Lessons in French (25 page)

fort
y
-nine

That evening, from the apartment, I called Solange and Jacques. I pictured her, aproned, running to the phone with a wooden spoon in her hand, a light spray of béchamel in her wake. Or perhaps it would be Jacques, who was fingering one of the precious Pléiade editions that he kept locked with a tasseled key in a glass cabinet. I envisioned their smiles when they heard it was me. They would stand together by the phone and ask again when I was coming to visit.

No one picked up. And, as Étienne had warned me, there was no answering machine either.

“If they wish to speak with us truly, then they will call back later, no?”

•   •   •

The spring progressed. Lydia took a trip to photograph the Jewish cemetery desecrations in a town called Carpentras in the South of France. While she was gone, the patio furniture was finally cleaned and painted white, and Clarence and I started to do all our work outside.

The climbing rosebush was beginning to flower after much fretting that this might be a barren year.

On a particularly bright afternoon, clipping my newspapers at the table, I looked over at the beautiful roses, at Clarence writing nearby, Joshua asleep on a blanket in the grass.

A companionable cynicism was growing between father and son, smirks and asides about the French, quips about Lydia, eye rolls, the occasional passing of a joint. I could tell that this rapprochement was making Clarence unspeakably happy. And I found a comfort in it reminiscent of last fall, the innocent time of Claudia’s couscous and the Moroccan house painters.

Joshua rolled over, stretched, went into the house, and came out again with a baguette, which he brought to the table. He and Clarence began to pick it apart like two seagulls, talking with their mouths full about how relieved they were that Olivier was sticking to his guns about cutting off all contact with Portia. She would of course be a basket case when she arrived, and her twenty-first birthday would be about as much fun as a wake, but at least that creep was out of the picture.

Pretending to be completely absorbed in my work at the other end of the table, I clipped furiously, an article in
Le Monde
about skinheads in Marseilles. I was supposed to keep Lydia abreast of far-right activity in the south.

“Olivier’s a cretin,” said Clarence.

“He’s an asshole,” said Josh.

“One and the same.”

“Stop eating all the bread!”

“You stop!”

“You!”

“You know what Olivier is”—Clarence laughed through his mouthful—“he’s a striver, a vulgar little striver.”

“Nice vocab, Dad.”

My scissor work was eerily straight. The tips of my fingers unfurled into perfect leafy points, alive, precise. Like me, I thought, Olivier is becoming true. He’s doing what he promised he would do. He’s making Portia let go.

But my satisfaction was clouded with bewilderment at Clarence and Joshua’s hatred. It seemed to go deeper than simple jealousy of Portia’s affections or a desire to protect her. Did they truly think Olivier was a bad guy, or were they simply put off by his hunger? Did they find his ambition threatening? Couldn’t they see, from their private garden in the Sixième, that, at some point in time, someone had to fight to get them there? Did they not recognize the dignity in that fight? We couldn’t all be aristocrats all the time.

fift
y

As the days passed, the air softened.

Portia arrived. She was skinnier than ever and monosyllabic.

On her birthday, Umberto Eco sent twenty-one bouquets of white tea roses. He wished he could be here, but he was stuck in Bologna. Portia’s disappointment that the flowers had not—and would never again—come from Olivier was only heightened by everyone’s fascination with their famous giver.

To my chagrined surprise, Olivier also sent a present. Granted it was only a simple card and a book, but he was supposed to be keeping silent.

“Cheap bastard,” said Clarence. He had wandered into the kitchen where Lydia, Madame Fidelio and I were cooking for the birthday dinner.

“Clarence, please. She’ll hear you,” said Lydia. “Besides, it was thoughtful of him to send a small gift. Why on Earth would you want him leading her on with expensive presents? That would be criminal. I think a book is appropriate, very well judged. Olivier knows what people need. He’s attuned. But I wonder if that’s something
you
can understand.”

I nicked my finger on a mussel shell and swore under my breath.

Olivier’s gift was a paperback edition of
Swann’s Way
. Portia had been saying lately that she felt Proust was a big hole in her knowledge. She was now in the living room, reading avidly.

“We already have Proust in the house, and he can’t not know that,” Clarence went on. “He’s certainly spent enough time squatting here to remember we have the complete Proust. I’ve been telling Portia she should read it for years.”

“So, be happy. Be grateful. She’s reading it as we speak. You may not hear from her until she’s done. Taste this.”

Lydia was making a crème anglaise
to have with berries because Portia did not want a birthday cake. (“Cake is boring. It has always struck me as a waste of calories.”) She force-fed him a spoonful.

I had volunteered to make a couscous and was scrubbing the mussels for it, because, as Lydia said, they simply wouldn’t do it for you in Europe like they would in the States. Assumptions were different here.

So, I was at the sink, Madame Fidelio was slicing strawberries and Lydia was watching Clarence swallow her custard.

“That’s delicious,” he said. “You’re all working so hard. I hope you can get her to eat.”

“She better eat. The saffron for Katherine’s couscous is worth its weight in gold. By the way, Katherine, we’re all so impressed that you know how to make couscous, especially Portia. Where did you learn such a thing?”

Clarence cleared his throat.

“From my mom,” I said.

Lydia did not miss a beat.

“How nice for you.” Her voice was syrup. “I’d love to teach Portia to cook, but she has no interest. Still she’s touched, you know, that you’re doing this for her. Don’t you think, Clarence?”

“Of course she’s touched.” Clarence took another, nervous, bite of crème anglaise.
“But do you see what I mean about him giving her Proust when we already have it? He wants to bloody own Proust. It’s insidious. It’s undermining.”

“Clarence, let it go. And stop eating all of Portia’s birthday dessert. What kind of father are you?”

Madame Fidelio asked if Madame Lydia was happy with the strawberries. Madame Lydia said beautiful, but maybe a little smaller.

I asked if “debeard” was a word.

Clarence was sure it took a hyphen.

Lydia disagreed. She asked him to find a lemon. Now.

Then Portia burst through the kitchen door, Olivier’s book and one of her twenty-one white bouquets pressed to her chest. She was crying.

“I have to get some air. I have to take a walk. I am suffocating.”

“Why don’t you take Katherine with you? Madame Fidelio and I can manage the rest of the mussels. And you’ve prepped everything else, haven’t you, Katherine? The chicken and the vegetables? Portia, you’re in for quite a feast.”

“Mother, a feast is my vision of hell right now.” She looked so uncomprehendingly at all our preparations that I felt there was something obscene about them.

“Well, you won’t see things that way after a nice walk,” said Lydia. “Go, go. Why don’t you girls take Orlando to the Luxembourg?”

“No, Mother. Kate, I know you’ll understand that I need to be alone. It’s this book. It’s heartbreaking. He’s waiting and waiting for the kiss that will never come.” She threw her flowers down on the floor and was gone.

“Portia’s missing the point,” Clarence huffed. “Young Marcel is waiting for his mother to kiss him, not his ex-boyfriend.”

“Clarence,” Lydia pushed him aside to open the refrigerator, “you are alarmingly literal-minded.” She put her crème anglaise
on the top shelf and closed the door. “There. I’ve done my bit.”

I picked up Portia’s flowers. I said I thought it might be pretty to float the bouquets in big bowls around the house.

Everyone agreed. We all dropped what we were doing and started hunting for bowls because the roses were starting to suffer.

Lydia could not find the silver punch bowl, the Edwardian one. Those Moroccan painters last fall must have stolen it.

“What a ridiculous accusation,” said Clarence. “Talk about racist!”

•   •   •

Everything smelled like saffron. Dinnertime was only an hour away. Still no Portia.

The phone rang and I picked it up.

“
Allo?”

“Yes, hello, is Portia there please?” It was Olivier. What the hell was he doing calling this house? At the sound of mine, his voice shook.

“No, I’m sorry,” I said, cold to mask my hurt. “She’s out.” Then I decided to punish him. “Wait, is this Joshua? Joshua, are you messing with us?”

Clarence looked up from his
New Yorker
. “Joshua’s gone out on his sister’s birthday? Will wonders never cease?”

“No,” bleated Olivier. “It’s not Joshua. It’s Portia’s friend Olivier. I called to wish her a happy birthday.”

Clarence was gesturing for the phone.

“It’s not Joshua,” I whispered, “it’s Olivier.”

He frowned and flopped his head back into the magazine.

“Well, I can give her the message.” It was all I could do to keep my voice from cracking. “We expect her back any minute.”

Lydia stuck her head through the living room door. “Is that Olivier?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Tell him to hold on a moment. I’ll take it in my study. Tell him not to hang up.”

“Can you wait a moment, please? Lydia would like to speak to you. ” I hoped the effort to steady myself wasn’t apparent.

“Christ almighty,” said Clarence. “What next?” He grunted off the sofa and said he was going to shower and dress.

As soon as he left, I took his spot, staring up from the cushions at the clock mired in its elaborate bronze tree, its snake, its servile nymph. It was a few minutes past five.

At quarter past, I was still gazing stupidly at the time when the phone rang again. I jumped to answer, but Lydia beat me to it.

“Katherine,” she called out a moment later. “It’s a French boy for you. Take it in the kitchen.”

I sighed. It served me right that I should have to talk to Bastien right now, to put on a show within a show.

The portraits over the kitchen table were steamy. The air was fragrant with the fabulous meal to come, but I felt no anticipation, only an overwhelming sense of having to keep up appearances while reeling from broken trust. Tricked by Olivier’s shading, by the shortcuts and the symbols he used instead of giving a full picture, I had been left in the dark. In my mind’s eye, I crumpled the sketch he had done of “me” in the Place des Vosges. My hand balled into a fist.

I took the phone from Lydia.

“Ça va, Chopin?”
I tried to make light.

“
C’est qui, Chopin?”

It wasn’t Bastien’s voice, but neither was it totally unfamiliar. Perhaps another member of the
bande,
but none that I could place.

I apologized and asked who was calling.

“This is Michel, from the Fer à Cheval bar. I have a message from your boyfriend. He says he can’t go another hour without hearing your voice. He’s begging you to call. He’s in the office.”

fift
y
-one

I thought I would have to wait until after the couscous and berries with crème anglaise to excuse myself and race to my St-Sulpice phone booth to hear what Olivier had to say for himself. The irony of the fact that I was now as shaky as Portia was not lost on me, but awareness is not always a steadying force. I didn’t know if I could keep myself from crying through the meal. Luckily, Lydia liberated me much sooner than expected.

Moments after I had hung up the phone, as I was staring at Yoko Ono through the cooking condensation, Lydia came rushing to me. She had a crucial errand. How could she have almost forgotten? Where was her mind? It was Portia’s being so upset, throwing everything off balance. She couldn’t take it anymore. But that was neither here nor there. Could I please go to this address immediately? It was in the Sixteenth, on the Square Alboni. No. 8. I should take the Métro to Passy. The package would be all ready for me, with the concierge. It was urgent she have it for tonight. If I hurried, I could probably get home for the beginning of dinner.

This was the same doctor’s office where Olivier and I had stopped on our way to the Marmottan to see his mother’s Monets back in September. Lydia was sending me out at seven o’clock on a Friday evening for diet pills.

This meant I was free to return Olivier’s call, but I wasn’t ready to modulate my anger or express my confusion. I was going to have to take a blind leap.

From the vestibule, I heard Madame Fidelio announce that she had found the silver punch bowl. We could put mademoiselle’s roses in water now, before they faded.

Was she sure, Lydia wanted to know, that it was really the Edwardian one?

•   •   •

I closed the apartment door behind me and ran through the courtyard, then down the street and into my phone booth.

As if to soothe me, the glass of the
cabine
walls took me in like a home. I felt the city refracting from all sides, the shimmering trees, the metal café tables with their dirty glass ashtrays and half-empty carafes, the dust on passing shoes, the dripping ice-cream cones, the parked cars, the shop windows drowsy with oncoming summer. Paris was flowing unfiltered through my body.

What might I have looked like to my father, poured into this
cabine
, unable to sort out the meaning of this day even as it swirled inside me? Would he still be proud of his brave accentless little girl?

If only I knew what he would have wanted, I thought I could unravel into a real person. Yet so far all I had to go on were memories, ideas, family myths, visions of the life we might have had together with him directing movies and Mom not having to be so serious and the three of us taking family vacations to Paris to visit Jacques and Solange and Étienne. I couldn’t hear his real voice, only the strains that ran through my head, as much my creation as his. He was the Old Master I was trying to copy. But copying, I thought, looking through the glass to the doors of the church, is not the reflex I have always assumed. It is a choice.

It was time for me to take a stand, to shape my own life. But how? I was not giving up on this city. That much I knew. I had had enough disappointment. No, I was going to start setting my boundaries with Lydia and Clarence. And with Olivier. Slowly, slowly, I would become forthright and clear of head. And begin untangling my experience.

I dialed the operator.

“Morgan!”

Olivier accepted my collect call.

Breathlessly, before I could ask any questions he began to apologize. He knew it looked bad, but he couldn’t be rude to a family that had housed him. Portia hadn’t been remotely led on by his present, had she?

Grateful to have something concrete to respond to, I answered that Portia had been upset by his book. I wasn’t going to go into the details, but it contributed in large part to the ruin of her birthday. “I thought you had cut off all communication. What were you doing talking to Lydia?”

“I’m almost free of them, but it’s common decency to acknowledge someone’s birthday when you’ve lived with their family. At least while it’s so fresh. I agree with you that by next year she will have forgotten all about me.”

“What about Lydia? Is Lydia forgetting you?”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous of a middle-aged lady who’s addicted to papaya pills and spring rolls?”

“Olivier, this isn’t funny. I don’t think—I don’t know if I should see you again.”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Of course I do, but—”

“Do you think you can ask Lydia for the third week in August off?”

“Why?”

“Well, I’ve done something a little presumptuous.”

Feeling my resolve shake, I tried to be forceful. “Look, Olivier. This isn’t working. You promised you wouldn’t talk to her and you’re calling the whole family and sending birthday gifts.”

“Don’t you want to know what I’ve planned?”

“Planned?”

“I knew I’d get you curious. I know you like I made you.” He told me I should get that week of vacation time because he had booked us a hotel in Versailles where he thought I would like to return because of the memory I had so vividly described to him of my day there with my cousins so long ago. He could tell Versailles was an important place to me. Was he right? Would I like to redeem it? He laughed gently. Would I give him one more chance?

Through the glass, I nodded a slow yes at the passing city.