Foreign Tongue (2 page)

W
hen running away, I recommend arriving with keys. Makes you feel like you’re actually in control of the situation instead of on the lam from your life. When the immigration official at Roissy asked me where I’d learned to speak French so well, I slid out my
carte nationale d’identité,
revealing my dual citizenship. He smiled as if I’d shared an intimate secret and said, “Welcome home.”

I took a taxi to Tante Isabelle’s apartment in the Eleventh Arrondissement, sandwiched between the Bastille and the Canal Saint-Martin on one axis, République and Belleville on the other. My father’s sister and my favorite aunt, she lived in San Francisco most of the year. Fed up with the rental agency she used to rent her pied-à-terre to tourists, she’d FedExed me the keys to her fourth-floor flat, no questions asked. I walked into the late-nineteenth-century limestone building, scrunched
myself on top of my suitcases in the minuscule elevator (
capacité: trois
midgets), and rode up.

Inside, it was dark and smelled of old books, furniture polish, and mothballs. The French don’t like to see front doors, maybe because they like to pretend the outside world is that much farther away, or to hide the sight of the inevitable electricity and gas meters. So they put up curtains or separate the entrance from the rest of the house by French doors, as Tante Isabelle had.

The doors opened onto the living room, a mix of antiques and IKEA. Under a rectangular, ormolu mirror was a black leather sofa, its stuffing flattened with use. A coffee table strewn with old issues of
Figaro Madame
and
Télérama
sat in front of it, flanked by a pink velvet bergère and a kilim footstool like an obedient pet. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase took up one wall, with a niche for the stereo and television. A leather-topped desk and chair stood on the other side of the room, in front of a bar trolley, and another large mirror stretched almost to the ceiling above the white marble fireplace mantel behind it.

Tante Isabelle’s bookshelves contained a thorough collection of France’s greatest hits of the nineteenth century, gold-tooled and bound in morocco leather: Balzac, Flaubert, Zola. I pulled
Madame Bovary
off the shelf and flipped through the thin, crisp pages, liver-spotted and dense with print. There were also art books, various Paris guides and maps, and paperback novels in English.

A worn Oriental rug covered the
point de Hongrie
wood floor. Two windows gave out onto balconies—ledges, really, with wrought-iron guardrails—above the busy street.

Off one side of the living room was the kitchen, well-equipped with gleaming appliances to attract renters, including a stainless-steel fridge (contents: one bottle of champagne, two frozen Weight Watchers dinners
au saumon,
crusty with ice), and a sturdy pine table that seated four. Down a small hallway was the remodeled bathroom, pristine and spar
kly white (again, to attract renters), and a bedroom, dominated by a large bed with a fluffy white duvet and an armoire.

I fell backward onto the duvet and sank into goose down. Everything I needed.

Except Timothy.

There he was, just like Lindsay had warned me, a stowaway on the escape boat.

I rolled onto my side, clutching my knees to my chest. We’d talked about coming to Paris together. One of the many late-night conversations we’d had about the future by the aqua-blue light of the digital clock. Two weeks in September, my favorite month,
la rentrée,
when everyone returned from vacation and the city woke from the summer
sieste
. “I want to see Paris through your eyes,” he’d said, his arms around me, his chin digging into my shoulder. “I want to know it the way you do.”

I sat up. I didn’t want to cry over Timothy in this bed; I’d cried enough in my own back home. I dragged my bags into the bedroom and thought about unpacking and heating a frozen meal for dinner. It wasn’t anywhere near comforting enough.

I called Bunny. An elderly bachelor and former journalist I’d met years ago when I’d had a part-time research job at the
International Herald Tribune
, he’d settled down to a comfy editor’s job at a publication division of UNESCO. I’d come up with his nickname after he drove me home one night in his VW Rabbit. Randolph, his real name, seemed too much of a mouthful, and he was not a Randy.

“H-e-e-e-y, it’s you!” he said, making his familiar neighing sound. “Did you just get in? How was your flight?”

“Fine. The apartment is perfect except for food. Are you free for dinner?”

“I could be, if you’re willing to meet me halfway,” he said. “Le Soufflé, on the rue du Mont Thabor. They’ve got AC. Eight o’clock?”

“Parfait,”
I said.

I unpacked, took a long bath, and walked over. I meandered through the Marais, up Etienne Marcel, and around place des Victoires. I felt like a proprietary hound, sniffing at sidewalks and corners, verifying all the landmarks of my favorite city were still where they were supposed to be.

It was hot out. The sun was still high in the sky; it wouldn’t set for at least another couple of hours. I’d always resented being put to bed at eight o’clock on summer childhood trips to Paris. It had felt wrong to go to sleep when it was still sunny out.

“Ouf,
if we let you stay up until night, you’ll be up until ten-thirty,” my grandmother had said, shutting the metal
volets
. I’d had trouble sleeping in that room, with the sunlight forcing its way like white knives through the lateral slits in the shutters.

As I walked, I heard smatterings of English, mostly in American accents. A lot of Parisians were already on vacation; in two weeks, the city would feel empty except for the tourists. Boutique windows were papered with end of season sale signs:
SOLDES
and 50%
REDUCTION
. I took off my sunglasses in the Palais Royal, and strolled under the arcades behind a group of teenagers with elaborate tattoos. I moved around them and passed an olive-skinned man in a safari jacket, smoking a thin cigar. He gave me one of those penetrating looks that seem to be a comment, an examination, and an invitation all at once. A look that took me in, as opposed to merely examining the scenery.

The effect was shocking, no less so than if he’d reached out and touched me. I’d forgotten that, the Parisian stare; in L.A. you look casually and either glance away or give a noncommittal smirk if you make eye contact with someone on the street, and most of the time, we’re not on the street, we’re in cars. It felt potent and provocative, a reminder to pay attention. I overshot the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré and had to backtrack to the restaurant.

Bunny was already there. He was an unusually tall man, six foot eight, which would have been intimidating except for his aging, freckled baby face, with kind brown eyes that turned down at the corners. He wore a striped oxford shirt and khaki pants. He pushed his reading glasses back up his snub nose, looking up from his newspaper.

“Jeepers, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he remarked. I leaned over and kissed him on both cheeks.

“You, too,” I said. He gave a smile disguised as a grimace. He’d aged since the last time I’d seen him, nearly two years ago: more of the freckles were age spots, and his hair was more salt than pepper.

“Une bouteille de Brouilly, s’il vous plaît,”
he told the waiter. I glanced at the menu. The restaurant did little else than soufflés and always seemed to be full of tourists, but Bunny liked it, and what they did, they did well. Over dinner, we talked about politics and movies, pop music and books, bringing each other up to speed.

“That Fergie is something,” he said, eyeing a passing chocolate soufflé.

“Oh, good lord!” I made a face.

“I need something to get me going on the treadmill,” he said. He cleaned his glasses with a napkin and then leaned in to examine me. “Tell me. What’s the real story? Why the sudden trip?” he asked. “You thinking of moving back to ’Ris?”

I smiled. Bunny had abbreviations and nicknames for a host of things. Paris was ’Ris, the rue de Rivoli was Ravioli, and feet were dogs. Certain houseflies were Charlies, who spread illness and germs; others were Irwins, kind and innocuous. Alas, he’d tell you, there was no way to tell them apart.

Before I could answer, he asked, “Did I show you my new cards?” He placed a business card on the table. In an Art Deco font, it read, “Randolph Isaiah Pettigrew,” and underneath it, “Urban Parasite.” His number was printed at the bottom.

“Not bad,” I said. “I liked the last one, ‘Master at Nouns.’”

He shrugged and took out another one. “I’m saving this one for my retirement,” he said. It said “R. I. Pettigrew,
Inspecteur des Parcs de Paris,”
and was printed in green.

“You’re going to spend your retirement inspecting Parisian parks?” I asked.

“Keeping an eye out on the sparrows. See?” he asked, pointing to three little birds punctuating the upper left corner of the card. “Originally, I had
‘Flâneur des Espaces Verts,’
but this is less pretentious. Keep it,” he added. “You didn’t answer my question.”

I toyed with my wineglass. I felt bloated with Timothy, like the fact of him had taken over my life, as if talking about him now would perpetuate it.

“Hey,” Bunny said, putting his hand on mine. My eyes welled up. I took a couple of deep breaths and told him the story as briefly as I could. He didn’t judge, he didn’t give advice, and for a while, he didn’t say anything. He passed me his navy blue bandanna, scented with lily of the valley, to mop up.

“I hate those kinds of stories,” he said, after a while, looking annoyed.

“Me too,” I agreed.

I linked my arm in his as we strolled along Ravioli after dinner. At eleven, the sky was darkening to a velvety, royal blue with only a couple of stars.

“You going to stay for a while?” he asked. I shrugged; I hadn’t thought that far in advance. “Why don’t you get a job?” he suggested. “Keep you from thinking too much. Earn some money, have a regular schedule, meet some new people, stay busy…”

“But it’s summer,” I pointed out.

“It’s not impossible to find a job, even now. Something part-time.
Volunteer. Teach English. I can ask if anyone needs a research assistant,” he said.

“Maybe.” I glanced at the Jardin des Tuileries, where a Ferris wheel, lit up with multicolored neon lights, towered over a summer amusement park. Bunny followed my sight line and gave me a questioning look.

I shook my head. “I’m scared of heights,” I explained. We stopped in front of the Concorde métro.

“Think about it,” he said, leaning down to kiss me good-bye. “A job may be just the ticket.” He walked down the stairs and raised a hand to wave, not turning around.

B
efore they left on their respective summer vacations, Althea, Clara, and I met for dinner at Chez Omar, an old-time couscous place in the Marais. I’d met Clara years ago, when I’d studied in Paris for a year in college. A short, energetic
Parisienne de souche
with a face like a Botticelli cupid under a mop of red curls, she managed her jewelry design business out of an airy, luxurious apartment and conducted what seemed to be doomed, if long-term, love affairs with unavailable men. It was all very operatic.

Althea, on the other hand, was half-American, half-English, and still happily involved with Ivan, her half-English, half-French boyfriend of the past three years. She had pale, freckled skin, a firm jaw, and one of those easygoing manners that somehow managed to sway everyone into doing exactly what she wanted. A graphic designer with a penchant for dyeing her hair different colors, she was currently sporting purple and green tresses. After I gave my nutshell version of why I was in Paris, they exchanged a look.

“You should stay at least until Christmas,” Althea announced.

“You’ve got an apartment, rent-free,” Clara chimed in. “You should enjoy this freedom—not everyone can go live somewhere else so easily.” She lifted the conical clay lid off her preserved-lemon
tagine
and breathed in the smell. “And you can’t get this in Los Angeles. I know, I’ve been there.”

I ladled vegetables over my couscous. “I’m thinking about it,” I admitted, finally acknowledging an idea that had taken hold the second I’d landed, or the second I’d gotten out of the taxi to Tante Isabelle’s and smelled the ripe peaches from the
primeur
and fresh bread from the
boulangerie
, albeit mixed in with bus exhaust: I wanted to stay.

“You need a break from Los Angeles. Longer than a vacation,” Althea said. “
En plus
, we want you here.”

I threw myself into life in Paris. Just because almost everyone I knew had gone on vacation didn’t mean there weren’t lots of things to do. Besides, keeping busy seemed to be the best cure for what ailed me. I went to a Rohmer festival at the Action Ecoles, briefly took up running until the weather got too hot, bought some clothes and shoes in the sales, and discovered a number of excellent cafés in Tante Isabelle’s neighborhood. My favorite, Le Schtarbé, which had a toy model of an Airstream trailer hanging outside instead of a shingle, became my hang for a late-morning breakfast of
tartine au beurre
and
café crème
.

I made gleeful trips to my neighborhood Monoprix, loading up my shopping cart with my favorite foods:
fromage blanc, crème de marrons,
every variety of cookie made by LU and Bahlsen, green olive tapenade,
pain Poilâne,
butter from Normandy, and various cheeses and yogurts. I bought a
DV
D player, thinking it would make a good present for my aunt, and rented French films that hadn’t gotten U.S. releases.

Still, there were too many times when I was alone with my thoughts, and my thoughts turned to Timothy. He was there, in my head, as if
lying in wait, when I came home. Sometimes I dreaded going to bed: in the dark, my loneliness for him felt like a bottomless chasm I fell into, over and over again.

And then there were the dreams. I dreamed about him less than I did in Los Angeles, but there were still nights when I dreamed Timothy and I were walking around the reservoir or chopping vegetables for a meal; when I dreamed we were in bed, filling out the
New York Times
Sunday crossword puzzle; and worst, when I dreamed I’d woken up and he was there, next to me.

When my bedtime anxiety got too bad, I went out to Le Schtarbé or Le Zorba for a glass of wine, but it was hard to tell what was worse: talking to strangers, or putting on my leave-me-alone face and actually being left alone in a crowd. Sometimes it was easier to take a sleeping pill and turn the long
traversin
pillow sideways in bed. Curling my back against it, I almost felt like I wasn’t sleeping alone. When both cafés closed for the summer vacation, the decision was made for me.

A couple of weeks into my stay, I found an unpleasant surprise in my e-mail. George, my boss at the PR firm, had been fired, and his replacement, one Everett Lewicki, didn’t seem at all inclined to throw me any work, especially as I was out of the country. George wrote that he was volunteering for Habitat for Humanity in Madagascar and wasn’t at all sure he’d want to go back to the rat race after seeing the lemurs.

I took out my credit card receipts and looked at my bank account online. If I wanted to stay awhile, I’d have to dip into my savings. Despite what Bunny said, Paris in August was no time to be looking for work. I shoved the receipts from my shopping sprees into an envelope and got up. Maybe this was the time to finally read
Du côté de chez Swann
in French. I reached for the leather-bound volume and fell asleep reading it on the sofa.

It was muggy in the morning. The sun poked through fluffy white clouds in the west as I walked through the park behind Notre Dame. The cathedral looked like an old Yvon postcard: biblical clouds surrounding iconic edifice. I half-expected a dimpled cherub diapered in blue to float above it.

A group of small boys played soccer between the trees, kicking up clouds of dust and shouting. One kid yelled,
“C’est chanmé!”
and another shouted back,
“Portenawaque!”
They gathered in a circle to settle the dispute. It took me a few minutes to figure out what they were saying: in
verlan,
the slang that reversed syllables, it was
“méchant,”
or mean, and
“n’importe quoi,”
the polite phrase for bullshit. Every time I came to Paris, there was new slang—or old slang that was new to me: on my last trip, I’d learned that
“zarbi”
was
verlan
for bizarre, and that
“ouf,”
usually an expression for exhaustion, was also
verlan
for
fou
, or crazy.

A crowd of people leaned over the ledge by the river. Down below, a horse-drawn carriage, festooned with roses and feathers like Cinderella’s coach-and-four, idled on the riverbank while a film crew tinkered with lights and cables. A gloved hand appeared through the carriage window and dropped an empty Evian bottle to a waiting PA.

I crossed the river to Shakespeare & Company and combed through the used books, hoping to find a vintage pulp novel with a lurid cover, or one of the Mary Stewart mysteries I used to read as a kid. A stocky blond woman with a limp, hand-rolled cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth,
une clope au bec,
added job postings to the blackboard by the entrance.

“Any of these jobs worth checking out?” I asked.

“Depends,” she said and shrugged, pushing hair out of her eyes. “Do you speak French?” I nodded. She looked at a card in her hand, and I noticed her nails were bitten down to the pink. “This guy always needs translators,” she said. “Pays pretty well.” She handed me an index card from the stack she was transcribing onto the blackboard. Editions
Laveau, on the rue de Condé, needed a translator, “English mother tongue.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“I’d go now. By this afternoon, you’ll be too late,” she said and clicked at me, like a gunslinger to a horse.

Pocketing the card, I sped over to the Sixth and up the rue de Condé. I knew a bar there, little more than a black tunnel lined with leather seats and a glittery white gravel floor. The décor consisted of spotlit stone statues of Buddha and Ganesha. Back when I’d lived in Paris after college, Clara and her then-boyfriend had taken me there for swimming pool blue cocktails and killer rounds of backgammon. Another time, I’d taken a date, a redheaded rock-climber, there. When he’d told me I was mysterious and beautiful, I’d kissed him, because he’d made me feel like I was. We’d strolled along the banks of the Seine, making out under bridges until early in the morning.

At number seventeen, I found Editions Laveau, a small bookstore with yellow anti-glare film on the glass. As I walked in, a cowbell affixed to the door pealed, rattling my teeth. There were antique books everywhere: leather-bound, crumbling, piled waist high on the floor, displayed on mismatched tables. A tall, pointy-faced man who looked like Jean Rochefort’s mean older brother emerged from a back room.

“Puis-je vous aider, mademoiselle?”

“Vous êtes Monsieur Laveau?”
I asked.

“Lui-même.”
He inclined his head, an owl at a dinner party.

“Je suis venue à cause de l’annonce.”

“Je regrette, mademoiselle, mais je cherche quelqu’un qui parle anglais comme sa langue maternelle
.
Bonne journée
.” He was looking for a native English speaker. With that, he dismissed me and turned on his heel.

I squawked in protest. “Excuse me, I don’t think I made myself clear,” I said, switching to English. He turned around. “While I’m flattered that you consider my French good, English is my native tongue.” He knit overgrown eyebrows and looked me up and down. Feeling less than
fashionably Parisian in my slightly sweaty T-shirt and jeans, I raised a defiant eyebrow in response.

“You read the announcement, did you not,
mademoiselle
?”

“Of course.” I pulled the index card out of my back pocket and reread it. “Serious French author requires excellent translator for”—My face grew hot. I’d mistaken an “r” for an “x.”—“erotic novel. Discretion, humor, and a refined sense of nuance required.”

On how many levels can you blush, and are they discernible? What did that blush give away? That I hadn’t read the ad carefully? The fact that the translation was for an erotic novel? The fact that, when I was twelve, I’d found a paperback copy of
Emmanuelle
in the garage, among a pile of old
Newsweek
s, and had read it in secret? Monsieur Laveau looked at me with a superior, half-amused expression, as if he’d read my mind. I tried to compose myself, making my face blank, expressionless.

He looked disappointed. I had a sensation I’d had before in France, that not everyone finds a blank slate charming and guileless, the way we do back home. Here, they prefer complexity: an acknowledgment that we are all guilty; or at least, no one is innocent. Nevertheless, he gestured toward the back, and I followed him into a book-lined study with an espresso machine, a large desk, and two windows looking out onto a leafy courtyard.

He offered me coffee in thickly accented English. I sat on a worn leather club chair, the kind chic American bistros buy by the truckload at French flea markets. Only this one hadn’t been reupholstered since Vichy, and I sank into a deep, lumpy hole, inches off the ground. Impervious to my discomfort, Monsieur Laveau handed me a cup of coffee with an acorn of brown sugar and sat behind his mahogany desk.

“Tell me about yourself.”

“You know, that’s actually pretty boring,” I said and laughed, a bit coquettishly.

He looked baffled. “Nevertheless, I’d like to hear your English a bit more.” Oh, right, this wasn’t about me. I explained that I was raised
more or less bilingual in Los Angeles, because my father was French, and I’d lived in Paris at various times. I mentioned that while I’d never done literary translation, I’d done translations of PR copy for several French and French-Canadian film releases. At the mention of film, his eyebrows shot up, and he scribbled a note with a fountain pen.

As I spoke, lifting my chin so I could see more of him over the desk, I took in more details about Monsieur Laveau: well-preserved, maybe late sixties but looked younger, with blue eyes, a lined face, and high, almost Slavic cheekbones. He wore a
chevalière,
a ring with a family crest, an accessory with a certain amount of snob appeal. Nestled inside his white shirt was a loosely knotted cravat, and though his cuffs were frayed, he had a certain shabby style. A few wiry white hairs stuck out from his neat gray head, and his mustache limped at the corners like Droopy Dog’s jowls.

“Can you be discreet?” he asked, cutting me off as I rambled on about my English major in college, my love of nineteenth-century literature, and how that had led to my stint with a big entertainment public relations firm and subsequent freelance PR work.

“Sure. Why?” I asked.

He sat back in his chair and frowned. It was a powerful frown, emanating disapproval and deepening the furrows all over his face.

“My client is quite well-known,” he said. He ran his fingers along the edge of his desk. “He has published very serious books about politics and sociology. But recently, he has written a novel, his second, very loosely inspired by
le grand amour de sa vie
. It is this erotic novel we are talking about. I do not know the extent of your familiarity with contemporary French writing, but it is not inconceivable that you might imagine you know who the writer is.”

I squirmed. His manner was condescending, borderline insulting.

“Thus,” he continued, “he wishes to remain anonymous. The book will be published at next year’s
rentrée,
but he wants it translated into English. I don’t know whether this is because of some clause with his
publisher, or something to do with the foreign rights. I simply said I would be of help in finding a translator. A woman, of course—”

“Why a woman?” I interrupted.

“Mais enfin, mademoiselle,
this is the story of his great love,” he said reproachfully, as if I’d asked a crazy question.

“I’m sorry,
monsieur,
I don’t understand.”

“It is of no importance.” Waving his hand in the air, he droned on at length about nuance and translation. A chair spring dug into my rear. The book was probably some ghastly novelette full of details the rest of humanity should be spared, but that might be good for laughs, and it would beat teaching English or waitressing.

“As I have had a hard time finding good translators, I will ask you to take this first chapter home with you and give me your best effort by, shall we say, next Monday.”