Second Chance

by Linda Kepner

  “Oui. I know bodega.”

  “Bus stop too. Driver be Armand, this time of day, good fellow. Tell him Joseph sent you, give him cigarette maybe.”

  “Does he like Dessants? That’s all I’m carrying.”

  His smile got even broader. “Everybody like Dessant. This his island.”

  “That’s what I heard,” she agreed with a smile. “Merci, Joseph.”

  “You teach a few words American?”

  “Thank you, Joseph, you are kind,” she said, in English.

  “Thank you, Mam’selle, you are kind.” He grinned, touched his cap, and left.

  Bishou tucked her room key in her pocket and strapped her purse firmly across her shoulder. Then she followed directions to the corner store. A Creole woman worked busily behind the counter.

  “Cigarettes?” asked Bishou.

  “What brand?” the woman said busily.

  “Dessant,” Bishou replied, as if that were obvious.

  The woman stopped, and grinned at her. “Sorry if I was rude, Mam’selle.”

  “You weren’t. Are you Missy?”

  “Oui, I am.”

  “Joseph at Pension Étoile said this was the best store in town.”

  Missy grinned, showing some missing teeth. “He should. He owes me money.” The woman grinned in pleasure as Bishou laughed at the joke. Quickly she took Bishou’s bills, and gave her change. “Now, what else can I do for you, Mam’selle?”

  “Tell me about the bus. Where it goes, when it comes.”

  “I’ve got a schedule here.” She slid one across the counter. “You can keep that.”

  “Merci. I just want to ride around and see things. Je suis étrangère.”

  “A good plan, in a new place.” Missy nodded. “You come from Mauritius?”

  “Oui.”

  “And before then?” Missy was distracted by the appearance of another customer, then by the beep of the bus. “Autobus, Mam’selle. This is what you want.”

  “Merci,” said Bishou, running outside before Missy could ask any more questions.

  Now she saw what Louis meant about Réunion buses. This bus had sort of a roof, but there were seats all around the outside, too, and its top speed was probably ten kilometers per hour, downhill. She followed the lead of the others, paid the driver, and found a seat. She sat inside the bus, near him, though.

  “Are you Armand?” she asked.

  The driver replied, “Joseph sent you?”

  Bishou dumped a few cigarettes into her hand, and passed them to him. He grinned with delight.

  “He said, Armand likes those Dessant cigarettes, Mam’selle, so give him some. And he will tell you everything you want to know.”

  Other passengers around them, mainly Creole but some French, watched and smiled.

  The driver grinned again and shifted into gear. The bus was not quite as loud as a lawnmower, but moved at about the same speed. “Where do you want to go, Mam’selle?”

  “I just want to see some of the region, and come back to Missy’s.”

  “Just right,” said the driver. “That’s my route. That makes it a three-hour trip, d’accord?”

  “D’accord,” she nodded. By then, it would be almost nightfall, a good time to get back to the hotel and try to sleep.

  Joseph pointed out museums, banks, the retail area, and libraries as they started through town. “And those buildings over there, that’s the new Université Française de l’Océan Indien, our own university,” he said proudly. “Just started about five years ago.”

  “I’m going to go there when I get older,” said a little Creole boy in the opposite front seat. His mama brushed his hair with one hand.

  “I think that is a good plan,” Bishou told the little boy. “Then you can learn much, and maybe work in a business like a bank or publishing house.”

  Her acceptance of the little boy made a difference in the atmosphere around her. This went from a silent bus to a bus full of quiet conversations, as they talked with the strange woman. Mainly, as Joseph pointed out more landmarks, they elaborated on his description, even if it was just to say “I was baptized in that church.”

  There were no suburbs in Saint-Denis — one moment you were in the city, the next you were riding down one-lane dirt roads, past occasional farms.

  Joseph pointed. “That’s the Dessant Cigarette factory over there.”

  “I saw tobacco fields all around us,” she commented. “It’s big.”

  “Oui. Monsieur Dessant is a rich man.”

  “But a nice man,” another woman interrupted. “So is Monsieur Campard, his partner.”

  “And they are réunionnais,” said a man.

  “Oho,” said Bishou. “That is it, is it not? They are family. Family protect their own.”

  Everyone within hearing range started to laugh, some almost sheepishly.

  “That is how it is,” agreed Joseph, laughing too. He pointed down another road. “That is Rue Dessant, where Monsieur Dessant’s house is. Far over there — you can barely see it — is the road to Rue Calaincourt, where Monsieur Campard’s house is. The tour buses, they go there. But I stick to the main road. I have to stay on schedule. Else I would show you their beautiful houses.”

  “That’s all right. I have seen other beautiful houses,” Bishou said. “I enjoy more seeing people. The best part of my voyage, so far, has been the people I have met.”

  “Are you a tourist, then, mam’selle?” Joseph asked her.

  “Oui. Seeing friends, and maybe applying for work while I am here. I am not rich, so I must be very careful with my money.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then whatever job I obtain,” she answered.

  “Well, good luck,” said Joseph. “I hope you’ll be commuting on this bus in the afternoon, Mam’selle.”

  “I hope so, too,” she replied.

  Chapter 14

  Bishou’s travel alarm clock chirped her awake. She had been dreaming of the easygoing, almost idyllic ride yesterday, and woke up comfortably in the bright sunlight. Eight o’clock. Time to train her body out of the jet lag — the décalage, as Louis had called it. Strange, how peaceful she felt.

  Bishou changed out of her pajamas and went to the bathroom at the end of the hall to wash up and brush her teeth. This pension is so very French, she thought. In another day, she was going to have to barricade the bathtub and take a soak — she hadn’t had a thorough wash since Mauritius. Then she smiled to herself. She was even thinking like Bat. She’d ask them if she could bathe today, while everyone else was out.

  When she went downstairs, she heard the two sisters talking before she appeared, and she could smell coffee. The ladies were very excited to see her. “Oh, Mademoiselle, venez, venez!” They almost bodily brought her through a doorway behind the hotel desk. To her astonishment, breakfast awaited: Croissants, orange juice, coffee. Amazingly, too, they sat down with her, and plied her with questions about America. Between mouthfuls, Bishou talked about New England, Virginia, her handsome brother Jean-Baptiste, her coed years.

  “And you traveled without chaperone?” one asked, staring in surprise.

  “Certainly.”

  “But suppose a man tried to attack you?”

  “My brother is a soldier. He insisted I learn to defend myself.”

  “Oh! Have you ever used the lessons you learned?”

  “Well — yes. But most of the time, I talk my way out of trouble.”

  These middle-aged spinsters giggled like teenagers as they talked with Bishou about wandering all around America. It was a concept they couldn’t imagine, anymore than they could imagine a 10,000-kilometer voyage — it could just as well be a science-fiction movie to them. In fact, the cinema was more real — there were three cinema houses in Saint-Denis alone.

  The croissants, coffee with lots of cream and sugar, and juice kept coming. Bishou almost had to hide her coffee cup to prevent a “freshening up.”

  “Non, non, non! I will be as fa
t as a goat if I let you have this cup again, Mademoiselle!” she protested, as they all laughed. “Besides, I have things I want to do today.”

  “Well, if it is shopping, Docteur,” said the other sister, “remember, the shops close from noon to two. And it is almost ten, now.”

  “Non, non. I will tell you later.” Bishou rose. “Au revoir. And some time, I must repay you for this lovely meal.”

  Once outside, she walked again to Missy’s, greeted her briefly, and took a bus with a different driver, a morning bus. “Université,” she told him.

  He merely nodded, and took her money. She sat on the outside. When the bus slowed down at the université, she simply dropped off and walked up to the gates. Bishou stepped through the open gates and found herself in a small quadrangle. Some things were universal. She found the public jobs board, read it, and smiled.

  Bishou located the College of Humanities building. Entering, apparently at class-change time, she worked her way through the throngs of students to the office. The secretaries were busy, so she took a seat. She could wait. When the last student was finished at the desks, she approached a secretary. Talk about universal, Bishou thought, at the woman’s hostile glance up at her, through half-glasses on a chain.

  “Bonjour, Madame. I wish to speak with Dr. Rubin. Is he available?”

  “Doyen Rubin,” she emphasized the word for dean, “is busy with students. May I help you?”

  “Yes, I am looking for work. I sent him a letter.”

  “Then you should go to University Administration, Mademoiselle. The dean is not in the habit of hiring secretaries,” she said with asperity.

  “No doubt he is not. But I understand his word is vital in hiring professors of literature,” Bishou said calmly. “Would you ask him if he could please make time to meet Dr. Bishou Howard?”

  Her jaw dangled. “Docteur Howard?”

  “Oui, Docteur Howard.”

  “I — he — it may be a few minutes before I can interrupt him, Docteur.”

  “D’accord,” said Bishou agreeably. “I’ll wait.”

  She sat down again in a rickety old chair and flipped through a stack of ancient magazines. From the corner of her eye, she saw the consternation of the secretarial pool as they realized the woman waiting in the corner was a professor. Then she heard the rapid clicking of heels as a secretary headed down a corridor. A few minutes later, the heels clicked back again, and returned to Bishou.

  “Pardon, Madame — I mean, Docteur,” she said. She held a clipboard. “Le doyen asked that you fill out these forms, s´il vous plâit.”

  “Surely.” Bishou took the board from her and slid a pen out of her purse. The secretary left, almost superstitiously, and retreated to her desk.

  One of the forms was a plain old job application, but — she smiled as she looked at some of the others — there were insurance forms, pension forms, and so on, the forms of someone who had already been hired.

  The dean had pulled the forms from the file he’d already started on her, and given them to the secretary to pass on. The Journal of Higher Education had been correct when it said this school was new, and the jobs board had said they were desperate for new hires in a few significant areas, including comparative literature. Dr. Rubin already had her résumé. She had sent it with her letter from the States. In compliance with U.S. law, and also with the newest French laws, none of the paperwork had happened to mention that she was a woman. There was probably a lot of retrenching going on in that back office.

  Bishou was copying her passport number onto one of the forms when a shadow fell over it. She looked up to see the Frenchest Frenchman she’d ever seen, spectacles and little goatee and all, frowning down at her. “Dr. Howard?”

  “Oui.” She slipped her passport back in her purse, and stood with the clipboard.

  “I am Dr. Rubin.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur le Doyen,” she said. She put out a hand before he did, and they shook hands.

  “Please, come into my office.”

  He motioned for her to precede him, but she shook her head and motioned to him. After all, he knew the way. And he was the dean. He led the way back to his office, a reasonably sized enclosure with a glass door. He closed the door and slid behind his desk. They sat down simultaneously.

  “Well, Docteur,” he said. “What brings you to our beautiful island?”

  “I just received my doctorate, Monsieur le Doyen, and now I need experience. The climate of Réunion Island is much like Virginia, and you had a job opening in the very area in which I have taught — comparative literature.”

  “I saw that you spent time studying in Paris.” He was rereading her resume. “But how do you speak French so well?”

  “My family is French-Canadian,” Bishou replied. “My father is now retired, but he was a professor in Massachusetts.” She named the three universities at which Dad had taught. “My mother was a teacher in a college preparatory school.” She named the school, which was also well known. “My brothers and I switch easily between the French and English tongues.”

  They spoke back and forth a while longer. During this time, Bishou “happened to mention” that she taught freshman classes, she taught early hours, she tutored, and she had assisted with fundraising. Dr. Rubin never came out and said it was an all-male, all-French faculty, but she got the gist. He also “happened to mention” that women’s salaries weren’t as high as men’s, and she “happened to mention” that a doctorate was a doctorate. No blood was shed, but the battle lines were drawn.

  “Would you be willing to give a presentation some evening?” he asked.

  “Bien sûr,” she replied. “On what topic? Passion in literature, my dissertation topic? Or do you have a favorite subject of your own?”

  He smiled a stiff smile, and gestured away the topic. “Réunion thrives on different passions.”

  “So I have been told,” she said, and did not smile.

  He gave her a calculating look. “How long will you be here?”

  “I do not know yet. A week, perhaps.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “La Pension Étoile,” she replied.

  “Ah, not a private home,” he said, a leading question if ever there was one.

  “Non, Monsieur le Doyen.”

  “That is expensive, is it not?”

  “Oui, it is.” She said no more, not wanting to give him an opening to delay his decision until after she would be forced to leave. She knew that academic delay tactic, too.

  “I must meet with the college president, and then arrange the presentation,” he said. “I will be in touch with you.”

  “Merci, Monsieur le Doyen,” Bishou said, understanding that the appointment was over.

  She stood as he did. Yes, they did have good timing together — that was a positive sign. She let a smile touch the corner of her mouth, just barely, and thought she saw a twinkle in his eye. It was too early to judge, though.

  He walked her to the front office. “Give your paperwork to Mme. Ellis,” he said, indicating the secretary who had first greeted her. “She will take care of it.” They shook hands, as the secretaries stared at them. “Au revoir, Dr. Howard.”

  “Au revoir, Monsieur le Doyen,” Bishou replied. Then she turned to the secretary. “Madame, I have not finished this paperwork. Do you mind if I return to the corner, to work on it?”

  “Go ahead, Docteur,” said Mme. Ellis politely.

  Bishou finished the paperwork, and returned to the secretary’s desk with the clipboard. She was aware that she would be the most-talked-about event of the secretarial pool for the next three days, at least. “Voici, Madame. And thank you for your help.”

  “De rien, Docteur. Au revoir.”

  Back out in the sunlight, Bishou checked her watch. It was half-past eleven, not yet siesta time in Saint-Denis. She walked to the front gate, trying to decide whether to travel farther or return to the pension for a bath and a nap. The bus was waiting
there. She made her decision. She would travel farther.

  She climbed aboard. “Rue Calaincourt,” she told him, as she paid her fare.

  The driver merely nodded, and the bus trundled on its way.

  At the Rue Calaincourt stop, several passengers disembarked. They headed elsewhere, not up the Rue itself. Bishou walked it alone.

  There were two pretty houses along the way, but neither was number 7. A third house on the left — stuccoed, earth-toned, shingle-roofed, clean and neat — struck her as a possibility. She turned up the front path. The windows were open, so surely her footsteps were audible to anyone who might be at home. She smiled at a tiny “7” painted on the exterior, near the front door.

  The door opened before she reached it. A bespectacled woman, hardly much older than Bishou, stood there. “Oh, mes apologies. I thought the children were early. What may I do for you?”

  “Madame Campard?”

  “Oui,” she replied curiously.

  “I am called Bishou Howard.”

  Denise Campard stared. Then she screamed, and threw her arms around Bishou’s neck.

  Bishou smiled, and returned the hug. “Does this mean you recognize my name?”

  “Oh! Oh! Oh! Recognize it?” Her cries had brought the Creole housekeeper running. Denise waved her off with one hand. “Non, non, non, Josie, it’s all right — oh, it’s not all right, it’s wonderful, Josie, make us some coffee, will you? Recognize the name? Oh, come in, come in! Welcome! You, of all people, in our home!” She grabbed Bishou’s hands, and dragged her into the living room. “What are you doing here, Bishou? Have you come to see Louis?”

  “Non. I haven’t seen him yet. I wanted to see you both first — to see how he was, and to see if it was a good idea.”

  “Good idea?” She sounded incredulous.

  “Well, you know, he collapsed at my place.”

  “You’re the only woman he ever mentions, besides his secretary and Carola.” To her credit, Denise Campard did not make a face when she said Carola’s name. “You’ll stay for lunch, won’t you? How did you get here? Where are you staying? Oh, you just dropped out of the sky! Louis said he couldn’t write you anymore at East Virginia University, and then you left New England, your brother wrote to tell him.”