Pardon My French

by Allen Johnson

  I was breathing heavily now as I strode down the hallway that suddenly seemed to lengthen with every step, like looking backward into a telescope. Now the periphery of my vision had blurred. I had to snap out of it. I had to be clearheaded for what would surely be the fight of my life—maybe the fight of anyone’s life.

  I guided the key into the lock and slowly turned the knob. I opened the door just wide enough to slip through. I was in the living room. I shut the door behind me and dead bolted the latch. The room was dark and empty. I stopped and listened for heavy breathing. There was nothing.

  The bedroom door was closed—like that could stop me. A band of yellow light poured out beneath the door. I crossed the room, stood before the door, and turned the knob—bit by bit, tick by tock—and then pushed forward. The door did not give way. A chair had been braced against the knob from the inside. I pressed harder, rattling the doorknob.

  I heard my wife’s voice. “Honey, is that you?”

  Who else would it be? “Yes. Are you all right?”

  “Oh, honey. I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  I could hear Nita slip the chair away from the door. I reached for the knob again, but before my fingers touched the handle, the door flew open. Nita’s face was before me. Her eyes, still heavy with sleep, were gleaming with tears. But there was something else, something strange in her gaze, something I could not quite make out.

  She leapt into my arms, kissing me again and again. “You’re home, you’re home.”

  My heart melted. “Yes, I’m home now.”

  “I missed you so much.”

  “I missed you too.”

  “Just a tiny bit or a great big humongous bunch?”

  “You will never know how much.”

  “Good.”

  As I held her in my arms, I could not imagine any reunion so perfectly sweet. I squeezed her so tightly that she said, “Ouf,” and then again, “Ouf.”

  “Honey, you have me curious. Why were the bedroom lights turned on?”

  “I was so scared. I couldn’t stand sleeping in the dark.”

  “And you braced the door.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Every night?”

  “Every night. Oh, sweetheart, you were gone so long, so very long.”

  I looked at her again and suddenly realized what pathos had escaped me in her eyes. What I had seen were the remnants of terror. She had been terrified to be left alone in a dingy apartment with peculiar scents, islanded in a city where people seldom smiled, within a country that was so very far from home.

  I knew then that if we were going to make it in France, not to mention Algeria, it would have to be as a couple who would trust wholeheartedly, encourage indefatigably, and lift each other up when our hearts were dispirited. We would have to be intrepid soul mates. Whatever might come—the misunderstandings, the bewildering culture, the conundrum of language—we would need to be there for the other like a wash of bedroom light that deflects the shadows and offers a beacon of hope for the homeward bound. We would have to be each other’s savior.

  On that early morning when we went to bed, Nita laid her head on my chest. I had one last thing to say before I drifted off. “Honey, don’t you ever forget that I love you.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Thirty-One Years Later

  IN 2002 NITA AND I RETURNED TO FRANCE. And once again, we would spend a full year in the country we had come to love.

  The first week of our year in France was a blaze of impressions that overwhelmed my senses. I felt like a kid in a Willy Wonka candy store. Everywhere I looked, there were inscrutable delights to ponder. Every few minutes, I would turn to Nita and say, “Did you see that?” “How do they do that?” “Can we go into that bakery?” “Oh my goodness, look at that cathedral. Isn’t that incredible?” The synapses in my brain were snapping like voracious piranha.

  Strolling in Montpellier, I again witnessed the French penchant for style. The fashions had changed, but the sensuality remained constant. We saw it in their choice of clothing, their walk, even their attitude.

  As our heels clicked on the narrow cobblestoned streets, I was reminded of Caroline’s confidence and her enticing black summer dress. That had not altered. Everywhere we walked, our eyes were dazzled by the simple, yet sensual presence of proud young Mediterranean beauties. And they all seemed to own a black dress. In one afternoon, we saw all variations: sleeveless, spaghetti straps, single strap, and, yes, strapless. This provocative black basic came in all lengths—both miniskirts and full-length—some slit to the hip, others shaped like petals at the hem. It occurred to me that I could create a luscious coffee-table book of images on the French black dress alone.

  By day’s end, I felt certain that these women—in spiked heels and dresses two sizes too small to accent their slender figures—were supremely sure of themselves. I saw none of the awkward self-consciousness that is so prevalent among American young women. Frenchwomen have a grace about themselves that is noticed in every step they take—with pointed toes, one step in front of the other, like an elegant dancer gliding across the stage. Compare that with the all-too-typical American high school student with baggy pants draped below butt cleavage, waddling down the hall like Charlie Chaplin: feet akimbo, shoulders rolled forward, eyes focused on the cracks in the linoleum tile.

  Frenchwomen have a je ne sais quoi about their bodies that is astounding to Americans and dismissed as completely normal by the French. A French woman’s choice in clothing is seldom layered and rarely pretentious. But it is sexy (the French have adopted the English word).

  A few days after arriving in France, our longtime French friends, Jean-Marie and Monique Ducros, drove us to the prefecture in downtown Montpellier to begin the process of obtaining our cartes de séjour (official identification papers for those wishing to stay in France for longer than three months).

  Through American eyes, the woman who served us looked to be more suited for the beach than the office. She was a beautiful, slender woman with hair the color of school brick, strategically disheveled, the tips frosted in golden sienna. She must have spent a good deal of time in the sun, for her skin was deeply tanned to a copper perfection. All that was impressive, but what really caught my eye was her dress, a solid bright-orange number held in place by one strap over her right shoulder, exposing a bare left shoulder à la Wilma Flintstone. What is the word for the effect? Oh yes, “sexy.”

  When I recounted this vision to a twenty-three-year-old Frenchwoman, I was told that what I saw was the current rage and that Frenchwomen will typically wear the most stylish outfits to the office. From this man’s perspective, the Frenchwoman’s approach to business wear makes casual Friday in the States—blue jeans and a football jersey—a national embarrassment.

  What Frenchwomen wear in the office is just a warm-up for what they wear on the street. For example, at a local sporting goods store, I saw the sinuous details of a woman’s thighs and buttocks sealed in a hallelujah chorus of black spandex pants—no underwear I can assure you. (I nearly tripped over the barbells in my journalistic zeal to confirm that cultural detail.)

  In the same store I saw a pregnant woman merrily strolling down the aisles in stretch jeans and a chopped t-shirt that exposed her bare protruding tummy.

  My point is that regardless of the situation, many Frenchwomen—particularly those in their twenties and thirties—have an uninhibited, self-assured sensuality. Their method is calculated. Their effect is, for at least the uninitiated, enough to make you trip over your shoelaces and bump into things. “Uh, that is … I beg your pardon. I was distracted by this really cool … er, soccer ball. I’ve never seen a soccer ball quite like this before. It’s black and white and round and everything. Really spiffy, don’t you think?”

  Nor is French sensuality limited to the country’s youth. My first week in France, I watched a fifty-something-year-old man with a fringed black leather jacket board a bus with his girlfriend in tow. She, a lovely blond woman in her ea
rly thirties, wore the ubiquitous spaghetti-strap black dress, thrown over a pair of jeans that was rolled up at the cuff like pedal pushers.

  With no empty seats in sight, they stood, feet splayed, in the middle of the bus. The man took the face of the blond woman in his hands and kissed her hard on the mouth as if he were going off to war. Then, to punctuate the embrace, he caressed the woman’s breast as though he were checking for ripeness. She didn’t seem to mind—nor did the French passengers, most of whom were looking out the windows or smoothing the wrinkles out of their black cotton dresses. As for me, I was wildly scribbling notes. “What a show!” I thought. “This is better than Le Cirque du Soleil.”

  The indiscreet Frenchman, understandably overheated in his leather garb in the ninety-degree Mediterranean weather, stripped off his jacket, unbuttoned his long-sleeve white shirt, and began brushing a carpet of white chest hair. At that moment a seat opened up, and the two of them sat down and immediately launched into round two of deep-throat kissing. As I ogled the middle-aged biker’s beautiful blond companion, I timidly tapped my chest and whispered an ignominious prayer for a wooly thatch of chest hair.

  When I shared this experience with a French friend, he assured me that the couple’s behavior was inappropriate, but that, despite the indiscretion, the French would never vocally object. I agree with my friend. I think the incident was a French anomaly and just as likely to be witnessed on a New York subway as on the bus to Montpellier. Still, it was entertaining.

  * * *

  AFTER THE FRENCH AFFINITY FOR STYLE AND SENSUALITY, we noticed a second quality that has been misinterpreted by American tourists. Americans often label the French as closed or even cold. They are not. However, they are private.

  When I stood on a street corner with a shipwrecked expression and a crumpled map in my hands, the French would never approach me and ask, “May I help you?” That is not their way. (In contrast, I found Germans ready to help at the first sign of a pinched brow. “You seem to be having difficulty,” they would say in perfect English. “May I be of assistance?”)

  However, when I asked a French citizen for help, he or she happily obliged. The first time I lost my way in Montpellier, I pulled off to the side of the road and asked a gentleman for directions. “C’est très simple,” he said. “Vous verrez.” And to prove just how simple it was and how quickly I would see, he pulled out a map from his own glove compartment, spread the map across the hood of his car, and traced the correct route with his finger. When I thanked him, he smiled broadly and said, “Bon voyage, monsieur, and have a marvelous stay in France.”

  My point is that the French can be most gracious and quite friendly, but they must be wooed first. For example, during our first year in France, I developed the habit of going for a morning bicycle ride. On nearly every outing I would come across a young man jogging. In all the times I passed the runner, he never once acknowledged me with a nod or a “bonjour.” That is not surprising. Unlike Americans, the French do not say “howdy” to everyone they meet on the street. They do not nod; they don’t even smile. In fact, when I smiled and said “bonjour” to a stranger in town, I was always greeted with the same expression, “What mental ward did you escape from?”

  So when I decided to break the ice with the young jogger, I’m sure it seemed a little bizarre. On that day, I saw him just ahead. I picked up speed to catch up and then eased in beside him, pedaling slowly now to match his pace.

  “Bonjour,” I said. “I’ve seen you many times along this path.”

  “Ah oui? I don’t remember seeing you,” he said.

  How could he remember seeing me? We had never made eye contact. “You are a very fast runner,” I said. “I imagine that you’re training for a race.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I’m training for the Marathon de Reims in October.”

  “Well, you are certainly in good form.”

  “Oh, pas mal,” he said in a typically French self-defacing style (more about that later). Then quickly, to escape the spotlight, he added, “You’re in good shape yourself.”

  “Not bad,” I said, mimicking his modesty. “I try to do something physical every day.”

  “Il le faut.” One must.

  “This is a wonderful place to train, don’t you think?” I asked.

  “A little too flat,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “I haven’t been here long,” he volunteered.

  “You live in Pérols?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I’ve just come from a town near Les Gorges du Tarn. It is more hilly there—a better workout. You know it?”

  “Only by reputation,” I admitted. (Later in the year, the Ducros, Nita, and I would kayak down the placid Tarn River, which is framed by a 1,500- to 2,000-foot vertical limestone canyon. It is a magnificent float.)

  “Where do you come from?” he asked.

  “Washington State,” I said. “Have you ever visited the United States?”

  “No,” he said, “but if I do well in Reims, I will qualify for the New York Marathon.”

  “I hope that works out for you,” I said.

  The conversation continued for several minutes until we arrived at my turnoff point. In that conversation, I learned a great deal: where the young man lived, where he used to live, and what he hoped to accomplish. That is not information that he would have volunteered, but with just a little encouragement on my part, he was happy to engage in a fruitful dialogue.

  Related to their respect for privacy, the French also like their fences—particularly in southern France. Not chain-link fences, not chicken-wire fences, not even wooden fences, but rather concrete-block barriers finished in stucco—from four to eight feet high, some topped with broken glass.

  I have even seen signs on French gates that read DANGER DE MORT. Danger of death! In the States you might see PRIVATE PROPERTY, DO NOT ENTER, or maybe BEWARE OF DOG, but I’ve never seen an American sign that warned, “Stay out or I’ll kill you.”

  I grant you, I have not seen a lot of death threats on French portals. What I have seen are enclosures that come equipped with a locked gate and a bell. Visitors who seek entry must first ring the bell. Someone from within the house will come to the gate. If you are a friend, the gate lock will be manually or electronically released. If you are not a friend, you will be carefully scrutinized and not with a surplus of smiles.

  Why are the French so enamored with high walls? “For two reasons,” one Frenchman explained. “First, to protect one’s privacy and, second, to deter thieves from breaking in.”

  “Are there many thieves?” I asked.

  “Ça arrive,” he said. It happens.

  On another occasion, I noticed that my French friend closed all the window and door shutters just prior to sitting down for dinner. That seemed peculiar to me. His home was one of only a dozen in a mountain hamlet. What could he have to fear?

  He answered my question with another question. “Why would you want people looking in, seeing what you are doing? No, that is not good,” he said emphatically.

  “Oh?”

  Seeing my uncertainty, he added, “There is a French proverb: ‘Pour vivre heureux, vivons caché.’ ” To live happily, live hidden.

  I don’t want to be too critical of the French. When you think about it, they have good reason to be a bit cautious about strangers. After all, the French have had their share of invaders: Celts, Romans, Moors, English, Germans. And they have also engaged in their own civil and colonial conflicts: religious wars, the French Revolution, the Napoleonic wars, and the Algerian War. With such a deep history of conquests and conquerors, the formation of an instinct for security and self-preservation is understandable, even natural. Is it any wonder then that strangers may be seen as a potential enemy? Il faut se méfier—one must be mistrustful.

  How long does it take for an outsider to become an insider? I once visited with a French couple who owned a bed-and-breakfast chateau in a small village in Provence. Although they were originally
from Paris, they had lived in the village for thirty years and yet, by their own account, they were still not accepted by the community.

  “How long does it take?” I asked innocently, expecting them to say “a lifetime.”

  “Three generations,” was the answer.

  To an American, whose nation is less than three centuries old, three generations sounds like an eternity. But if you look at time from a French perspective, you may be a little more forgiving. After all, the first traces of human life in France date back 1.8 million years. The oldest city, Marseille, was founded by the Greeks in 600 BC. Consequently, traditions—including the process of building allegiances—have had a very long time to evolve. Moreover, those traditions are held with a deep and enduring respect. You do not discard a way of being that took hundreds, even thousands of years to mature. I believe that for the French “tradition” and “safety” are synonyms.

  You see Gallic mistrust expressed in a variety of ways. I’ve already mentioned their reluctance to greet a stranger on the street. What is more interesting is the French aversion to introducing themselves—even in business. In my first week in France, I bought a bicycle, a used car, car insurance, and a ton of groceries. I made transactions in banks, bakeries, and real estate agencies. At no time did anyone offer his or her name!

  For example, when Nita and I completed the paperwork for a used car at the Chrysler dealership, an attractive young Frenchwoman served us. We signed the forms and counted out one hundred euro notes (curiously, the dealership, which also sold Porsches, would not accept traveler’s checks or even a Visa card). During the exchange, I noticed, like the sales clerk before her, that the young woman did not bother to offer a name. After our transaction, I asked why.

  “Oh, that’s not done. We are not like Americans where all the clerks wear nametags. I like to keep my anonymity,” the woman said. “We are a very private people.”

  All of this information was interesting to me—particularly coming from a woman who was wearing a body-hugging gold dress with a plunging peek-a-boo neckline and a perfunctory drawstring loosely laced through a half dozen eyelets. I walked away with a new understanding about France. Your name may be anonymous but not necessarily your bustline.