Lessons in French: A Novel

by Hilary Reyl

  “Well, does he know that you might be telling me the truth now? Did you say what you would do if we bumped into each other?”

  “I told him that if you saw me that it would be too ridiculous for him to force me to make up another story. He will be very upset, but I think that this will be good for him to be able to speak to you, to see that once you know he is not perfect you still love him. He needs to be able to talk to somebody besides me. He told me he was finally going to explain the situation to Henri, because he thinks Henri has probably guessed and has an accepting philosophy. That will help, but you will help more.

  “I am so lonely here. He is leading the fullest life, and I am in the shadows. But I think it is more difficult for him because he is in a false position all the time. I am very clear that I love him and he loves me. In some ways, even though I’m in hiding, my part is easier.”

  As the facts crystallized, I loved her for confiding in me. So much began to make sense now. Of course she and Clarence were in love. Love had reigned the whole time we three were together. But, now that this was definite, what did it mean for Lydia?

  I let my coffee go tepid.

  Every once in a while, Claudia asked reflexively if I was uncomfortable, but she went on before I could form a response. She had not had a conversation with anyone besides Clarence in ages, and their time together was fraught and compressed. It was so good to finally talk to another woman.

  So, Lydia had suspected, and Clarence had worried that she might ask me about it and it would be too unfair to force me to lie and too horrible to make me tell the truth.

  He was protective of me, as of a daughter, Claudia said. But a true daughter, she added, was more intuitive about her parents’ happiness than Clarence assumed. Portia would understand.

  I was struck by the fact that Clarence had tried to protect me from the complicated truth much like a father. But the childish satisfaction I felt made me suspect that daughters wanted, selfishly, to be daughters, to be at the center of the world. They were perhaps not as sympathetic to their father’s extramarital needs as Claudia was making them out.

  Most likely, Portia would not find his situation with Claudia wildly romantic, if problematic and potentially tragic. She would think it was sick.

  “So,” Claudia continued, “when Clarence first knows that you know about us, he will be feeling scared. But once he sees that nothing terrible materializes, I think it will show him that we can be natural again. I hope this does not make you nervous.”

  Of course it made me nervous, but I didn’t feel there was room in this moment for my qualms.

  “Don’t worry. You shouldn’t be concerned about me. This is not about me at all.”

  “Ah, but it is about you, Katie. I cannot say how it is going to happen, but your blessing on us, it will mean so much, because this is the moment for him to leave her, and her chintz and her awful clock, and he needs to sense that this is positive. You can help.”

  “Why now?”

  “He has been waiting to make sure she felt good after her German photos. He said he could not do anything until he knew her photos were a success. So, I have been suffering so much while he was going to all these parties and events, going around Paris with her. And now that is over. The excuse is gone.

  “But what I worry about is that he will fall again under her sway because she is so very powerful. She has a strong, binding influence, not healthy for him. And I think he is not good to her either. She turns him ugly, you see. He is patronizing about her work. He thinks she might not survive if he leaves. But she will be better too when he is gone. It’s simply that they have to be able to imagine the disruption, and that is very, very difficult. It is the thing that seems impossible but is not. That is where you will help.”

  “I don’t see how I can help. It’s not my—”

  “Believe me, you can help by being yourself and reacting as you react.”

  I took my first drink of cold coffee.

  So, Clarence was going to leave Lydia. The household was going to explode.

  “But Lydia’s work! Will Lydia still be able to work? I think that for Clarence her work is the most important thing.”

  “Lydia,” Claudia narrowed her eyes on her second espresso, “she is very intelligent. Her photographs tell stories quite lyrically and they are very engaging, but they are also very controlled. First I am taken in, then I am controlled. And I think the problem is this, that she does not have respect for the unconscious urge that is behind photography. She wants to annihilate it with too much work. And this is barbarous.”

  thirty-one

  I rushed home to meet Portia.

  As Orlando and I panted into the courtyard, we were greeted by a grinning Madame Fidelio. A jeune monsieur très bien had left flowers for me today, she said, handing me a large bouquet of pink and white peonies from Bastien, which I was cradling, incredulous, thinking about how much such out-of-season flowers could possibly cost, hearing Mom rant about the absurdity of South American flowers when there were perfectly good ones in our own backyard, when I bumped into Clarence and Henri.

  “Thanks for walking Orlando,” said Clarence, obviously for Henri’s benefit since I walked Orlando every day. Despite his inherited wealth, Henri had no servants and Clarence didn’t like to appear soft.

  Henri looked almost timidly at me, as though something had changed between us since last night’s turkey dinner, but then he turned to the peonies and gave them a familiar smile.

  “I am telling our friend Clarence that I do not believe in guilt.” The flowers floated in the blue of his gaze. “Do you believe in guilt, Katie? Do you believe you have any responsibility you don’t deeply feel?”

  I gave a demented smile and a hesitant head shake.

  Clarence must have told him about Claudia, I thought, trying to catch Clarence’s attention with a look of significance. But his eyes were scattershot. He took Henri’s arm and began to pull him away.

  “Christ, not now, Henri. Goodnight, Katie. Excuse us. We’re late for the opening of a dear friend. He’ll never forgive us.”

  “But perhaps Katie would like to come to the gallery?”

  “Thanks, but I’m having a drink with Portia.”

  “Lovely,” said Clarence in a particularly unlovely voice as he dragged Henri off. After a few paces, though, he stopped, his back stiffened, and he turned around to me. He took his wallet from his pocket and handed me a one-hundred-franc note. “Here. The two of you have a good time.”

  One hundred francs was an obscene amount of money. He must be atoning for something.

  • • •

  I tried to open the front door quietly so as to have some time to compose myself, into what I did not know, but I did know I was not ready to face Portia.

  Ready or not, she heard me and called me into her bedroom to show me the clothes Lydia had bought her with Sally Meeks’s journalist discount. The new outfits were laid out on her bed and dressing table, draped over her chair.

  “So?” she said brightly. The Valium must have worn off.

  “Portia, your father just gave me, gave us, one hundred francs to buy our drinks tonight.”

  “Oh, he’s obviously feeling guilty!” She laughed.

  “Guilty for what?”

  “My God, Kate, don’t be so serious! Mother asked him to come out to dinner with us, and he said he had to go to an opening with Henri, and she tried to make him feel bad.”

  “Oh. That’s all.”

  “He really is the world’s sweetest man, Daddy. I should admire him.” Then she laughed again. “I should try to be earnest, like you. Where on Earth did you get those amazing flowers? We have to get you a vase.” But she herself made no move to do so, turning instead to contemplate the spread of her purchases.

  “Wow, gorgeous,” I stammered, splattering my gaze all over her display.<
br />
  “Check out this Sonia Rykiel dress. Do you think the color will overwhelm me? It’s on the dark side, but I had to get it to go with these.” And she pulled out a pair of purple and gold Stephane Kélian shoes.

  “Of course you did,” I said, weirdly recalling that Balzac had died, in debt, from a coffee overdose.

  “Aren’t they kind of perfect together?”

  “Is that agnès b, what you’re wearing?” I was realizing how many fashion brands Étienne had made me aware of as a kid. When he was being nice to me, we would flip through magazines together at the newsstand and he would tell me what was important.

  “I love that you can recognize agnès b! It’s so refreshing. You should see the way people dress at Princeton. Most of the women look like my brother.”

  “Frivolity is serious business,” I said, echoing Clarence.

  How bittersweet it was to have escaped Portia’s jealous wrath only to envy her shoes.

  Pulling open the door, Lydia smiled in on us, unabashedly glad that I was cheering Portia up. “I knew you two would get along,” she said. “Didn’t Portia and I do well today, Katherine? The clothes are fabulous this fall. Gorgeous peonies, my dear. I hope you didn’t pay for those yourself.” She winked. “You know where the vases are, don’t you?”

  Portia was frowning anxiously at her backside in the mirror of her armoire.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “You have no butt.”

  Remember, Portia has the clothes, but I have the boy. There, I had thought it. Fucked up, as Christie would say. Deeply fucked up.

  In order to dodge the feeling, I made a mental return to the sculpture of Balzac from what seemed like an earlier, more innocent time. Balzac once said that a debt was a work of art. Maybe Christie would lend me the money for a nice pair of heels to take to London.

  “Mother,” said Portia, “Kate and I are going out for a drink. What time is dinner?”

  “Our reservation is at eight-thirty. So, take your time. Oh, and here,” said Lydia. “Let me treat you girls to an apéro.” She handed Portia a fifty-franc note.

  “Thank you, Lydia,” I said, comparing her cash to Clarence’s.

  “Thank you, Mother,” said Portia so archly that I knew she was doing the same.

  Flushed in artificial respite from her pain, Portia pulled on a new pair of high leather boots.

  “Those are great,” I said.

  Portia was a casualty, if not of privilege then of ambition. I found myself feeling sorry for her, clothes and all. Her boyfriend had dumped her. Her father was having an affair. Her mother went on competitive diets with her. Her brother hated her. And the friend she thought she was busy making at this very moment was nothing if not untrue.

  But what could I do about it now? Leave? Absurd. Confess? To what, exactly? Push her away? Impossible when Lydia was corralling us. Maybe put up some kind of emotional wall? But where should the boundaries be? Did I actually like Portia, or could I simply not bear the thought of anyone not liking me?

  “Hey, Kate,” came Joshua’s voice through the door. “Your mom’s on the phone.”

  • • •

  Behind a closed door, I was able to admit to Mom, for the first time, that I had certain doubts about this family.

  I tried out an idea on her: “Have you ever thought that, in some way, you always desecrate what you love?”

  I plucked a pink petal from one of my flowers and crushed it between my fingers.

  “Excuse me? Who’s desecrating what over there? Is it time for you to come home, young lady?”

  “Mom, it’s interesting. I mean, if you saw how marvelous these people could be and then how they treat each other sometimes, you’d wonder, how can people who have so much beauty in their lives be so destructive? And you’d ask yourself if it isn’t some form of aristocratic waste. Claudia says there are some moments when Marxist interpretations are still valid.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I called to find out if you celebrated Thanksgiving.”

  “Sorry, I meant to call yesterday, but things got hectic.”

  “Well, I was invited to the Halls. It was delicious. Do they have turkey in Paris?”

  I described Lydia’s meal. I didn’t bother explaining who the people around the table were, but I did tell the story of the vegan stuffing to try to wind my way back to my original point.

  “Would you have made me special stuffing if I’d decided to become a vegan a few days before Thanksgiving?”

  “I’m not so good at these hypotheticals, dear. We’ve established that. How’s your drawing?”

  “You’re interested in my drawing?”

  Wasn’t I supposed to be a lawyer?

  “Do you need materials? I will sponsor materials. That I will sponsor. You need something of your own over there.”

  “Thanks but I’ve got a sketchbook and pencils. That’s all I need for now.”

  It seemed everyone in my life was pushing me to get to work. I wanted to tell her about Claudia’s pep talks and Lydia’s promise to look at my stuff soon, about Henri Cartier-Bresson and putting yourself in the way of chance, the decisive moment, Balzac in my sketchbook. I wanted to tell her about Clarence and Claudia’s love affair and to ask her how I should behave to Portia. But instead, I cradled the phone, hugged my flowers and let a quick wave of love wash over me.

  “Don’t let these people make you forget yourself,” Mom said.

  “Mom, we’ve been over this. I’m taking away something invaluable from this experience.”

  “What’s that? What are you taking away that’s worth so much?”

  “It’s called savoir vivre.”

  • • •

  Once I’d said goodbye to Mom, I called Bastien to thank him for the peonies. His mother answered. I listened for notes of heartbreak in her “Je vous le passe, mademoiselle.” Was she sad about getting divorced? But her voice was as unruffled as the spun-sugar coiffure I remembered from our one brief encounter in his living room. Christie and I were picking him up for dinner. Madame de Villiers was tapping her cigarette into a white lacquer ashtray. Her greeting was not warm, but it was not stingy either. We were pretty enough for her son, and, as Caucasian-Americans who had been to a good college, we were most likely not issued from the social dregs of our country. We were condoned.

  When Bastien came on the line, I told him what a splash his bouquet was making in the Schell household and how approving Madame Fidelio was.

  “But do you like them?”

  “They’re beautiful. So kind of you. But I should be sending you flowers. You’re the one who is having a hard moment.”

  He laughed. “Ça ne se fait pas!”

  Why not? Why wasn’t it done? I could send something big and masculine like birds of paradise.

  It wasn’t possible, he insisted, for a girl to send a boy flowers. But if I wanted to cheer him up, I could come to Deauville at Christmastime with Christie. He had told his parents he didn’t want to be with one or the other for the holidays if they weren’t together. His father was staying in Paris and his mother was going to St-Tropez, which she preferred off-season. So, would I come?

  I would try.

  Would I at least be willing to commit to a lunch date tomorrow? He wanted to show me La Coupole. Did I like oysters?

  • • •

  Portia waited until we were framed inside the window of Café Flore to get to the heart of the matter.

  She lit a cigarette. “Listen, I know I shouldn’t be telling you this because my mom is your boss, but she’s sick. These clothes, this fussing over me and calling me too skinny when she used to say you can never be too skinny, it’s all guilt because she still talks to Olivier on the phone all the time. And I know she has plans to see him when she gets back to New York for Christmas. She’s infatuated with him. He feeds her cr
azy ego or something. She calls him at night when she’s drunk. She’s a drunk, you know. I can’t be telling you anything you don’t know there. She shouldn’t call Olivier at night. But she still does it. He’s told me. It is sick.” She was crying. “And so, so hurtful.”

  I took a deep breath, tried to evade the crash of my own feelings, let it be all about them. “Well, maybe the person to talk to is Olivier. Tell him you don’t like it.”

  As soon as I was done speaking, I was flooded with something like resolve. This was the moment to tell Portia! The flits of suspicion shadowing across her face as she looked at me, these were my cue. Tell her about Olivier and me. Tell her about her father’s affair so that she wouldn’t blame her mother for everything. Just let it all out! What was the worst that could happen?

  “Portia?”

  “Yes?” She was clearly startled by the urgency of my tone.

  “I—have you thought that some people just aren’t happy? That they are looking for something?”

  “Oh, has Daddy been philosophizing to you again?” She gave a deflated laugh.

  “I suppose he has.” I sighed, giving into an overpowering reticence.

  “He’s all talk, you know. Sweet Daddy.”

  I gave a constricted smile which she must have read as empathy because she laughed again and told me I was becoming a friend.

  Our champagne arrived. We tchin-tchinned. I slipped into a state of catatonic anxiety.

  Portia dabbed her tears with the Art Nouveau border of her tiny napkin. She offered me a Gauloise and I accepted.

  “Sometimes I wonder if my mom doesn’t want to fuck Olivier. Sometimes I even think she might have jumped him already. I wouldn’t put it past her.”

  I had smoked a few times in college, enough not to hack, but I had no skills. I didn’t want to mimic her directly, so I glanced all around the room, picking up moves.

  The cigarette bought me a minute to think the unthinkable. Lydia and Olivier? What? Of course, the world was perverse and nothing was impossible. This was Europe, after all. But no, Lydia and Olivier could not actually have slept together, virtually, maybe, but not actually. Virtually. Actually. Virtually.