At last I went up to bed with a tisane and the feeling that I could not have lived this day any better than I had done. I pulled back the curtain on my bedroom window so that I could look out and up into the night sky from where I lay in my bed.
But I couldn’t settle down. I had not only seen Alex at last after all this time, but would have to prepare to see him again tomorrow. It brought me some relief to see that Alex and Sophie didn’t seem to get along well. But was I mistaking sexual tension for dislike? I needed to say something to Sophie about my debilitating little crush on the Frenchman. Then he would become off-limits, wasn’t that the rule? But what if Sophie wanted him too? What would I say then, that I saw him first? The thought of competing with Sophie over a man made me ill. I would sleep on it, I decided. Everything would be clearer in the morning.
I HAD A sense of my options unfurling, becoming limitless. I was aware of things inside of me shifting and taking new shape.
That Sunday, I woke up early to finish a paper for my theater class before I met with Sophie for lunch and some shopping in the town center. I didn’t want to be preoccupied with schoolwork later when we saw Alex and Véronique. Yet it was difficult to focus on my paper with the afternoon that loomed ahead. The day was sunny despite the cold, with the sort of clear air that sharpens the senses, makes you think something exciting could happen.
At last I was free and joined Sophie at our favorite sandwich shop near the school. I hated to meet so close to the institute on a Sunday, but we had both developed something of an addiction to the sandwich au jambon there, with the ham served on warm, fresh sliced minibaguettes slathered on both sides with butter, and the location was close enough to the shops we wanted to visit that we could justify going there.
“Oh, these are so good,” Sophie said. “Why don’t we have sandwiches like this in the States? I suddenly feel like everything we do to our sandwiches is ridiculous! Lettuce! Mayonnaise! Pickles! They’re done up like cheap whores.”
“Sandwich putain américaine!”
“And the bread! The bread is a goddamned disaster. It doesn’t belong to the same species as what they’ve got here. Can you imagine if we introduced them to Wonder bread?”
I cringed. “We’ll have to ask Véronique if she had any such horrifying encounter when she was there. Last night I got a kick out of telling my host family about microwave dinners and people eating in their cars. They were appalled. It’s like they’ve heard about these odd things but don’t quite really believe we do them. Much like I never really believed they could eat the way they do every night here—all around the table with the cheese plate and everything—until I saw it with my own eyes.”
“How sad.” Sophie finished the last bite of her sandwich, which she had put away with impressive speed. Brushing crumbs from her mouth, she pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. “They’re more sophisticated than we could fathom, and we’re even lazier than they could imagine.”
“On second thought, maybe we shouldn’t say anything to Véronique about the Wonder bread, in case she doesn’t already know. It might ruin what’s left of our American mystique.”
“Good point.” Sophie took my gloved hand in hers. We walked a couple of blocks before she stopped abruptly. “Oh! We have to stop in here.”
I had walked by the Sonia Rykiel boutique several times and stopped to admire the mannequins in the window that towered several feet above street level—as if the general air of luxury and glamour of the place were not enough to make you feel small and overwhelmed—but I had never dreamed of going in.
The clothes were quirky and luxe in a particularly French way; the shapes were a bit boyish with stripes and small florals, whimsical girlie accoutrements of lace and bows.
“Bonjour,” a saleswoman said from a corner, where she appeared to be adjusting a few hangers that already hung perfectly spaced. She did not ask if she could help us with anything. I hadn’t done enough high-end shopping to know if her seeming indifference could be accounted for by our being in France or our being two twenty-year-old girls—me carrying my ugly canvas shoulder bag—in a fancy store.
Sophie either didn’t notice the saleswoman’s icy demeanor or didn’t care. She went through the store fingering the delicate striped sweaters and the intricate ruffles of the dresses. I wondered if she was bold enough to try something on.
I recalled my late-night reverie and my conviction that I should tell her about my attraction to Alex to make sure she kept her distance. But suddenly in this well-lit, posh store watching Sophie model a beautiful gray purse in the mirror—face thoughtful as though actually considering it for purchase—the whole thing seemed ridiculous. We didn’t even know Alex that well, and I felt better about my chances in the light of day. After all, attraction was a mysterious and mercurial thing. I wouldn’t say anything, I decided, I didn’t want to jinx it. I couldn’t imagine why I’d felt so strongly about it the night before.
“What do you think?” she asked me in English. We tended now to switch back and forth between the two languages, sometimes without even meaning to or knowing we’d done so. I thought fondly of how lovely it was to be the sort of person who did that.
“So gorgeous.” I tentatively stroked the buttery leather with my fingertips. “Et plus chère que ma voiture,” I said in French for the benefit of the saleswoman, as though its probably costing more than my Honda were somehow her doing.
“I think I have to have it,” Sophie said with a dramatic sigh. “I first saw it weeks ago.” She then lowered her voice as if she were telling me something naughty. “I’ve been back to visit it since.”
I looked again at the saleswoman; had she been a witness to the beginning stages of this illicit affair of le sac à main as well?
This completely perfect bag was a sound argument for the transformative power of fashion. Without it, Sophie was a beautiful student, but with it, she was made over as French Sophie, adult Sophie, some future Sophie yet unrealized. Isn’t this why we buy what we don’t need? Not to have something new but to be made into something new?
“Let me see.” I took the bag from her and took a long look at myself in the mirror. On me the bag had a slightly different effect, demanding different hair and shoes and the addition of accessories completely foreign to me, like bangles or a scarf. Still, the effect was miraculous, the bag suggesting that I might be capable of being transformed, that owning it would give the rest of me something to live up to. I gave it back to Sophie before I could fall deeper under its spell, feel the pain of not owning it.
“Oui,” Sophie said, “I have to have it.”
I laughed and sighed; if only. Then to my astonishment she caught the attention of the saleswoman and repeated herself: I must have it. A little ghost of a smile crossed the saleswoman’s lips as she went to the back to get a newer one to replace the floor model Sophie was holding, although it looked pristine to me.
“Sophie,” I hissed in a tight whisper.
“What?” she asked cheerfully, not at all defensively. I looked her in the eye and saw no fear. A moment before I had thought she was kidding, but now I realized that she was completely set on buying the bag.
An older woman with a small terrier came into the shop and began a slow lap around the floor.
“J’arrive tout de suite, Madame Voulu, veuillez patienter un tout petit moment.” The saleswoman had reappeared and welcomed the regular patron with a few degrees more warmth than she had managed for us.
“Alors, mademoiselle,” the saleswoman said to Sophie, pulling the bag from its plastic wrapping and displaying it on the soft dust bag for Sophie to inspect.
“Ça marche,” said Sophie, “c’est parfait.”
The actual purchase seemed to take place in some sort of suspended animation; the bag was placed tenderly in its dust bag and then into a sleek, glossy carrier bag. Sophie calmly produced a credit card from her wallet—this was surely the “for emergencies only” credit card ubiquitous among American students�
�and paid the woman, who thanked her and told her to enjoy her joli sac à main.
Sophie took my arm as we left the store, brimming with delight and babbling somewhat disjointedly about her purchase. “I’ve always wanted a bag just like this; it reminds me of one that my mother had when I was little.”
The sun warmed our shoulders and I dug my sunglasses out of my canvas bag, now seeming more decrepit than ever.
Were we the kind of friends who could get on each other’s case about a thing such as this? If it had been a modestly indulgent purchase, something that cost the equivalent of a month or so’s bière et sandwich money, then I would have scolded her handily, but this went beyond that into more serious territory. I knew Sophie’s family was well-off, but purchasing a bag that costly surely wasn’t wise. Even though she’d described her weeks of longing for the bag, the purchase itself had seemed to happen on a whim. But it was done. My stomach turned over with horror at the realization that the time to have said something, to have been the good friend and voice of reason, had passed me by when the saleswoman had disappeared to go get the bag; that had been my moment to speak up. But perhaps it could be returned, we were only blocks away. “Sophie . . .”
“Oui, chérie?” Her eyes sparkled. She looked so happy I suddenly didn’t want to ruin it. After all, this was Sophie, she knew what she was doing. What did I know about how rich girls lived? She was spontaneous, she was fun. I should keep my nerves to myself and go along for the ride.
“I’m dying over that bag, it’s so gorgeous,” I said.
There was no sign that the outrageous purchase she’d just made disturbed her, no indication that her heart was racing or that she regretted what she’d done. She just had to have it. My concern twisted into something else, an appalled envy that echoed in my head: You are not the same. I batted the thought away.
“You can borrow it anytime you want, mon amour.”
And perhaps I could, perhaps I could buy bangles and a scarf and some sleeker shoes and borrow the bag and feel its magic. So later, in a less pricey store, I let Sophie convince me to buy not only a scarf but a little floppy hat that looked like, but wasn’t quite, a beret. A beret? In France? You cannot be serious. But this is not some cartoonish mime’s beret, this is très moderne, très jeune, très chic. In the face of le sac they seemed like a bargain, so I bought both items and left wearing them with my black T-shirt and dark jeans, draping the scarf over the lapels of my overcoat.
“We should get some chocolates for Alex’s grandmother,” Sophie said as we made our way down to the place de Transportation. I hadn’t thought of this and was glad that Sophie had, as it would be gauche to come to tea empty-handed.
We went into a shop tucked in a little alley; I had walked by before and looked longingly into its windows but had never had a reason to go in. This was nothing like an American chocolate shop with its waxy squares of milk chocolate and gaudy bows. These window displays were so opulent that they seemed pulled from a children’s story. There were all shapes of chocolate—sports cars, animals—truffle balls piled impossibly high and dusted with ultrafine cocoa, small squares of dark chocolate with miniature paintings on their faces.
Walking in, we shut the door swiftly, the frigid air blowing down the shadowy alleyway behind us. The older couple inside owned the shop and displayed none of the froideur of the vendeuse chez Sonia Rykiel. They seemed to take seriously the task of helping us select our chocolates, asking Sophie and me a dozen questions about our plan for the chocolates and the intended recipient. They made certain to impart upon us the dire importance of getting these chocolates to Madame tout de suite, as they would only be good for a few days: these were serious, fragile French chocolates.
The box cost us nearly fifty euros. I handed Sophie my cash as she stood at the register, but she waved it away. “Next time,” she said as though this were as regular a purchase for the two of us as our sandwichs au jambon. Meekly, I tried again, but she couldn’t be dissuaded. I winced with shame; she knew I couldn’t afford it.
By the time we left the chocolate shop we had just enough time to walk to the de Persauds’ house at a leisurely pace. Our purchases served to make us slightly different girls from those we’d been before, adding to the feeling that this day was somehow momentous. Instead of just imagining a future Brooke and Sophie, we now embodied future Brooke and Sophie. We were clearing the way for them. Their unspoken, shared conviction was that these future selves would never lose touch with each other. I thought the future would be a more level playing field. Sophie had begun the race ahead of me, but she didn’t have to remain there.
During this afternoon I began to understand what I found so seductive about Sophie: the possibility of seeing the world as she saw it, as an alternate universe where life was above all else an adventure. I thought again about what she called her “bad periods,” then looked at her, radiating happiness. How could it be? Maybe her parents were just worriers, overprotective. Parents could be that way. Yet here she was next to me, swinging her expensive new bag, gleefully pointing out children in the street who were bundled up to their ears in scarves with only their eyes visible, peeking out from under their caps. Ever the golden girl.
When we finally reached the house, we stood in front of a large, elegant town house with gladiolas in the window boxes.
“This looks fancy,” I whispered to Sophie. We had double-checked the address and were hesitating as if to have one last moment to ourselves before entering. If nothing else, the cold would eventually have driven us to ring the doorbell, as the abbreviated winter day had already left half the city in shadows.
“Well, you knew they’d be posh. De Persaud. Anything with a de in it is a dead giveaway.”
“Like ‘de Sade’?”
We both faced forward as though we’d already rung the door chime and were waiting for it to open.
“Ooh, dark! But, yes, he was a marquis, after all.” Sophie finally leaned forward and rapped gently on the door.
When we heard no signs of life from within, I located a not-very-functional-looking gilded doorbell and pressed it. Sophie and I both startled as a thunderous chime resounded from within, then struggled to stifle our giggles before someone opened the door.
A petite but intimidating dark-eyed woman in a housekeeper’s uniform appeared and looked at us suspiciously. We gave our names and explained quickly—afraid she might actually shut the door in our faces if we didn’t convince her—that we were friends of Alex de Persaud’s and had been invited this afternoon for tea.
“Bon,” she said in an accent that did not sound French, and we followed her into the foyer. The house was lavish, and somehow much larger than had seemed possible from the street. The foyer was decorated with the sort of Louis XIV furniture that would have appeared ridiculous and effete in any American home I had seen but looked perfect here.
Sophie and I remained hushed and humbled in the foyer waiting for someone to come and get us. At last Véronique and Alex appeared at the top of the staircase and came down to where we were standing, their feet hitting the steps nearly in tandem.
“Salut, les filles!” Véronique said.
They looked like a couple welcoming guests into their home. I had the impression that Véronique had not just arrived but had been here awhile. She seemed at ease in the house, sliding her hand down the banister as she walked. The four of us exchanged kisses and hellos.
“And what is this?” Véronique exclaimed upon seeing the carrier bag from Sonia Rykiel. Gleaming and huge as it was, it was rather impossible to miss.
“Un peu de shopping,” Sophie said, her eyes shining.
“Just a little bit, no?” Véronique delicately fingered the top of the bag and peered into the lip. Sophie set the shopping bag down gently, extracting from it the dust bag and then the purse itself. Gasping, Véronique reached out to touch the bag, which Sophie gladly handed over as though it were a remarkably attractive and well-behaved child of whom she was proud. I was tak
en aback upon seeing the bag again, the luxurious leather, the gleaming silver hardware. How long would you have to own something like this before it would look to you like a simple thing of quotidian life? Or worse, would you come to hate it and regard it with remorse, wishing you had taken a trip to India with the money? What dilemmas to have, not something I’d need to worry about. And maybe those who had either option didn’t have to choose. Sophie didn’t have to choose.
As Véronique admired the bag, I could see the wheels turning behind her eyes, the sizing up of not only the bag but also the girl who’d purchased it. But Véronique knew so little of Sophie that she was much freer than I to make sweeping assumptions, to simply think rich girl.
“It’s a classic,” pronounced Véronique, “c’est très cool.”
“Oui,” said Alex, showing an interest in the bag that no straight American boy would have volunteered in a million years. “C’est si soigné.”
At length Véronique handed the bag back to Sophie.
“Oh,” I said finally, “we brought these as well.” I handed the gold box with the thick maroon ribbon to Alex, feeling like a fraud for not having contributed to the purchase of the chocolates and yet being the one to present them.
“Thank you, I will give them to Magdalena to serve after tea. I’m so glad you’re here,” Alex said. “I told my grandmother that we had two American guests. She’s forgotten by now, but she was very excited at the time, so I am confident that it will be a very pleasant surprise.” He was wearing a fine cashmere sweater in a deep eggplant color and looked clean shaven for the first time since I’d met him. When he kissed my cheeks, he smelled fresh and slightly perfumed as though he had just awoken and showered before we’d arrived. I felt reassured that I’d done the right thing in not hastily mentioning my crush to Sophie, which would only have increased the tension I felt around Alex. Furthermore it could upset the delicate international group dynamics to have knowing looks being passed back and forth. They would know immediately something was up; I was still counting on continued exposure to his presence to acclimate me to it and temper my attraction. Until I could be on more even footing, part of me didn’t want him to know the hand he held in case he might play it or, worse, not play it.
Losing the Light Page 11
