Lisette's Paris Notebook

by Catherine Bateson

  I had to swallow my coffee quickly to avoid spraying it over Napoléon and the tablecloth.

  ‘You’re internet dating?’ It didn’t seem possible. Not Madame Christophe with her stilettos, scarves and pochettes!

  ‘Once or twice,’ she said with dignity. ‘If I can be an online clairvoyant and use the internet for income, I can also look to it for romance. I am a woman of a certain age, chérie. I have seen in my own future another man, but one cannot sit and wait for the destiny to serve him up. One must work with the destiny. How is it that I am expected to meet him otherwise?’

  ‘I thought,’ I said, carefully choosing my words, ‘that you were quite . . . happy alone?’

  ‘Of course. Who would not be? I have friends, a calling and Paris at my doorstep. Is there a need for anything more? I do ask myself this.’ Madame Christophe paused to present Napoléon her breakfast plate and the dog jumped off my lap straight away. ‘Perhaps I am a little greedy like this one,’ she said as Napoléon inhaled the pastry flakes. ‘But then I think, no, Sylvie, you are woman of charm and intelligence. You deserve companionship, of the correct type. Not marriage, you understand. I am done with that. I have not time or room in my life for a husband.’

  I could quite understand that. It was hard to imagine a marriage surviving in such small apartments. I said as much but Madame Christophe was puzzled. ‘In Australia we have big houses,’ I explained. ‘Men have a shed. Where they go. To do man things.’

  ‘A shed? What are these things men do in a shed?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I confessed. ‘I’ve never lived with a man.’

  ‘Of course, your mother abandoned the idea completely after your birth. It is difficult with a child and a business. Even young as she was, she had no time for a full-time lover. It is better that way for certain women.’

  ‘I don’t think she has time for a part-time lover now,’ I said, my tongue tripping over the word. ‘I mean, she doesn’t go out much.’

  Madame Christophe shrugged. ‘One day soon she will have a special friend. I know this.’

  I shook my head. ‘No. She has friends, and some of them are men, but the men are not . . . interested in women,’ I managed, thinking of Jamie and Craig, my mother’s two gay friends. ‘Maybe my father was her one true love?’

  ‘Phht!’ Madame Christophe dismissed that idea impatiently. ‘No, I have seen it in her cards,’ she continued, ‘believe me. There is someone. He is a businessman. Clever, but not devious. He gives her happiness.’

  ‘Maybe the cards are wrong?’ I said.

  ‘You should not be jealous.’ Madame Christophe patted my hand. ‘You have a life, yes? You are here! With the German asking you for breakfast. Not a wise choice.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ I said, ignoring the remark about Anders. ‘If Mum had a boyfriend, I wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘You shouldn’t,’ Madame Christophe said, ‘but there is the human nature. You may feel usurped. It would be foolish, but there you are.’

  ‘And what do you mean, not a wise choice?’

  ‘Just remember what I say.’ Madame Christophe rose. ‘Come. Let us forget about love and turn our attention to the commerce. Is our window attracting attention? Follow me! We look from the window of Monsieur Berger. He has already left for the summer.’

  I followed her up the stairs into an apartment larger than mine, but by no means palatial. Monsieur Berger had bought his cushions from the BHV, and had a thing for candles. Madame Christophe swept past all this as though she’d seen it before, and maybe she had. She pulled back the heavy drapes, opened the windows wide and leant unashamedly out.

  Across the street in the opposite apartment, an Asian man read a book to his son. Above them, a woman watered her basil plant. There were geraniums in window boxes and washing hung out on the balconies. It was so different from home.

  ‘Attention! Regard!’

  In the street, a couple walked up to the new window. ‘Honey, it’s a spiritualist’s shop and so French! Let’s get our futures read. Shame they’re not open. We can come back, though. Do you have a pen?’

  ‘It works!’ Madame Christophe whispered in my ear, still pinching my forearm.

  We stood there for about an hour and watched people sauntering up the street. Some stopped and admired the window, some fossicked through their bags and noted down the shop times, while others ignored the window completely. When one couple chose to kiss for a long time in front of it, Madame Christophe huffed exasperatedly, then clapped loudly to get their attention and gestured them away.

  ‘Well,’ she said eventually, with satisfaction, ‘I think we make a good job. It is a success absolutely and we have finished before lunch even. So now I will turn to my international clients and, perhaps, have another look at the men for dating. And you, Lisette? Your plans?’

  ‘I’ll go walking, I guess,’ I said, ‘and take some more photos. The usual tourist thing.’ I sounded too forlorn. ‘I’m going to buy some stockings, stay-ups with lace tops.’ If I’d expected Madame Christophe to be scandalised, I was disappointed.

  ‘A good idea. The lingerie is perhaps more important than what is put over it.’

  I couldn’t help thinking this comment was directed at what I put over it. ‘I’ll take Napoléon if you like,’ I offered. ‘I love the way dogs are allowed to go shopping.’

  Madame Christophe cocked her head to one side. ‘Yes,’ she said, eventually, ‘this is a good idea. He will lend you some chic. Otherwise one does not know if you will be allowed to buy anything.’

  ‘I don’t look that bad,’ I said. ‘This is vintage, Madame Christophe. Vintage!’

  ‘It is not Paris,’ she said. ‘It is not summer.’

  That was true, and the very instant that Napoléon and I walked onto the street I knew exactly what she meant. It was hot, too hot for corduroy, but I was stubborn and would not go back to change. ‘We’ll be in air con soon,’ I promised Napoléon as we set off for the BHV. In his company I felt like a local, even though I’d been in Paris for less than a week. Napoléon made all the difference. If the shop assistants in the BHV scorned my vintage look, they hid it well, complimenting me instead on my French accent. The bewildering array of stay-ups temporarily put Mum’s fictional boyfriend out of my mind. Some of the stockings were so sheer I couldn’t imagine sliding them up my legs without them snagging on my leg stubble. Just as I wondering how I’d ever manage the contortionist act necessary to shave my legs in my tiny shower, I heard my name being called for the second time that day.

  ‘Lise! How good to run into you!’ It was Mackenzie. ‘Oh, you’re buying stockings like Goldie’s.’

  ‘Sprung.’

  ‘You’ll rock ’em,’ she said. ‘I just don’t think I’ve got that look. Anyway, where I live, I’d be able to wear them for five days of the year without freezing my butt off. This weather is glorious! Oh my goodness, you’ve got a dog! How Parisian are you? Are you both free for lunch? I’ve found the best falafels in Paris – enormous. I’m living on them.’

  ‘I should tell Madame Christophe before she thinks I’ve kidnapped Napoléon and sold him to dog traders. Although she is a clairvoyant. She should know we’re having lunch, right?’

  ‘Your landlady is a clairvoyant? How exciting! And look at you, Lise, you’re so vintage. I love it. I need to do something with my style. Well, let’s face it, I need to get a style. I’m sure she’d expect you both to be out for lunch. In Paris it can take days to choose the right stockings. After we’ve eaten I’ll walk you back and you can introduce me, yeah? I’ll get her to read my cards.’

  ‘You’d have to make an appointment,’ I said, rather protectively. ‘She’s very busy. She has international clients.’

  ‘She must be good,’ Mackenzie said. ‘I love that kind of stuff. I know none of it is true but it’s so comforting to hear it.’

  ‘What if it’s bad?’

  ‘They never tell the bad stuff,’ Mackenzie said with utter certainty. ‘Are
you going to buy those? Look, here are some plaid ones. They’re totally you.’

  ‘Don’t they have to tell the bad stuff too? I mean, who’d believe it if the future was always good?’

  ‘It’s some kind of code of practice.’ Mackenzie ushered us to the cashier’s desk where she counted out the euros to buy a crop top bra. ‘Or maybe that’s just Canadian. Maybe European clairvoyants are darker. That would make sense to me. All that angst Anders talks about. I know this bra isn’t sexy, but at least it’s new, right?’

  ‘It’s not really a bra,’ I said, putting my stockings on the counter. ‘It’s a crop top.’

  ‘I know. I should have got something padded. My boyfriend’s coming over for a week.’

  The cashier looked at me and shook her head ever so slightly.

  ‘You bought that for your boyfriend?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m going to be the one wearing it!’

  ‘Mackenzie, we can do better.’

  ‘I shall refund the money?’ the cashier said hopefully.

  ‘You don’t like it either?’

  The cashier shook her head more definitely. ‘Perhaps for the gym? But for a boyfriend, you need the lingerie, not the crop top.’

  ‘Okay, back to the drawing board. Do you mind, Lise? It’s a bit early for lunch anyway, isn’t it? And you’re obviously better at this than I am.’

  Shopping with Mackenzie reminded me of trips with Ami, except it was Paris, not Chadstone, and we didn’t know each other well, although that was no barrier for Mackenzie. It seemed that she had already decided who I was and that we were going to be firm friends, two brash colonials together.

  All the art students at French class are doing exciting, wonderful things. They are all talented. What qualities have I got that are different from anyone else, any other girl on a gap year? What do I know?

  Madame Christophe didn’t seem at all surprised when Napoléon and I arrived back in the late afternoon with Mackenzie in tow. Indeed, when Mackenzie said she’d love a reading sometime, Madame Christophe set down the pack she’d been shuffling, apparently idly, when we walked in and told Mackenzie to take a seat.

  ‘You can do it now? That’s so great!’

  ‘You have a question? Think of it as you cut the cards,’ Madame Christophe instructed, ‘three times to the left. I think this is a suitable pack for you. It is based on the medieval cards. They are severely luxurious. This suits a Canadian, I believe.’

  Mackenzie cut the cards obediently and sat like a schoolgirl, all docile attention. I was pretty certain the question was something to do with the arrival of Ethan, the boyfriend, for whom a lacy bra and undies set had been purchased – the first matching lingerie Mackenzie had ever owned. That didn’t surprise me: Mackenzie was all skinny jeans, Converse and T-shirts. The only girly thing about her was her breathless conversation.

  When Madame Christophe revealed the cards, however, it was clear that Mackenzie had not asked about romance.

  ‘So many work cards for a young woman.’ Madame Christophe smiled and pointed them out, her red nail polish bright against the cards. ‘See, here and here and again. You work hard for your success, Mackenzie.’ Madame Christophe’s accent made Mackenzie’s name sound exotically foreign. ‘This is good, of course, but here is a warning card. You must not abandon other things in your life. This will be bad for you and your health – your inside health, not the body. A young man is in your future. He comes from far away. He is important to you, perhaps more than you realise. I see a reunion.’

  ‘That’s Ethan,’ Mackenzie squealed. ‘Will it be okay?’

  ‘You must make time for him,’ Madame Christophe said sternly, ‘and let him know your appreciation.’

  Mackenzie nodded seriously. ‘Do you mind if I take a photo of the cards with my phone?’ she asked at the end. ‘I need to remember this, Madame. I agree with everything you said but when I start painting, everything else just flies out of my head.’

  ‘But of course,’ Madame Christophe said, ‘and take my card. I work internationally.’ She waved any notion of payment away. ‘For friendship,’ she said graciously.

  ‘Lise, you should get yours read.’

  ‘No, no thanks,’ I said, backing away. ‘I might sometime. But not now.’

  ‘When you are ready’ – Madame Christophe gathered up the cards and tapped them into a neat pile before putting them away in a silk bag – ‘I will be here. I have the perfect pack. Not the tarot, but oracle cards nonetheless. I keep them for you.’

  That was almost sinister.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, trying not to sound insincere. ‘That’s kind of you.’

  ‘Walk me back to the studios?’ Mackenzie asked. ‘Unless you’re busy?’

  ‘No, I’d love to.’

  ‘I can’t believe you don’t want Madame Christophe to read your cards,’ she said as soon as we were outside the shop. ‘She’s amazing. I mean that. I was a little sceptical, I admit. But she knew. The cards knew.’

  ‘They can’t know anything. They’re just inanimate objects,’ I argued.

  ‘Well, I knew I needed a better balance in my life,’ she said. ‘This has been a wake-up call. It’s good that it’s happened before Ethan arrived.’

  ‘So what’s Ethan like?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s into changing the world,’ Mackenzie said. ‘So, you know, vegan, environmentalist. He’s going to have some food problems here – lucky I found the falafels! He studied science and works for an environmental protection agency back home. He’s committed. We want to get some land and have a sustainable lifestyle. One day, when we have money.’

  ‘Wow! I’m impressed, Mackenzie. You’ve got it sorted. So will you keep – what is it that you do? Painting?’

  Mackenzie shrugged. ‘I’m painting here in Paris, but my ambitions are more conceptual – some earth structures. Public art, not private. They require sponsors and grants. In the meantime, it’s great to have the opportunity to paint. It’s all art.’

  We turned the corner, heading down to the block of studios.

  ‘Hey, isn’t that Anders? Anders!’

  ‘Hi Mackenzie, Lise,’ he said. ‘Been shopping?’

  Mackenzie nodded. ‘Lingerie. Lise saved me from certain disaster, helping me choose something boyfriend-suitable.’

  ‘Ah,’ Anders said, ‘so, Lise, you are a shopping companion?’

  Apparently the moment I landed in Paris my reputation had been sealed. I was a shopper. I rolled my eyes. ‘A girl has to do what she does best,’ I said.

  ‘This is useful to know.’ Anders grinned. ‘I am stupid about this aspect of life and I have an important present to purchase. I will ask for your help.’

  Being a known shopper might have its upside. ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘I’d be delighted to bring my extensive experience to bear on your problem.’

  ‘You sound like a politician,’ Mackenzie said.

  ‘Or a diplomat,’ Anders added. ‘So, back to work, Mackenzie?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Lise’s clairvoyant read my cards. I need to work before Ethan arrives so I can take lots of lovely time off with him. The open studio dates loom.’

  Anders gave a theatrical shudder. ‘Tell me about it,’ he said. ‘The print workroom is full of artists. To secure a position, I wake at dawn. You are fortunate, Lise – Paris in summer is holiday time.’

  ‘I’m practising my French,’ I said defensively, ‘and I’m going to museums. Heaven forbid that I should get my degree only having seen reproductions that are fit for toilet paper.’

  ‘Don’t get your hackles up,’ Mackenzie said, patting my shoulder, ‘you’re entitled to a holiday, I’m sure. Anders is just grumpy. He’s listed for the first of the open days.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Anders said gloomily. ‘I’m off to buy myself a Berthillon ice-cream to cheer myself up. Want to join me?’

  ‘I can’t,’ Mackenzie said. ‘I simply must get back to work. Anyway, I’m full of falafel.’
r />   ‘But the tourist?’ Anders looked at me and smiled winningly.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’d love an ice-cream.’

  We left Mackenzie and backtracked, crossing the Seine to the Île de la Cité.

  ‘This is one of my favourite views,’ Anders said, stopping in the middle of the bridge. ‘I even love the tourist barges. There is something about rivers.’

  We leant on the rails companionably. If only he wasn’t quite so distractingly handsome, I thought, looking surreptitiously at his blue-grey eyes and ruddy face.

  Anders broke the silence. ‘What are you thinking of? It’s a boy, I can tell. A boy back home?’

  ‘No,’ I lied. ‘I was just thinking how perfect Paris is.’

  ‘Ha! That is true. When we think of Paris, we look as though we are thinking of love.’

  I hadn’t been thinking of love, exactly, but I could hardly tell Anders I’d been thinking about how hot he was.

  ‘I want to show you something,’ I said, to change the subject. I took him to a shop window, down a cobblestone street near Berthillon. The shop was closed. It had been closed each time I’d seen it. In the window was a fox, preserved by taxidermy. There was no explanation as to what the shop sold.

  ‘Bizarre,’ Anders said. I could tell he was intrigued. ‘I have never seen this, Lise. Very odd. Thank you for showing me.’ I felt as though I had given him some kind of unexpected present.

  There was a queue at Berthillon, but there always was. ‘I am having salted caramel, chocolate and coffee,’ Anders announced. ‘It will not look pretty, perhaps, but it will be delicious.’

  ‘I’m having grapefruit, lemon and blood orange sorbet.’

  ‘Too healthy,’ Anders said. ‘That isn’t an ice-cream. It’s a breakfast.’

  ‘It’s refreshing,’ I said.

  The couple in front of us had their arms around each other. She was slouched against him, leaning her head against his shoulder. They were comfortably intimate. For a moment, I wished that I could lean that way against Anders and have his strong arm around my waist. I stood up straighter. We were just friends. Or perhaps we weren’t even friends. What did we know about each other? Would I ever meet someone I was totally comfortable with?