Mwah-Mwah

by Chloe Rayban

  I passed the time going through a mental checklist of positives and negatives about my first day in France.

  Negatives:

  1) Posiness – all this fuss about table napkins and wine tasting.

  2) Boringness – tomb visiting was the high point of the day.

  3) Smells – Paris has smells which could keep Dyno–Rod at work round the clock.

  Positives – I could only think of one:

  1) French bread.

  The following morning I woke to find Matthilde was already up and in the shower. My watch told me it was eight o’clock but it felt horribly early because of the time difference. I hauled myself out of bed to find Marie-Christine bustling in and out of her bedroom with piles of shirts. She was packing a suitcase for Pierre. Pierre was fussing back and forth with his mobile, muttering something about a taxi and Charles de Gaulle.

  When I enquired where he was going, he said he was off to New York for three weeks so would not see me again before I left. He hoped I’d have a great time with Matthilde. I replied, with as much conviction as I could summon, that I was sure I would.

  At last his taxi arrived and he and Marie-Christine went into a long and passionate exchange of goodbyes. Matthilde came out of the bathroom and joined in. The way they were behaving you’d think he was off to a war. French people are so over-the-top. Having shaken himself free, Pierre kissed me too and told me to ‘be good’. Fat chance of being anything else in the circumstances.

  Once Pierre had left, Marie-Christine and Matthilde started a long conversation in the hallway in which I couldn’t help noticing my name occurred frequently. It was ’Annah this and ’Annah that and they were both raising their voices. Marie-Christine finished by saying: ‘Aytootoccoop d’Annahtootlajournay. Jaydootraveye!’

  Matthilde flounced into the bedroom, giving me the blackest of her dark looks. She slumped down on the bed and plugged herself into her iPod and turned the volume up. I could hear its irritating tinkle from my side of the room. Extra irritating because I didn’t actually have an iPod. I was saving up for one. Dad said if I could pay half, he’d pay the other. No doubt Matthilde’s was simply doled out to her by her oh-so-loving father.

  Marie-Christine popped her head round the door, took one look at Matthilde and turned to me: ‘Chérie – do you like croissants for your breakfast?’

  ‘Ummm. Oh yes please.’

  I joined her in the hallway, she was holding out a twenty-euro note. ‘You like to go to the boulangerie for me?’

  Why not? Since the alternative was passive iPod listening. I nodded and took the note while Marie-Christine gave me instructions.

  She wanted a baguette, three croissants, two pains chocolats and anything else I thought looked nice. She wrote down the ‘digi-code’ for me which was a number I had to tap into a box to get back into the building.

  ‘You think you will be OK?’

  ‘Oui.’

  Come on, I’m nearly fourteen for godsake, buying bread isn’t exactly rocket science.

  I went down nonchalantly in the lift. The bread shop was a couple of blocks down. You couldn’t miss it, it had BOULANGERIE in big thick scrolly gold letters over the window and when I opened the door a delicious smell of freshly baked bread wafted out to greet me.

  I asked in my best French: ‘Trois croissants, deux pains chocolats, une baguette et …’

  My eye had been caught by a raspberry tart. It was red and glossy and packed with huge ripe raspberries and you could just see the teeniest glimpse of the custard cream underneath. I could feel my mouth watering.

  The boulangerie lady was looking at me with grave disapproval.

  ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Bonjour,’ I replied, remembering too late that it’s horribly rude in France not to greet people in shops before ordering. I tried the list on her again.

  This time she grumpily shoved the croissants and pains chocolats in a bag. She reached down a baguette and rolled it in white paper.

  ‘Ay-avec-sa?’

  ‘Errrrm?’

  ‘Say-too?’

  My eye returned to the raspberry tart.

  She followed my gaze and lifted out the tart. Before I could stop her she’d packed it in a smart gold box and tied it with a bow and, taking a ribbon, she ran it over with her scissors to give it curly ends and plonked a gold sticker on it. Well, Marie-Christine did say anything else I liked the look of, didn’t she?

  I handed over the twenty-euro note and got a few very small coins back. I realised sinkingly that the tart must have been horribly expensive. I wondered if I should try to get the lady to take it back, but this was way beyond my French and she had taken an awful lot of trouble packing it. Besides, she was still looking cross. So I said, ‘Merci’ and hurriedly left the shop.

  I made my way back carrying my very expensive purchase in its beautiful gold box. I now noticed there were plane trees all the way down the street that were just coming into leaf. They had wonderful dappled bark, kind of like camouflage, and each one was growing out of a fancy ironwork grille. I noticed the people too. The sun was coming out and they were walking in a happy kind of way, hand in hand or with dogs or prams, and quite a few of them were carrying baguettes like me. They were holding them up as if they were some kind of emblem or symbol of Frenchness.

  I liked this idea and I was just working out how I was going to write it down on a postcard to send to Dad, maybe with a drawing too, when I realised that I must have missed the Poiriers’ building. Not difficult to do, because all the buildings in the street looked exactly alike. They even had the same big shiny black doors.

  I paused and looked back down the street. I could no longer see the boulangerie, so I started tracking my way back and, as I did so, I had the horrible realisation that I had no idea what number the Poiriers lived at. None of the doors had names beside them, they all had anonymous brass digi-boxes just like the Poiriers. And I didn’t have my mobile on me. I could picture it now, lying on the bedside table in Matthilde’s room.

  I start walking faster. Surely there must be something I remember? Was their building before or after that café? There are several cafés and they all look alike. The trees look alike too. I turn back again and stare up at the row of identical buildings. All of them have precisely the same long windows and black iron balconies. I scan the people in the street, wondering if any of them might know the Poiriers. My heart is thumping in my chest now and my hands have gone sweaty. This is such a stupid situation.

  I go down the street and find the boulangerie again and then slowly make my way back, examining each house in turn for something familiar. But it’s no use, it could be any one of them. So I slump down on a bench to think the thing through. I’m really hungry now and that doesn’t help. The most wonderful vanilla-and-caramel aroma is coming from the bag of croissants and they’re still warm. I take the teensiest nibble at one. Which leads to a bite. Then suddenly I’m one croissant down. But my brain is starting to function. I could go to a police station. But French policemen don’t look nice and friendly like English policemen. I could go to every door and try the number Marie-Christine gave me in each digi-box. But I’d look really suspicious doing that – like a burglar.

  Maybe a better idea would be to ask in a café. According to Mum, Parisian people spend half their lives in their local café, someone would be bound to know them. I select the café that looks the most welcoming and make for it. I’m peering through the glass trying to decide if the people inside look friendly or not when I’m stopped short.

  Surely not. It can’t be? There’s a woman who looks exactly like Marie-Christine seated at a table with her back to me. She’s sitting opposite a man, talking to him earnestly. I can see her face reflected in the mirrored wall – it is Marie-Christine! I’m flooded with relief and I’m about to bound in and run up to her, when I pause. She’s leaning forward and she’s grabbed both this man’s hands in hers and she’s staring into his eyes. I take a step back. This cl
early is a very private moment. And that man is not Pierre! I’m shocked to the core. Her husband left a mere half hour ago and there she is, blatantly out with another man. This confirms everything I’ve suspected about the French.

  What do I do now? I back further off and hover behind a tree. I wonder if Matthilde knows about this. Matthilde who is so attached to her dear papa. This is dreadful! Marie-Christine doesn’t seem like that kind of person at all. Surely I must be mistaken. I peer round the tree and try to work out what’s going on. It’s like watching a movie with the sound turned off. The man in front of Marie-Christine is dark and has a shadow of beard as if he hasn’t shaved and he’s really handsome. He’s much handsomer than Pierre, actually. He’s leaning forward and shaking his head and now he’s bowed it despairingly in his hands. I can see Marie-Christine in the mirror again and she’s saying something. I try to lip-read. A tough challenge, since I can’t understand much French even when I hear it. But I can see Marie-Christine is trying to tell him something really important. She’s leaning closer still. Maybe she’s doing the right thing, telling him it can never be – or that it’s all over. I can feel tears of sympathy pricking in my eyes …

  ‘ ’Annah!’ a voice exclaims behind me. I nearly jump out of my skin. It’s Matthilde. She’s standing staring at me as if I’m the dumbest person in the whole world. Oh-my-god – whatever happens she mustn’t see her mother!

  ‘Hi. I got lost.’

  ‘Kwa?’

  ‘La maison. Je non know le numéro.’

  ‘Perdue?’ asks Matthilde.

  It’s a word I recognise. It’s in the title of some book Mum goes on and on about.

  ‘Oui,’ I say weakly.

  Matthilde does the most over-the-top eye-roll and shrug and to my intense relief turns on her heel. She sets off in the opposite direction from the café. The way she is walking demonstrates exactly how she feels about me. I follow behind like some lost dog – totally humiliated. Geesus, what a morning – and I haven’t even had proper breakfast yet.

  Inside the apartment the table is laid with three bowls, three spoons and a pot of jam. Matthilde ignores me and sets about heating milk in the kitchen. I put the bread and bag of croissants on the table and wonder what to do with the raspberry tart. I simply can’t face Matthilde’s scorn when I explain that I didn’t mean to buy it, it was a terrible mistake. So I go very quietly to the bedroom and hide it under my bed.

  When I come back, Matthilde carries in two bowls of frothy hot chocolate. She seats herself at the table and, with a nod in the direction of her mother’s bowl, she says, ‘Maman ’as gone out.’

  I nod, trying to look as if I didn’t know.

  The hot chocolate is yummy and I copy Matthilde as she dips a croissant in it and kind of slurps. It seems things like dunking and slurping and plate wiping are perfectly all right in France. I have grudgingly to admit this is a small but significant bonus.

  We’ve finished breakfast and there’s still no sign of Marie-Christine. My brain is busy inventing dramatic scenarios. She’s going to appear in the doorway at any moment, pale and tearful, and announce that she is packing her bags and leaving with her mystery lover for ever. Or maybe she’s dumped him and he’s suicidal – he’s threatening to throw them both in the Seine or maybe off the Eiffel Tower. Or even worse, he’s taken out a gun and is about to shoot the two of them, in fact right now he’s spraying the café with bullets! In each of these cases I wonder what will happen to Matthilde and me once we’re left alone together. Will the police have to break into the apartment to find our decomposing remains because we’ve throttled each other?

  I watch Matthilde as she calmly takes the hot chocolate bowls and loads them in the dishwasher. She seems totally unaware of the impending disaster that is about to descend on her.

  Having finished tidying up the breakfast, Matthilde returns to her natural habitat – bed, book and iPod. I pick up a newspaper that has been left on the table and follow her. I settle down on my bed and try to make some sort of sense out of the headlines. Failing this I resort to looking at the pictures. The usual selection of violence, death and terror does nothing to make me feel better. Still no sign of Marie-Christine.

  Suddenly Matthilde sits bolt upright, takes her earphones out of her ears and says, ‘I sink we go shopping.’

  ‘Shopping?’

  She nods. Shopping. The very normality of this brings me back to my senses. It seems French girls may be human after all. Whatever has happened to Marie-Christine, Matthilde doesn’t seem concerned. There’s probably a totally innocent explanation.

  Chapter Three

  We didn’t go to a shop, we went to a market. I’d been looking forward to checking out the latest fashions – after all I was in Paris. But no, this market – in its typically French obsessional way – sells nothing but food. It’s in a street called the Rue Cler and as we turn into it I’m stopped in my tracks.

  ‘Look!’ I say to Matthilde.

  ‘Kwa?’

  It was the Eiffel Tower! We had a view of it full on, down a side street. It was really close, literally towering over the buildings.

  Matthilde shrugged as if she saw it every day. Which she probably did, I suppose. ‘Oh oui, la Tour Eiffel.’

  ‘Can’t we go up?’

  ‘Go up?’

  ‘Errm, monter?’

  Big mistake. This was of course the naffest of uncool things to suggest.

  ‘La Tour Eiffel eez for tourists,’ Matthilde said dismissively.

  I stood my ground. ‘But I am a tourist.’

  ‘Per’aps,’ she said and turned her attention to a fruit and vegetable stall. I gaze miserably at the carefully stacked pyramids of produce. By rights I should be down the mall right now. Doing a last-minute clothing check with Jess, maybe finding the ultimate accessory for the party. Instead, I’m faced with a riveting choice of vegetables.

  It’s not long before I discover the real reason I’ve been taken to the market. I’m the beast of burden. Matthilde shops with the dedication of a proper grown-up French woman, squeezing things and demanding to have a taste before she buys, while I tag along behind, having bags loaded on me. Soon I’m weighed down with a knobbly bag of artichokes, a couple of kilos of oranges, some tiny long potatoes, broccoli, some stringy-looking salad, celery the size of a small tree, a cabbage, a kilo of red onions and some extremely smelly cheese.

  On the way back to the apartment, even though Matthilde has kindly taken one or two of the lighter packages, I feel as if my arms are being stretched to way below my knees. We pass the café where earlier I’d seen Marie-Christine with her mystery man. I scan through the window. The table they were sitting at is now deserted. But the memory of that moment comes back to me with full force. The way she was leaning forward, how he bowed his head in his hands … Something really serious was going on, I know it was.

  Matthilde is opening the front door, calling out a bright ‘Coo-coo, Maman!’

  She pauses in the hallway and puts down the shopping. ‘Maman?’

  She pushes open Marie-Christine’s bedroom door. A small suitcase is lying on the bed, a few clothes already inside it. She’s packing! My heart does a double somersault as all my suspicions come back sevenfold.

  ‘Maman?’ says Matthilde, tracking her way down the corridor to where a quiet and hurried voice can be heard coming from Marie-Christine’s study.

  Matthilde throws open the door and leans on the doorframe.

  ‘Mamanjayfaylaycorse.’

  But Marie-Christine is holding up a hand to her, listening intently to whoever it is at the other end of the phone.

  ‘Oui d’akkor. Ase-swar,’ she finishes and puts down the phone.

  She gets up from her desk and there is a rapid exchange between her and Matthilde. Whatever she is saying doesn’t please Matthilde one bit.

  There is a lot of ‘May-non, Maman!’ And I think I can even discern the fact that Matthilde was actually intending to take me up the Eiffel Tower.
But this could be mere invention on my part.

  Then Marie-Christine turns to me. ‘ ’Annah, chérie. I’m afraid I ’ave some ve-ry important work. I ’ave to take you to the country. To my mother – Matthilde’s grandparents’ ’ouse. Is nice there. You will like.’

  Very important work, indeed! I am so shocked, I’m lost for words. Marie-Christine is most definitely up to something with her dark and handsome stranger. So we’re being sent to the country. I stare at her as the full significance of this sinks in. The country – at Easter – with Matthilde. I will like? NOT!

  I can hear Matthilde opening and closing her wardrobe and I join her to find she is furiously dumping stuff in a suitcase. I do likewise, in a kind of action rewind of yesterday’s unpacking. I’ve no idea where we’re going. But if it’s anything like Normandy in April, it’ll be a load of damp fields lost in mist where even the cows look depressed. For a moment the shared activity of packing feels vaguely bonding. Matthilde raises an eyebrow at me and says in a furious undertone, ‘Maman! Typique!’

  I nod in agreement as we lug our stuff into the hallway where Marie-Christine is already waiting with a pile of bags beside her and her car keys in her hand. It takes ages to get out of the apartment because every door has to be locked and the alarm put on and then Matthilde suddenly remembers the stuff we just bought in the market and we have to unlock everything to go back in. We go down in hostile silence in the lift. At the bottom Matthilde gives all our shopping to a lady who lives on the ground floor who’s called the ‘concierge’.

  We then go down one more floor to an underground car park and we are just about to get in Marie-Christine’s car when Matthilde exclaims, ‘Zoot, nouzavons oublié Edith!’

  Now ‘oublié’ is a word I recognise. It means ‘forgot’. I know because of the word ‘oubliette’ which is a really horrible sort of hole you leave people in to torture them. I learnt about it in history, although I can’t remember when it was, or who did it to whom, but the gruesome bit kind of stuck.