The Little French Bistro

by Nina George

  “You can do anything you want,” she ventured.

  “I want to go home,” murmured Marianne.

  —

  The taxi was waiting with its engine running. Marianne shook the bystanders’ hands, one after the other. Paul, Rozenn, Simon, Pascale, Emile, Alain, Jean-Rémy and Madame Geneviève.

  “We never change,” Geneviève said by way of farewell. “That’s what you said, Marianne. We only forget who we are. Don’t forget who you are, Madame Lanz.” She gave Marianne an envelope containing her wages.

  Marianne turned to Jean-Rémy and gave him a hug, whispering in his ear, “Laurine loves you, you daft man. And I know all about what you’ve got stacked in the cooler.”

  Jean-Rémy wouldn’t let go of her. “I couldn’t do it, just as you can’t. We’re both daft people.”

  Emile swung the accordion case into the trunk of the taxi without a glance. Marianne nodded to him and got into the car.

  She didn’t look back. Her breathing became more and more strained. When they reached the junction to Concarneau, where she had once hitchhiked, and turned right toward Pont-Aven, Lothar spoke for the first time. “I didn’t think you’d come with me.”

  “This is what I want.”

  “Because you love me?”

  “Did that ever matter to you?”

  “Not enough, I presume, or you wouldn’t have left.”

  She said nothing until they reached Pont-Aven, where she knocked on the door of Colette’s flat above the gallery. When Colette realized why Marianne was there, her expression hardened. “So you’re leaving the moment the going gets tough, eh?”

  “I’m sorry…”

  “No you’re not. Not enough. You’re obviously not sorry enough for yourself. You’re still not.” Colette slammed the door in her face.

  Marianne stared at the wooden door. How was she supposed to take that?

  The next moment, the door was flung open again. “Yann has his show in Paris on 1 September. At the Galerie Rohan, my old stomping ground. It was meant to be a surprise for you. That’s because he’s showing you. These are his first large paintings in thirty years. Now, though, he might as well hang them in a museum in the section called ‘Twenty-First-Century Illusions.’ ” The door banged shut once more.

  Marianne already had one foot on the step when Colette called out, “You’re dead to me, Marianne!” Just further evidence that she had only imagined she’d found a home here.

  “What did she say?” asked Lothar.

  “She wished us a safe journey,” Marianne replied.

  —

  As they stood outside Yann’s studio, Lothar took her hand.

  “Do you have to do this?”

  “It’s a matter of courtesy,” said Marianne, pulling her hand from his.

  The curious courtesy of telling a man, I love you but I’m not the person you think I am, and I want to go home. All of a sudden Marianne was seized by the wild hope that Yann would do anything he could to keep her from leaving.

  Walking past the tall, wide windows of Yann’s studio, it occurred to her that she had never seen the pictures he had painted of her. She took a deep breath. Was leaving the right choice?

  As she entered the hallway that led to the bright, high-ceilinged room, Marianne heard sobbing. Neither Yann nor Marie-Claude noticed as she stepped into the studio. The aging hairdresser was weeping in Yann’s arms in front of a painting of a naked woman. A magnificent naked woman.

  Yet her weeping soon turned to laughter; she had in fact been laughing the whole time. She hugged Yann and covered his face with quick kisses.

  They’re laughing at you and your stupidity.

  Marianne ran away. There was no need to answer the question of right or wrong now.

  “So?” asked Lothar, when she was once more sitting beside him, holding back her tears. “How did he take it?”

  “Like a man,” gasped Marianne.

  “Incredible,” said Lothar. “Do you know, when you were away during that trouble with Simone, we had a chat. He raved about you so much that I found myself thinking, who’s he talking about? He would never have let go of the woman he saw in you.”

  “It’s not Simone, it’s Sidonie, and there wasn’t any trouble with her—she died. Sidonie’s dead.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.” After a while he said, “Shall we stay in Paris for a few days?” adding with a little worried laugh, “But only if you don’t run away this time.”

  —

  A car engine started up outside, and Marie-Claude released herself from Yann’s embrace. She had laughed as she told him that she hadn’t recognized her reflection in a shop window, thinking, Who’s that unfriendly-looking woman? until she had realized that it was her.

  Claudine had only just told her mother about the dramatic delivery in Ar Mor, and that it was Victor who had got her pregnant. He was married, and Claudine had decided not to tell him about his baby. He should love her and choose her because he wanted her, not because he felt it was his duty.

  Marie-Claude was a grandmother, and she had immediately run to see Yann to persuade him to come to Kerdruc with her so that she could thank Marianne.

  “These are wonderful pictures. Has Marianne seen them yet?”

  Yann shook his head.

  Marianne felt as if she had been retracing her own footsteps since the train had pulled out of Brest, where she and Lothar had boarded it, left Quimper behind, and was now racing past Auray on its way to Paris.

  She was someone else, and yet she was not. She was the same little Annie who had happened to have a great adventure. Her journey into a different world had at least convinced her of that: that her place was where it had always been. She had no right to a new life: that had been a misconception.

  “That’s Brocéliande over there,” she started to say, pointing to a patch of forest on the horizon. “That’s the forest of our dreams. It’s where Merlin the magician is buried.”

  “He didn’t exist,” mumbled Lothar as he flicked through a copy of Motor Sport magazine.

  “Who says so?”

  “Common sense.”

  Marianne said nothing. She thought of the spring near Merlin’s grave, and how she had stood alongside the stones that enclosed his prison of love. From the cracks in the stone poked countless slips of paper that people, having obviously lost all common sense, had left there to express their wishes. One of those people was Marianne, who had written, “Let me love and be loved.”

  “Do you actually want to hear what I got up to in Kerdruc?” she asked Lothar.

  He shrugged.

  “I drove a Jaguar and rode a Vespa, I cooked lobster, fed cats and dogs on Ming Dynasty plates, rescued a nun, posed as a model, and played the accordion on the beach.”

  Lothar looked at her in bewilderment. “How come you of all people can do all those things?”

  “Don’t you believe me?”

  He stared at her, then looked down at his magazine again.

  “Sure. Yes. Of course.”

  “Lothar.”

  “What?”

  “Do you know what a clitoris is?”

  His face turned a deep shade of red. “Please!”

  “So you do?”

  He nodded hastily and glanced around to see if anyone was listening.

  “Well why have you never taken an interest in mine?”

  “Your lover must have been better at it.”

  “Would this be the right time to bring up Sybille?”

  “We’ve talked about Sybille. It’s over.”

  “Our conversation lasted less than five minutes, and afterward you never wanted me to mention her again.”

  “Because it was over! I wanted no one but you!”

  “We have to start talking to each other, Lothar. Properly.”

  “It’s possible to overanalyze things! Time heals every wound—that’s still the best solution.”

  “We don’t have much time. Maybe twenty years if all goes well.”<
br />
  “You’re always so dramatic!”

  Marianne took several deep breaths. “Forget it. I’ll tell you what I want. I want to go to work, I want my own room and I want to play the accordion.”

  “What’s the problem? Do as you like!”

  “All those things were always a problem for you.”

  “Oh come on. Only in your imagination.”

  Marianne faltered. Could that be true? Were her memories of her husband worse than he had actually been? Had she only dreamed it all up in order to hate him better? She looked out of the window, suddenly unsure. They had left Rennes behind an hour ago, and they would soon be arriving at Paris Montparnasse.

  “Say something nice to me,” she begged.

  Reluctantly he slapped his magazine shut. “Marianne! I traveled to France to ask you to come home and marry me again! Isn’t it nice enough that I want to live with you? What else am I supposed to do?”

  Be romantic, loving, tender, interested and happy to see me! Look at me as if I were the most important person in the world for you. Desire me. Respect me. Be willing, just for once, to believe me. Be on my side. Stop reading your stupid magazine and talk to me!

  “I love you,” said Lothar. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  Marianne had a dialogue in her head with herself.

  Is that what you wanted to say?

  That’s why I said it!

  Yes, but do you really mean it?

  Marianne, I’m going to get off the train. If every woman did this, asking her husband what he meant, then—

  But not all women do.

  That’s just as well! How would society survive? One has to consider the whole, not just oneself! It’s called being grown up!

  One always has to consider the individual. For every person is an individual, and everyone has individual, unique reasons. And every individual counts. That’s what I call being grown up.

  Marianne was sure that her memories of Lothar hadn’t tricked her. But maybe she ought to start doing all the things for him that she wished for herself. Maybe she ought to be more feminine, more seductive, more self-assured, more interesting…

  OH GOD, STOP IT. I FEEL SICK, roared the voice inside her head. It sounded like Colette.

  “Yes, that’s what I wanted to hear,” replied Marianne after a while.

  She felt Lothar’s hand rest on hers. “We should buy new rings,” he whispered, stroking her bare ring finger. “Otherwise, what would people think?”

  She pulled her hand out from under his.

  —

  Paris, Montparnasse station. People were pressing between the shops as usual, and as Marianne passed a shoe stall, the salesman looked up and called, “Ma chère Madame, you look ravishing!”

  “Thank you. Do you also sell shoes a woman can wear to the places where she belongs?”

  “Of course!” He pulled out a pair of red pumps with white polka dots. “Do you want to find love there?” He winked at Lothar, who was watching the two of them suspiciously.

  Yes, I do.

  Marianne strode toward the nearest taxi.

  “We can take the bus into the center. It’s cheaper,” Lothar suggested.

  “And I’m sixty and I don’t feel like taking the bus,” answered Marianne, getting in. Lothar scrambled into the backseat on the other side. As the taxi pulled away, he reached for her hand.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered. He pressed her fingers, stiff with shock, to his meticulously shaven cheek, snuggled up to her and shut his eyes. Marianne didn’t know what to do. Lothar kissed her palm. “Forgive me,” he pleaded more ardently. “Forgive me, Marianne, for not having loved you as you needed to be loved.” He ran Marianne’s hand over his cheek, as if he were desperate for her finally to caress him of her own free will.

  That was when it struck her that she hadn’t hugged or kissed Lothar once since they had met again, nor had she wanted to.

  “Couldn’t we learn to love each other as we should?” he now implored her. He tried to pull her to him and stroke her hair, but she pushed him away.

  “I lived your life, Lothar, not mine. For that I give you half the blame and myself the other half. I was too complacent, and so were you. That has nothing to do with love.”

  He bowed his head. “And if I…if from now on I live your life, as you want to live it?”

  He hasn’t understood. No one ought to live another person’s life. Not me. Not him.

  “With your own room. Your accordion. And things will be completely different as soon as I take early retirement. We can go on holiday to Kerdruc from time to time, if you wish.”

  Holiday in Kerdruc from time to time. Lothar in early retirement. Life in Celle.

  The taxi braked. “There’s been a crash up ahead,” the driver said sullenly. Marianne noticed that they had come to a halt on the Pont Neuf, almost directly alongside the bulge in the stonework from which she had launched herself into the Seine with the aim of bringing her life to an end.

  Had Lothar always smelled of damp? She unclicked her seat belt, opened the door and got out.

  “Where are you going?” Lothar asked in panic. “Marianne!”

  Marianne walked over to the spot where she had sought an end to it all but had found a new beginning. She would surely have passed the place without noticing if two drivers hadn’t happened to slam their cars into each other.

  Was life so accidental in its possibilities? Or did it all come down to seizing them? Now, with a clarity that pierced her heart and swept through her mind, she was certain: it only ever came down to the odd hour here or there—hours of one’s own choices, hours of freedom. A great calm came over her.

  Now she understood the rage that the gallery owner had hurled at her. For Colette, the Marianne who gave herself a chance had died, capitulated. She turned to where Lothar was sitting on the backseat of the taxi, peering out at her through the window.

  I don’t know why we women believe that sacrificing our desires makes us more attractive to men. What on earth are we thinking? That someone who goes without her wishes deserves to be loved more than she who follows her dreams?

  “Marianne, we need to get going!”

  It was then that Marianne realized what had happened to her.

  It’s exactly as I thought. The more I suffered, the happier I was. The longer I went without, the stronger was my hope that Lothar would give me what I needed. I believed that if I didn’t ask for anything, made no reproaches, didn’t demand my own room or my own money, didn’t cause any arguments, the miracle would come to pass. That he would say, Oh, how much you have sacrificed! How my love for you has grown, because you sacrificed yourself for me!

  The traffic was beginning to flow again.

  How crazy that was. I was so proud of myself and my capacity for suffering: I wanted to be perfect at it. The more complete my uncomplaining acquiescence became, the greater his love would one day be. And my greatest abnegation—renouncing my own life—would have secured me his undying love.

  She began to giggle. “Stupidly, though, there was never any deal that my suffering would be repaid with love,” she said, and curious passers-by stared at her. “You’re exactly the same!” she called after them.

  Does love have to be earned through suffering?

  Tears of laughter ran down her cheeks. She hoped intensely that the generations of women to come would manage better than she had, having been brought up by mothers who didn’t equate love with abnegation.

  “Marianne, let’s go home!” Lothar had now got out of the car too.

  She had never heard such insecurity in his voice before, such a beseeching tone, such willingness to debase himself. She wanted to call out, “Stop it! Debase yourself and you receive not love, but scorn!” No one is grateful if someone goes without for their sake: that is the cruel nature of the human race.

  She walked back to the taxi, opened the trunk and lifted out her suitcase and the accordion.

  “Where are you going?
”

  “I don’t know,” she said, slamming the trunk. The only thing she knew for sure was that she was desperate for more than she had ever wanted from Lothar.

  He lunged for her arm. “Marianne, don’t leave me. I beg you, don’t go now. Marianne, I’m talking to you! If you walk out now, you don’t ever need to come home!” His voice broke as Marianne shook his hand from her arm before turning to face him one last time.

  “Lothar Messmann, you’re not my home.”

  With that, she picked up her cases and set out in search of a home somewhere on this earth. She wept for the love she no longer felt for Lothar, and also for the love she had refused herself.

  Paris in August. Quiet days, the quietest of the year, when Parisians are in the south, and their cars with them. Empty are the streets, and the air is uncommonly pure. Paris had gone away, and the heat had gathered inside shuttered flats, kiosks and bakeries.

  Marianne was sitting beside the Canal Saint-Martin, eating a brioche. The water nearby cooled the warm sheen on her skin. Four musicians were playing under the pedestrian bridge on the other side of the canal in the gentle light of approaching evening. The Arletty, a canal boat, puttered past.

  It was four days since she had abandoned her husband on the Pont Neuf. She had had no idea of where she wanted to go, trusting her feet to carry her somewhere she could put down her suitcase and close a door behind her.

  The envelope Geneviève had presented to her when she left had contained more than she was owed for her work at the guesthouse and Ar Mor. Madame Ecollier had paid her extra for her performance. Marianne’s worldly possessions amounted to two thousand six hundred and sixty-two euros, a borrowed suitcase holding some simple clothes and a blue dress, a Chanel lipstick, a dictionary, a tile and an accordion. She was sixty years old, without a profession, savings or jewelry, and yet she felt richer than ever before. She planned to stay in Paris until she knew what she wanted to do next—wanted to do so desperately that she couldn’t wait a single second longer.

  Kerdruc did not feature in her plans.

  She had come across the Pension Babette in the Marais area of town. Every one of its tiny yet bright and lovingly decorated rooms, furnished with a bed, a table, a chair and a chest of drawers, looked out onto a verdant backyard. She had watched people going about their lives in the buildings opposite, every brightly lit window showcasing a different dream: a man equipped with headphones and a baton who conducted inaudible symphonies; a woman who placed a heart in a tightly screwed jar on her bedside table and kissed it before she went to sleep; a couple who brandished potted plants as they argued, before she gave him a slap, he kissed her, and later they ate strawberries and dangled their legs out of the open window.