Montblanc Pens Have No Scent

_{**Stories that were not in my book My List My Rules}

Goal: Write With a Montblanc Pen

Montblanc pens are hundreds of dollars. Some are thousands of dollars. They are the Rolls-Royce, the Bugatti, the Jaguar of the world of pens. They are for the fancy, the rich, the famous.  Therefore, they are not for me as I am not fancy, not rich, and not famous. But as a person with a deeply artistic spirit, I totally get the tool in all its exquisite assemblage: its 18-karat gold nib, the heart-shaped hole, the engraving, the mother-of-pearl style lacquer, Ingrid Bergman’s signature, the red-gold plated clip, and the jewel! Oh, the jewel! A royal purple amethyst, around the 0.25-carat cut. And, finally, the barrel, made of a precious black resin. If it were food, it would be a tempting cake of many layers with edible gold leaf, served on a beautiful crystal plate.

These days my budget barely allowed for a plumber to fix leaky things, let alone a pen that could likely be sold to purchase food for a month for a class of third graders—I’ve been told they are savage eaters. But money didn’t stop me on this goal. With my plastic Bic pen, I optimistically added Write with a Montblanc Pen to my list of 101 things to do this year. Then I sat back and waited.

Sure enough, manifest this and manifest that—this goal happened when Ava called me one night to tell me that Austin sent her yet another gorgeous, expensive gift via Canada Post. This time it was a Montblanc pen.

“No!” I squealed.

“Yes.” She replied not squealing at all.

“NO!”

“Yes. Stop arguing with me, Angie. I swear he did. I’m holding it.” She laughed as she spoke.

“Can I hold it too?” I whispered. It was an almost, but not quite, creepy moment. I did not want anything more at that moment than to scribe in my journal with Ava’s pen. I desired to push the tip gently across a white surface, streaking the ink, like the strokes of a figure skater on a newly Zamboinied rink. Lines. Smooth. Curved. Linear. Just for a few moments to feel the weight of its craftsmanship between my thumb and fingers watching the lines of ink flow out. I unpaused my calligraphic fantasy. “It’s on my list. Please?”

I like nice things. I even love them. I admire them. But to be honest, super nice things scare me a little. What if I break it— whatever it is. And, what if I can’t afford to replace it—that sacred, special, expensive thing? And, worse yet, what if I do love it and can’t afford it? I think that may actually be the worst—that sticky, gross feeling of lack.

I want to have beautiful things so I’m going to have to push fear aside. I want to be surrounded by loveliness, but how with such a limited budget in this post-divorce world? I remind myself to have faith. I remind myself that my financial situation will eventually figure itself out. Faith. Everything will be fine. Fine. The other ‘f’ word.

Back to my conversation with Ava. “Of course you can use it Angie!” Ava was so generous with her immediate agreeability. A few days later I was on her couch under a very regal feeling, white, furry blanket. A pot of tea was steaming on the coffee table and my journal was in arms reach. 

“It’s a 700 Ingrid Bergman La Donna Ballpoint Pen,” she said as if she were announcing the new make of the Porsche 911. For the record, she drives a Porche. I felt like this pen should have its own scent just like new cars did. I shouldn’t sniff it. That would be weird and rude. She hands me the pen. I opened the case with the awe that I would open any work of art. I stared at it for a long time. Ava watched me for a while but shifted to pouring tea.

After enough ogling, I popped the pen out of the case. I held it in my fingers, bouncing my hand a little.

“Heavy.”  

I turned it in my hand to look at all the details of the object. I ran my finger along the resin, the jewel. I stopped at the top to admire the simple Montblanc logo.  Exquisite. I leaned in, holding it to my nose. Yes. I sniffed. 

Ava slamed her hand against her mouth, catching tea before she sprayed it. This caused an eruption of laughter between us. Ava reached for a tissue while she yelled. “Angie!”

“Watch the pen!” I covered it in an act of protection from tea spray. “Girl, you have issues!”

“What?”

“You just smell it!”

“Yeah, I did. It…um….doesn’t smell like a new car…?” I said with a raised eyebrow.

“I swear if you lick it!” She laughed while touching up any bits of remaining tea spray on her hand.

“Lick it? I have limits, you know.”

I opened my journal and snuggled into the blanket as if I were in my bed and not on my friend’s couch. I wrote a brief paragraph with this sexy pen. Then I scribed my last name over and over again. Counios. Counios. Counios. 

“What are you writing?”  

“My signature. I’m going to be famous. I’m practicing.” 

She sat back. “Yes, you will be. And, yes you should.”

I laid the pen down on the fuzzy blanket, taking a few photos of it. Each image, an iconographic representation of this writing utensil. I’m not sure I will own something this fancy but for now a test-drive is good enough—and another item was checked off the list—with a fancy pen.