Foreign Tongue

by Vanina Marsot

  “Open says me,” Lucy trilled and swanned in. She wore a slinky white dress, and I followed her, wearing a silk jacket and jeans, clutching her ancient green pashmina around me like a bath towel. A willowy blonde with a jeweled bindi between her eyes led us around a reflecting pool strewn with rose petals. A reclining gold Buddha lay at the other end. We went down candlelit stairs into a cavernous dining room.

  Our “table” was a white bed covered with multicolored sari silk pillows. Underneath a tented ceiling hung with hammered brass lanterns was a sea of beds. Everyone ate and reclined at the same time.

  “Someone,” I said darkly, “has been peeking into my fantasies.”

  Lucy hopped onto the bed and ordered champagne. “You see why I wanted to bring Angus,” she said.

  “His loss is my Ganesha,” I muttered, glancing at a stone statue of the elephant god. Bollywood remixes played on the sound system, and the smell of spices wafted through the air. “This place is trippy.”

  “Bhangra-la,” Lucy said, kicking off her heels. A waiter in a pink kurta poured champagne into two jewel-encrusted flutes. “By the way, we don’t order, they bring us food until we say stop. And I booked you a fortune-teller and me mehndi painting.”

  We clinked glasses, and I took a big gulp of icy champagne. Over crunchy pakoras, Lucy filled me in on her romance with “the handsome Scot,” as she called him. A mehndi painter, a woman in a peacock blue sari, came over and applied a brown crust of intricate curlicue patterns around Lucy’s ankle. Then she sprinkled lemon juice over it and propped Lucy’s foot up on a terry-cloth stool to let it dry.

  “Everyone drinks too much in England,” I remarked over my third glass of champagne. Perfumed courses arrived on hammered brass plates: baby dosas, small cornucopias stuffed with cardamom and fen nel spiced potatoes; samosas; coconut and tamarind rice; spinach with cheese; and fried puffy bread that looked like a flying saucer and came with a chickpea curry. Over pistachio ice cream, a rotund, middle-aged gentleman in a white suit and turban introduced himself as Sanjay, the fortune-teller.

  “I hope you ate well?” he asked. He had almond-shaped eyes and a mustache.

  “Very well, thank you,” I said.

  “Wretched excess,” Lucy said. “You’re reading her fortune,” she added, pointing at me. “But you probably knew that.” She laughed. He gave a polite smile. “You probably knew I would say that, too,” she said, giggling. “Terrible thing about fortune-tellers,” she whispered loudly. “You can’t have a conversation with them—they always know what you’re going to say.” She nodded her head up and down knowingly. I swatted her arm.

  He studied me for a long moment. “Please try to bring your mind into the room. Focus on being present but blank,” he said and held his hand out for my palm.

  I’m not good at making my mind blank. The only surefire way I know is to sleep. I have a contradictory streak, and being told to make my mind blank elicits a mulish laundry list of random thoughts. My mind raced through everything from Olivier to the fennel seed stuck in my molar to wondering if Lucy had any aspirin for my impending hangover. Sanjay studied my hand, then spoke.

  “This is a symmetrical story. You have come from far away, and before that, from even farther. You have had two years of bad luck, which has been concentrated around an unsuccessful love life. There are two men. I will tell you who they are.”

  “Uh-oh,” I joked, casting a glance at Lucy. She stared at Sanjay, glassy-eyed.

  “Neither of them is right for you, though you have not closed the door on either one. I see they are both artists, and they have much in common.

  “The first one is a charmer, a trickster, a magician. He dazzles you with sleight of hand, then disappears before the smoke has cleared. Your mistake is confusing a skilled display of artistry for substance—you have a tendency to do this, and it is something you must be wary of. You cannot hold on to him, not because he doesn’t want to be held but because there isn’t anything there for you to hold on to. He is the smoke.”

  He looked at my palm again. He spoke the way you would imagine a true seer would, if you believed in such a thing: not picking his words, merely a conduit for them.

  “The other one holds on to a very old thread. The more he has held on, the more it has spun around him, until now, this thread he thought he could snip with ease has become a cocoon, though he may not know it or want to be free. You could help him. It would require effort and patience on your part, and in the end, the challenge may end up meaning more than the prize. A gamble.”

  His hands fluttered in the air.

  “But all this is secondary. You must focus on your limitations, not another’s. This is one source of your distress: locating their solutions in another. Why do you choose these men? What do you learn from these situations? You must look inward, past your deepest fears. Beyond them is the treasure of pure self, no less complicated but true. That is where you must start. It is where we all start. Begin there, and you will begin again. Do not rail against fate. Some things are meant to be.”

  He stood up. “Otherwise, health good. Less indulgence, perhaps. You must do something for your neck, and it would behoove you to practice meditation. It is very noisy in here,” he said, tapping the center of his forehead. He bowed and left. Lucy and I gave each other spooked stares. My skin was taut with goose bumps.

  “He’s good,” I said, rubbing the right side of my neck, where it was always stiff. Across the dimly lit restaurant, I saw a tall man with dark hair. His back was turned to me, but my pulse sped up. He turned around: it wasn’t Olivier. It was someone else, and when he saw me, he glanced away. I had to talk to him, I had to tell him I wanted to see him. I had to tell him right now.

  “Lucy, I need to borrow your phone,” I said. She pulled her BlackBerry out of her evening bag. Clutching it in one hand, I wove through the restaurant, somehow managing not to trip over any of the low tables or woven rugs, and found a garden in the back. It was tented in red silk, and candles in ruby glass holders hung from the branches of a potted tree. It was like being inside a heart.

  I misdialed the first time I tried. It took me a second to remember how to call France from the U.K. I tried again and it rang. I looked at my watch. It was only a little past eleven my time, past midnight for him.

  “Allô,” he said, his voice congested and groggy.

  “Olivier, c’est moi. Ecoute, je t’appele de Londres. J’ai envie de te voir, de te parler—” The words tumbled out, clattering like dice. I want to see you, to talk to you.

  “Mais—”

  “Non, laisse moi continuer.” Let me finish, I insisted, pressing the device to my ear. “I’ll be back Monday afternoon. Can I see you Monday night?” I hoped I wasn’t slurring my speech, but I couldn’t tell.

  “Je suis désolé, madame. Vous avez fait faux numéro.” He hung up.

  I stared at the screen. A wrong number? But it sounded like Olivier. I’d thought it was Olivier. I thought about redialing, but it was too late. Metal pans crashed inside the kitchen, followed by mad shouting in a foreign language. The moment was gone.

  Lucy and I puttered around on Sunday, going to museums and an arty Japanese movie. On Monday afternoon, I took a half-empty train back to Paris. I tried to nap, but even with two empty seats, I couldn’t get comfortable.

  At home, a red “6” flashed on the machine. Three messages from Laveau, one from my mother, and one from Pascal, telling me I’d missed a spectacular party.

  I stared at the wall, at a nineteenth-century etching of a dying horse. The last message was Tante Isabelle, sending her love and asking me to be home for the installation of the new washing machine she’d ordered.

  In the desk drawer, I found a pack of Olivier’s cigarettes. I wedged myself onto a corner of the balcony and smoked. Across the street, the line at the boulangerie stretched six deep onto the sidewalk.

  I thought about the first time I’d met Timothy. I’d gone to a New Year’s Eve party in Santa Barbara
with a friend who didn’t want to drive up alone. I’d been sitting on the deck when he came over to me. We ended up talking about books and film, but I’d assumed he was merely being friendly, despite how much fun I was having, as he’d brought a date.

  Later, after midnight, when the party was in full swing, I slipped out and went for a walk on the beach. I walked and wished for Timothy, or someone like him. It was late, early morning on the first of the year, and I let myself wish.

  And then he was there. I’d conjured him up out of thin air. I don’t mean a ghost. I mean, one moment he was in the house, the next he was there, on the sand, not ten feet away, pants rolled up to midcalf, his head cocked to the wind.

  I froze. I’d wished for him, and there he was. But instead of going toward him, I turned and walked away.

  When I got back to the house, he’d left. We didn’t see each other again until a chance meeting over a year later.

  There’s a corollary to never looking a gift horse in the mouth. Never walk away from a granted wish. Even if the granting of it stuns you. Even if it reveals something to you about your own wishes that you’d prefer not to know. Not to have known.

  I’ve always been good at not getting what I want. Even when I get what I want.

  29

  I have said it before, I shall say it again: it is the minor treacheries that weigh most heavily on the heart.

  —JOHN BANVILLE, The Untouchable

  I caught the 96 bus, crowded with morning commuters, and arrived at Editions Laveau before it opened. A vellum-colored shade inside the door blocked my view. I paced on the sidewalk, longing for an express and a tartine beurre at a nearby café. I promised myself breakfast if Monsieur Laveau didn’t show up by ten-fifteen. At ten-thirteen, as I was picturing a frothy grand crème, he came up the street, wearing a beige trench coat and his perennial frown.

  “Entrez, mademoiselle,” he said, after unlocking the door.

  “Monsieur,” I answered, by way of greeting. He indicated the club chair in his office, but I sat on a caned chair. He hung his coat on the door and dropped his worn leather satchel on the floor.

  I looked on in happy anticipation as he made espresso. We’d almost become cozy. I smiled at him when he handed me a demitasse cup. He didn’t smile back, but that was nothing new. He sat and placed his hands flat on the desk.

  “Alors, je vais aller droit au but,” he began. At the grave tone in his voice, I stopped drinking my coffee. “It has come to my attention that you have some kind of intimate relation with one of my clients.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I asked, with froideur. My personal life, shambles or not, was none of his business. He hesitated a moment and shot his cuffs.

  “This is most unpleasant for me, mademoiselle,” he said. A muscle in his cheek twitched. Monsieur Laveau managed to look both distressed and contemptuous, as if he were girding himself for a repulsive task beneath his dignity, like removing a dead rat from a dinner at the Académie Française.

  “You will recall that our project is highly confidential, and yet, you are consorting with an extremely interested party.” In French, “intéressé” connotes “self-serving.”

  The conversation felt surreal. “Consorting?” I repeated, half-laughing. Just what century did he live in? Next, he’d accuse me of plotting to overthrow the king.

  “I demand you take this matter seriously,” he said.

  “Putting aside the weirdness of you trying to dictate the company I keep, the only thing I take seriously is your insinuation that I would not keep a confidential matter confidential—” I started, but he cut me off.

  “And yet, you described the plot of the novel to Olivier Vallant, who in turn repeated it, which is how I came to hear of it, and how my writer came to hear of it. Though the notion that you are translating Rémi Le Jaa, alors là, c’est totalement absurde,” he said.

  “But I thought you said—” I began, confused, remembering Olivier had told me that Bernard had hinted the author was Le Jaa.

  “Enough!” he said, raising his voice. “You have put me in a difficult situation, professionally and with regard to my personal friendship with the writer,” he said. “Even if I were to find another translator, the damage has already been done. Mademoiselle, c’est grave!” He thumped the desk for emphasis.

  Seventeen kinds of embarrassment ripped through me. My face flushed; I felt acid sting my stomach. I put the cup and saucer on the side table with a clatter. I didn’t know where to look, and I felt the worst kind of stupid. What a very small world it was, when your former lover’s lover was connected with half of literary Paris.

  I thought back to what little I’d told Olivier about the translation. I couldn’t remember saying anything specific.

  Then I remembered. That night. I’d described the plot and read him a scene.

  My hand flew to cover my mouth as my lower lip started to tremble. I didn’t know what to say. Bernard drained his coffee in two neat sips.

  “How? When?” I managed, my voice wobbly. He rested his elbows on the desk and put his fingertips together, his face granite above them.

  “C’était indirect, bien évidemment. It came to my attention this weekend. A social occasion,” he said with distaste. I winced. “Eh oui,” he added, tilting his head. In that gesture, I saw how aggravated he was. I pictured a dinner, a cocktail party, Estelle leaning toward Victorine, the whisper traveling as swiftly as a snake in the grass. My dear, you’ll never imagine what our dear Bernard is up to now. He’s hired a translator for a mysterious new novel. Shall I tell you what it’s about? Or who it’s by? I pressed clammy hands to my hot face. I saw Estelle in bed, her head on the pillow, Olivier’s arms around her, and I heard his voice in her ear, her laugh, like shattering crystal—

  “Mademoiselle?” Bernard’s voice poked at me.

  This seemed worse than finding out about Olivier and Estelle. Not just because it put an effective, definitive end to any ragged hope I might have harbored about mending things between us, but because it involved other people. I clenched my jaw. I would not cry in front of Monsieur Laveau.

  “Excusez-moi un instant.” I stood, knocking over the side table, sending the cup and saucer, an ashtray, and two books to the floor.

  “Merde!” I muttered, bending down to retrieve them. Monsieur Laveau came around the desk and grasped my arm at the elbow.

  “Laissez, laissez, je m’en occupe,” he said gently and took the china from my hand. My eyes welled up, and I darted into the little bathroom before he could see.

  I turned on the faucet. A couple of tears squeezed out of my eyes, but I averted a complete breakdown. I thought about the French expression for uncontrollable weeping, “pleurer comme une madeleine,” and wondered how Proust’s little lemon sponge cakes could sob. I had to remember to look that up.

  A dusty window gave onto the courtyard. It started to rain, wetting a trio of children’s toys: a red tricycle, a green plastic alligator, a pink hula hoop. I blew my nose on a wad of toilet paper, turned off the tap, and came out. There was a glass of water on the side table, and I drank it. Something vibrated in my ear, a small instrument thrumming under the ocean, a creature trying to kick free. I took a deep breath.

  “Monsieur, in a moment of unthinking idiocy, I told”—I stopped. I couldn’t say his name—“the person you mention a sketchy plot description, which I thought innocuous at the time, and a love scene. I see that was a horrible mistake, and you have my deepest apologies for it, and for the discomfort it caused you,” I said, swallowing.

  My speech didn’t have the desired effect. I waited for Monsieur Laveau to lecture me, to shout, but he didn’t. Instead, he deflated: even his chest seemed to cave in. For the first time, he seemed fragile, his wiry physique worn out.

  “Je vois,” he said blinking rapidly. “I’d hoped there was some other explanation.” He looked over my shoulder, his eyes not meeting mine. He’d actually had faith in me; he’d imagined a mistake, perhaps, or a purloined ch
apter. But no, I’d let him down, embarrassed him. My toes curled in my sneakers.

  “You must decide whether you’d like to continue our professional association,” I said, my words formal and stilted. “But I can guarantee this will never happen again. It was a huge error, but one that will not be repeated.” I clenched my hands in my lap.

  He exhaled, puffing out his cheeks in the French blowfish manner that can mean exasperation, fatigue, impossibility, difficulty, or reluctance. In this case, it meant all of them. He turned his silver letter opener over in his hands. “What guarantee do I have?”

  “Because I’m never going to talk to him again,” I said, unable to keep the waspish tone out of my voice. “Our relationship ended—badly—on Friday.” If this came as a surprise, he didn’t show it. He swiveled away to look out the window. I watched, waiting for a reaction, but he merely looked sad and withdrawn, which was worse.

  When he still didn’t say anything, I picked up my bag. “Je vais m’en aller, monsieur. I’ll assume that if you want to get in touch with me, you will.” I stood up. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I whispered and walked to the door on wobbly legs, wondering if this was going to be the last time I heard the cowbell.

  Ignoring the drizzle, I walked past cafés draped with Halloween decorations, and bought a pack of cigarettes and matches at a small tabac. I turned and walked down to Saint-Sulpice. The church, stained by the rain, looked heavy and forbidding in the gray light.

  On the square, most of the Café du Marché’s outdoor chairs were piled on top of one another and chained together, like victims of a giant furniture roundup. Under the awnings, a few loose chairs and tables huddled near two heat lamps for warmth, the setup for smokers. It felt like someplace I could hide. I sat down, ordered a large double express, and lit the first of many cigarettes.