Authors: Lorna Lee
“
Oui,
Monsieur.” Meri blushed.
He knows. I have to leave this job. Everyone probably knows about Claude and me.
Work finally over, Meri walked the two kilometers to Monsieur Nurmi’s address.
He is, indeed, a wealthy man, if wealth is measured by the majesty of one’s home,
Meri thought as she opened the elaborate wrought iron gate and walked along a beautifully groomed path lined with elaborate statues of maidens or goddesses. The slate walkway was flanked with crushed stone, as were smaller paths leading to each statue. Adjacent to each statue—Meri saw six of them on her way to the front door—was a wrought iron bench. The crushed stone and thick shrubs surrounded each small outdoor museum-like “room.” Meri noticed what was not in the front gardens as well: flowers.
Just
g
reenery and hard things. I’ve never seen a Parisian garden like this.
She knocked on the ornate wooden door. A maid answered.
Elina and I were right. He doesn’t need a maid
, Meri thought as she smiled in greeting. “
Bonjour
.”
“
Bonjour
.” The maid did not smile back, her posture stiff. She acted as if one of her duties was guarding the residence. “What’s your business?”
“Is Monsieur Nurmi in?” Meri smoothed her coat and adjusted her hat.
I hope I don’t have flour in my hair.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“
Non
, Madame. I wonder if he needs someone who could, perhaps, manage his appointments and help with his…ah… personal business?” Meri attempted a small smile. Her palms were moist and she could feel beads of sweat forming around her hairline.
I may not make it past the maid!
The maid raised one eyebrow. “How do you know he’s searching for such a person?”
“I don’t! Oh the Saints are with me today!” Meri said, eyeing the small pewter crucifix dangling from a slim chain around the maid’s neck. “I’ve been going from house to house asking for a job like this. Saints be praised!”
“If Monsieur Nurmi sees fit to hire you, Mademoiselle, you’ll need all your saints and more. Come in.” The woman stepped aside and motioned for Meri to enter.
Meri took a big breath and released it slowly. She didn’t know whether to celebrate her victory or prepare for an attack.
§
“What are you staring at? Have you never seen a man in a wheelchair before?” Topias Nurmi growled at Meri when the maid escorted her into his library.
The two women walked into an ornate, but dark and stuffy room. Meri’s eyes did not have time to adjust to the dimly lit room when she heard her name.
“Monsieur, allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Vaarsara. She’s here about the personal assistant position.” The woman vanished before Meri had a chance to open her mouth.
I’m alone with an angry disabled man in a dimly-lit room that smells of cigars. This isn’t how I pictured my interview for a professional job
.
“Vaarsara? Are you Finn?” He turned his wheelchair to get a better look at Meri.
“
Oui,
Monsieur.” Her eyes widened and she nearly gasped. She saw a large-framed, middle-aged man with a robust upper body. A blue plaid blanket covered his flat, formless lap.
He has legs. He must. Shoes are poking out from the bottom of the blanket and resting on the footrests of the wheelchair.
His face startled her most.
He could be handsome if his face relaxed from its scowl. I’ve seen eyes like his before. Everyone lost someone or something during the Winter War in Finland. The ones who held onto their rage and despair became ugly, their bitterness showing on their faces. Monsieur Nurmi is ugly like my Mamma and so many others in Finland—ugly inside and out. He holds on to his pain, but why? Do I want to know?
Trying to recover from her surprise, she kept her eyes focused on her shoes. She started twisting the hem of her coat.
“Did the Embassy send you? Stop fiddling with your coat. You are bothering me.”
Meri clasped her hands behind her back, schoolgirl style.
Did the Embassy send me?
She had to make a decision: truth or lie? “
Non
, Monsieur. I came here by chance, hoping you might have a job for a girl like me.” Meri still spoke to her shoes; they were familiar and comforting.
“What kind of girl are you?” Meri did not see Monsieur Nurmi’s eyes narrowing. The tenor in his voice suggested he disapproved of her.
I’ve heard that tone so many times from Mamma when she thought I had done something wrong. This interview might end soon.
Meri shook her head to rid herself of unpleasant Mamma memories.
I’m in an important, if odd, job interview. He asked me what kind of girl I am. I’ll tell him.
“Monsieur, I’m a girl…woman who works hard, learns quickly, and is very skilled in many areas in which you may need personal assisting.”
“You have no idea what a personal assistant is, do you…what is your first name, girl?”
“Meri, Monsieur.”
“Have you ever been a personal assistant before, Meri? Do you know how demanding the work is, especially for me, an important man and one who has many needs?”
“
Non
, Monsieur. I’ve never worked as a personal assistant. I’ve worked as a maid and a cook. I’m also a fine seamstress.”
“Do you think I need a dress, Mademoiselle Vaarsara?” Coming from another, kinder, man, Meri would have smiled or laughed at his remark. Instead her shoulders drooped as she tried to make herself smaller. She glanced up at him. His features were all rounded—Finn to the core—but his acerbic demeanor made him appear sharp-edged, his face as cruel as his words.
“
Non
, Monsieur.” Her heartbeat quickened. She did not like the feeling of being bullied and made a conscious effort to straighten up.
At least I can stand tall in front of this man who can’t stand at all.
“I have a full domestic staff. Your so-called talents are of no use to me.”
“Monsieur, I’m smart and eager to learn from someone as important as you. I’m also loyal and…discrete. These are important traits in a personal assistant,
oui
?” Meri decided to be bold, feeling as if she did not have much to lose at this point.
“True. True. But I hire no one without professional referrals. What references can you offer?” He turned his wheelchair away from her.
“References?”
“
Oui,
” he sighed, “references. Provide me with two written professional testimonials of your credentials by the end of the week and I will consider you for the position. The Finnish Embassy takes twice as long to send anyone over. I need someone to start as soon as possible.”
“
Merci
, Monsieur! I’ll return as quickly as I can with two of these references.” Meri wanted to reach over to shake his hand, but he remained with his back to her. “I’m leaving now, Monsieur,” she said as she backed out of the room.
Silence.
At least I don’t have to spin around for him to inspect me.
Relief washed over her like a gentle rain after a long, hot day. Meri exited the room and found the maid standing in the hall. She walked Meri to the front door. When they reached the door, well out of hearing range of Monsieur Nurmi, the maid said, “Are you sure you want this job?”
“
Oui!
It’s a much better job than the one I’m in now—much more professional. By the way, have you ever heard of ‘professional references’?”
The question took the maid by surprise. She had heard her employer ask for references many times and heard him talk to former personal assistants about references for other potential employees, so she felt fairly confident about what they were. “I believe they are assurances about your character as an employee and your work history.”
“Do
I
write them?”
“
Non
. I think they come from other people.” The maid anticipated Meri’s next question. “People who know your work, like your other employers.”
“
Merde
! That may be hard to do…” Meri eyes darted back and forth, as if answers about how to get her references would appear if only she looked in the right place.
“Monsieur Nurmi, he’s a very…difficult employer. Nothing pleases him. He seems happiest when people around him suffer at his antics. I’m telling you this so you make your choice with all the facts.”
Meri stared at the woman.
How can she speak this way about her employer in a wheelchair?
“If he’s so horrible, why do you work here?” Meri’s voice had a sharper edge than she intended.
“He
is
horrible! I work here because I can’t find a better job for the money he pays. Not that it’s any of your business. I’m only trying to help you.” She started closing the door.
“Wait! I’m sorry. Please, don’t be angry with me. I need this job as well—to get away from a supervisor who’s taking advantage of me. Dealing with a grumpy man in a wheelchair must be better than giving my body to a disgusting pig.” Meri didn’t mean to share her awful secret with this woman, but she needed the maid on her side—especially if they would be working together.
“I suppose you have your reasons. We all have our reasons.” She looked directly into Meri’s gray eyes.
“I do. My choices are…ah, limited. Maybe unpleasant choices are the only ones women like me…us…get.” Meri felt disheartened. Only an hour ago she felt optimistic about her future; now she questioned if this job might be worse than working in a hotel kitchen. Then Claude and his sweaty body and bald head appeared in her mind.
This is the right choice!
“What’s your name?” Meri smiled and asked with the sweetest voice she could conjure.
“Antoinette. Good luck, Meri. I hope to see you soon if this job is what you want.”
Meri squared her shoulders and said, “
Merci,
Antoinette. I’ll be back soon.”
On the long walk back home, Meri had plenty of time to think about the references she had to get before the week’s end.
Claude will never give me the kind of reference I need. Monsieur Touchet probably doesn’t want me to leave his kitchen, so why should he give me a good reference?
In all her time in Paris, she only worked two jobs, and neither would say good things about her if she quit.
How will I get one, let alone two, good written professional references?
§
Before she ascended the stairs to Apartment 3C, she had her solution. If she had not been so proud of herself for thinking up this scheme, she might have been concerned about how adept she had become at lying.
On Tuesday, she told Monsieur Touchet her family back in Finland wanted her to go home to care for her recently infirmed mother. Her mother being long dead was of no consequence since her boss did not know, and Mamma would not care that Meri was using her.
At last
, Meri smiled,
Mamma is being helpful to me
. Her lie continued. “I enjoy working in your kitchen so much, Monsieur Touchet. I feel my sisters are capable of caring for her until she gets better, but they still want me to come home. I think my best contribution to Mamma is sending home money I earn here.”
“I understand and I agree, Meri. I would hate to lose you from my kitchen.”
Meri gave him a wan smile.
“Now I see why you were upset yesterday.” Monsieur Touchet guided her away from the hot ovens and into his small office. “How can I possibly help you?”
Meri twisted her apron hem and studied her shoes. She found lying to this kind man—a rarity in her experience—very troubling.
“Tell me, Meri. Don’t be shy.” Monsieur Touchet must have mistaken Meri’s nervousness about her lie as fretting over her family situation.
“Could you, perhaps, write a statement about how much I’m needed here? About how…how I’m a good, reliable worker. This may convince them my job is worth keeping so I can send them money until my mother recovers?” Meri audibly gulped as she looked at him, her eyes punctuated by eyebrows arched with hope. She felt beads of sweat trickling down her forehead, the sides of her face, and the back of her neck despite the coolness of Monsieur Touchet’s office.
“Hmmm.” He shook his head slowly. “Your family is unwilling to take your word for this?”
Meri wiped her face with her apron. “Ah…I’m the youngest child, Monsieur. My family never takes me at my word. That’s why I came to Paris…to prove I can make a name for myself.” Meri straightened a little. She felt better being back on ground girded in truth.
“I see. I’m the youngest child, as well. I know the feeling. To whom should I direct this letter?”
“This doesn’t need to be a letter—just a statement of my work. I’ll send it along with a personal note from me…and some money for my mother.”
“If that is what you think will satisfy your family. Are sure you want stay here rather than go back home?”