by Anita Heiss
‘I’m starving,’ I said, as my stomach grumbled softly.
‘Me too, and there’ll be very good food there, Elizabeth. I eat at Nomad’s a lot because of the menu. I like food, Elizabeth.’ Canelle put her hands on her thighs, laughing. ‘Nomad’s is not a treat for someone who likes to eat. It is almost essential.’
There was that definitive statement. Canelle and I were very similar, but I wondered if there was anything she ever ummed and ahhed over.
‘You go just for the food?’
‘I like the atmosphere there, and the design. It is not a fake place, how you say …’
‘Put on,’ I said. ‘And Blackfellas would say gammon.’
‘Gammon,’ she said, which came out as ‘shammon’. I almost liked the French pronunciation better than my own.
Canelle was right about Nomad’s and I joined the appreciation society before we even walked in, stopping to take photos of the window display. One window had surfboards and surfing photographs shot along the coast of Australia. The next window had musical instruments: didgeridoos and clap sticks, all propped up against the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander flags.
‘Wow,’ I said, impressed with the Aboriginal presence there.
‘It is very cool, oui?’ Canelle asked.
‘Oui, too deadly, we’d say.’
Canelle waved her hands as if on a game show presenting a prize. ‘Every month they have a different theme in the windows, this month it is Australian, of course. And that is why the launch is here.’
‘I love it.’
Inside, the atmosphere was electric even though the lighting was dim. There were solid wood tables which kept their original tree shapes and were merely sanded and varnished without the need to craft them into exact squares. There were Friesian cowhide-covered chairs and a huge labrador making its way through the crowd.
‘This is Fanny and Benoît.’ Canelle introduced me to the owners of the restaurant who were keen to meet me.
‘We were at the musée opening, it was superb,’ Benoît said, Fanny nodding in agreement. ‘We would love to have some Aboriginal artwork here as well one day, and tonight we are glad for Terri’s book launch.’
We all looked in the direction of the author, who was in a teal-blue strapless dress that resembled the waters around the Torres Strait Islands. She was flanked by fans already requesting autographs although the official launch hadn’t even happened. I wanted to meet and congratulate her and see what connections we could make, but I’d wait until she was finished working.
Canelle, Fanny and Benoît were talking too fast in French for me to keep up, so I made small talk, introducing myself to every staff member at Nomad’s, aiming to maintain my look as the ‘newly arrived local’. The staff were as multicultural as the city, with Croatian, Brazilian and Jamaican waiters serving prawns, ostrich and rabbit terrine.
‘What’s this?’ I asked Canelle quietly when the restaurateurs walked off, not wanting to look like the country bumpkin I had always accused Lauren of being.
‘Foie gras with chutney. Try it, it’s delicious!’ She kissed her fingers like a chef might.
The speeches started and the ambassador talked about how many Aboriginal authors had been translated into French: Doris Pilkington, Alexis Wright, Philip McLaren and others. I thought to myself that the French probably liked the fact they could publish stories about what bastards the Brits had been to Blackfellas in Australia, without considering how colonisation had impacted on the Tahitians in Polynesia or the Mohawks in Quebec.
Afterwards, when the signing queue died down, I introduced myself to Terri, who was grateful to have another Blackfella there.
‘There’s also a fella from home here too, somewhere, in a black suit, red tie,’ she said, scanning the room. ‘He’s the first secretary, and helped coordinate getting me here. I’ve been so busy we haven’t had time to talk properly.’
I started looking also. I hadn’t seen a Blackfella yet at the launch, even though I had already spoken with some embassy staff, including Judith, the cultural attaché. I was disappointed in myself for having been there so long and not met him. This was not the protocol I would normally follow. I searched out the red tie almost frantically but couldn’t see it. Canelle was on her way over as the room was emptying.
‘I have to go, sis,’ Terri said, touching my arm, ‘the publisher is taking me to dinner somewhere with some booksellers. Gawd, this is all new to me. But it’s fun.’
‘Live it up, sis,’ I said. ‘We need more people with more books like yours. Thanks for signing my copy, when do you leave?’ I ran my hand over the blue cover, grateful for a piece of home.
‘Tomorrow, I’m doing a tour through France. And my French is merde.’
I nearly spat my drink out and we both laughed, knowing everyone learns the rude slang words first.
‘Have a great trip,’ I hugged her, knowing she might be the only sista from home I’d see for some time. She hugged me back hard as if she felt the same way. Neither of us said anything else.
Terri was whisked away by her publicist so Canelle and I called it a night at 11 pm and headed outside, looking for a cab.
‘The whole night was delicious,’ I said. ‘Everything and everyone. I loved it.’
‘I knew you enjoyed yourself, I saw you taking photos like a tourist,’ Canelle said.
‘For my friends and family back home only.’
At the taxi stand, we bumped into a group of people from the launch who were saying goodnight to each other. Canelle knew a lot of them and was speaking French and giving kissing farewells. I felt warm and comfortably relaxed from the Australian wine that was served.
I looked to my left and saw a red tie. It was on a Blackfella. The first secretary. He was one of the tallest men I’d seen in Paris. He had a round face framed by masses of brown curls and titanium-rimmed glasses. His eyes were too close together, making him look shifty, I thought. He had a big smile but thin lips. Broad shoulders, small waist and the same golden-brown complexion as me. He wore a black suit and white shirt and expensive-looking black shoes with his red tie. I couldn’t believe I was now becoming more conscious of men’s fashion as well.
He spotted me at the same time.
‘Bonsoir, mademoiselle,’ he said, extending his hand before I had a chance to say anything.
I took his hand and said, ‘Hi.’
‘You’re Libby Cutmore.’
I nodded and smiled.
‘And you’re absolutely beautiful.’
‘Yes, I am,’ is all I could say, embarrassed.
I immediately thought of the Red Béret outside the Musée d’Orsay and how sleazy he was with his lines. Now it appeared that Blackfellas from home were using them too. I didn’t want to be rude, because he was the first secretary, so I maintained an appropriate level of diplomacy.
‘Yes, I am!’ I said again. ‘I mean, I’m Libby Cutmore, not yes, I’m beautiful. You know what I mean.’
‘But you are beautiful, and I am Jake Ross.’ He handed me his card.
I gave him my card in return. ‘I’m here for five months working at the musée doing educational lectures and tours.’
‘Yes, I know, and you’re Gamilaroi, from Moree,’ he said, smiling so wide I thought his thin lips would split and his round face would crack. ‘I am sorry I missed the opening of your exhibition, I had to deliver a speech in Cannes and couldn’t get back in time. I heard it was a huge success though. AusTrade have called me about enquiries they’ve had regarding some of the artists involved. We should have a meeting.’
‘Of course,’ I said politely, but I was sure he was just using the business talk as an excuse. You don’t start a work discussion by telling someone they’re beautiful. Not in my world. Even though I did look rather special with my orange scarf, black pinstripe tunic and black pumps.
‘Bonsoir, Jake,’ another suited man was at Jake’s side. Jake turned and shook his hand and Canelle appeared at my side to usher me into
a taxi without an opportunity to say goodbye.
Minutes later, my mobile rang, but I didn’t answer it in time. There was a short voicemail message that I played out loud for Canelle to translate in case it was in French.
‘Libby, it’s Jake Ross.’ Although we had just met it took me a few seconds to register who it was. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t say goodbye properly. I am with some staff and we are going back to a bar near the embassy. I would like you to join us for a nightcap. Perhaps you could call me back.’
‘Oohlala, Elizabeth, I think he is interested in you. And he was very, very handsome. And very important.’ Canelle was more impressed with the call than I was.
I pressed ‘return call’ on my phone and got his voicemail. I imagined his phone was tied up because he was calling the next in a long line of women to have a drink with. After the beep, I left a short message: ‘Hello Jake, it’s Libby Cutmore. Thanks for the offer of drinks, but I am almost home now. I will call your office to arrange a meeting to discuss the AusTrade interest you mentioned. Nice meeting you. Goodnight.’ I hung up the phone only to hear Canelle laughing like a teenage girl.
‘What?’ I asked, confused.
‘Why did you say that? You should’ve gone to meet him.’
‘It’s late, Canelle. I’m not travelling across any city for any man this late at night, not even if he is the first secretary and looks good in a red tie.’
I sounded arrogant, but it was what I’d become thanks to my previous disasters and disappointments, and with Ames on my mind I didn’t need to think about anyone else either. Now that I was starting to feel better about myself and felt attractive being around Frenchmen, well, someone could chase me for once.
‘Anyway, why would I want to meet him this late at night? That doesn’t send a good signal for either party, professionally or personally.’
‘This is France, it is not late for us to eat and drink. And anyway you are both professionals. Why are you being a … how you say?’
‘A bitch?’
‘Yes, a bitch, merci.’
‘You’re welcome.’ I stared out the cab window.
‘Elizabeth, only some men like bitches, trust me, and some men, well, they like life to be less complicated than it sometimes is. You are being too serious and you are already complicating this situation.’
‘What situation, Canelle? Even if I was interested in him, he’s a Blackfella from Australia and I certainly didn’t come to Paris to meet a guy I could meet back home. Apart from that, we’re probably related, stranger things have happened in more unlikely places, believe me. Now, that doesn’t make me a complicated bitch, does it?’ I wasn’t even sure myself.
‘Maybe not,’ Canelle said unconvincingly.
‘The thing is, Canelle, I came here to work. It’s safe flirting with someone who lives in another country, because there’s no chance of being hurt flirting with someone on the train who you’ll never see again. But Jake is Australian – I just don’t want to get involved. Anyway, I’m going home in a few months.’ I said all that with Ames still occupying my thoughts.
‘I just don’t think it is a very smart move to turn down the first secretary of your home country, Elizabeth.’ Canelle was almost chastising me. ‘Do you not want to make more contacts?’
‘Of course I do,’ I could hear the annoyance in my voice, ‘but I don’t think a work meeting is going to happen after too many drinks, late at night. I know enough of men to know that. I’ll arrange a meeting with him to discuss work during business hours.’
‘Whatever you think, my friend, but you know in the arts, every hour is a business hour. Pull over here, driver,’ she said, handing me some euros before getting out of the cab. ‘I think he had a very nice derrière. I’ll see you in the morning.’
I hadn’t looked at Jake’s arse and didn’t know when Canelle had had the chance to either, but it wasn’t something I was going to consider. The last thing I needed while building my reputation in the arts in Paris was building a reputation for following Australian men’s arses in France.
After organising my clothes for the next day, I was grateful to crawl into bed at midnight, feeling my calves paining from standing in heels all night. I soon swapped thoughts of sore feet with vivid images of how Ames had kissed my ankles and each of my toes the night before.
I woke in the morning to find a text message.
My head was flooded with questions, looking for justifications. This must be a joke. Blackfellas don’t talk like that at home or in Paris. He must’ve had one of his French staff write that. Or he was charged up. Or he was just a sleazebag using his position to his own advantage and that wasn’t a game I was going to play. I had earned every stripe I had through hard work and was happy to keep doing it.
I didn’t respond to his text. I wanted to talk about it with Canelle first after work.
‘I think he sounds like a stalker,’ I said over coffee at Le Café Branly.
‘You are being ridiculous. He is your countryman, he is a good-looking man, and he is an influential man.’ Canelle sipped her espresso.
I shook my head at Canelle’s naivety. ‘I think the common factor he shares with the guys back home is that he is a man. And anyway, who says those kinds of things to someone they’ve just met?’
‘This is Paris, this is romance. If it is not Aboriginal, then it is very French. I like it. Give him my number, and I will sext him back.’
‘Don’t you mean text?’
I couldn’t believe Canelle had her phone out as if she was going to text him right then.
‘Yes, it gets lost sometimes when I speak English. Did I mention he had a nice derrière?’
‘Yes, you did.’
I liked Canelle’s sense of humour. She reminded me of me, before I became bitter and twisted over the men who’d burned me. And although I had been seduced by Ames and the romance that envelops even single people on trains in Paris, I really wanted to focus on why I was there and my work.
Back at my desk, I got Jake’s card out of my wallet and emailed him about a meeting, completely ignoring the text he had sent me. I received a response later in the day from the cultural attaché, Judith Marks – with Jake cc’d in. It said that Judith would meet with me in the next few weeks. I was relieved that Jake wouldn’t be there.
‘Thanks for meeting me here, Sorina,’ I said, as we sat in Le Café Branly on Saturday afternoon.
Sorina had a big smile. ‘It is wonderful to see you, Libby. You are not just my best customer ever, but you are a positive face to see in my day.’
‘I have an idea,’ I said, hoping she wouldn’t think I was imposing.
‘Yes?’
‘I think we can get more people to buy your bags if we can get you some more promotion and perhaps a proper place to sell.’
Sorina’s eyes widened with interest, then her face became sad. ‘Libby, it is kind of you to think about that and I wish it were possible, but I cannot make any more bags than I currently sell. I only have access to a sewing machine one night a week at a friend’s place. She is already doing me a huge favour. Anyway, I would have to have more materials to produce more bags.’
I thought hard while I looked at Sorina’s dark brown eyes and the dark circles under them. It was time to tell her my other idea.
‘What if I got you your own machine and your own materials, do you think you could make more bags, even on order?’
‘Of course, it is my love, designing these bags.’ She pulled something out of the big handmade bag she carried her smaller bags in. ‘This is my latest, do you like it?’
She handed me a brown-and-gold corduroy bag with sequins and beads. A press-stud closed it and it fitted snugly under my arm.
‘I must have this,’ I reached for my wallet.
Sorina put her hand on mine to stop me. ‘It is yours then, a gift.’
I was shocked and embarrassed. My plan was to help Sorina sell bags not take them from her for free.
‘Absolutely
not! I will pay you for it, and when you sell your first hundred, if you want to make me one then, fine. But I am going to help you start a little business, okay? And I have worked out a plan.’
I pulled out my folder and what I had coordinated already, explaining the whole setup to my new friend. I had told my landlords about Sorina’s problem and they were eager to help. Dom was getting a second-hand sewing machine for me and his wife Catherine was rallying materials from all her friends and family and already had three bag orders waiting. Back in Australia, Lauren had asked someone at the NAG to design a simple business card that I could print out on cardboard at work. Denise had offered to set up a Facebook fan page as soon as we had an outlet where items could be sold.
At this point, Canelle came in, arriving just in time, and carrying one of Sorina’s bags.
‘Perfect timing,’ I said, as she sat down. ‘I’m just telling Sorina about my idea to grow her talent and her business and I’m just up to the part about needing to find someone to be her patron of sorts.’
‘You would know about les banlieues, Sorina. Yes?’ Canelle asked.
‘Of course,’ Sorina said knowingly. ‘Some of my friends are desperate to be discovered by the wealthy people visiting there.’
Canelle turned to me. ‘Most of the people in these outskirts are “people of colour”, often disenfranchised, but they contribute to French culture as a whole through hip-hop culture, graphic arts, music publishing, and other artistic activities like fashion design, and many others.’
Canelle pulled out some newspaper clippings to illustrate what she was talking about. ‘Many “mainstream” French personalities have been digging for artistic novelty in the banlieues hoping to stumble upon the next brilliant fringe artist like Jean-Michel Basquiat. Now,’ Canelle turned her attention back to Sorina, ‘one of the fastest growing designers in the last few years is Agnes B, and she has put her Parisian facilities at the disposal of several artists from the banlieues and regularly sponsors art exhibitions. She is a fabulous patron for emerging designers.’
