Paris in Love (23 page)

The cheerful priest began his homily and then kept going, and going. The baby kept crowing, and crowing. The toy phone hit the stone floor a few times.

Then, from a row at the front of the nave, there rose a gaunt and ancient man, dressed completely in black, including the overcoat that swung behind him. He turned around and walked, scowling, straight toward us. The entire congregation froze, watching as this Scrooge-like menace advanced. The priest’s eyes widened visibly. Monsieur le Scrooge turned along the side aisle, now obviously coming to confront the baby’s
maman
.

Heads swiveled in unison to follow his progress. The child’s
mother swept him up against her shoulder in a gesture that reminded me of the protective moves made by mothers in films when towns are invaded by Nazis, or aliens. “Madame!” we heard M. Scrooge say in a gravelly, outraged voice, but she was already fleeing to the back of the church, abandoning the toy cellphone on the floor.

Mission accomplished, Scrooge turned back toward his seat. The priest and parishioners watched him scowl his way up the aisle. Once it was safe, Anna trotted after the mother, waving the toy phone. For a moment I thought our sweet, curly-haired priest would say something about this small drama; it was, after all, a Sunday for
les enfants
.

But instead there was silence as he blessed the Host, and then from the other side of the nave, far behind us, came a defiant series of squawks. The baby and his
maman
were undefeated!

When it came time to go forward for Holy Communion, Scrooge rose to his feet before the priest had finished speaking, securing himself a place at the very front of the line. Upon receiving Communion, rather than return to his seat, he planted himself next to the priest’s elbow and turned as if to adore the altar.

“He’s going to accost her when she takes the Host!” Alessandro said, with obvious and impious delight. But no, it was not to be: the young mother took the Host without incident. M. Scrooge’s plan—whatever it was—was foiled by an elderly woman in a wheelchair who forced him to move to the side.

The young priest, making the best of a bad situation, put his hand on the child’s round head, blessing him and, presumably, all his squawks and squeaks.

Today Alessandro and Anna flew off to snowy Florence, where they’re turning around after a couple of days and driving back to Paris with elderly Italian family members and one obese Chihuahua in tow. I wish it would stop snowing as I’m afraid the car will crash while crossing the mountains. The memoirist Elizabeth Stone wrote that having children is like letting your heart walk around outside your body, and mine is going to be crossing the Alps.

I bought some presents at Galeries Lafayette this afternoon, a soft heather-colored scarf and a lacy shirt for my college roommates. Dusk was gathering as I left the store. Just outside on the snowy street, a stand was brewing soup in cast-iron pots, so I bought a cup of lentil soup with Indian spices and walked home, the soup warm in my hands, exploding on my tongue.

Yesterday Luca and I were roaming in the twilight when we passed a tiny bar with scarlet walls and a deep couch. A man inside leaned forward to smoke an ornate silver hookah. I delightedly informed Luca that it must be an opium den, rattling on about the Victorians and their more louche habits, before I remembered to add a little lecture on the perils of drugs. Unfortunately for my exotic tourist moment, Wikipedia suggests that the man was smoking tobacco in a “Hookah Lounge.”

I have decided to use my beloved cocottes to create individual drunken-cherry cakes for Christmas dinner. Venturing out to buy the cherries, I survived the crowds by pretending I was a fish caught in the Gulf Stream. There is no point in fighting the current, no need to use fins; just gently bump the others in your school as you swim, and remind yourself that breathing is unnecessary because you’re a fish.

In the interest of empirical research, I have been gathering family gossip about Great-Uncle Claude. It’s reported that he had a “tempestuous” relationship with Ivé, who finally left him for a German man. Because—and this is a direct quote from one of my uncles—“he was not up to her sexual energy.” I knew it! Apparently my great-aunt Genevieve, a terrifying woman who used to stamp about in a long cape, wrote her brother a letter telling him to “act like a man” and stop being pushed around by Ivé. To no avail, one assumes.

Today I tried a traditional French delicacy called
andouillette
, which is a sausage made from a pig’s intestine (chitterlings). I’m determined to investigate all the food that I reflexively avoided as a younger person, but I shall continue to avoid this one. Once cut, the sausage fell into pieces whose original design was all too evident. In short, the texture was revolting. Culinary adventurousness can go only so far.

Yesterday I realized that a rental apartment implies a naked Christmas table. So I ventured into a chic store and bought black
glass votive cylinders with a black-on-black velvet fleur-de-lis pattern. Once home I realized that they were designed by someone with plans for enjoying an exciting evening of illegal substances, not singing “Silent Night.” I have shopping remorse, which is presumably not as bad as tattoo remorse, but still stinging.

After being delayed by snow, Anna, Alessandro, and Italian family members arrived last night at 10:30. Anna tore through the house, wild with excitement when she saw the tree and presents. “Don’t look!” I shouted. She had told me on the phone from Italy that she now liked Barbies. I was surprised because she had never shown interest before, but after surveying forty dolls, I picked one and some extra shoes, since I have always admired Barbie’s shoe collection.