32
Marianne called during breakfast. During lunch. She wanted me badly, and I was all like, No, and she was all like, Well, I’ll call back. One day, going into a meeting, I answered my cell phone without checking the caller ID.
“Hello, this is Orange, your mobile phone company. Would you—”
“No, I would not,” I said in French. I stopped outside the conference room and covered my other ear with my hand. “Please stop calling. Already I said no. I am going into a meeting. Your company calls me six times a day.”
There was an air of deep affront.
“Well, do you know why we call you?” Marianne asked.
“Yes,” I said, “to pose me the question of participation. In an exercise of marketing.”
“And do you know why I am calling you today?”
“You are calling about an exercise of marketing?”
“Sir, are you going to let me explain?” Marianne said testily. After a pause, she continued, “Good. Today I am calling because Orange would like to invite you to respond to a few questions to improve your service.”
“Yes, exactly, I know,” I said. “But I do not have time for this. I told you that. I do not want to have this conversation.”
“But why?” Marianne asked.
“Because I said no—because right now is my time!”
My own vehemence surprised me. I added, “Have a good afternoon.”
“Fine, we will call you back,” Marianne said, and hung up.
See, against Marianne, the Parisian man was powerless. Against the all-powerful apparatus, against French bureaucracy and dossiers, man could struggle, but ultimately he would yield. And I still hadn’t received my health-insurance card.
* * *
Much to Rachel’s and my disappointment, Lindsay announced that week the end of relations with Christian, the bunker-loving menswear designer. Lindsay said it from the landing outside our apartment. She did not remove her jacket.
“So, he loves me, he loves me not? Nope. He loves me—oh, he loves me. Far as Christian’s concerned, my heart is a bunker he can hide inside for eternity. However,” Lindsay said, sitting down at our kitchen table, “now he points out we must end things. Cut the rope. Because, first off, he can’t commit. He reminds me he told me this from the beginning, that he can’t commit. Though really, what man can? Anyway, as part of breaking up with me, Christian reminds me he is not the marrying type. And of course it’s killing him to tell me this. I mean, the man can cry. I’ll give him that. God, can they cry.”
She laughed. “Eating chocolate in bed, who does that? Anyway, he knows he has problems. Living among the birdcages—he collects birdcages. I mean, he gets it, he’s not blind. But that’s the worst part: none of them are. So he’s enjoying his prenup. You know, like, ‘Lindsay, I told you in the beginning, I am not a commitment guy, I have told you this since we met, so you cannot blame me for what I must tell you now.’ But given the chance, what Frenchman is a ‘commitment guy’? Ask any Parisian guy to quit being an oversexed little monster, and he freaks out. Mais non! Tu demandes trop! You’re every woman who tried to entrap them, including their mothers. Especially their mothers. So one minute it’s ‘Baby, I love you, save me from my machismo.’ But as soon as you start feeling anything, the tragedy vanishes and it’s all kaput.”
Lindsay’s long eyelashes had tears she brushed away. “And you know what?” Lindsay said. “I think I really liked him. Isn’t that sad?”
33
April in Paris meant lots of workmen walking around clutching baguettes. Occasionally they’d have a little plastic Franprix bag with a can of beer inside, maybe a cake or a yogurt. But if none of those things, there’d still be that baguette clasped delicately with a square of wax paper, the rod of lunch.
I asked Chaya to define France, what it meant to be French, specifically Parisian. What symbol said France most of all? He didn’t pause: “The baguette. Or the Eiffel Tower. But this is a recent development.”
Olivier nodded agreement.
Julie, my former neighbor, was visiting Françoise at her desk. She jumped in: “The baguette, of course. But Paris most of all. To be Parisian is to be the most French. Paris is the complete idea of France.”
Françoise said, “Well, this is a very Parisian way of thinking.”
I said after a moment, “What about raclette?”
“Raclette?” Olivier said. He peered at me in confusion. “How do you know about raclette?”
“I know things about cheese,” I said.
Olivier laughed until he doubled over. “No, please—Americans do not know about cheese—Americans?—oh my god!”
By the beginning of April, I’d finished another draft of my novel. Passed it to Rachel. She read it in a week and said she liked it a lot—it was much further along—but it still wasn’t quite there. I flipped the pages myself, stewing; by the last page, I agreed. So back to the revision board and early mornings …
At the office, in addition to my Louis Vuitton and brandy work, Pierre had asked me to help him develop a pitch for Jacquet Tartine, a French sliced bread that was narrow enough to fit into a mug. It was American sandwich bread on a diet—bread a person could soak in his morning coffee. I said I was having trouble with the concept. I asked Pierre, “You dunk your bread into your coffee?”
“You who?”
“You, France,” I said.
“Of course,” Pierre said. “Everyone dunks. Come on, you don’t? Really?”
For once, André’s mouth was closed. He was a baguette man, he said; this sliced sandwich bread should go back home, stateside.
Another sign of spring: tourists were back in high numbers. Riding the Bateau-Mouche, or queuing for the Musée d’Orsay. From the agency’s balcony above the Champs-Elysées, we watched them pose outside their favorite stores for pictures. Most popular was my client, Louis Vuitton, whose headquarters were across the street. Tourists would wait for pole position, then stand next to the best window display. Frequently they posed while holding up whatever they’d just bought inside: a handbag, a pair of jeans, some shoes.
Also popular for backdrop were two other French brands still found on the Champs-Elysées: Cartier, up the street, and Montblanc, the pen manufacturer, which was actually a German company, but it sounded French, which seemed good enough for the tourists.
First, someone would get a picture with Cartier’s window display, then he might rotate slightly for a photograph with the Arc de Triomphe.
With spring came new movie posters—mostly French movies set in Paris about people struggling to fall in love—and new advertisements on the boulevard, often starring George Clooney. George Clooney was Paris’s most popular American that spring, its ami préféré. Back when we arrived, he had welcomed us with a Nespresso from a billboard near the airport. Now, in addition to his coffee work, George Clooney was endorsing Omega watches and Leatherheads, a movie in which he played a quarterback. He was everywhere, America’s most palatable export—the United States as France would like it to be: worldly, cosmopolitan, unthreatening. Probably because George Clooney tended to endorse things that kept his hands out of trouble.
* * *
Rachel was waiting on a crowded sidewalk one afternoon to cross the Boulevard du Temple when a little old woman began lurching. She was a traditional French grandmother, in brown shoes and a navy coat. A step forward, a step back. Two feet away, traffic rushed by in front of them. The woman flung out her arms. For a second, Rachel didn’t recognize what was happening. Then she realized the old lady was experiencing a dizzy spell. Rachel reached out, snatched the woman’s arm, and pulled her back. A truck buzzed by. The woman leaned on Rachel. A man grabbed hold of her other arm. She got her feet under her and began thanking them both in French—Merci, Madame, merci beaucoup—merci, Monsieur—turning left and right. The man, Parisian, told the woman not to worry; he inquired if she would get home okay. Then the two of them began a conversation, while Rachel listened, smil
ing and nodding—the old woman was still gripping both their arms—but Rachel didn’t say a word. She told me she hadn’t wanted to make the situation any harder for the woman; revealing that she wasn’t a native speaker might complicate things. Rachel’s comprehension by that point enabled her to grasp almost anything said in French, but in an emergency situation, when it mattered most, the words weren’t at her tongue. It was upsetting. Disempowering. Rachel said goodbye and crossed the street. Grabbing the woman’s arm had been enough, but somehow not quite.
* * *
“Hello, is this Rosecrans Baldwin?”
“Yes.”
“Good evening. This is Orange, your cell-phone company.”
“Yes,” I said, matching Marianne in French. “About an exercise of marketing, I understand. You called yesterday. You called again this morning.”
“Excuse me?”
“You telephone me every day. You want to know if I would like to participate.”
“Ah, I understand,” she said, “you do not speak French. Excuse me, someone will call you back.”
“Excuse me?” I said. “I do speak French.” And someday, I’d hire an accent coach. “I understand exactly what you are saying. Completely. And I would prefer that you stop calling.”
“Ah, oh,” Marianne said, a little crestfallen. “Okay. But if you could please—”
“Excuse me,” I said, “but, I am sorry, will you promise me something, please? That you will stop calling me? Will you make sure that I am deleted from the list of people you invite to this exercise of marketing?”
“But you understand, this is Orange, your mobile phone company?”
“Yes,” I said, “and I would like you to promise me that you will not call me anymore.”
“Me personally?”
“You, Orange,” I said.
“Sir, you do not want to be called by your own phone company?”
“Exactly. I would like you to tell me that I am deleted from this exercise of marketing.”
“I think it is better,” she said, “if we call you back.”
“No,” I said. “In fact, I would like my name to be taken off the list. Can I be deleted from the list?”
After a moment: “No.”
“Then will you tell me that you will not call me again?”
A long pause. Marianne said in a quieter, more delicate tone, “I can only tell you that I will personally not call you again.”
“But someone else will call me.”
“Yes,” she said.
I said, “Can I speak to your manager, please?”
“Sir, a representative will call you back tomorrow.”
“Excuse me,” I said, “can I speak to your manager, please?”
She snapped, “No, you can’t do that!”
“I can’t speak to your manager?”
“What? Of course not! No, it’s impossible.”
“Then can I speak to someone else, please?”
“No, excuse me,” Marianne said, hurrying off the line.
“Excuse me, what is your name?” I said.
But she was gone. She never called again.
34
May was stuffed with hot weekends. We’d wake up Saturday morning and the sun would be a heat lamp. Trees bloomed white and pink. With the whole day to ourselves, we’d consider walking across the city. Or maybe I’d go play tennis on one of the public courts beside the tenement buildings just outside the Périphérique—it was nearly impossible to book a court within Paris proper—and, if so, perhaps Rachel would phone Olivia, they’d go to the Palais de Tokyo and see the latest contemporary art expo, then maybe we’d all get lunch.
But on the day we decided to move back to America, we couldn’t figure out what to do, so we stayed in bed listening to Asif drink with some friends in the courtyard, then Rachel said, “Hey, what about Giverny?”
Giverny was half an hour from Paris by train. We caught the train, arrived in Vernon, then set out along a path through woods and fields. From the station it was about a three-mile walk to the tiny village where Monet had found his water lilies, full of blue lilacs and stone houses with wooden shutters. Occasionally someone passed us on a bicycle, or a tour bus honked around a corner, but mostly it was quiet, with a long green view dotted with yellow. Next to our path, flowers rippled in the marsh, bent by a stream going through the grass.
At some point, Rachel said, “We need to figure this out.”
“What exactly?” I said.
It came out halfheartedly; I knew exactly what she was talking about. We’d been building up to it separately for several weeks. Our adventures in Paris had often been disconnected, but when a big idea loomed between us, it would be in both of our heads. Rachel usually was the first one to put it into words.
“How long we’re going to be in Paris,” she said.
Two people jogged by with a dog, all three panting softly.
“Do you not like it anymore?” I asked. Technically it was a lob of a comment, and I wasn’t proud of it. But I didn’t want to reach the question that came next.
Rachel said, “It’s not like we moved here to live in Paris forever. Of course there are things I still like. And there’s a lot I don’t.” She added, “We don’t, I thought.”
“No, no,” I said distractedly, “I think you’re right.”
“Wait,” Rachel said, “who said anything about being right?”
We stopped in a small turn, where someone had built a bench. Rachel said after a long silence, “I mean, do you see us here for several years?”
It took me a minute. “I guess I just hadn’t thought about leaving yet,” I said. It came out more heated than I meant. I sat down, nervous and angry. I was transparent—in a way where I was the only one who couldn’t see through myself. We walked again for a little while, going in silence next to a soccer field and through some woods.
Then Rachel said in a nervous, sad rush, “You know I’m not the chick who lives in Paris and, whatever, while her husband’s working she decides to learn how to make pastry from scratch. I can’t be someone else,” she said.
“I’m not asking you to,” I said. “I can’t do it either.”
“But do you want to work in advertising?” We stopped again. “We barely see each other during the week. When we do have time together, you’re recuperating from lack of sleep. Meanwhile, either I’m at home with the noise, or I’m out in a city where I barely speak the language—and it would be one thing if we could afford for me to take classes again, but—”
“I know,” I said, “I see.”
Rachel said after a long moment, “We had a dream of living abroad. We accomplished it. What about your professional dreams? What about mine?” She paused. “I don’t think they’ll happen if we stay in Paris.”
And that was it, the truth. The sun bombed down. Up ahead was an outdoor pizza restaurant, more like a campsite, a small kitchen in a lean-to with plastic tables and red parasols provided by Badoit. It was empty except for a waitress who seated us by a creek, almost on top of it. The cook got up from fishing, sank his pole in a holster near the bank, and shouted, Bienvenue! The pizza was out of this world. Mine had wild mushrooms sautéed in garlic. We split a bottle of rosé, and we’d drunk most of it by the time we asked ourselves, sitting in the green and red shade, Did we really just decide to leave Paris?
End of June, my manuscript would be done. Assuming it was ready, my agent would send it around to publishers in July. I said I wanted to wait until then before I gave Pierre my three months’ notice.
“Do you feel comfortable saying that?” Rachel asked.
“I do,” I said.
* * *
That afternoon, we visited a museum up the road and napped in a field overlooking tulip gardens. By the time we got back to the train station, I was light and joyful. The heat seemed to inflate the air. People fanned themselves with tourist maps. We took a bench in the sun and I lay down to nap.
A minute later, I was a
pproached by an elderly couple with New England accents.
“Now, if only this nice young man will move over a little,” the woman said loudly in English, bending over above my ear. “Oh, I’m afraid he’s asleep.”
Her husband shouted, “He’s asleep?”
“Well,” the woman said, “if this young man would be so nice as to move…”
“Is he going to move?!” yelled the husband.
“Maybe he will!” the old woman shouted.
“He doesn’t speak your language!” her husband shouted back.
I sat up, we squeezed together, and the woman thanked me. Her old man withdrew a butterscotch from his shirt, a travel shirt of a thousand pockets. Then five American women came out of the station to wait for the train. They were winded from hiking, but had no trouble speaking at a volume that in France was reserved for emergencies.
How immense Americans made themselves when abroad, how bullying when we roamed. Some teenage French boys appeared. They overheard the women and started addressing them in English, with attempted Southern accents.
“Hello, how are you?” one boy said.
“Hello, misses, how is it going?” said another.
The women ignored them. They were debating over which brasserie to visit that evening. The boys continued their lesson plans anyway. “Excuse me, is Jane in the garden?”
“Jane is in the garden,” another said.
“Do you have some milk?”
“The milk is in the refrigerator!”
I started laughing to myself. Maybe it was all the wine I’d drunk, or it was the Americans’ ankle socks and their forward-facing backpacks, but I couldn’t stop.
One of the teenagers caught my eye and winked, taking me for a coconspirator.
On the day we’d decided to leave Paris, I became French.
ART IS NOT A LUXURY
SUMMER
—Madame Tortoise joins our park—American versus Canadian accents—How to identify different nationalities in Paris—Sofia Coppola goes AWOL—Flat broke—The Marais has a shower scene—Prague, where bachelors shoot women—I join Lucas to California as his porter—American sitcoms are the fantasies of Parisiennes—My dream of human trafficking comes true—In Provence, the pure and the impure, mostly the pure—Movie posters are the voices and images of France—So much depends upon a salad dressing—
Paris, I Love You but You're Bringing Me Down Page 18
