Adam and Lindsay registered our slightly uncomfortable smiles and laughed.
“Don’t mind us,” Lindsay said, the edge gone from her voice. “Ce n’est que l’amour.” She and Adam beamed at each other.
“You guys both speak French really well,” I said. “How long have you been taking classes?”
“Since I was five,” Lindsay said. “I went to school in Geneva, so it was required.”
“Fancy,” Sophie said.
Lindsay shrugged.
“I technically learned in high school, but the French classes at my school were abysmal,” Adam said. “I learned more from watching the old Yves Allégret films I borrowed from the library.”
“I’m a little surprised that they had things like that where you grew up,” Lindsay said. “No offense, just seems a little outré for small-town Georgia.”
“None taken.” Adam twisted his cigarette into the ashtray. “I grew up in Shit Town, Georgia. Most people there could barely be said to actually speak English, let alone anything else.”
A charity case like me, I thought, smiling. I knew I liked him.
By the time we got back to the institute, my host family was already there. They had showed up earlier than expected, but I was still a little embarrassed that I’d made them wait. Muttering an apology, I clambered out of the common room with my luggage.
I was spirited off by my new host parents, Pierre and Nicole Dubois, in a small blue Peugeot. They were modestly dressed, with kind smiles that I found immeasurably reassuring. I imagined that the family might become important to me. But that was before I’d met the man whose presence would eclipse every other moment of my life in France, before I had an inkling of what Sophie would mean to me.
The house was like all the others on its street: four stories of red brick, with a steep roof topped with a crooked weathervane, tucked snugly in between two other houses. Tall, wiry Pierre navigated my enormous suitcase up the narrow staircase. He smiled intermittently and reassured me that he was “très fort!” even though the strain showed on his weathered face. Dinner with their three children—teenaged twins and an adorable, mouselike ten-year-old named Maximilian—was as awkward conversationally as one could expect given the circumstances, despite their efforts to speak slowly on my behalf. The meal was simple—roasted chicken with vegetables—but was followed with fruits, cheeses, and yogurt, a procession that seemed both formal and habitual.
My host mother urged me to bed early and brought a tisane to my room, a cozy attic space with a slanted ceiling that housed a desk and a simple brass bed with a blue coverlet.
“Bientôt tu rêveras en français,” she said just before closing the door. Soon you will be dreaming in French.
WHEN I arrived at the institute the next morning, I found Sophie in the small kitchen adjacent to the coatroom. The rest of the students had arrived and a low hum of chatter filled the rooms, punctuated by the occasional squeal or exclamation.
“Good morning,” Sophie said when she saw me.
“Bonjour. There’s coffee?”
Sophie was wearing black jeans and a black-and-white–striped T-shirt, her hair wet from the shower. She handed me a round cardboard container. “No, actually, there’s Nescafé. Coffee facsimile. I need it anyway, my host family only keeps tea in the house. I assumed for some reason that all Europeans drank espresso; that’s the first of many things I’ll be wrong about I’m sure.” She yawned, mouth broad as a jungle cat’s.
“Tired?” I added hot water from the electronic kettle to the dubious-looking dark powder.
“Yeah. Went for a run this morning.”
“Oh, God, you didn’t. I hate you and your discipline.”
She laughed. “You’re welcome to join me next time. Although I will warn you that my host family thought it was totally bizarre. But if I get out of my routines, I’ll never get back into them.”
“It is odd being in someone’s house all of a sudden, with their family. I can’t quite relax yet. How’s your family, other than the no-coffee thing and the reaction to your exercise habits?”
“Sweet.” She winced as she finished the dregs of coffee in the bottom of her cup. “The parents anyway. There’s an eighteen-year-old girl who’s kind of a brat, but then, she’s eighteen.”
We both nodded knowingly, as though eighteen were so young. It felt like a big two years back then.
“What about your family?”
“Oh, I like them, they seem nice.” My eyes searched the counter for something to add to the bitter instant coffee and located a sugar bowl. Leaning against the door to the kitchen, I sipped my coffee, which was nearly bearable with two spoonfuls of sugar, looking around at the other students. Nearly indistinguishable, they all looked vaguely sporty, collegiate, and earnest. In other words, American. I saw only three boys, all wearing the tattered, white baseball hats so common on college campuses. I doubted they would make any effort to fit in, and they were unwelcome reminders of what I was surrounded with back home. The room was filled with the particular din of many women speaking at once. The words that could be picked out were mostly English. I suspected we all felt timid with French and would for some time to come. Suddenly I saw Adam’s face weaving through the crowd several inches above the surrounding brunette and blond heads.
“Adam,” Sophie called out.
“J’arrive!” He made a dramatic show of struggling through the crowded hallway and into the kitchen. “Bonjour, les filles.”
“Coucou!” we heard Madame Rochet call from the main salon, beckoning us all to the buses going to La Rochelle. We were headed to the beach resort for a welcome trip, a chance to bond with each other and to see the seaside before we settled into life in Nantes.
Sophie and I shared a room at the Ibis chain hotel from which we could see a sliver of the ocean from the dingy balcony if we craned our necks just right. I remember that the room smelled like smoke, not in an off-putting way, just another little reminder that you weren’t in America, where virtually nothing smelled like smoke anymore.
“I like this place,” Sophie said, stepping out onto the balcony. “Not the hotel, I mean, but La Rochelle. I’m afraid by the time we leave I’ll wish that we were here instead of in Nantes.”
“Don’t you like Nantes?”
“No, I do. But this place is so charming. I think since I grew up on a coast, I’ll always prefer to be by the ocean. You know?”
“Yeah,” I said, though I knew nothing about preferring places that reminded me of where I grew up; I always preferred the opposite.
We had time before dinner, so we took a leisurely walk around La Rochelle. The posh and polished seaside town had tidy cobblestone streets and gleaming sailboats knocking against each other in the harbor. Vast moorings contained boats of all sizes. It sparked my imagination to see them all sitting there without their owners. What sort of life would bring someone to this harbor in one of these beautiful boats? I was shot through with longing to have such a life and wondered if it could ever be possible.
“Which one is yours?” Sophie asked, smiling and perhaps, I thought, reading my mind. People had so often told me I was stoic, yet Sophie seemed to know what I was thinking just by looking at me. Magical, all-seeing Sophie.
“That one.” I pointed to a striking white sailboat with gleaming brass finishings and a line of small portholes in a tidy row.
“You’re such a romantic to choose a sailboat. Well, now we have to go and see what its name is.” She took off trotting down the pier. I laughed and followed her. Our sandaled feet smacked the boards of the dock, and an older couple who were sitting on the deck of their small yacht glared at us. I didn’t care.
“La Puissance.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Neither do I.”
We looked at each other and laughed.
“I think it’s pretty bad to not know the name of your own yacht; it’s like having a tattoo in a language you can’t read. But moving on, which
one is yours?”
“Definitely that one,” she said, having already chosen. She pointed to one of the larger, newer-looking yachts.
“You would need a captain and crew for that one, I think.” I put my hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun and marveled at the huge vessel.
“I can obviously afford it,” she said, tossing her hair. “I mean, look at the size of my yacht!”
We walked over to investigate, peeking around the corner surreptitiously as though the owner might come above decks at any second to shoo us away.
“One Fish, Two Fish,” Sophie read. “I’m such a cheese ball to pick an American boat. Santa Barbara, CA. Wow, they’re a long way from home”—she glanced back at me—“just like us.”
“It’s strange to think there are other Americans here right now.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t want there to be.” Maybe I’d been naive to think we’d be the only ones.
“Oh, we’re everywhere. The Australians are just as bad, though, and the Germans! They take up half of Greece in the summer! But we don’t have to be that kind of American. We can be Franco-américaines. We can be hybrids.” She reached out to nudge the edge of the boat with her foot as though testing to see if it was real. “Come on.” She suddenly hoisted herself up over the railing and onto the stern.
“Sophie! What are you doing?”
She shrugged and smiled. “It’s not like I’m going to rob them. I just want to look around.” She held out a hand to me and I didn’t see how I could do anything other than follow her.
“Holy crap,” she said, opening the sliding glass door to the inside, “they just leave it open!”
“Which probably means they’re coming back any second!” I craned my neck to look nervously back down the dock.
“Will you relax?” She leaned down to the minifridge, exclaiming “Aha!” as she pulled out a couple of beers.
I put my face in my hands, smiling at her through my fingers.
“Let’s take these up front.” She popped the tops off with a wine key that was sitting on the counter.
We sat on the wide bow drinking the beers in the waning sunlight.
“This is where we would sunbathe. Topless, of course,” she said.
“Of course.”
“You know,” she said, leaning back on her free hand and stretching her legs out, “I’m really glad we’re here together. I always wanted to get to know you better.”
“Really?”
“Yeah! You’ve got this whole mysterious vibe going on. It’s intriguing.”
“Mysterious? Honestly?” I closed my eyes to the sparkling bay. “I never do feel like I fit in at school.”
“Yeah, but in a good way. You’re surprised I think so?”
“I’m surprised you thought about me at all.” Embarrassed, I added, “I mean you’re the Volleyball Goddess and all.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not all about volleyball, you know. I have other hobbies. I wanted to study art history, but my parents wanted me to do econ. More practical. I still paint, though, and take art classes when I can.”
“I didn’t know that.” I tried to picture shimmering blond Sophie among the tattooed, sallow-cheeked art majors I knew. “Can I see some of your work sometime?”
She shrugged. “Maybe in five years when it’s decent.”
A seagull landed on the railing and looked at us, cocking his head accusingly.
“Maybe it’s his boat,” I said.
She laughed and for a moment we were both quiet.
“I don’t think fitting in is the point,” she said thoughtfully.
“The point of what?”
“Of anything.”
Back in our room, Sophie threw herself facedown on her bed with a heavy sigh. “I’m so tired,” she said, her voice muffled by the pillow.
“You don’t want to go out?” I didn’t want to choose between staying with Sophie and going out.
“Uhggggnnnnnn.”
“Come on! It’s our first night with everyone.”
“Hmmmph.” The tone was lighter, though, less certain.
“Don’t you want to see who’s going to be the first person to get wasted and make a fool of themselves on foreign soil?”
She flipped over on her side, a little more animated. “Why? You gonna go big tonight?”
“No”—I smacked her playfully and bounced onto my knees on the end of her bed—“not me. My money is on one of the quiet girls from the Christian college.”
“Repressed Christians Gone Wild.”
She yanked me down next to her and snuggled up to me. “Let’s take a nap for like ten minutes and then I will rally. Okay?”
“Okay.” The cheap bedspread was rough against my cheek, and Sophie’s hair had an airy, soapy smell that was more pleasant than the scent of the stale smoky smell of the room, so I didn’t move my face from where it was, practically nestled in her long hair.
I drifted off and slept deeply until Sophie, still dripping from the shower, shook me.
“Wakey, wakey. Looks like I’m not the only one who needed a disco nap.” She made her way over to where her suitcase was propped open in the corner, rummaging around for clothes. As soon as she’d found a pair of underwear, she dispensed with the towel. I couldn’t help but stare at her while her back was to me, not that I imagined Sophie minded anyone staring at her, nearly naked or otherwise. Her body was an ideal and impossible mix of teenage and altogether womanly features: long, lean limbs and a compact, curvy torso with a soft, flat stomach.
“I think my boobs got smaller,” she said suddenly, snapping on a bra and turning to face me as though reacting to some vibe of scrutiny that I was inadvertently sending off. “I think I lost a couple of pounds and it all came off my boobs.”
“You’re crazy.” I laughed nervously. “You have such a good body. I’m jealous.” Though I’d meant it as flattery, the latter part was all too honest and I blushed, deciding now would be a good time to leave the room and shower. I swung my heavy limbs off the edge of the bed, and as I stood, I expanded into a full, involuntary stretch accompanied by a huge yawn.
“Why would you be jealous? I wish I had your boobs.”
Girls like Sophie never saw the truth: they could make other women feel lesser simply by existing.
“Do you want the ass as well? I’m afraid it’s a package deal.”
Sophie craned her neck as though considering this. She suddenly dashed over to me and smacked my ass hard enough to leave a mark.
“Sold!” she said, laughing as she went into the bathroom.
They assembled us in the lobby for a dinner that was served in predetermined courses like at a wedding. When a beet salad was served, Madame Rochet, with a look of horror, halted our conversation to explain that we mustn’t use the word beet because in French it is popular slang for a certain part of the male anatomy. We giggled like third graders and a running joke was thus born, as beets are utterly ubiquitous in France.
Afterward, we went to a local bar, where we posted up in a booth in the corner, gleeful at being allowed to drink in public, and stayed there late into the night. When our waitress appeared, Lindsay and Adam amused us all by ordering increasingly exotic drinks, a sidecar, a Harvey Wallbanger, a caipirinha, and then making an impressive show of explaining to the waitress in French what was in each of them. They insisted each time that Sophie and I had requested them, that we were important guests from Russia who didn’t speak a word of French and they were only trying to accommodate us. Sophie and I played along by looking stern and every so often muttering da or shaking our heads. California had never felt farther away.
THE NEXT morning we were woken up at what felt like an ungodly hour. I could feel the town around us still sleeping. We were taken to a large conference room where we sat down at small desks and were handed thick test booklets. Had there been mention of a test? Yes, I suppose Madame had said something about it, but we’d
been told it was nothing to worry about: Ne vous inquiétez pas. We all struggled to keep our hangovers at bay while finishing the exhaustive grammar exam.
It was already late afternoon when we arrived back in Nantes. I opened the door with the key that Nicole had given me. I knew I was welcome and yet it felt strange, as if I were breaking into someone’s house. Setting my duffel bag down gingerly at the foot of the stairs, and hearing no one else home, I was slipping into a kind of tired reverie when suddenly the family’s young son, Maximilian, and another young boy sprang from the garden and ran through the tall grass up onto the porch.
“Salut Brooke.” Maximilian kissed me and smiled his mouse smile at me, big, round eyes sparkling. His friend, a boy several inches taller than he with short, dark curls, laughed. Maximilian shoved at him.
I felt an almost irresistible urge to ruffle Maximilian’s hair but resisted and instead asked where the rest of the family was. At a party, he said, motioning for me to come with them. “Viens avec nous!”
I followed him and his friend as they barreled through the house, snatching two Ping-Pong paddles off the kitchen table and sprinting out into the street without locking the door behind them. They led me to a narrow side alley where banners and scarves were strung between the windows of the two tall town houses like laundry lines. People congregated in the street around folding tables laden with cheese and fruit, bottles of wine that were down to the dregs, and an enormous punch bowl. Music was coming from a stereo in someone’s garage, and a few older couples were dancing in the street. Maximilian promptly abandoned me, dashing off with his friend to the Ping-Pong table. I wished I could stand there for a while, invisibly watching the party.
I searched the alley for Nicole and finally spotted her. She was wearing a white linen dress and was smiling and laughing with two other people. It still felt like summer in the air, and I felt suddenly as though I were being allowed into something secret and special. Nicole and I caught eyes across the alley and she motioned me to her.
“This is my brother Franck and his wife, Madeline.” Nicole gestured to each of her companions. I stepped in to kiss them on the cheeks, certain it was the right thing to do. Franck and his wife accepted the kisses but looked at me askance. Had Franck tried to offer me his hand first? My cheeks burned; surely a slightly overdone greeting was not truly offensive? Wouldn’t it have been worse to shove my big, dumb American paw at them if I wasn’t supposed to?
Losing the Light Page 5
