by Rue Allyn
“Qu’est-ce que j’ai fait?” she asked. What did I do?
“Rien, rien.” Nothing, nothing.
Marie pulled her by the arm, and Eliane counted cash out of the drawer.
Bishou stared. “I don’t understand.”
“It is a refund. You have overpaid for your room.”
“What? How can that be?”
“Your room was paid for by the man with your ring on his finger.”
“Ah, non!” she exclaimed. She covered her face with her hands. “He is being too kind.”
“He is behaving like your husband,” the elder sister scolded, “even if you are not yet married.”
“Oh, it looks so improper.”
Both women laughed. “Bishou,” Marie chided, “how can you speak of ‘improper’ on Réunion Island? Don’t you know how the first women arrived here? They were bought and paid for. This is only a room.”
They laughed at her crimson face, and brought her behind the counter to their little nest for coffee and croissants.
“When did he come here?” she asked them.
“Early this morning, while you still slept, and said not to wake you. But then I said, ‘Ah! The ring!’ and the whole story came out,” Eliane replied. “And you said nothing when we told you his history. You should have your ears boxed, young lady.”
“Don’t be hard on me,” Bishou returned. “I didn’t want to damage his reputation even more. When I first arrived here, I only thought I would see him, say hello, and see how he felt about me.”
“Well, I think that question has been answered,” said Eliane.
“Do you love him?” Marie pressed.
“I am a fool for him,” Bishou admitted. “Only he brought me to this island.” She counted the money they had pressed back in her hands — a week’s lodgings. “What shall I do with this money?”
“Spend it foolishly,” Marie advised with a smile.
Chapter 18
She bought the sundress she had been admiring in the store window. While she purchased it, Bishou discussed underwear with the woman manager, particularly for a full-figured girl such as herself — not a subject she got much help on at home.
“Your figure is not as flat-chested French as it is voluptuous African,” the woman advised with a smile. “While you are vacationing here, in this climate, you might adopt looser clothing, for comfort. It is very easy to get rashes and skin infections, unless one is careful.”
“Unfortunately,” said Bishou, “I must attend several more formal functions, and I must look — forgive the term — Western.”
Madame Ross, obviously a Frenchwoman, merely laughed. “Buy your casual clothes here, and let Nadine’s shop fit you formally. Not the flounced skirts that are now the rage, Mademoiselle. They go well on small-chested women. You need fitted, well-tailored, below-the-knee skirts on your party dresses, with tight shoulders and a tight bodice, showing the curves of your breasts — everything that is totally against la mode. But you will look most elegant in them.”
“I am so grateful for your advice,” Bishou replied fervently, paying cash for her purchases. “I grew up in a house full of brothers. I have only a vague idea what is right or wrong in fashion, and I don’t want to embarrass anyone. But certainly none of the men will come shopping with me, to tell me what they like or don’t like.”
Madame Ross laughed again, both in appreciation of the compliment and the cash. “Remember that your figure is not that of France, but that of Réunion, and you will be all right.”
Her words stayed with Bishou. Not of France, but that of Réunion. She moved next door to Nadine’s — the place she had mistaken for a bridal shop — and entered. A number of almost-finished, rather nice dresses hung on racks. These dresses are tiny, she thought. For teeny, flat-chested Frenchwomen. Is that what Carola was?
She was ignored by the two saleswomen in the store as they chatted with another couple, obviously about to get married. From the corner of her eye, Bishou saw white dresses on another rack, with veils piled nearby, looking tediously conventional. Except the trains — the trains on these dresses seemed miles long, shimmed up behind each dress like a caboose. Bishou smiled to herself and shook her head.
She examined the colored dresses on another rack, and was struck by a beautiful blue fabric that she couldn’t name — not exactly cotton, but not silk or satin, either. Bishou wondered if it was a local fabric. Both saleswomen were helping the couple, and Bishou felt intimidated, for the first time. Why was it that she could face the fiercest secretary, but was intimidated by a saleswoman in a dress shop?
“Pardonnez-moi,” she said to a saleswoman, who barely stopped speaking to the other customers to give her an icy stare. “Forgive me,” Bishou continued humbly, “but Madame Ross referred me to you for assistance with a formal dress. Is there someone who could help me?”
“You can wait your turn, Madame,” the saleswoman said coldly, turning her back upon her.
“Brrr! I suppose I can,” said Bishou with a mock shiver and left the store.
She went back to Madame Ross, who looked up in surprise as she entered her shop once again.
“I have been told off, in the best Parisian fashion,” Bishou said to the manager, who stifled a smile.
“They are très correct,” Mme. Ross admitted. Very correct. “And you are …” Madame hazarded a guess, “not patient, and not Parisian.”
“Non, je suis Americaine.”
“Ah, an impatient Americaine from a houseful of boys, who likes the African styles but must wear European ones. And do you have a name, Mademoiselle?”
“Oh, mes apologies. Je m’appelle Bishou.”
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Bishou.” Mme. Ross folded her elegant hands on her little countertop, and looked amused. She had pretty blond hair, longish but held up in a way Bishou only wished she knew how to mimic. “Now. In your brief time in Nadine’s shop, did you see anything you particularly liked?”
Bishou realized this trip was completely demoralizing her. “I am ready to run away, Madame. I understand now why men run in terror from shopping trips.”
“Frightened by one saleswoman?” Mme. Ross placed her hand on one of Bishou’s. “You are a tomboy, aren’t you?”
“I suppose so,” Bishou admitted.
“And why are you standing your ground, now?” Mme. Ross asked shrewdly.
“All right,” Bishou confessed. “I want a special dress for a special man.”
“I see.” Madame seemed more amused than convinced.
“Madame Ross,” said Bishou earnestly, “I have camped on a Vermont mountainside in snow and ice, with winds raging about me, at temperatures of thirty degrees below zero. I have ridden mules in the Grand Canyon, and traced the path of the Canadian Voyageurs by canoe. But nothing frightens me like that dress shop. Will you come with me, if I pay you to be my guide?”
“Ma petite,” said the elegant little owner of the casual dress shop, “I will come with you for nothing. You appear the same age as my own daughter. She is twenty-eight.”
“So am I. But you do not look old enough to have a daughter that age. I was just thinking how young and beautiful you are.”
“You flatter me. My little Alicie is studying in Paris, at the École du Louvre. At this rate, I may never see her interested in buying a beautiful dress for a special man. Come.” Mme. Ross clasped her hand. “We go to Nadine’s. Watch things here, Ceci.”
“Oui, Madame.” The Creole shop assistant giggled.
Mme. Ross stepped inside the shop next door, with Bishou behind her. Together they walked over to the rack of colored dresses. The saleswomen looked up at them sharply, and returned to their important customers — although it was obvious they had recognized Mme. Ross and were keeping a cautious eye on her.
Bishou showed her the blue dress. “I don’t know this fabric.”
“A silk-cotton combination, and rather nice. You have a good eye,” Mme. Ross said approvingly. “And this style, yes, t
his is exactly what I meant. Venez. Their dressing rooms are over here, and we can look in the mirror in the back room.” She took down the hanger, and moved to the back without consulting either saleswoman. Bishou followed meekly.
“Now, slip into one of the booths and put it on, then come out and let me see. Your underwear will show, but no matter. You’ll need new underwear, anyway, for these types of dresses.”
“Mon Dieu!” said Bishou, “I can’t even get them to fit a dress on me. Do you think they’ll fit lingerie?”
“I will do it. For that, I will charge.” Mme. Ross smiled wryly. “Remember, the special man.”
“Je me souviens.” Bishou entered the booth, undressed, and realized that the blue dress hooked — not zipped — up the back. “This has no zippers!”
“Zippers are so American,” said Mme. Ross. “Come out here and I will hook you up.”
Bishou stepped out of the booth and into a bare backroom with empty tables and a cheval mirror. Nonetheless, she felt like Cinderella. She stared in the mirror while Mme. Ross hooked and pulled. Bishou stood on tiptoe before the mirror.
“Yes,” said Mme. Ross, interpreting her move, “it requires high heels. But it does look elegant. And it is sized for you.”
“I know. I was surprised. Most of those dresses are so tiny.”
“Compared to you, many Frenchwomen are tiny. You are a healthy, well-exercised Americaine.”
“How are you doing, Madame Ross?” said a strident voice. The cold-eyed saleswoman regarded Bishou.
“Things go well, thank you, Madame Nadine,” Mme. Ross replied. “Allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Bishou, who bought some things at my shop and then realized she needed more formal clothing as well.” Mme. Ross’s tone was brisk, courteous, and professional, Bishou realized approvingly.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle.” Nadine stepped into the area, and eyed the dress. “Did I hear Mme. Ross say that you are Americaine?”
“Oui, Madame.”
“And you are visiting the island?” Being American was obviously not a point in Bishou’s favor.
“Non, Madame, I will be living here.”
The questions came like bullets. “Do you have a job here, or are you getting married?”
“Oui, et oui.”
“Explain, please.”
Bishou reined in her temper. “Yes, I have a job here, and yes, I am getting married.”
“Change back into your own clothes, please,” Mme. Nadine demanded.
Bishou pulled the curtain shut, and felt the heat of her face. She could hear Mme. Ross murmuring to Nadine, and caught the words, “She paid cash. She is not une pauvre, Nadine.” Not a pauper.
“I am not a dressmaker to American working girls, or rich Americans,” was the haughty reply, “nor will I be. The women of France and Réunion Island, these are for whom I make my fashions.”
Bishou changed her clothes and opened the curtain, aware that her face was still red with anger. She laid the blue dress upon a worktable. “This is very nice fabric, it is comfortable, and the dress is well-designed.”
“Do you want to have a fitting, then?” Mme. Nadine demanded, almost unpleasantly.
“By no means,” Bishou replied, looking her in the eye. Then she turned to Mme. Ross. “I am sorry to embarrass you, Madame. I thought that my discomfort was due to my ignorance. The ignorance, alas, was not mine. Au revoir.” She gathered up her purse and other parcels, and left the shop.
And almost cannoned into a gentleman in the street.
“Whoa!” said Louis Dessant, grasping her in surprise, “Gardes-toi, Bishou.” Then he saw the look on her face. “What is the matter?”
“I hate shopping for women’s clothes,” she growled.
“So do I,” he quipped. Louis scooped the packages out of her arms. “What are these? Réunion fashions?”
“Somewhat. There would be more if it weren’t for chauvinistic, pig-headed anti-Americans.”
“Ah. That was Nadine?”
“You knew?”
“I’d heard it mentioned in passing. But that is only for w-wedding dresses, and …” Louis halted, his arms full of parcels. “Oh.”
“Non.” She answered the question he did not ask. “I was just looking for a nice dress for the université reception, and got snubbed in the grand style.”
His car was parked across the street. He opened the trunk and dumped in the packages, willy-nilly. Right now, she didn’t really care. She saw a picnic basket in the trunk, and glanced at him questioningly.
Louis closed the trunk, and smiled at her. “I came looking for you because the ladies at the pension told me you had gone downtown. I thought we would tour the coast road. Bettina and Madeleine made us a picnic lunch for later. D’accord?”
Bishou smiled up at him, and her bad mood disappeared. “D’accord. I hope there’s no mayonnaise in those sandwiches.”
“What do you take me for? It’s fruit, cheese, and peasant bread. There is red wine, but it is quite all right at room temperature — or car-trunk temperature. Viens.”
“One more thing.” She took his hand.
“Oh mon Dieu non, don’t drag me into a woman’s dress shop.”
“Non, non, not you, nor me either. I just want you to look in a shop window.”
“I can bear that,” he admitted, and allowed her to lead him to the shoe store.
“Now,” she said. “Which shoes did you have in mind for me? Just point.”
With his dark eyes showing that he expected a bad reaction, Louis pointed to a pair of tiny high heels that might have fitted Cendrillon nicely, but were nothing like her normal style.
Bishou merely sighed, said, “I thought so,” and disappeared into the shop.
A waiting shoe salesman was smiling at her as she entered the otherwise-unoccupied shop. “Is that Monsieur Dessant?” he asked.
“Certainly it is,” she answered. “Do you have those shoes in my size?”
The beaming salesman obligingly measured her feet, disappeared into the back of the store, and returned in a moment with the shoes. She slipped them on, and stood up. Immediately she felt four inches taller.
“Oh, my,” she said, and the salesman’s smile broadened.
“They might take practice, Mademoiselle,” he told her.
“I think they will,” she agreed. “And also, a pair of casual shoes, those cloth ones with the rope soles, if you have them in my size.”
He glowed at two sales on a slow day, wrapped up the packages, and was rewarded with a cash payment. “Merci, Mademoiselle … ?”
“Madame Bishou,” she supplied her name, and he made out the receipt as such.
She emerged from the shop to see Mme. Nadine, of all people, chatting with Louis, while he plainly looked like he wished to be elsewhere. Mme. Ross and her assistant watched from the door of her shop. Likewise, others along the street had emerged to see the notorious, reclusive Louis Dessant in daylight. He spotted Bishou with evident relief, and swooped down upon her to seize her packages.
“Au revoir, Madame,” he said hurriedly to Nadine, and then to Bishou, “Tu es prêt?” as informally as possible, as emphasis.
“Oui, cherie, je suis prêt.”
She had never before called him darling. He dumped the shoes into the trunk with the rest of the packages. Louis did not raise dust, nor burn rubber, getting out of town, but the intention was there.
“Nom de nom!” Bishou exclaimed. “How do you ever go shopping?”
“I send Bettina,” he said sourly. “It takes half the day for me to get a haircut and my shoes shined.”
“I should show you this,” she said, as he slowed down to a reasonable speed. “It’s my first receipt given to Madame Bishou.”
“Put it in the glove box,” he told her. “We’ll add it to our wedding album.”
“Do we have one?”
“We will.”
Chapter 19
Louis drove through little coastal fishing hamlets and into the
countryside again, gaining altitude as they traveled around the coast. At last, he turned off the road into a grassy area where a steady breeze blew. From here they had a magnificent view of the Indian Ocean.
Louis pulled a blanket out of the trunk, as well as the picnic basket. Together they laid out the blanket on a grassy meadow near the car. Bishou watched, amused, as Louis unpacked the basket. Bread and cheese and fruit, sure enough. A bottle of wine, with a corkscrew and two glasses. Napkins and butter knives and a cheese slicer. It was a genuine French picnic. She sat, docile and amused, and allowed him to organize everything.
“I must ask you,” he said, as he sat down at last to eat and drink, “if you will accompany me to church on Sunday. I do not know if Père Reynaud will have time to speak to us afterward, but it might be good if we were both there. He must tell us oui ou non, if we can be married Friday in the church, or if we must choose the Prefecture Office instead.”
“Who gave you permission to travel to America?”
“The Prefecture.” Louis concentrated on his bread and cheese and did not look her in the eye. “As I said, I have not yet made things right with the Church. The Père owes me nothing, truly, and I have not asked forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness?” she said in surprise. “For what?”
He shook his head and waved away her words. “I murdered someone, ma cherie. Nothing takes away that sin.”
“Did Père Reynaud marry you?”
“Oui.”
“Was there premarriage counseling, what they call pre-Cana?”
“Non.”
“Then, Louis, how can you — ”
He cut her off. “This is Réunion, Bishou! That’s all fine to talk, in France or in America. But not where a wife comes on a boat, alone, to bed with a strange man she had met only in correspondence. It is no more his fault than mine that we didn’t understand why the wedding band didn’t fit her, why she left me no notes, why she had no messages from family, why she didn’t even have her own rosary — because she would have to open the trunk that was not hers, to look for one.”
