gave me a glass of water with some ecstasy sprinkled in. For about ten minutes I felt jubilant, and then, all of a sudden, the joy went away, drying out like hot laundry in the sun. I felt a sense of clarity—but it was worse than that; it was the feeling of being intensely sober. Everyone’s faces were clearer than I had ever seen them. Their eyes were red, bloated, and puffy, framed by lines like deep ridges. I pitied them. I found them pathetic.

Gala said, “Ecstasy? You would never do that with me. You’re always more fun abroad!” I rolled my eyes. “I hate that stuff. I become the worst version of myself, really cruel.” Running around aching to hurt someone—it’s awful. Gala looked at me in disbelief. “Well, sometimes you’re too nice, anyway.” Edith laughed. “What, you think Isa is a sweetheart? A little sweetie? I thought you two were the best of friends. Do you even know each other?”

The American bartender had a streak of the unscrupulous. In the end, he was looking for another girl with an apartment. I was looking for a distraction, but he reminded me too much of myself. Sometimes I long for anything that might be frivolous. I crave nothing serious, but when I pursue it, I am the one to drag a dark cloud overhead. It’s much easier to seem silly and light than to be the sum of your experiences.

Gala was scraping dirt from under her nails. “You’ve really philosophized the story, haven’t you? That guy was just a regular guy, Nothing Special. I want to know more about Paris: did you smoke joints at Place des Vosges too?” Edith interrupted, touching my knee lightly. “What a marvellous story, like Jean Rhys and the gigolo!” She sighed. “So Romantic.” Gala said that deep down, if I weren’t so practical, I’d end up with a bartender. And I said, “It’s unlikely. I’m a morning person.” I told them, “You know, a couple of years ago, instead of getting my fortune told, I asked a valet what I should do about my life. He told me, ‘You’re making a mistake going to London; the rich men are in New York.’”

This excerpt is taken from Marlowe Granados’s novel Happy Hour and appears by permission of Flying Books. Marlowe Granados holds the copyright. All rights reserved.

 

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