Lessons in French: A Novel

by Hilary Reyl

  “The Germany work,” he said a bit too loudly, “is brilliant. But I will never see the analogy you’re trying to make with the Rushdie affair.” His eyes glanced over the other page of the invitation, the diptych from England, a shot of a book catching fire, with a DEATH TO RUSHDIE banner half-legible through a smoky haze, next to it a close-up of the writer himself, posed as for a book jacket.

  He took the kind of breath you take on a high dive. “If I were you, I would stick to Germany.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you aren’t me, Clarence.” Lydia did not raise her eyes from her desk. “That’s enough from the peanut gallery. Katherine, can you please go back into your time lines and look for title ideas for my show. We’ll find one, or one will find us. You know, titles are like sex.”

  “Like sex?” Clarence and I asked in unison.

  “Sometimes titles are instant and amazing. Other times they are a total grind.”

  I blushed for Clarence. “But I thought we were using Clarence’s title. What about ‘Habits of —’ ”

  “Listen, we are short on time here. Please go to your time lines and find me something I can actually use!”

  Clarence shuffled from the room.

  I went to the file cabinet, but before I could retrieve anything, she interrupted me. “Listen, I have to be alone to focus right now. Do me a favor. Read this. A friend of mine at Granta in London has published this essay by Rushdie in hiding called ‘In Good Faith.’ Go read it and see if you can find some ideas for titles for some of the England pictures. There’s good stuff about unrest. That’s the connection with Germany. Unrest.” She looked at me. “That weekend you spent in London over the New Year, what signs did you see there?”

  I dug my concrete ring into my thigh. “You know, I spent the whole time I was there inside with my friends. The weather was so terrible.”

  “Surely you noticed something.”

  The spring roll crumbs in the takeout container on the desk glistened like the interior of a Chinese restaurant in a fever dream. What if she asked what neighborhood my “friends” lived in? I wasn’t sure I knew the name of any residential neighborhood in London. Did people live in Knightsbridge? Did I know the name of a single street? Had I actually been to London with Olivier, or just to a bed somewhere?

  My fantasy of being found out ebbed as I realized that Lydia was simply stating the fact that there was plenty of unrest to notice these days in London. She was not making an inquiry of me at all. Surely, I had remarked something askew there. Anyone would. She did not wait for a response.

  “So,” she handed me the Granta issue, “read through this and maybe you can discuss it with Clarence. See if he mentions anything beyond his usual opinions. He’s being so negative and cagey about my work on the Rushdie affair that I wonder if he’s not secretly writing about it himself and not telling me because he thinks I might be working on a photo essay with another writer. Believe it or not, he’s competitive that way. Have you noticed material in his study about the affair? He hasn’t asked you to help him with anything extracurricular?” She gave a short bitter

  laugh.

  With a brief eye-lock, I was punished for my sins. The room melted and reformed.

  “No, no,” I said. “I’ve not helped him with anything about the Rushdie affair. It’s all about fashion.”

  “I have no choice but to trust you now, do I?”

  “Listen, if you still want to fire me—”

  “Jesus, relax.” She laughed. “We’re Americans, dear. We live things down. Eventually. Now, do me a favor. Read this article and maybe talk to him about it. See if anything happens to come up. If nothing else, he’ll feel more included. He can feel sidelined when I’m working on something this high-profile. That’s why he acts up.”

  • • •

  I was sure that Clarence was not writing a clandestine article about Muslims. Now that Claudia was out of the picture, he was more fixated than ever on the rise of the department store in nineteenth-century Paris. The modern cathedral, Zola called it.

  But as soon as I finished “In Good Faith,” I went to find him. I had my own agenda.

  He was in the kitchen, eating cheese. Rare winter sunlight through the window hit the glass over Lydia’s famous photos and made them dazzling, if impossible to make out.

  Since his impassioned plea for me to remain in Lydia’s service, Clarence had avoided being alone with me as much as possible. When we did interact, he assumed an exaggerated version of his professorial persona.

  The precocious student, I played along. We were determined to act through our guilt until we forgot it.

  But every once in a while I took a moment to be amazed that such major events as had recently shaken our household could be so convincingly absorbed into the stream of normalcy, that life carried on.

  Until now, I had operated under the childish assumption that I was the only person in the world who had survived a trauma. My father had died and I was still alive. Wasn’t that incredible? Despite the fault line in my heart, I now laughed and engaged with people and even fell in love. Miraculous, no?

  Yet now I saw that I was not alone. As I watched Clarence and Lydia pushing on with manic solidity, I understood that we were all battered survivors.

  Of course, there was still the question of Claudia. But I fantasized that she too must be “strong,” that she had left her garret and gone away to a better life. I was glad for her to finally be out from under the thumb of her doomed love. But I missed her.

  “Hi, Clarence,” I said. “What kind of cheese is that?”

  “Gruyère. Quite aged and sharp. Would you like some?”

  “Sure. Thanks. I’ve been reading this Rushdie piece you might be interested in.”

  “Really? What does it say?”

  “Well, Rushdie writes that he’s been painted as something he’s not,” I said, “and that this false image is threatening to replace him and give him another identity. Don’t you think that’s interesting?”

  “Well, the presumption that he knew what he was doing in The Satanic Verses is unfair. I’ll give him that even if it is an utterly unreadable book.”

  “Well, maybe you should read this then? Rushdie has all this stuff about the migrant condition as a metaphor for humanity. You might like it.” I pushed the magazine toward him on the kitchen table.

  Instead of picking it up, he handed me another piece of gruyère. “I can’t fathom why she is doing this. Why is she insisting on this Rushdie rot . . . The German photos are fantastic and of a piece. But the Muslim material is totally unrelated. Lydia’s a great artist, but she’s not always spot-on with the conceptual stuff.” He paused and mashed his lips around. “She’s offtrack, I’m afraid.”

  I shook my head. “I think the connection with Germany is supposed to be totalitarianism. Rushdie says it’s all about who calls who a devil.”

  “What exactly are you trying to convince me of, Katie?”

  “Maybe you should write the catalog notes for Lydia’s show. I’m sure you could figure out how all the photos work together if you put your mind to it. It would be so amazing if you two collaborated.”

  He laughed. “Oh, believe me we’ve tried before and it’s not pretty.”

  “But she liked your title for the banana pictures, the deceit one. I’m sure she’ll end up using it. She’s only—” I was about to say “She’s only punishing you,” but I caught myself.

  “ ‘Habits of Deceit’ is one thing. But I’m telling you I think the connection between the Berlin Wall and English Muslims is nowhere but in her mind. Or else someone else has talked her into it. She hasn’t mentioned anyone has she? Another collaboration, perhaps?”

  “No, Clarence. There’s no one else. Now, can’t you come up with something? Can’t you work with the theme of totalitarianism? Can’t you do something with intellectual tyranny?”


  “Are you saying I’m a tyrant, Katie?” He winked.

  “I know you can do it.”

  “And you think Lydia would be amenable?”

  “I think she’ll be delighted to have you in her camp.”

  As I watched him contemplate my proposal, I glimpsed victory. Perhaps I could hold people together after all.

  • • •

  It was peach Kir time.

  “So, that’s truly what he’s working on? Department stores? Grands magasins?” Lydia laughed. “That’s all you’ve seen at his desk?”

  Clarence was out running errands.

  I wished he would come back and have a drink with us and make his catalog proposal to Lydia in person.

  “I like what you said about the Rushdie,” said Lydia, “about how he strives to change his condition, but he still inhabits it. That’s very dignified.”

  “That’s it!” I said. “Clarence would love that. Inhabiting the changing condition. That’s something he could write about.”

  Her voice curdled. “I thought you said he wasn’t writing about the affair.”

  “He’s not,” I floundered. “He’s not, but if he were to write your catalog notes—”

  “He’d never do that.”

  “But he said he would! We were sort of thinking you could do a big photo essay together, publish it somewhere after the show. Remember, you were saying about the New Yorker changing soon to print photographs? That would be a perfect venue for you two.”

  “Listen, you can’t breathe a word of this. I have a very well known British writer doing my catalog. It’s going to cause quite a stir, and I know Clarence is going to be upset when I tell him. So let me handle it.”

  “Who’s the writer?”

  “I cannot say yet. It’s much too early, and dangerous.”

  Damn. With Salman Rushdie doing Lydia’s catalog notes, I was powerless to bring her and Clarence together.

  Lydia took a critical sip of her Kir. “Dear, would you pour me a little more Sancerre? Despite everything that’s happened, I still manage to adore you, but you made this drink too sweet. Where’s our man to mix when we need him? Why does he keep doing errands at Kir time? He must be so absorbed in his book that he doesn’t think of things until the end of the day, and then he rushes off in that funny way of his, doesn’t he?” Her suspicion twinkled and popped. She sipped from it at will.

  I poured her more wine. Then I served myself.

  “Tomorrow, Katherine, we finalize the guest list. Sans faute. You’ve got to keep me in line. And no matter what I say, no more spring rolls.”

  forty-two

  Christie was sobbing. “This is why they rent to Americans. We have no recourse. They can put us out in the street whenever they want. They’re not allowed to do that to their own kind.”

  “Christie, you’re not going to be in the street. What about staying with Bastien or Christian or Pierre-Louis?”

  “I can’t be dependent on them. It would change the dynamic too much.”

  “You could tell them you were in between apartments. They’re your friends. And you know you can stay here if you need to. You’re a little long for the futon, but we could extend it somehow.”

  She stretched her neck, exposing her endless throat to the outrageousness of fortune.

  “No,” she sniffled. “Thank you.”

  Christie’s landlord had a daughter who was moving to Paris for a new job, and Christie had to uproot by next week.

  “It all feels so barren,” she said. “You think you have a cushion, then suddenly, whoosh!” As she flung her arms toward my window as if to throw herself out, there was a rocky clattering. I had given her one of Étienne’s bracelets for her birthday and the Wall chips were jangling.

  I hugged her and one caught on my sweater.

  I pulled away, clapping my hands. “I have it, my friend! I have it!” There was something I could do. “This is such a rush! Put your boots on. Let’s go out to the cabine and call my cousin.”

  She looked at the chunks of concrete around her wrist. “Your jewelry cousin? That guy?”

  “He has an extra bedroom. And I think your senses of style will totally meld. This could be beautiful.”

  She blew her nose into an ancient handkerchief of my father’s that I kept by my bed.

  “You’re funny,” she said.

  • • •

  Within a few days, Christie had moved into the Bastille apartment. Étienne helped her paint her bedroom purple and began to steal toiletries for her. On nights when she wasn’t “cheating on him” at Les Bains Douches, the two of them went to Queen. Once in a while, I joined them, but I couldn’t stay out late right now. I couldn’t afford to be tired. Lydia’s show was almost upon us.

  Lydia and I spent long hours in her office, mostly on correspondence. To relieve bouts of anxiety, we went through the occasional envelope of old proof sheets in her to-be-archived files.

  Every day, we walked to the gallery on the rue du Four to make sure the walls were being painted the right shade of white, to adjust lighting, to reconfirm with the owner that there would be Taittinger champagne at the opening and not Veuve Cliquot, which she couldn’t abide. There was something oversweet and ubiquitous about Veuve Cliquot, unless, of course, it was vintage, said Lydia one day when we had stopped for lunch at La Palette on the way home from one of our trips. It was early March, the first day warm enough to eat outside. There was less than a week before her opening.

  “I never knew how much better vintage champagne is,” I said. “Until these French boys taught me to drink it. They say a lot of it is the carbonation.”

  “I love it when the terraces start to fill in Paris.” Lydia was scanning the menu. “You realize how outward-looking the whole city is, how it’s laid out for ‘scoping’ as they say. Look at the way we’re all facing the street. Shall we have salades composées? You should try the auvergnate one. I would, but I can’t have it because of all the cheese. It’s the best thing here.”

  “I enjoy chicken liver salad though. It’s the first salad on the list, see?”

  “How French of you. Can you imagine an American girl ordering foies de volaille? Did your cousins teach you that?” Her eyes passed over me, searchlights on an empty street. “You should get the foies. I will take the niçoise. And is it terrible if we have a glass of wine with lunch?”

  forty-three

  Clarence and I met in the courtyard. He had switched from his winter coat into a brown corduroy blazer with tan leather elbow patches. He looked distracted and mildly annoyed.

  We had been speaking so little lately, after my gaffe over the catalog notes, that we had grown shy. I felt confined to small talk.

  “So, I hear Portia and Joshua are going to make it for the opening.”

  “Well, we’ll get Joshua, but maybe not Portia after all.”

  “Really?” I tried not to sound too hopeful.

  “You haven’t heard? It’s disgusting. She’s reduced herself to begging that Olivier fool to get back together with her. She says she needs him to, and I quote, ‘rescue her’ until she finishes out the school year. Otherwise she might not ‘make it,’ whatever that means. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he condescended to do it. He’s not above using her for sex or for our our New York connections. That boy is such an opportunist.”

  • • •

  Suddenly all I wanted was to talk to Étienne, to cry in those skinny arms. I needed him to tease me back to life.

  I found him at his kitchen table reinforcing the rose cloak on his Prince poster. Some of the petals had come loose and the nudité was indécente. With a tiny brush, he was judiciously dabbing glue.

  “Lovely,” I said. In the shape of his back as he leaned over his work, I saw the outline of the boy who had rejected me, sprawled in the grass at Ver
sailles. It had been months since I had thought of him in this old incarnation, and I was shocked by how vivid the memory was.

  “This poster is one of the few objects I will always keep.” He pressed a petal over Prince’s right thigh, then looked up at me. “Why the tears?”

  Before I could get my tongue around my story, Christie burst upon us with a basket full of vegetables from the farmers’ market. She thought Étienne’s pallor might be a vitamin deficiency and she was cooking him lots of leafy greens.

  She and Étienne kissed on both cheeks.

  “Katie, what’s wrong?” She put a hand on my shoulder.

  “I need to talk to Olivier. Clarence says that Portia is begging him to get back together with her and that he might be considering it.”

  They sat me down and brought me the phone.

  “Morgan!”

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “Oh, hi. How are you?”

  I took a breath. “Clarence told me Portia is not coming for Lydia’s opening because she’s hoping you’ll take her back.”

  He sighed. “She’s threatening to kill herself.”

  “I believed you when you said it was over with Portia. I trusted you.”

  “You can. I’m not going to touch her. Believe me. She repels me right now. But she’s suicidal. I can’t turn my back on that.”

  “I know Portia. She will never kill herself. If you agree with her when she says she’s pathetic, she’ll stay that way. It’s disrespectful—to both of us.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s complicated.” His voice was shuddering. “It will take time, but it will all blow over.”

  I walked across Christie’s tapestry-draped bedroom to the limits of the phone cord, turned around. She had covered a lampshade in tortoiseshell beads. I fingered them.

  Olivier was going to have to feel my hope through the sternness of my words. “I guess I’m disappointed,” I said. “I thought you were more separate already. I thought you could resist the craziness.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But she feels like she’s been cast off. Even if she drives me nuts, I can’t stop caring what happens to her.”