J'adore Paris (6 page)

I’m disappointed that she hasn’t brought up my destruction proposal, but decide she just hasn’t read it yet. Looking around at all the fake stuff on display, I truly believe that my plan could be a great marketing coup for Dior.

“Catherine, come here. You must see this!” She signals for me to follow her to another room. “It’s the highlight of the museum.” She giggles like a young girl. “Take a look. It’s the oldest counterfeit object in France. It dates from the first century BC.” She presses her gloved finger against the glass. “At the time, Greek and Roman wines were considered the highest quality, and this is a fake wine stopper made by a Frenchman. He’s imitated the mark of Marcus Cassius Caius.”

“Clearly, we’re not dealing with a new problem.” I smile.

“No, counterfeiting has been a nuisance since the beginnings of commerce. The methods are far more sophisticated
today, obviously,” she says, gesturing to the cracked piece of pottery with its worn inscription. Her expression becomes serious. “The fact that we have an entire museum dedicated to this issue highlights how seriously our government takes it.”

“Thank you for bringing me here, Sandrine! It’s been eye-opening.” I mean it. And I feel like we’re colleagues now.

“It’s my pleasure, Catherine.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and guides me toward the exit.

As we approach the coat check, the museum director leans forward as though he can’t help kissing Sandrine goodbye. He whispers something in her ear, and she tilts her head back like Carole Bouquet in the Chanel television ad from the 1980s. Glamour, class, and intelligence are a powerful and alluring mix, I’m reminded. And there’s nothing fake about that.

I
’ve agreed to meet my mother at Café de Flore, her favourite Parisian haunt. This quintessential Left Bank café is intimately linked with Paris’s rich artistic and cultural history. Jean-Paul Sartre, Françoise Sagan, Serge Gainsbourg, Miles Davis, and Juliette Gréco have been patrons, along with another chic anti-conformist: my mother. Today, it’s a popular meeting place for artists, business types, and fashionistas. Sonia Rykiel is a regular and even has an item on the menu named after her: Le Club Rykiel, a club sandwich made without bread or mayonnaise.

I sit at the back of the room on one of the red Moleskine banquettes and do some people-watching before she arrives. Elegantly-put-together ladies are lunching with companions, and a handful of men are sitting alone, reading newspapers. It all reminds me that there’s a whole world happening outside
the practice of law. In the last few years, I’ve missed out on many carefree moments. I resolve to make up for it.

Just as I signal for the waiter to bring me a glass of water, I catch a glimpse of
maman
walking through the front door. She’s wearing a striped Gerard Darel dress, with a black patent leather Chanel bag across her chest and open-toe gladiator sandals. As she makes her way to my table, a few men swivel their heads to get a better look at her. I smile.

“What do you think?” She extends her arm and places her wrist in front of my nose. “I just tried this on at Le Printemps, but I’m not sure.”

“What is it?” I jerk my head back in reaction to the strong smell. “It’s a bit on the strong side,
non?
”

“Osez-Moi! by Chantal Thomass. I’m trying to add a touch of spice to my life.” She takes a seat.

“It’s very … sensual. I’m sure Christophe will like it.” My stepfather. “Maybe you should leave it on for a while and see how it reacts to your skin.”

“You’re probably right,
ma chérie
.” She asks for menus, even though I already know what she’ll be having. She’s ordered the same thing for the last twenty years: a lemonade and the
salade de haricots
. “So, how are things with Antoine?”

“Fantastic. He’s taking me out of town for the weekend to celebrate my new job. He’s such a sweetheart.”

“Maybe he’ll propose?” She lowers her sunglasses and looks me straight in the eye.

Her voice is kind, but I know that getting engaged isn’t necessarily her idea of a good time. My mother’s definition of a
spouse is someone who’ll stand by you through all the trouble you wouldn’t have had if you’d stayed single. Although she’s happy now with Christophe, that was not always the case with my father.

Before answering, I order a hearty croque monsieur and the Flore Cocktail: a delicious mix of Grand Marnier, cognac, Champagne, and red berry coulis. When the waiter departs, I say, “Don’t worry,
maman;
we’re not there yet.”

“I’m just looking out for your best interests. Anyway, I’m glad you’re liking your new position at Dior. I always knew you’d be ten times happier working in fashion.” She takes a sip of her drink.

“Yes, you were right about that. The world of counterfeiting is fascinating.” I refrain from telling her that one day’s work involved liaising with three gendarmes and getting my picture taken by criminals. There’s no need for her to worry.

“I was thinking about you the other day. I read an article about fake hiking equipment and baby formula. Can you believe that counterfeiters would copy
that
?” She shakes her head. “It’s far more dangerous than a fake handbag, isn’t it?”

“That’s why it’s so important to put a stop to it. And I won’t tell you what goes into fake perfume; it would kill your appetite.”

“
Oh
mon dieu
.” She places her manicured hand over her mouth. “I can only imagine.”

After our meal, we order espressos and the legendary tarte Tatin to share before we head over to the Musée des Lettres et Manuscrits for an exhibit about the French writer Romain
Gary. On our way out, some of the lunching ladies, a few of the solo gentlemen, and even the waiters stop us to say goodbye to my mother.

Once we’re outside, we walk past the lovely Fragonard shop, where pretty perfume bottles, dainty pillows with French embroidery, and colourful home accessories are artfully placed in the window.

The museum, located in a gorgeous Haussmannian building, houses an important collection of historical documents related to figures from French history ranging from writers to politicians. I’ve always loved seeing the handwritten notes of Marcel Proust, Gustave Flaubert, and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.

A young woman at the entrance hands us a brochure about the current exhibit as we stroll inside. Gary was a diplomat, a compulsive writer, and a passionate lover. He was married to the actress Jean Seberg, and committed suicide a year after she did.

A few minutes in, my mother pulls a vibrating cellphone from her coat pocket. She peers at the tiny screen and whispers, “So sorry,
ma chérie
, but I must take this.”

She rushes out into the museum’s courtyard. I assume the call must be urgent if she’s willing to interrupt a gallery visit to take it. My mother isn’t a slave to her phone like the rest of us. Concerned, I follow her outside, keeping my distance to give her some privacy. After a few seconds, I hear her talking about lampshades, wall coverings, and bedspreads. She sounds excited, her numerous bracelets clinking against one another as she moves her arms animatedly. Clearly, there’s nothing to worry about. I go back inside.

She eventually catches up with me. “
Désolée
. It was a new Parisian client. I just had to take it.” She puts her phone away. “I’ve got so many new projects in the works, I’m in a bit of a tizzy.”

I want to remind her that she once chastised me for taking a conference call during dinner, but decide to drop it. I’m thrilled to see her design business thriving; she’s worked so hard at turning a hobby into a source of fulfillment and income.

“No problem,
maman
. I understand.”

“I just hope I can give all of my clients the attention they deserve.” She looks a bit worried.

“Well, I’m here now. I can help you, if you need me,” I find myself blurting out, despite the fact that between work and Antoine, my schedule is pretty packed.

“Really? That would be fantastic, Catou. I would love your advice on a few things. Can you join me for some shopping next week?”

“Of course. I’d love to.” After all, my interest in her business is genuine. “Shall we?” I point back toward the exhibit.

“
Ah
oui
, I want to read about Romain Gary’s mother. Did you know that his famous book
La Promesse de l’aube
was written as an ode to her? Perhaps you should write a book in my honour. God knows you’d have lots of material.” She winks.

My mother was a beautiful bohemian.

Born Camille Berthelet, she looked, and dressed like,
Brigitte Bardot. She paraded through the streets of Paris in long, flowing skirts and oversized sunglasses, and with a carefree spirit. She read Simone de Beauvoir’s novels and essays, became part of the women’s liberation movement in the 1970s, and rubbed shoulders with the literati while spending her days at Café de Flore and Les Deux Magots.

My father first laid eyes on her during a business trip to Paris. Freshly promoted to a managing director position on Wall Street, he was, while a generous soul, her complete opposite: dead serious, ferociously ambitious, and sartorially conservative. He worked hard to woo her, marshalling his dashing smile and his passionate love of poetry.

They spent afternoons at Buttes Chaumont Park, a sprawling, romantic garden where Parisians head for picnics and naps in the sun. Together, they read Baudelaire and Rimbaud, and sipped chilled white wine. After a long-distance courtship that lasted over a year, they were married, and my father orchestrated a transfer to Paris to begin their life together.

Years after his death, my mother confided in me that she had never planned to marry. As a girl, her heart had been set on becoming a painter and living a nomadic existence rather than becoming a wife and a mother. But my father had been relentless in his pursuit of her, and she genuinely loved him. Plus, her parents were pressuring her to settle down.

Once, in my twenties, I was looking after my mother’s house while she was away on vacation, and I found a journal she had kept during the years of my childhood. There were difficult-to-read passages in which she wrote about fighting
depression and feeling stifled by domestic life. She expressed frustration about the challenges of raising a child with a husband who travelled all the time. She clearly fought loneliness and had some regrets about forgoing the artistic life. Although I felt guilty reading something so private, it answered questions I’d long had.

There had always been clues of her artistic self in our home: piles of fashion magazines and art books, unopened tubes of paint, untouched canvases and brushes. When I asked her why she never took up her paints, she just shrugged and answered “No time” or “Feeling uninspired” or “I need to take care of the family.”

My father once announced out of the blue that my mother would be going away alone to do some painting. I remember crying and tugging at her skirt as she packed her bags and loaded up her car. After reading her journal, I realized she’d needed to leave us temporarily to maintain her sanity and rebuild her sense of self.

It was only long after my father died that she finally found her calling. She studied interior design in Paris, moved to the south for inspiration, and finally picked up her paintbrush.

I now understand why my mother kept insisting that I look for another job when I practised law at Edwards & White. She knew that, deep down, I wasn’t happy, and that my passions lay elsewhere. Having suppressed her dreams for so long, she feared that I would also suffer the consequences of an unsatisfying career choice.

After all,
maman
knows best.

I
t is said that Cleopatra had the sails of her barge soaked with perfume before she set off to seduce Mark Anthony; that Madame de Pompadour, one of Louis XV’s mistresses, spent millions of francs a year on aromatic elixirs to keep her lover entranced; and that Marilyn Monroe slept in nothing but a few drops of Chanel N°5.

The French have always been known for their
expertise
in creating fine perfumes, thanks to the culture’s celebrated cadre of “noses.” The house of Christian Dior shares in this heritage. Back in 1968, Christian Dior hired Serge Lutens, then a photographer and stylist, to create a cosmetics line that became one of the most successful in history.

Working for a high-end company like Dior, one might forget that there’s a whole other world of fragrances out there. The drugstores in New York are filled with perfumes carrying the names of Hollywood actresses, pop singers, and reality show
starlets. When I saw women pick one up, I wanted to wrestle the bottle out of their hands and throw it away. As Mr. Dior put it,
A woman’s perfume tells more about her than her handwriting
. So who are you if you wear fragrances by Britney, Cher, or Fergie? Curious, Uninhibited, or Outspoken.

Although I’ve faithfully worn Dior’s J’Adore for years, I’m looking to diversify my portfolio of scents, so I’m heading over to Parfums Serge Lutens, an opulent boutique set in the arcade that encloses the Jardin du Palais Royal, the rose-lined garden that adjoins the former royal palace. My weekend away with Antoine is coming up, and I’m in the market for something new and provocative.

Picking out a fragrance at Lutens is not a task to be taken lightly. All of the fragrances made there take their scent cues from everyday objects—sugar, for example, or a freshly peeled orange—and contain unique and untraditional ingredients.

Once inside, I pick up a bottle of Bas de Soie (“silk stockings”), and its exotic notes transport me to the Far East. I imagine Antoine holding me in his arms and try to guess what he’d like best. He’s not into citrus or flowers but goes more for woody and peppery musks. After testing a half-dozen perfumes, I decide on À la Nuit (“a toast to the night”: could the name be more perfect?), an intoxicating blast of white jasmine, and leave the boutique feeling a frisson of excitement.

Before heading home, I stop at one of the oldest restaurants in the city, Le Grand Véfour, for an espresso. Also located in the arcade of the Jardin du Palais Royal, it boasts a long
and storied list of former patrons: Simone de Beauvoir, Jean-Paul Sartre, Jean Cocteau, Colette, and even Napoleon and Joséphine have dined here. It has a special place in my heart because my father brought me here as a child and sometimes bought me their exquisite
mousse au chocolat
.

A treasure house of eighteenth-century decorative arts, the dining room is lined with delicately engraved mirrors and velvet upholstery. As I take in the sumptuous room, I’m reminded of Cecil Beaton’s famous remark.
We are all French
, he wrote, referring to the respect we all have for beauty and refinement. I sit back with my coffee, reminded again of how lucky I am to be back in this sublime city.