Lessons in French (22 page)

With a brief eye-lock, I was punished for my sins. The room melted and reformed.

“No, no,” I said. “I’ve not helped him with anything about the Rushdie affair. It’s all about fashion.”

“I have no choice but to trust you now, do I?”

“Listen, if you still want to fire me—”

“Jesus, relax.” She laughed. “We’re Americans, dear. We live things down. Eventually. Now, do me a favor. Read this article and maybe talk to him about it. See if anything happens to come up. If nothing else, he’ll feel more included. He can feel sidelined when I’m working on something this high-profile. That’s why he acts up.”

•   •   •

I was sure that Clarence was not writing a clandestine article about Muslims. Now that Claudia was out of the picture, he was more fixated than ever on the rise of the department store in nineteenth-century Paris. The modern cathedral, Zola called it.

But as soon as I finished “In Good Faith,” I went to find him. I had my own agenda.

He was in the kitchen, eating cheese. Rare winter sunlight through the window hit the glass over Lydia’s famous photos and made them dazzling, if impossible to make out.

Since his impassioned plea for me to remain in Lydia’s service, Clarence had avoided being alone with me as much as possible. When we did interact, he assumed an exaggerated version of his professorial persona.

The precocious student, I played along. We were determined to act through our guilt until we forgot it.

But every once in a while I took a moment to be amazed that such major events as had recently shaken our household could be so convincingly absorbed into the stream of normalcy, that life carried on.

Until now, I had operated under the childish assumption that I was the only person in the world who had survived a trauma. My father had died and I was still alive. Wasn’t that incredible? Despite the fault line in my heart, I now laughed and engaged with people and even fell in love. Miraculous, no?

Yet now I saw that I was not alone. As I watched Clarence and Lydia pushing on with manic solidity, I understood that we were all battered survivors.

Of course, there was still the question of Claudia. But I fantasized that she too must be “strong,” that she had left her garret and gone away to a better life. I was glad for her to finally be out from under the thumb of her doomed love. But I missed her.

“Hi, Clarence,” I said. “What kind of cheese is that?”

“Gruyère. Quite aged and sharp. Would you like some?”

“Sure. Thanks. I’ve been reading this Rushdie piece you might be interested in.”

“Really? What does it say?”

“Well, Rushdie writes that he’s been painted as something he’s not,” I said, “and that this false image is threatening to replace him and give him another identity. Don’t you think that’s interesting?”

“Well, the presumption that he knew what he was doing in
The Satanic Verses
is unfair. I’ll give him that even if it is an utterly unreadable book.”

“Well, maybe you should read this then? Rushdie has all this stuff about the migrant condition as a metaphor for humanity. You might like it.” I pushed the magazine toward him on the kitchen table.

Instead of picking it up, he handed me another piece of gruyère.
“I can’t fathom why she is doing this. Why is she insisting on this Rushdie rot . . . The German photos are fantastic and of a piece. But the Muslim material is totally unrelated. Lydia’s a great artist, but she’s not always spot-on with the conceptual stuff.” He paused and mashed his lips around. “She’s offtrack, I’m afraid.”

I shook my head. “I think the connection with Germany is supposed to be totalitarianism. Rushdie says it’s all about who calls who a devil.”

“What exactly are you trying to convince me of, Katie?”

“Maybe you should write the catalog notes for Lydia’s show. I’m sure you could figure out how all the photos work together if you put your mind to it. It would be so amazing if you two collaborated.”

He laughed. “Oh, believe me we’ve tried before and it’s not pretty.”

“But she liked your title for the banana pictures, the deceit one. I’m sure she’ll end up using it. She’s only—” I was about to say “She’s only punishing you,” but I caught myself.

“ ‘Habits of Deceit’ is one thing. But I’m telling you I think the connection between the Berlin Wall and English Muslims is nowhere but in her mind. Or else someone else has talked her into it. She hasn’t mentioned anyone has she? Another collaboration, perhaps?”

“No, Clarence. There’s no one else. Now, can’t you come up with something? Can’t you work with the theme of totalitarianism? Can’t you do something with intellectual tyranny?”

“Are you saying I’m a tyrant, Katie?” He winked.

“I know you can do it.”

“And you think Lydia would be amenable?”

“I think she’ll be delighted to have you in her camp.”

As I watched him contemplate my proposal, I glimpsed victory. Perhaps I could hold people together after all.

•   •   •

It was peach Kir time.

“So, that’s truly what he’s working on? Department stores
? Grands magasins?”
Lydia laughed. “That’s all you’ve seen at his desk?”

Clarence was out running errands.

I wished he would come back and have a drink with us and make his catalog proposal to Lydia in person.

“I like what you said about the Rushdie,” said Lydia, “about how he strives to change his condition, but he still inhabits it. That’s very dignified.”

“That’s it!” I said. “Clarence would love that. Inhabiting the changing condition. That’s something he could write about.”

Her voice curdled. “I thought you said he wasn’t writing about the affair.”

“He’s not,” I floundered. “He’s not, but if he were to write your catalog notes—”

“He’d never do that.”

“But he said he would! We were sort of thinking you could do a big photo essay together, publish it somewhere after the show. Remember, you were saying about the
New Yorker
changing soon to print photographs? That would be a perfect venue for you two.”

“Listen, you can’t breathe a word of this. I have a very well known British writer doing my catalog. It’s going to cause quite a stir, and I know Clarence is going to be upset when I tell him. So let me handle it.”

“Who’s the writer?”

“I cannot say yet. It’s much too early, and dangerous.”

Damn. With Salman Rushdie doing Lydia’s catalog notes, I was powerless to bring her and Clarence together.

Lydia took a critical sip of her Kir. “Dear, would you pour me a little more Sancerre? Despite everything that’s happened, I still manage to adore you, but you made this drink too sweet. Where’s our man to mix when we need him? Why does he keep doing errands at Kir time? He must be so absorbed in his book that he doesn’t think of things until the end of the day, and then he rushes off in that funny way of his, doesn’t he?” Her suspicion twinkled and popped. She sipped from it at will.

I poured her more wine. Then I served myself.

“Tomorrow, Katherine, we finalize the guest list.
Sans faute.
You’ve got to keep me in line. And no matter what I say, no more spring rolls.”

fort
y
-two

Christie was sobbing. “This is why they rent to Americans. We have no recourse. They can put us out in the street whenever they want. They’re not allowed to do that to their own kind.”

“Christie, you’re not going to be in the street. What about staying with Bastien or Christian or Pierre-Louis?”

“I can’t be dependent on them. It would change the dynamic too much.”

“You could tell them you were in between apartments. They’re your friends. And you know you can stay here if you need to. You’re a little long for the futon, but we could extend it somehow.”

She stretched her neck, exposing her endless throat to the outrageousness of fortune.

“No,” she sniffled. “Thank you.”

Christie’s landlord had a daughter who was moving to Paris for a new job, and Christie had to uproot by next week.

“It all feels so barren,” she said. “You think you have a cushion, then suddenly, whoosh!” As she flung her arms toward my window as if to throw herself out, there was a rocky clattering. I had given her one of Étienne’s bracelets for her birthday and the Wall chips were jangling.

I hugged her and one caught on my sweater.

I pulled away, clapping my hands. “I have it, my friend! I have it!” There
was
something I could do. “This is such a rush! Put your boots on. Let’s go out to the
cabine
and call my cousin.”

She looked at the chunks of concrete around her wrist. “Your jewelry cousin? That guy?”

“He has an extra bedroom. And I think your senses of style will totally meld. This could be beautiful.”

She blew her nose into an ancient handkerchief of my father’s that I kept by my bed.

“You’re funny,” she said.

•   •   •

Within a few days, Christie had moved into the Bastille apartment. Étienne helped her paint her bedroom purple and began to steal toiletries for her. On nights when she wasn’t “cheating on him” at Les Bains Douches
,
the two of them went to Queen
.
Once in a while, I joined them, but I couldn’t stay out late right now. I couldn’t afford to be tired. Lydia’s show was almost upon us.

Lydia and I spent long hours in her office, mostly on correspondence. To relieve bouts of anxiety, we went through the occasional envelope of old proof sheets in her to-be-archived files.

Every day, we walked to the gallery on the rue du Four to make sure the walls were being painted the right shade of white, to adjust lighting, to reconfirm with the owner that there would be Taittinger champagne at the opening and not Veuve Cliquot,
which she couldn’t abide. There was something oversweet and ubiquitous about Veuve Cliquot, unless, of course, it was vintage, said Lydia one day when we had stopped for lunch at La Palette
on the way home from one of our trips. It was early March, the first day warm enough to eat outside. There was less than a week before her opening.

“I never knew how much better vintage champagne is,” I said. “Until these French boys taught me to drink it. They say a lot of it is the carbonation.”

“I love it when the
terraces
start to fill in Paris.” Lydia was scanning the menu. “You realize how outward-looking the whole city is, how it’s laid out for ‘scoping’ as they say. Look at the way we’re all facing the street. Shall we have salades composées?
You should try the
auvergnate
one. I would, but I can’t have it because of all the cheese. It’s the best thing here.”

“I enjoy chicken liver salad though. It’s the first salad on the list, see?”

“How French of you. Can you imagine an American girl ordering foies de
volaille?
Did your cousins teach you that?” Her eyes passed over me, searchlights on an empty street. “You should get the foies.
I will take the niçoise.
And is it terrible if we have a glass of wine with lunch?”

fort
y
-three

Clarence and I met in the courtyard. He had switched from his winter coat into a brown corduroy blazer with tan leather elbow patches. He looked distracted and mildly annoyed.

We had been speaking so little lately, after my gaffe over the catalog notes, that we had grown shy. I felt confined to small talk.

“So, I hear Portia and Joshua are going to make it for the opening.”

“Well, we’ll get Joshua, but maybe not Portia after all.”

“Really?” I tried not to sound too hopeful.

“You haven’t heard? It’s disgusting. She’s reduced herself to begging that Olivier fool to get back together with her. She says she needs him to, and I quote, ‘rescue her’ until she finishes out the school year. Otherwise she might not ‘make it,’ whatever that means. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he condescended to do it. He’s not above using her for sex or for our our New York connections. That boy is such an opportunist.”

•   •   •

Suddenly all I wanted was to talk to Étienne, to cry in those skinny arms. I needed him to tease me back to life.

I found him at his kitchen table reinforcing the rose cloak on his Prince poster. Some of the petals had come loose and the
nudité
was
indécente.
With a tiny brush, he was judiciously dabbing glue.

“Lovely,” I said. In the shape of his back as he leaned over his work, I saw the outline of the boy who had rejected me, sprawled in the grass at Versailles. It had been months since I had thought of him in this old incarnation, and I was shocked by how vivid the memory was.

“This poster is one of the few objects I will always keep.” He pressed a petal over Prince’s right thigh, then looked up at me. “Why the tears?”

Before I could get my tongue around my story, Christie burst upon us with a basket full of vegetables from the farmers’ market. She thought Étienne’s pallor might be a vitamin deficiency and she was cooking him lots of leafy greens.

She and Étienne kissed on both cheeks.

“Katie, what’s wrong?” She put a hand on my shoulder.

“I need to talk to Olivier. Clarence says that Portia is begging him to get back together with her and that he might be considering it.”

They sat me down and brought me the phone.

“Morgan!”

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Oh, hi. How are you?”

I took a breath. “Clarence told me Portia is not coming for Lydia’s opening because she’s hoping you’ll take her back.”

He sighed. “She’s threatening to kill herself.”

“I believed you when you said it was over with Portia. I trusted you.”

“You can. I’m not going to touch her. Believe me. She repels me right now. But she’s suicidal. I can’t turn my back on that.”

“I know Portia. She will never kill herself. If you agree with her when she says she’s pathetic, she’ll stay that way. It’s disrespectful—to
both
of us.”

“I’m sorry, it’s complicated.” His voice was shuddering. “It will take time, but it will all blow over.”

I walked across Christie’s tapestry-draped bedroom to the limits of the phone cord, turned around. She had covered a lampshade in tortoiseshell beads. I fingered them.

Olivier was going to have to feel my hope through the sternness of my words. “I guess I’m disappointed,” I said. “I thought you were more separate already. I thought you could resist the craziness.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But she feels like she’s been cast off. Even if she drives me nuts, I can’t stop caring what happens to her.”

“Neither can I. But Portia’s not some insane person. She’s self-dramatizing and upset and you’re not helping by letting her drag it out. You’re making it worse for her because you won’t tell her to get over herself.”

“No, her parents are driving her insane. Do you realize how manipulative Lydia can be?”

I laughed. “Believe me, I’m catching on.”

“She’s told Portia basically that she will cut her off if the girl doesn’t show up in Paris for this gallery opening and spend her spring break there. It’s hell.”

“It’s not hell, Olivier. It’s the Sixième.” Then it hit me. “You mean she
is
coming?”

“You have to understand,” he sighed, “that Portia doesn’t reason like us.
You
grasp the fact that real life is hard and that nothing actually kills you until it does. You and I have the same perspective on all this. It’s like we’re realists
and
romantics.”

Technically, I hadn’t been betrayed, but I was angry and hurt. I couldn’t picture what was happening in New York beyond the broadest of outlines. The shading was infuriatingly suspect.

“Olivier, I have to go now. This call is going to cost my friends a fortune.”

•   •   •

Late that night, feeling sad at Les Bains Douches, I drank countless glasses of vodka from Bastien’s private bottle. Gallant as always, he ordered me more tonic and extra ice to suck on when I got too hot dancing.

You could tell people’s level of sophistication by how well they pretended not to be looking at Naomi Campbell and Christy Turlington.

I asked him if there was any news on his parents and their separation.

He shook his head. He was becoming more
fataliste.
“My father says now that he wants to come back to my mother, and I find myself wondering, in reality, if it’s a good idea. I never thought I would feel this. But, seeing my mother without him, I understand that she is happier, more
épanouie.
She is laughing more and she is making plans and traveling with her friends. A little like an American woman, I suppose, adventurous, not so worried about what people will think.

“And my father, he and I meet for dinner once a week
en tête-à-tête
and we have true discussions. I’ve been learning so many things about him. Admitting he has been some kind of failure makes him more open, and now he knows he loves my mother. I see the dynamic. I have a privileged relationship with each one of my parents. There are things you could never imagine, because they are too horrible, until they happen, and then they are fine.” He sneaked a glance at the supermodels.

“They have to be fine,” I said. “And you do look happier. I’m glad. But I hope you won’t stop playing the
Sonate Claire de lune.
”

“I will always play anything you desire.”

Christian and Jean-Pierre came from dancing to sit with us. “Private Dancer” was booming through the club, and everyone agreed, loudly, that Tina Turner had extraordinary legs for her age. Bastien poured drinks all around from his bottle.

The boys were looking disapprovingly at Christie, who was across the small dance floor in a vaguely ethnic spangled tank top, jumping up and down with a more alternative crowd, even though she had come in with us and was drinking Bastien’s alcohol. She looked carefree, and I felt a wave of gratitude at having finally been able to help somebody by putting her together with Étienne. That, and a titillating glimmer of social mastery.

Christian and Jean-Pierre finished their vodka tonics and went back to dance. Christie saw them, widened her circle and pulled them in. They moved uncomfortably in this foreign group, where the boys wore ripped t-shirts and had asymmetrical hair.

With silver tongs, Bastien slid ice into fresh drinks and slipped a piece into my mouth with his fingers. “Don’t you think Christie has changed since she moved to the Bastille? I’m worried about her. And living with this wild
pédéraste,
with all these stories of contaminated blood.
Le sang contaminé.
It’s frightening, this world now. And she shares a bathroom with him. I understand about Americans and the tradition of rebellion, how you are supposed to have a period of pretending to be poor. But this is extreme. It’s a little disgusting too, no? Look at how she acts and how she dances with the
drogués.
It’s not good.”

“Bastien, the
sang contaminé
had nothing to do with gay people. That was a blood bank for hemophiliacs that got contaminated and gave all these poor people AIDS. It also has nothing to do with Étienne, who happens to be my perfectly healthy cousin.”

He looked at me with something akin to pity. “You are so very naïve, and protected from aspects of life.”

“Me, protected?” That’s right, Sébastien. I’m sheltered and you know all about life and about suffering because your father left your cotton-candy-haired mother for a few weeks and you had to spend Christmas like an orphan in one of several
résidences secondaires.
You are familiar with hard knocks while I am oblivious. You know all about life, all about biology in particular, all about getting AIDS from the toothbrushes of people who don’t even have it.

“You are completely wrong,” I said.

“Not about Christie.
Elle change.
”

Never had I found Bastien more repellent. But, unlike Olivier, he had not let me down.

I kissed him. I can remember thinking, quite dramatically, that I was as reckless as those plague victims you read about, partying through their last evenings on earth with nothing to lose.

We stayed enmeshed for at least an hour. Bastien’s ardor redoubled whenever Naomi Campbell came into view. (“When they are beautiful, the black women, they are stunning.”)

Christian and Pierre-Louis looked on with sanctioning smiles.

My body told me I would never sleep with him, but I liked his weightless lips.

From time to time, Christie came over to fill her glass and arch her groomed eyebrows at us. This was what she had been envisioning for me all along.

“Don’t sweat it,” the eyebrows said. “What you need now, at this
phase
of life, is someone who will treat you well. Not some complicated head case who is going to drag you down. A guy who will be good to you
au quotidien.
That’s all. You’ve finally understood.”