—with shrewd cat’s eyes that glittered in the low light, and I was no longer sure who was the predator.
She shrugged out of the coat, letting it drop on the floor. She leaned her arms back on the dresser. She gave a delicate shrug, and a strap of her dress slipped off her shoulder, revealing the hollow above her collarbone. “So, now that you’re here…” she whispered, reeling me in. I bent forward to kiss her, and she stopped me.
“This won’t change anything,” she murmured. “I won’t change.” She looked up at me through half-closed lids. I undid the row of buttons at the back of her dress and pressed my face to her neck.
“I know,” I said. She unzipped my trousers.
She never has.
That wasn’t right, either. The sentence was “Elle est restée fidèle à elle-même,” literally, “She has remained faithful to herself,” or “She has remained faithful to who she is,” which was clunky, and I wasn’t sure it even meant anything in English. Did “She never has” convey all that it needed to?
That was the third ending. They had a way of sneaking up on me, these endings. I reread the chapter to see if I’d misread something, but I hadn’t. I shut down the computer and stood up to stretch.
I stood in front of the mirror above the mantel and put my hand in side my T-shirt, slowly running my fingers over my collarbone, feeling its contours, the dip above and below it. I pulled the neck down farther and looked at my breasts. In the dim light, my face, the woman in the photograph, Eve, they all blurred together.
I slept soundly and deeply, and woke up refreshed and energetic. In the shower, I spied a bottle of Tante Isabelle’s body oil. I patted myself dry and massaged the citrus-scented oil into my skin. It took a while to sink in, so I kept rubbing, not sure whether this was self-indulgent luxury or a lot of hard work, but afterward, my skin felt slippery and velvety at the same time.
But when I got dressed, my jeans stuck to my legs instead of sliding over them. Body oil was for women who had the time or patience to recline on lounge chairs in gauzy caftans. My T-shirt clung to my arms. I felt like roast duck.
I pulled the trotinette up the hill to the African market. A woman in a print dress and matching head wrap leaned over furry, bone white oblongs of dried fish, a small tot tucked into a fabric sling at her back. By the Belleville métro, a man passed out cards. I took one and read:
“Rapid, Efficient, Guaranteed Results. Professor Sissé Diasebakou, Grand Seer, Medium, Clairvoyant. He will succeed where others have failed. Exceptional gifts. Thirty years of experience. Ease of payment. Telepathic, he will see your destiny with empathy and beneficial manner. Resolve all your problems, family difficulties, return of affection, physical problems, professional success, luck in games, protection, driver’s license, etc. Come, and chance will smile on you. The result will be positive! Payment after results.”
I tucked it in my pocket and loaded up on fruit and vegetables.
35
You are more and more authentic the more you look like someone you dreamed of being.
—PEDRO ALMODÓVAR, All About My Mother
I fastened the narrow straps of my kitten-heeled Mary Janes and looked at myself in the mirror. I shimmied from side to side, admiring my legs. It was only the second time I’d worn a skirt in recent weeks, and I’d pulled on lace-patterned stockings. On top, I wore a pale pink mohair cache-cœur, a wrap top. Usually I wore it over a T-shirt, but today I’d slipped it over a lacy camisole I’d forgotten I owned. I’d twisted my hair up and put on makeup, even lipstick and mascara. I looked soigné, well taken care of.
On my way to Laveau’s, I took a circuitous route, rounding the back of the Picasso Museum. I stopped in front of a North African patisserie, displaying patterned ceramic plates piled high with sesame-seed balls, fried dough wings dusted with sugar, and trays of baklava, cut into lozenges and glistening with syrup.
The neighborhood felt hushed, deserted, as if everyone had already left town for La Toussaint, the first of November holiday weekend. I stopped in front of a window arranged to look like a dressing room where an old-fashioned mannequin with a Joan Crawford pout wore a vintage black evening coat with jet buttons over a pleated chiffon dress. A trio of shoes sat on a mirrored dressing table: Pucci-print slippers, peep-toe platforms, and white go-go boots. The door read SUMIKO ISHIGAWA, ANCIENNES COLLECTIONS ET VINTAGE. I went inside.
“Bonjour,” I called out to a short, slender woman I assumed was Sumiko. She wore cropped tweed pants with purple kneesocks and gold stilettos, an orange V-neck over a poet’s blouse with lace cuffs, and a fur pelt with an animal head. Only two types of women could get away with that kind of outfit: card-carrying fashionisti and the deranged.
I asked about the coat. It was Balenciaga, late fifties, she said and shook her head.
“C’est trop petit pour vous,” she said. I tried not to feel like a big galoot. “Qu’est ce que vous cherchez?” she asked.
“Je ne sais pas,” I said, philosophically. It was true; I didn’t know what I was looking for, though walking into a boutique does seem like an invitation for something to find you.
“Attendez, j’ai peut-être quelque chose…” she said and dashed behind a curtain.
My mother had taught me not to go into shops in Paris unless I was serious about buying. The French did not try things on for fun, and French saleswomen could tell if you were wasting their time. Things had changed somewhat, but not entirely, and I’d just made a tactical error. It was one thing to admire the clothes, but once she started picking them out for me, I’d feel obliged to try them on, or worse, buy, and this place—the tag on the Balenciaga coat read 1200 euros—was out of my price range.
“J’ai trouvé trois choses,” she said, emerging from the back with three items. The first was a sleeveless trapeze Courrèges dress in lemon yellow, perfect with the white go-go boots if I ever wanted to be Nancy Sinatra for Halloween. Next, she held up a lovely navy blue organza dress with beaded buttons and a poufy skirt, but years of high school uniforms had given me a nonnegotiable aversion to navy blue. Finally, she pulled out a pale pink wool coatdress, with small rhinestone buttons and wide, turned-back cuffs. I blinked. I may have squealed. One word came to mind: mine.
It was handmade, with no designer label and a silk lining printed with pink tulips. I slid out of my trench and tried it on. It fit snugly, cinching in at the waist and flaring slightly at the hips. I could wear it closed, as a dress, or open over my outfit.
“Vous êtes magique,” I said.
Sumiko cocked her head to one side, satisfied. I looked at the price tag. “Merci, mais c’est trop cher,” I said, forcing the words out. I handed it back with genuine regret.
“Je vous fais une reduction,” she said. She tapped some numbers on a red and white Hello Kitty calculator and showed me the figure. She’d subtracted thirty percent. I thought about it long and hard, about ten seconds, and took out my credit card. She pulled out tissue paper to pack the coat in a box, but I told her I’d wear it.
I left feeling like Audrey Hepburn, Grace Kelly, and Ava Gardner rolled into one. I’d eat lentils and pasta, skip the gourmet supermarket. It was almost noon when I rattled the cowbell and waltzed into the bookstore.
Monsieur Laveau was dusting a set of books with a sable brush.
“Antoine’s author,” I remarked, reading the name Villiers de L’Isle-Adam over his shoulder.
“First editions. I found them for him,” he explained.
“I thought you didn’t like each other.”
“Idle gossip.” He waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Asseyez vous, mademoiselle,” he said, tilting his head like a benevolent king. There was a new armchair in front of his desk, a handsome bergère upholstered in worn brown leather. He busied himself with the coffee machine.
“C’est nouveau!” I exclaimed, sitting down. “Et confortable!”
“On m’a dit que l’ancien était d’un confort moyenâgeux,” he said. I smiled at his use of the
word “moyenâgeux” for the old chair. Literally “Middle Ages–ish,” it was a synonym for “medieval,” but less literal and more playful. He turned and handed me a cup of coffee, glancing down at my legs.
“What do you think he’s doing with all these endings?” I asked.
“Hein?” Bernard said, uncharacteristically, still looking at my legs. I suppressed a smile and tilted my head to twirl my pearl earring, shivering as my cold fingers fondled my earlobe. The onomatopoeic French word for “what?” or “huh,” “hein” was almost always used as an interrogative and seemed to have three vowel sounds shoved in it. Along with “ben,” the French sound that could mean well, so, or um, they were the language tic twins: Hein was an overweight, Teutonic college boy with a pale mustache, and Ben, his nerdy sidekick, was all elbows and knees.
“Is there a purpose behind the multiple endings? As opposed to, say, a wimpy lack of decision-making skills?” I asked.
“I’m not familiar with the word ‘wimpy,’ but I believe I understand your meaning, mademoiselle,” he said with asperity. “I do not believe he has any difficulty making decisions,” he said, a familiar reproving note in his voice.
“I still don’t see why I had to get them in such a piecemeal fashion,” I said.
“Age has only increased my friend’s monumental stubbornness,” he said. I squinted at him. “Va chercher,” he said, shrugging, and I heard “Go figure.” It was a nearly seamless translation.
“Will you really never tell me who he is?” I asked. He frowned at me, not saying anything. “Okay, fine,” I said. I stood up and smiled, changing the subject. “What do you think of my new coat?” I asked. He came over to me and examined the turned-back cuff of one sleeve and the hand-stitched silk lining. He walked around me and smoothed out the shoulders, then tugged the sleeves down. I could smell his cologne, something cool and green.
“My mother always took me along to the dressmaker. I have an ex cellent eye for women’s clothing,” he explained. It was the first time he’d revealed any personal information. “It is very different for you, non? It changes you. Je vous trouve très élégante, mademoiselle. Félicitations,” he added approvingly. He was right: it was different for me: it was dressy and elegant in a way I sometimes aspired to be but too rarely made the effort for. He sat and drank his coffee.
“Do you have special plans for the weekend?” he asked. A compliment and now a personal question? We were almost pals.
“Nothing in particular. And you? You’re off to the country?”
His mouth twitched ruefully. “Hélas, I had to cancel my plans. I must stay in town for the theater.”
Ah. The theater. We made eye contact, then he looked away, realizing what he’d brought up. I pretended not to notice, and he pretended it was convincing.
I pointed at an envelope. “Is that my check? With the chapter?” He nodded and handed them to me. “This is the last ending,” I said. “I’m nearly done, n’est-ce pas?”
“C’est vrai,” he said, tilting his head as if he were considering something.
“How funny, I thought it was going to last forever,” I said lightly.
“Eventuellement, I might have other work for you,” he said, pawing through the stack of manuscripts on his desk. “A thriller that might sell to the Americans; would that interest you?”
“Yes, definitely. Thank you for considering me.” I got to my feet.
“C’est normal.” He walked me to the door.
“Well, bon week-end, alors.”
“Vous aussi, mademoiselle.” An impish impulse made me lean over and give him a peck on the cheek. As I left, the cowbell pealed in surprise.
A bright autumn sun beat down on the pavement. I tripped along the street, feeling pretty as I caught a few admiring glances. I crossed the Pont des Arts, intending to treat myself to some window-shopping in the Palais Royal. By the time I got there, I could feel a hot, sore blister developing on my little toe. How did Frenchwomen do it? Limping into the garden for a place to rest, I saw Bunny, seated in a green enamel chair, a WHSmith bag on the ground beside him. A crowd of pigeons fought over a piece of bread nearby.
“Fancy seeing you! Why are you feeding pigeons?” I asked, sitting next to him.
“Flying rats.” He scowled. “I have a technique: distract them with a showy chunk. While they’re fighting over it, I break off these little pieces and put them near me, where the sparrows are protected.” He pointed beneath him with a doting smile: three little sparrows pecked at crumbs on the ground.
A squabbling scrum of pigeons squawked as one daring player made off with a fluffy piece of mie. Bunny sneered as the pigeons chased the scoundrel en masse.
“Idiots,” he muttered. I slouched down in my seat, listening to the breeze rustle through the trees. Bunny sighed and crossed his legs at the ankles.
“What’d you get at Smith?” I asked, looking down at the bag.
“Couple of old Le Carrés I probably already have. The New Yorker and The Economist,” he said.
“You can read it online, you know.”
“I like paper. I like the feel of it, the sound of it, dog-eared pages, ink. I like holding what I’m reading,” he said, miming holding a newspaper. I looped my wool scarf around my neck.
“I’m going. I want to beat the wage slave traffic home,” he said and stood. “By the way, you’re looking very, ah, womanly. It’s nice.” I smiled, about to thank him, but he’d already left.
I sat in the park awhile, unable to keep myself from thinking about Olivier’s play. But then another thought edged into my head, as I remembered what little Bernard had said about his friend, the stubborn author. There had to be a way to figure out who he was. I pulled out my cell phone and called Antoine.
“Ah, chère amie! We were wondering where you’d disappeared to,” he said.
“Still here. How’s the biography going? I just came from Bernard’s. He has first editions for you.”
“Excellent news, I thank you. My book is done: I’ve sent it off to my editor. I was hoping to celebrate at our place in Normandy, but we’ve got to stay in town.”
“Let me guess. You’re going to the opening of Un Week-end à la campagne,” I said, trying not to sound bitter. They’d all be there—Bernard, Antoine, Victorine, the whole literary crowd gathered around their glamorous friend Estelle and her cicisbeo, her cavalier servant, her admiring protégé and swain. Inamorato. Paramour.
“Indeed. Will we see you there?”
“Conflicting plans, alas,” I lied. “You’ll have to tell me about it,” I said.
“Bien sûr,” he said. “Will you come for tea?” he asked.
I said yes, and before he could hang up, I slipped in a question. “Antoine, is Bernard associated with any imprint other than Editions Laveau?”
“Very interesting question. Will you tell me why you ask?”
“Absolutely not,” I said.
He laughed. “I’ll leave you to your intrigues. Look at Les Editions Pas de Mule. Bernard has a long-standing agreement with them.”
“Thank you, Antoine.”
“Don’t think I’ll forget it, dear lady.”
“I’m sure you won’t,” I said.
I walked down to Les Halles, in the mood for a movie. There was bound to be something I wanted to see at the twenty-three-screen multiplex. I bought a bag of banana marshmallows and a ticket for a critically acclaimed film about a sock manufacturer.
It was a slow, quiet movie, with several subtle, touching moments among the three middle-aged characters, and beautifully photographed scenes of a rundown beach resort. But you had to be in the right mood, because at least two people in the theater fell asleep. I know because they sat in front of me and one of them snored.
Afterward, as I walked toward the métro at Rambuteau, I saw a bright orange poster on a round kiosk across the street.
A theater poster under glass, it was lit from within and over two meters tall. Walking closer, I saw Estelle’s
name in black block letters on the orange background. Then the title, in the same size, UN WEEK-END A LA CAMPAGNE. Below that, the names of her costars. I let my eyes wander farther, down to Olivier’s name.
There it was, in the same font. A sharp pain pierced my side, a runner’s stitch made with a thin needle. At times like this, I wish I were a practicing Buddhist, so that I could murmur something like “This poster is not real” while conjuring up the sound of babbling brooks, but then I would also have to say “I am not real,” which I find problematic.
I sighed. I would have to read the reviews. Maybe even see it, especially if it was good. Even more if it was bad. Definitely if it was bad.
Or not. I could turn a blind eye, avoid pumpkin orange posters. It wasn’t like you couldn’t spot them from afar. It wasn’t that bad. I’d been through this before, and it had been worse with Timothy, in Los Angeles. Reminders of him everywhere. This was nothing. I’d be fine. Fine.
I piled reassuring thought upon reassuring thought, but they were weightless and flimsy. At home, there were no messages on the machine. In the back room of my brain, I thought about Olivier’s play. I changed into pajamas and sat through a documentary on volcanoes, seeing it but not seeing it. I left it on, merely to hear the sound of voices. I was back in my elevatorlike existence, between floors, out of sorts, neither part of the city nor not part of it. I was ungrounded, a sad little boat that had slipped its knots and drifted away on the undertow, seduced by the bottomless black sea.
I couldn’t breathe. I was suffocating. I thrashed around in bed, kicked my feet, and flung the covers aside. “Enough!” I said.
It was five; the morning traffic was just beginning. A truck drove by, making the windows buzz. I padded over to the window in my sweaty pajamas and pressed my forehead to the cold glass; the city beyond it was still dark.
I felt fragile and bruised, shaken by another violent dream and awake with the wired, ready-to-get-on-a-plane feeling you don’t go back to sleep from. I hauled myself into the shower, trying to wash the images from my head. Under the water, I saw a tall white column billowing smoke and shedding ashes like an oddly shaped volcano. I remembered the TV show from the night before. I was so suggestible these days.
Foreign Tongue Page 29
