The Forbidden Heart (2 page)

Although she was as pleasant as anyone else when it came to the customers, her smile
blew out like a lightbulb when she turned away or entered the kitchen. She was the
same the few times I had seen her in the street coming to or leaving the restaurant.
She hobbled along with her head down, her arms crossed, tightly embracing herself
just under her breasts. Even on sunny days, she looked as if she was racing to get
out of the rain. Shadows followed her the way feral cats might trail behind someone
who carried the scent of fish.

“She has no life outside of her home and this restaurant,” Miles Goodman, a thirty-some-year-old
Englishman who spoke perfect French, told me a few days before Denise’s birthday.
He had come over from Guildford as an exchange student and remained, secretly hoping
to be discovered as an artist. I had yet to see one of his paintings, but I understood
him to be something of an abstract painter, maybe too abstract for anyone to appreciate.
At least, that was what Maurice muttered about him. He was tall and slim, with a nose
and ears that reminded me of Ichabod Crane’s in “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” He
had extraordinarily long, thin fingers, which enabled him to carry ten cups at the
same time easily.

From him, I learned that Denise was an only child and still lived with her mother.
Her father had deserted them when she was ten. I could sympathize with her losing
her father and being an only child. Ever since my sister was thrown out of the house,
I was an only child. No matter how many friends you make while you’re growing up,
you’re still going home to a house without brothers and sisters, and while some were
spoiled by that and even claimed to be happier, I envied those other girls in my classes
who had an older or younger sister to share things with them. Eventually, I even envied
those girls who had older brothers, because no matter how much they complained, I
could see they were also proud of them.

Maybe Denise finally saw some of this empathy in me. A person who avoided mirrors
desperately needed to find someone whose eyes didn’t condemn or reject her. I found
her looking my way more often and eventually risking a smile or two. I began speaking
to her. She spoke English well. Most of the young people and most of the waiters I
had met here were decent English speakers. Learning a second language was very important.

“In Europe, we are so close to each other. Everyone I know speaks a little German
and Italian and some Spanish,” Denise told me when I complimented her on how good
her English was.

“Still, your English is better than my French,” I said, but she shook her head.

“No, you have an excellent accent. It would take someone who was very good at language
to spot that you were an American.”

Funny how that seemed like a compliment. As if I should hide the fact that I was American?
No one would ever accuse the French of being too humble when it came to their language,
their food, their fashions, and their lifestyle, especially the Parisians. I told
Denise that, and she added candles to her smile.

Soon we were greeting each other like old friends. Maurice caught the exchanges between
us and told me one day that it was good. “She needs a friend,” he said.

I wasn’t surprised by his fatherly and brotherly concern for anyone in the restaurant.
Most of the employees had been there for years. It was more like an extended family,
and just as in any family, there were days when someone was frustrated or annoyed,
but double kisses usually ended the argument and the day. At night, just before closing,
most would remain for a while. They would sit around to catch their breath and talk
about the various patrons they had served, especially the tourists from Russia who
seemed to have a bottomless well of money.

Most everyone had a personal dream. I understood that the restaurant, despite its
wonderful reputation and success, was never to be thought of as anything more than
a way station, a place to build some income before going on to fulfill a bigger ambition.
Only the much older employees didn’t talk much about that, and when the younger ones
did, I saw how they smiled to themselves. I could read their thoughts.
That is how I was once, but it’s all right. This isn’t a bad life.

Denise, however, looked like someone trapped in her job and her overweight body. She
would be a waitress forever. She was making good money, and she was good at it. She
had her loyal patrons, just as most of the regulars did. I was sure she wondered what
else she could do with herself. She had little education. Still, she would pause when
she had a chance and look out at the street to see some elegant young professional
woman walk by talking confidently to distinguished-looking men. They were all fashionably
dressed, with stylish coiffures, comfortable in their elegance and firmly a part of
sophisticated Paris.

Gradually, I understood that Denise was like everyone else who was essentially depressed
about herself. The overeating was a symptom. When she nibbled surreptitiously on something
rich and fattening in the kitchen and gobbled it down like some rodent or starving
dog, unconcerned about the butter or the sugar and calories, Maurice would look at
me and shake his head. I could see it in his eyes.

“She’s too young to have given up,” he whispered.

I nodded, tears in my eyes. How pathetic. It was like watching someone covering up
all the windows and locking all the doors before retreating to a corner to waste away.

Here I was, left alone in the world, a teenage girl who had lost her parents and her
older sister when her older sister had found an escape from the life she had been
in, and I found myself pitying someone else more. I used to pity my overweight friend
Chastity back in New York, but she had both her parents and swam in a pool of constant
envy. Denise was different. She was in a much darker place. Unlike Chastity, she didn’t
let jealousy drive her into some form of bitterness. She was never nasty to anyone.
It was almost too late to be jealous. Her life’s motto seemed to be
Accept and go on, plod, work, and stand back to let the happier, more beautiful, and
more ambitious people go by.

It annoyed me to see her behave this way, and I wanted to do something to change her.
It was as if I had found a cause, something to help me keep my mind off myself. I
had a feeling both Maurice and my uncle Alain were encouraging me to befriend Denise
for exactly that reason. Keep me busy, and I wouldn’t think about Roxy leaving me
behind or the sadness of my parents’ passing. I knew what they were up to, but I didn’t
care. It was like medicine I knew I had to take myself and just went ahead and did
it.

“So where do you live, Denise?” I asked her a few days after her birthday.

“Not far. A little street off the Rue Bonaparte,” she said. “My mother inherited the
apartment from her father. It’s not very big, but it’s close to everything we need
and close enough to the restaurant.”

When she spoke, she kept her eyes down, glancing at me only when she finished speaking.
It was as if she was waiting for either approval or disapproval and actually was holding
her breath. She was this way when she spoke to men, waiters or male customers, especially
older men. For the first time, I considered that she might have been lucky having
her father desert her. She could have been abused. Maybe that was why she was so meek.
That was the way my mind went these days after having lived with Roxy when she was
“in the life.” I would think of the worst, darkest possibilities. It was an education
like no other, but it did make me a little more cynical and distrusting.

“Yes, that’s good. You live with your mother?”

She nodded. “She works in her sister’s bakery three days a week. I don’t think they
need her.”

“Excuse me?”

“My aunt has her there to earn some income. My mother isn’t fond of my uncle and hates
the way he barks orders at her,” she added, and bit down on her lower lip as if the
words had literally escaped her mouth. “But we do need the money, and she has to put
up with it.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. He must not be a very nice man.”

“He’s too hard on his children,” she said. “Especially his son Vincent,” she added
with new energy in her voice. “He wants him to stay and work in the pastry shop, making
bread and cakes forever, but Vincent could go to the Sorbonne. He taught himself how
to play the piano, and he writes poetry. He’s always been a top student. He’s not
going to be satisfied being a baker for the rest of his life.” Her eyes filled suddenly
with more excitement. “Everyone admires him. He’s very handsome and witty. He could
be a movie star. He once modeled clothing for a department store. We’re very close,
even though he’s three years younger.”

My mind flew. She was in love with her younger cousin, and even if they weren’t so
closely related, I was sure he would never look at her with any real desire.

It was easy to see that her future would be full of disappointment and frustration.

What was worse was that she had accepted it as inevitable. I had to wonder what gave
her the strength to get up and face another day. There were times I certainly felt
like that. It seemed as if darkness would seep in everywhere forever, but just when
I thought the overcast skies would never end, something parted the bruised and ominous
clouds to let the sunshine pour through, warming my heart and rebuilding my confidence.

Maybe I was being arrogant when I thought that I could do that for her, create a new
vision of herself and her future.

“Perhaps on your day off, you and I can do something together,” I suggested. “There
is still so much about Paris I don’t know.”

She raised her eyes. Her lips trembled into a small smile. “I’d like that,” she said.
“If you really want to.”

“Why else would I say it?” I asked with a shrug.

She nodded. “I’m off tomorrow.”

“Then we’re both off tomorrow.”

Her smile was full of brightness and hope.

And why shouldn’t it be? I thought. If anyone knew that, I should.

What word held more promise for anyone than the word
tomorrow
?

Getting to Know You

“I want to go to this address in the morning, Uncle Alain,” I said, and showed him
Denise’s address. “I’m going to meet Denise Ardant.”

“The waitress?”

Maurice had obviously already told him I had struck up a friendship with Denise and
probably told him everything about her.

“Yes. We’re going to spend a day together if that’s all right with you.”

“
Oui, absolument.
Will you be home for dinner?”

“I’ll call you if I’m not,” I said.

He nodded and smiled. “Two old guys aren’t enough company for a beautiful young lady
like you, anyway.”

He told me to be careful and stood in the doorway when I left, looking a little more
like my mother to me, the resemblances suddenly sharper and easier to see. He was
channeling her love and concern. I missed her so much that whenever I thought about
her, tears would glaze over my eyes, and I would have to suck in my breath and firm
up my posture to keep from bawling like some little girl lost and alone.

I was thankful that there was so much to look at on the streets of Saint-Germain.
Shops were opening. Waiters were washing the walkways at the front doors of their
restaurants and cafés. The street musicians were already out with their cups or cans,
hoping for monetary appreciation. Pedestrian traffic grew thicker, with a mixture
of Parisians and tourists from seemingly everywhere. There were tour guides holding
up red or yellow flags so none of the members of their group would get lost, and there
were short lectures about history and architecture on almost every corner. A myriad
of languages floated past me as people passed by. I made a game of identifying the
language and country. Asians weren’t as easy as people might think. Besides Chinese
and Japanese, there were South Koreans and Vietnamese. My mind was so occupied that
I was surprised when I found myself on Denise’s street, a few doors from her apartment
building. I hurried to it, seeing I was late and anticipating she might think I wouldn’t
show.

“
C’est moi
,” I announced at the doorway when she responded to the buzzer. The door sounded,
and I entered the very small lobby. This was an old building. The elevator looked
as if it hadn’t been updated since the early 1900s, the doors squealing and groaning
as they closed. There was barely enough room for two people, and of course, my mind
went immediately to Denise stepping into it whenever there was someone else in it
already.

She was standing in the opened doorway of her mother’s apartment on the third floor.

“Hi,” I said. “Sorry I’m late. It’s not possible to walk quickly in Paris,” I added,
and she brightened.

“My mother is always accusing me of daydreaming on my way anywhere.”

“Elle fait,”
I heard her mother cry out, emphasizing that she did.

Denise smirked and stepped back. Her mother came from the small living room into the
short entryway to greet me. She was tiny in comparison with Denise. She was maybe
five feet two, but she had been frozen in a petite body, with dainty facial features
and beautiful green-blue eyes. Her dark brown hair was streaked with gray but still
looked very thick and rich. She wore it pinned back but not severely. Her complexion
was fair, with only the tiniest of wrinkles threatening to become crow’s-feet. Her
lips were full yet dainty. This was the beauty Denise had drowning inside her, I thought.

“You are the American girl,” she said with a thicker French accent. It sounded more
like an accusation.

“
Oui
.”

“
Parlez-vous français bien
?”

“I hope I will. I’m working on it. My mother was French, and I’m living now with my
French uncle.”

“And Maurice,” Denise added. I wasn’t sure if she did that to drive home that my uncle
was gay. I thought I saw a twitch of disapproval in her mother’s lips, but if that
was there, she kept it well hidden.

“How long will you be here?” her mother asked, almost the way someone would ask an
unexpected and not-so-welcome guest.

“Maybe for the rest of my life,” I said, and her eyes widened. I think my answer pleased
her. Perhaps she was worried that Denise would have another fleeting friend. She extended
her hand to me finally. I saw she wore no rings, especially no marriage ring. If there
was any place she was aging, it was in her hands. They looked worn, thin with age
spots around her knuckles.

“I am Josette Ardant.
Je suis désolé. Ma fille
does not have the social skills to introduce properly. Not that I haven’t tried to
teach her.”

“You didn’t give me a chance,” Denise whined.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said quickly.

“I am on my way to my sister’s pastry shop,” she said, feeling a need to explain why
she was reaching for a shawl and couldn’t spend more time speaking to me. She turned
to Denise and told her in French not to take me to any places she wouldn’t go. Denise
nodded and looked down.

“Perhaps I will see you later,” I said as she started out.

“
Oui
. Perhaps,” she added without much enthusiasm, and left.

I looked at Denise. “Your mother is very pretty,” I said.

“Let’s go,” she said, sounding a little annoyed that she had to acknowledge anything
nice about her mother. She grabbed her shawl and, now smiling, leaned toward me to
deliver a secret. “My cousin Vincent said he would be glad to join us for lunch when
I told him about you,” she said, reaching for the door. “He doesn’t often take off
for lunch. I’m glad he was able to on my day off. I don’t get to see him enough.”

“Yes, that’s nice,” I said. It was clear. She was using me to get Vincent to spend
time with her.

It rang a warning bell close to my heart. I had no idea what she had told him about
me, how much she had exaggerated to get him interested in spending his lunch hour
with us. If she built me up too much, it might be unpleasant.

I stepped out, and she closed the door.

“Where are we meeting him for lunch?”

“His favorite café near Notre Dame. I always mix up the name with two others, but
don’t worry. I can get there blindfolded.”

I had no doubt.

It was easy to see that Denise had few, if any, friends. As we walked, she was very
eager to point out her favorite places, pouring her pent-up thoughts into my ears
so quickly I had to take a breath to think. One question that obviously came to me
after meeting her mother was what her mother thought of her being so heavy. Did she
try to help her? Had she given up on her own daughter? Was she a selfish mother, especially
after her husband had deserted her? Perhaps she didn’t want Denise to find someone
to love and move out. I had seen them together only for a few moments, but I did feel
a tension between them. Was it all Denise’s fault? Unhappiness seemed to be a guest
who came to dinner and never left that home.

“Has your mother ever been with another man since your father left?” I asked.

The question seemed to stun her for a moment. “Another man?”

“I mean, she’s pretty enough to attract interest.”

“She has gone out on dates that my aunt arranged, but she hasn’t met anyone she says
is worth the time or the sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice? What is it she has to sacrifice?”

“Everything. Men are demanding. My mother devoted herself to my father, and he treated
her as if he expected no less. Just like all men, he was selfish. French or American
or any.”

“You can’t judge all men by the actions of one,” I said.

She paused, thought, and then smiled. “That’s what I tell my mother. My cousin Vincent,
for example, is the sweetest young man you’ll ever meet. He’s always considerate,
always worried about me. He cares more about me than he does about his older sister,
Margot.”

“He doesn’t have a girlfriend?” I asked cautiously.

“No,” she said firmly. “He’s very particular. He knows most young women today are
frivolous. He’s too serious a person to waste his time on any of them. He dreams of
a real career.”

“Not any?”

She glanced at me and then said, “He’s not like your uncle and Maurice, if that’s
what you mean.”

“It wasn’t. I just wondered why he wouldn’t have a girlfriend if he was so handsome,”
I said. I had the sense this was something she hoped was true rather than knew was
true. Besides, if she didn’t see him that often, how would she know for certain? Did
she cross-examine her mother about him frequently since her mother saw him at work?
Did her mother realize her feelings for her cousin? I was already wondering about
her mother and the dreary life she was leading. She hadn’t tried to be with another
man. What else did she have besides her job at the pastry shop? The two of them must
feed themselves more and more depression. My mind reeled up the darkness in their
home and stuffed it into a corner of my mind. I didn’t want to think so hard about
it, especially when I had set out to enjoy myself and make a new friendship, but how
do you ever become friends with anyone without being submerged in family intrigues
and conflicts?

We paused to do some window shopping. The new spring and summer fashions were still
out in some stores. Some were already advertising fall clothing. I commented about
some skirts and blouses enthusiastically, but she just stared with a familiar look—familiar
because I could remember how Chastity gazed at beautiful clothes, realizing that there
would be nothing in her size and that even if there was anything made in her size,
it wouldn’t look as good on her as it looked on the mannequin in the window. I wanted
to talk to Denise about her weight problem, but I hesitated. We didn’t know each other
that well yet. I was sure she was supersensitive about it, which was something that
also puzzled me about Chastity. Why be supersensitive about something you could control
or prevent?

Our conversation drifted to what it was like growing up in Paris as opposed to New
York. Our school experiences didn’t sound all that different. We talked about music
and books and the movies we had both seen. Once she got started, she ran on and on,
barely pausing to take a breath. I was surprised at how little she had seen in Europe
other than on school trips, even though the restaurant gave her vacation time. She
blamed it on her mother, who hated traveling. The more we talked and the more she
told me about herself, the more I could see her putting blame on her mother for almost
everything, even, as it turned out, her weight.

“When I was little, she wouldn’t let me leave the table until I finished every morsel.
My mother doesn’t believe in leftovers. She always says we can’t afford to waste food.”

“You’re old enough now to take control of your own destiny,” I ventured.

She didn’t answer for so long that I thought my comment would be pushed aside and
forgotten because she resented it, but suddenly, she stopped. “I’ve always been too
heavy,” she offered. “My mother blames it on my father’s genes.”

“Do you believe that?”

“No,” she admitted, and kept walking. “Let’s not talk about me,” she added firmly.
“What happened to your parents? Why are you in Paris? Don’t you have relatives in
America? I’d rather live in America.”

Where should I begin? I wondered. I paused and nodded at a bench overlooking the Seine.
The sky was practically cloudless. There were only tiny wisps, what my mother called
“God’s puffs of breath,” here and there against the soft blue. The water in the Seine
glistened. Sitting quietly for a few moments, I felt I could talk more freely about
myself now. However, it occurred to me as I was telling my story that I was telling
it like an outsider looking in. Perhaps I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to get
through it, that I would break into uncontrolled sobbing. I didn’t go into any detail
about Roxy, basically describing her as an independent businesswoman who had left
home early. When she started to ask more questions about her, I looked at my watch
and suggested we get to the café.

“Don’t worry. Vincent will wait for us if we’re late,” she said, but agreed we should
move on.

“Do you have other relatives in Paris?”

“Distant cousins. My mother’s brother lives in Lyon, and her younger sister lives
in Aix-en-Provence. I rarely see either of them or their children.”

“You’ve never heard from your father since he left?” I asked as we continued walking.

“No. But I don’t care. To me, he’s as dead as your father is to you,” she said, clenching
her teeth.

“He wasn’t a good father before he left?”

“He wasn’t a father at all,” she replied. “He was . . . unnatural.”

I was silent, waiting to see if she would go into any of the grisly details, but she
pressed her lips together like someone who was told to be quiet. A few moments later,
however, she added, “I blame my mother for marrying him and having me with him. It’s
really all her fault, and she knows it.”

“How does she explain that? Falling in love with a man who was self-centered and cruel?”