Bonita Faye

by Margaret Moseley

  He brought a brown leather-topped stool around the counter and sat on its mate on the other side while we had our strange tea party peace talk.

  After telling Robert my story, well, most of it anyway, he pushed back our paper trash and said, “Let me get this straight. You haven’t had much formal education, but you enjoy reading and, as a matter of fact, seem fairly well read.”

  “And I wouldn’t hurt Claude for nothing,” I added.

  “And you wouldn’t hurt Claude for anything.”

  “What should I do, Robert?” We were on a first name basis by then. “Should I leave France? Go home?”

  “Let me think about it. I have a half-formed idea in the back of my head, but give me tonight to work on it. I know Claude and Simone care about you or they wouldn’t have wanted you to stay on. In the meantime, until tomorrow, don’t do anything different. And, right now, I want to ask you some questions.”

  “Like a test?”

  He laughed. “Yes, that’s right. Like a test.”

  It wasn’t like no test I’d ever had in school. Instead we just talked books. I told him what I’d read and where I’d got ahold of the books. And about my obsession with Paris, France. Only not why.

  We even argued about what I liked to read. I found myself defending my favorite fictional best friend, David Copperfield.

  Davey was like a brother to me.

  See, I never knew, still don’t, if rich people are clean…or clean people are rich. Whichever it was, I only knew that they wanted my mama to come and cook and clean for them. And that having a skinny little ol’ daughter with her didn’t matter to them or to Mama.

  I didn’t take up much room, was quiet as a mouse, and lived mostly with the thoughts in my head. Mama and me fit good together in the usual single bed off everybody’s kitchen. And it was comforting to both of us to know the other was nearby. Mama would be frying the chicken-fried steak in the kitchen and mixing up the best dog-trot gravy in the county, and I would be snuggled up in what folks call “the maid’s room” with a book that I had sneaked from the library. I always returned them like I found them, clean and shiny, with the only thing being different was that now they had been read.

  Besides being clean, another thing rich people have in common is they always had the “Great Works of the Masters” somewhere in their house. It got so that whenever we moved, which was a lot—someone was all the time offering Mama another dollar more a week—that the first thing I’d look for was the Great Works like them books was a sign that even though the curtains might be green instead of blue in this house, someone I knew was waiting for me. Waiting to say, “howdy, Bonita Faye,” and “welcome home.”

  And Davey Copperfield was my favorite.

  “So you see, Robert, David wasn’t no great shakes as a person. It was the people around him who led him by the nose. Or more rightly, the people Charles Dickens put around him. Poor ol’ Davey just did what them others told him to. The sucker never had an original thought in his own head. Why, he never did know what came next without someone telling him! It amazes me that he got through life.”

  “Hmmm, interesting train of thought, Bonita Faye. Well, I think that about does it for today. I have some paperwork to do this afternoon. Can I expect to see you here, hmmm, about nine o’clock tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be here.” There weren’t, and still aren’t, many people I call “sir.”

  The short of it was that Robert Sinclair became my teacher. Of both English and French. And I added him to my growing “friend list.”

  The long of it was that he taught me so much more than language skills.

  That first morning he gave me a gift that’s stayed with me all my life. The gift of myself. “Bonita Faye,” he said right off, “I am giving you permission to use what you already know.” When I said, “that ain’t much,” he shushed me and went on. “I beg to differ with you. You’ve read a great deal of very good literature. On your own volition. That says a lot about your character and your determination.

  “Now, I’m giving you permission to use what you’ve read. You know correct English because you’ve read it. With practice you can speak it.” He paused and smiled. “I don’t think we’ll ever be rid of that accent, but that’s all right, too. It’s a part of the important person who is Bonita Faye Burnett.”

  “She ain’t so important,” I said.

  “Yes, she is too. Extremely important. And, as you let her through that wall you’ve put around her, I think you’ll find her an interesting person, also. But, Bonita Faye, don’t ever let me hear you say ‘ain’t’ again. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, but the old Bonita Faye in me wanted to argue that Mark Twain had Tom Sawyer saying “ain’t” all the time and I wasn’t too sure I didn’t remember the forbidden word in some of Dickens’s work. For the time being though, I held silent.

  I was some embarrassed when I began to realize that Claude and I had been talking to each other like Tarzan and Jane. “Me come here. You park go.” And, “Me like you.”

  “That’s all right, Bonita Faye,” Robert said when I cried over this discovery. “That’s called communication. Or the beginning of it, anyway. It’s not what you’ve done before that’s going to be a problem for you. It’s what you’re willing to do now.”

  Claude laughed when I told him about Robert Sinclair helping me to learn to speak correctly. Only Claude thought it was just French I was learning. Robert and I decided Claude didn’t need to know about the English part. “That’s between you and me, Bonita Faye. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the few inappropriate English phrases you’ve taught Claude. That boy has a fine future ahead of him. Something he probably wouldn’t have been able to accomplish before the war.”

  He paused to see if I was following him. “That’s why I was so upset by your teaching him fractured English. Claude must only speak the best. France doesn’t have the structured class differences that the English have, but before the war, it would still have been difficult for Claude to achieve his goals. Now with his education at the University of Paris, Claude can do or be anything he wants.”

  “I think he wants to buy and sell money,” I told Robert cautiously. I didn’t want him laughing at me. “Does that make sense to you? Or is it another example of how poorly Claude and I have been communicating?”

  Patiently, Robert explained the international financial market to me. I didn’t quite grasp it, but then, like I’ve always said, numbers aren’t my friend. But if Robert and Claude understood that there was profit to be made in exchanging money from one country to another, and it was legal, then it was okay with me.

  What I did understand and, what Robert taught so beautifully that it seemed just like conversation, was a lot of history mixed in with the language lessons. I found out that the French flag wasn’t red, white and blue, but blue, white and red. That the French Revolution had come after the American one. When I blinked blank on that, Robert had stopped and explained our own country’s revolution. I didn’t know we’d even ever had a king. Think on that.

  When I asked him what he was doing in France himself, he said, “This is where I was stationed during the war. I was an American liaison with the French Resistance. This is where I fought. Where I lost my arm. And…found myself…like you’re doing now.

  “After the war, I went home to Pennsylvania and taught for awhile at the University, but I felt like I belonged here. So I came back. I guess you could say I left my heart and soul here. And, of course, my arm. Now I feel complete.”

  I understood that explanation. I knew all about being at peace with your soul.

  EIGHTEEN

  I didn’t become a college graduate overnight, but after practicing the tricks Robert taught me, even I could tell my English was improving. And they were just tricks. Things like remembering to pronounce the “ing” in words that use it, wat
ching out for double negatives. And pronouncing words correctly, like the “cog” in recognized. And I didn’t ever say “ain’t” again.

  At least not in front of Robert or Claude.

  When I talk about my beginnings, about home or get sentimental in some way, I hear myself slipping back into the old ways which are as comforting to me sometimes as a pacifier is to a baby. I know that’s how I’ve told more than half this story, but that’s all right ‘cause that’s part of my being Bonita Faye.

  And Robert Sinclair taught me that being Bonita Faye is okay.

  Now when I went into Paris some mornings with Claude, I retraced my steps and took the same tours all over again. My old guide would roll his eyes and say, “Oh, no, not you again. Remember, Bonita Faye, this is my tour and my job to tell the tourists what they’re seeing, not yours.” But he would smile when he said it.

  This time when I toured, I really listened and with Robert’s help, the history part started coming alive for me. I liked the Revolution years the best. Imagine going from the legacy of the Sun King to the gore of the guillotine. There’s a case of your best plans going awry for you.

  My French improved and with Claude taking English lessons from Robert also, he and I were finally able to speak to one another like we wanted to.

  I’m afraid now that I’ve got to go back and confess that most of Claude’s story that I said he told me that first day was really told to me by Mrs. Blount when she came to translate the Vermeillons’ invitation to me. I had understood his account of his life and of his parents’ death, had actually felt his grief and wept with him, but Mrs. Blount was the one who sorted out the story for me. She and I continued to meet occasionally at the Cafe Roy for a glass of wine and conversation.

  “You’ve changed, Bonita Faye. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but you have definitely changed since I first met you. You’re prettier and more interesting. It must be the country air.” And since she was an old die-hard romantic at heart, she leaned in close to me, like she liked to do when saying something personal, and added, “Maybe, cherie, maybe it is our Claude. Ah?”

  Ah, indeed, I thought to myself. You sweet, nosy, busy-body.

  It was no secret to me that Claude was the one who left the fresh rose on my pillow every night. Or that his brown eyes turned a golden amber whenever he looked at me. I had never been courted before and I went along with it, innocent like, just to see where this experience would lead. Into the bedroom, I figured. Not that all of me would mind. I hadn’t been a virgin in some years and always had enjoyed sex unless it was forced on me. Even with Billy Roy when his eyes were shining nice. And it seemed like an awful long time since I had said good-bye to Harmon.

  When Denis Denfert made good on his promise to call on me in Boulogne, I was surprised to see the same bright lovesick gleam in his eyes. For Simone.

  The two of them had acted like polite old friends, meeting again after an absence of some years. But there were some things they did that told me they were better acquainted than their actions indicated. Like Simone telling me to set out the white wine instead of the usual red, “because Denis prefers it.” Or Denis looking Simone square in the eye when he said, “Michel is a fine boy, Simone. You have done well by him.”

  Was it possible that Denis was Michel’s father?

  Denis stayed a long time after supper was over. He and Simone were drinking the white wine and making polite conversation, but both Claude and I got the feeling they might want to be alone, so after drinking our share, we said goodnight.

  My real, real Paris nightgown was nothing like the one Billy Roy had got me. It was made of white cotton muslin with small straps and a shallow yoke from which yards of gathered material fell to an even fuller ruffle around my ankles. I had it on, holding the red rose I had found on my pillow when I heard a knock at the door. Of course, it was Claude.

  He came in and took the rose and held it to his lips. Then he slowly began to trace a gentle pattern over my arms with the flower. His eyes shown a golden honey color as he moved the rose slowly up to the hollow of my neck.

  “Claude,” I said in weak protest.

  The French language is not called a romance language for nothing. Claude whispered touching and embarrassing words as his lips began to follow the path of the rose.

  I’d like to tell you that I stopped him. That I said “no” as tenderly as I could. That he stopped and quietly left the room.

  And maybe I did and maybe he didn’t stay with me.

  The years go by and what really happened and what I imagined might not be the same.

  I can nearly believe to this day that I can feel his strong, slender body against mine. Having been used to bigger men—Harmon towered over me—it was a shock to feel a man’s body pressing against mine on an equal level. Although Claude’s legs were longer than mine, I didn’t have to stretch to wrap my arms around him and he didn’t have to bend away from me to kiss my lips.

  I can almost remember that we became lovers that night.

  But surely we didn’t.

  I wasn’t that far into being independent and making my own decisions, and I wasn’t all that sure that accepting Claude as a lover was one of the choices I wanted to make. For one thing, I wasn’t clear how I felt about Harmon. He was a good man. I was grateful to him for reasons he’d never know and for some he did. I felt protected by him. Liked making warm love to him. He’d said again, “I love you, Bonita Faye,” before he’d left for Korea. And I’d replied, “I love you, too, Harmon.”

  Surely that wasn’t me making love with Claude. Surely it’s just in my memory that I stood in my Van Gogh room in France and whispered, “I love you,” to a man…and in a language…that I hadn’t known six months ago.

  How could I be expected to make the right choice when it was obvious that I wasn’t even sure what love was?

  NINETEEN

  They told me you were dead.” It was a combination of the strange words and the recognition of the desperate voice that uttered them that made me turn my head toward the speaker.

  It was Simone.

  We were seated at a sidewalk cafe in Paris, not the Cafe Roy, but one near the tour office. I had stopped for something cool to drink before going on to meet Claude for the trip home.

  Simone was sitting at the table in front of mine. She must have been seated there when I arrived, but the large brimmed black hat she wore kept me from noticing her until I heard her voice. The same big hat brim kept her from seeing me behind her as she nervously glanced around.

  I could see her companion clearly, the one she was surprised to find alive. He was a big man, good looking in a blond way, with intense blue eyes that never wavered from Simone’s gaze. He looked vaguely familiar. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but it apparently upset Simone. She kept saying, “No, no,” to him. He reached over and grabbed her wrist and held it down on the table between them. While I was focused on the hand that held Simone’s, she wrenched it away and stood up. Her abrupt turn put her in front of my table where she stared at me through tear-filled eyes. With a gasp and a quick look at the other table, she turned again and ran away.

  I looked over at her former tablemate.

  He sat still, his eyes on Simone’s retreating figure. He didn’t see me at all. He had mean eyes. Now I knew who he reminded me of. Billy Roy.

  It was late that night before I had a chance to be alone with Simone. She hadn’t appeared until supper and then ate with unusual apathy. Michel was the only one who claimed her attention, but before she could leave the table with him, I reached over and said, “Simone. Look at me. I want to talk to you. Come back after you put Michel to bed. I’ll wait here.”

  You could tell she didn’t want to, but finally, she nodded and took Michel by the hand.

  I watched the night help clear away the dishes. Claude had already spread his books and was deep into his studies
. “Claude, can you do that…study…in your room tonight? I need to talk to Simone. Just girl talk. You’d be bored and besides we would interrupt your concentration.”

  He gathered up his books, gave me a tender kiss behind the ear and left.

  It was almost an hour before Simone returned. While I waited I turned over in my mind the relationship Simone and I had developed over the weeks I had been staying at the Hotel Regina. Wary and suspicious myself, I had been thrown for a loop when Simone had opened her home to me…well…I was a paying guest…but the way she included me in everything, you’d never have known it. I always sat at the family table and was introduced as a family friend. And the way she trusted me to watch after her son and the way she had practically given me her brother.

  The alliance Claude and I were cultivating was supposed to be secret and our own business. But, in France, as in Poteau, everybody knew your personal matters almost as soon as you did yourself. Only in Poteau, they went “tsk, tsk,” and pointed fingers. In France, they smiled and said “c’est la vie.”

  Simone never gave me any indication that she approved or disapproved of the flirtatious romance Claude and I were pursuing. Instead when she came upon me sitting in the lobby about the time Claude was due home, she would smile and raise her eyebrows. “I don’t need a clock to tell me it is time for our Claude.” And she brought a cardboard hat box to my room and said, “For your dried roses, cherie. I will show you how to make a potpourri from them.” She knew who had been leaving me those roses.

  She did deplore my wardrobe however. My plain full skirts, camp shirts and blue jeans did not meet with her approval and she was brutally honest about it. As honest as Robert Sinclair. “Bonita Faye, Claude tells me you have been married? Yes?”

  “That’s right, Simone.” The way she looked, I thought she was probably going to throw me out of the hotel.

  “Then, my love, why do you continue to dress like a little girl? Anyone who has experienced the thrill and passion of being a woman in love should not cover her body with school girl clothes.”