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Chapter 1: Voyant
Language, as Sylvia’s mother was fond of saying, mimics the human
condition. What is harmless one moment can become fatal the next. Drop
a prefix, and, before you know it, what was innocuous has grown noxious,
dispensing fumes that are certain to kill you.
Take voyeur, which derives from the French voir–to see. A powerless
or passive spectator. You might define it that way, if you were willing
to strip away its unsavory meanings and free it from the clutches of
Peeping Toms.
Consider this: as a girl in Sacramento, Sylvia liked to climb trees. She started out in the fruit and nut trees of her neighborhood and then branched out, if you will, to the spreading oaks on the capitol grounds. Innocuous enough, you might say. Yet the physical pleasure she took in scrambling from limb to limb and hoisting herself into a hidden hollow was more than matched by her exhilaration with what she saw: a long-legged woman mowing her lawn in a pair of powder-blue shorts, a pair of terrier mutts humping in the early morning, the opened mouth of an ingenue as a sailor squeezed one of her smallish breasts.
Now, as a woman in San Francisco, Sylvia takes a heightened pleasure in what she sees, but she no longer worries about concealing herself. When Sylvia moved to San Francisco last year, she found a one-bedroom apartment, three flights up, situated along the Hyde Street cable-car line. Home in the evenings, she watches the corner of Washington and Hyde through her curtainless front window. Sipping a glass of cheap burgundy and listening to a Bobby Darin record, Sylvia watches her neighbors, briefcases and sacks of groceries in tow, climb on and off the cable car.
She’s particularly fond of the balletic passengers, who spring onto or off of the car’s running board, even when it’s in motion. So far she hasn’t
witnessed a single mishap among the leapers. Catlike, on their way to
their various rendezvous, they bound from curb to running board with
the grace of the man leaping a puddle in the famous photograph by Cartier-Bresson.
Sylvia used to imagine that she was the Parisian in the photograph, her
long, open-scissored leap, reflected in the pooling water, an emblem
of decisiveness.
Despite Sylvia’s good high-school French—her mother used
to tell her that she was born to be a linguist or an impostor, maybe
both—the closest Sylvia has gotten to Paris is through a monograph
of Cartier-Bresson photos, a sampling of Debussy and Ravel recordings,
and the lovely baguettes at Simon Brothers, flown in every other day
from Paris, that she occasionally slips under her raincoat. Sometimes
she pretends that it is Paris she’s
watching out her window.
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