The Yellow Suitcase

by L. W. Clark

  “She only makes macarons when she hears happy news,” Gilles said.

  Mona is like family. She cares about Gilles—a lot.

  “Did you make the announcement to your parents?” Mona asked.

  “No, not yet,” Gilles said. “I will. Next week … I think.”

  “What are you waiting for?” Mona pressed. “You know your father. I hope he doesn’t get upset that you didn’t tell him right away.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Gilles said. “I’m just wondering if I should call or write a letter to my entire family and send a picture of Alyssa and me. When they see I married this beautiful girl they’ll all be satisfied. I really don’t want to hear all their questions. ‘Why not a French girl?’ or ‘Does she at least speak French?’ Those kinds of things.”

  “That’s right,” Mona said. “Always do what’s best for you.”

  “Come on, I respect them,” Gilles said. “I just don’t want any drama, you know?”

  Mona sighed and looked at me.

  “Well, it’s time to learn French my dear,” she said.

  “I’d love to!” I said.

  We all laughed and kept the party going. After dinner I offered to help Mona with the dishes and stuff.

  “No, no, no, but thank you. I’ll do my job, you go sit down,” she smiled and waved for me to go back into the dining room.

  “Cheers,” Mark said as he poured more wine for me.

  Gilles was in the kitchen chatting with Mona while she cleaned things up.

  “Cheers, Mark,” I said.

  “I’m really happy today. I’m so glad you did this. I want you to know that I’ll always respect you and your privacy. Please feel open and free with me and think of me as your close friend.”

  “Thank you, Mark, same here.”

  “After all, we both love the same man, right?”

  Mark stood up and hugged me.

  On his way back to his chair Mark noticed my yellow suitcase standing just outside the dining room. He walked over to it and studied it closely. I was feeling a little embarrassed.

  “It’s just an old suitcase from back home,” I said. “It was the only one available when I came here.”

  “I think it’s unique,” he said as he continued staring at it. “It’s like a work of art. You know, I like to do photography, as a hobby. Would you mind if I took a few pictures of it?”

  “Sure, if you want to,” I said.

  “Hey, Gilles, come here,” Mark said. “Look at this piece.”

  “Yeah, so?” Gilles asked.

  “Look at the style and design. Look at these large heavy stitches, and the leather. It’s so thick. And the color. That yellow.”

  Oh yeah, it’s definitely yellow. We all know that. I want to move on from talking about the suitcase but Mark’s going on and on. He thinks it’s “art worthy?” That’s a surprise, but kind of cool. This poor suitcase. It went unnoticed for years back home and here it is now, so popular and interesting. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so they say. Here’s the proof.

  I was buzzed from the wine and the good vibes as the night wound down. Mona had left. Mark stayed a little longer but was gone right after midnight. He had an early business flight.

  “Welcome to your new home, Alyssa,” Gilles said as he hugged me. “From now on this house is your house. Thank you for everything. I love being around you. You are my beautiful girl, and wife.”

  We kissed each other and said goodnight. I had my own bedroom on the second floor. It was newly renovated in the style I loved, thanks to Mark. Every piece of furniture was brand new. The dresser, nightstands and armchair were all French, with faded beige colors. The walls were a light rose color with light and dark grey shades and curtains. There was a queen-sized bed with a few white fluffy pillows and a white down comforter. Even at night, the room looked bright. Dark rooms and furniture make me depressed. Good thing Gilles and Mark know my taste. It felt warm and relaxing.

  The bedroom windows looked out onto the street. I opened the windows to breathe in some fresh air and to hear the city, and then jumped into bed. Literally. The bed made me feel like I was laying in big, fluffy clouds. The fresh air made me awake, and the sounds of the city gave me goosebumps.

  This is where I live. I’m living in the city that I fell in love with from day one. Living in the city I was dreaming about every single night. I’d imagine myself here and walking on the street, a city girl. I’d imagine walking in and out of a house, and living a simple, everyday life here. And my imagination came true. Tomorrow, I can get up and walk in and out of this house. My family. I always think of them at night. I haven’t even told them the news yet. I want to share every single moment. My stories and my new life, but I just don’t know where to start or what to say. I don’t want to lie to them, but I’m not ready to be honest with them either. Maybe they’re not ready either? Who am I kidding? I’m just rationalizing. It does make me feel better that they’re all doing well. I know they have good financial support, now more than ever. I know they can have more than they did before. I know they’re happy and healthy, like me.

  Over time, Gilles and I learned how to make a happy house. I tried to understand what pleased him and what irritated him. I knew when to leave him alone and when to reach out. I knew about morning and evening Gilles—two different guys. I’m always flexible. I’ll change my plans if he needs me to be with him. Sometimes he’ll call about an unplanned dinner or he just wants to go out for drinks. I always dress up and meet him on time.

  He loves hanging out in his bedroom, especially on a rainy day with a fire going. But then, who wouldn’t love that? Or when the weather is nice, he hangs out on the balcony, another one of his favorite places. We sit there having cocktails, look at the sky and talk. I make him laugh with my broken English or stories from back home. Sometimes he tickles me. I scream but he doesn’t stop. I hate being tickled and he knows it. That’s why he does it.

  We spend hours in Gilles’s bedroom. Just being lazy, watching stupid TV or reading magazines and books. I join him when I need help with my homework. I only ask him when he isn’t busy, which isn’t often. Sometimes I fall asleep in his bed while watching a movie or reading but when I wake up, I go to my bedroom. I love sleeping next to him, but I also love sleeping in my fluffy bed.

  Most weekend mornings I make coffee and bring it to him along with fresh croissants. I lay down and enjoy breakfast while he reads his newspapers. When he isn’t home, I still go to the balcony, but I never stay in his bedroom. I’ve never been nosey, so I don’t go through his drawers or anything like that. I always respect his privacy. I don’t think he has anything to hide, and I have nothing to look for. There are no secrets, which is a wonderful way to live.

  Since he announced our marriage to the public, my life has become much busier. Now he receives invitations that include both of us. I’m always proud to go with him. There are so many people that I never met before. His friends and some of his relatives invited us over to their houses for dinner, to celebrate our marriage.

  There were an awful lot of people who were happy about the news. Happy and astonished at the same time. Many of them wanted to get to know me and they’d ask so many questions, some of them rather personal. It’s hard to avoid them, and I always try my best to represent him, since he deserves it. I’d rather be quiet and let Gilles do all the talking, even for me.

  You know how these dinners are. Sooner or later the girls separate from the guys, and then it’s question time for Alyssa. Or people are staring at me like I’m an alien with three heads and a tail. I like to think I’m unique, but not that much.

  I’m glad I attended classes. My English improved dramatically, and I’m able to answer many of their questions. At least the ones I want to. I remember when I started dating Gilles and he would have all these questions, and I’d get frustrated, and he would laugh.

  “Don’t ever worry about what anyone asks you,” he said. “Their curiosity is not your responsib
ility. They can ask or say whatever they want. Your responsibility is to choose how to respond, or even if to respond. Just because someone asks a question it doesn’t mean you have to answer.”

  Now I’m part of Gilles’s social network, and I’ve become one of the more prestigious girls in the city. I’m receiving personal invites from ladies I’ve met at various events. I’ve been invited to fashion shows, charity dinners and gallery receptions. I’m in the city’s high society circle. I’ve tried to avoid being in that circle for a while, because once they get you, they don’t let go. They want you everywhere and follow you everywhere. As much as Gilles is so private with some of his life, he also leads a public life, and now I’m part of it.

  When Gilles has free time, he likes to spend it with me and I’m always ready. It’s a joy to spend time with him. We live on the Upper West Side, just steps from Central Park. It feels like our personal backyard. We take long walks. I listen to his opinions and ideas while we hold hands. We walk, sit, walk again and sit again, as we talk and laugh about everything, just like our first date. Sometimes we stay there until the sun goes down, and then we make our way home.

  “Oh, I needed that,” he says often. “I needed you and this laughter after the day I had!”

  He kisses me and hugs me so hard it hurts. When Mark is around, I’m a little quieter because he dominates the conversation—in a good way. He always has some story, and no one can compete with his energy. Mark is one of those natural born storytellers who can mesmerize a room full of people with his animated monologues. I always enjoy his company.

  I never feel jealous of the two of them when they spend time together. Before I said yes to Gilles’s proposal, I thought about it. Would I be able to accept their relationship, their love? What if I can’t? Would I be jealous? No, I don’t think that way. I don’t judge. I accept people and situations as they are. Love is love is love. I’m completely free of jealousy, because I’m completely free.

  When Mark comes over, I greet him happily, just as I do with Gilles. I want to make him comfortable when he’s here. I don’t want him to think I’m trying to take the place over, and that maybe one day I’d take Gilles away from him. We both know we love Gilles. And that’s fine. There’s enough love for everyone. Why resist it? If Mark is jealous of me, he never shows it. What he does show is respect, and kindness.

  I’ll never forget when he told me about his parents. He was an only child growing up in Austin, Texas. He was always outgoing, and high school came easy to him. He got an art scholarship to NYU. After finishing his first semester, he went home for the Christmas break. Mark and his parents were driving home from a midnight church service when they were hit by a drunk driver who ran a red light. Mark was unconscious and beat up, but alive. When he came to, he was devastated to learn that both his parents had died at the scene. He was in shock, and numb, but he took care of business. He made the funeral arrangements, buried his parents, and spent a month hiking River Place, thinking about his future. Then he sold his parents’ property, moved to New York and never went back.

  When I heard this story, I had so much compassion for him. I knew something about what he was going through. As happy and energized as he was most of the time, I could imagine how much pain he had inside him from that tragic accident. I lost one parent; he lost both. He loves chatting and spending time with Mona in the kitchen. Maybe he wants that motherly, family feeling.

  Many times, I’ll go away and make myself busy when Mark comes over. Gilles and Mark were together long before I showed up, and I’m sure they’re fine without me around. They announce they’re going to the balcony, and that’s usually a cue for me to quietly slip away. I know the balcony leads to drinks, which leads to the bed, which leads to…well, you know. It doesn’t bother me. Well, at least not that much.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  April 1998, Manhattan

  Gilles told his family about our marriage, but it took a couple of months before they agreed to meet me. I guess it took a while for them to process the news and face reality.

  Are they worried about meeting me? Who would ever think I was such an important person that people would have to prepare to see me? I have zero worries about meeting them.

  “Mother and father are nervous about meeting your wife,” Gilles’s sister told him.

  After Gilles stopped laughing, he told her they have nothing to be nervous about. Gilles and Mona would chat about the family conversations. I never got involved in those. People are nervous because they’re afraid. Gilles’s parents are afraid that I’m not fit to be his wife, or I’m not attractive enough.

  “She looks pretty in the picture,” Gilles’s mother told him. “But some people are just photogenic, so I can’t say anything until I see her.”

  “I understand, but you’ll see,” Gilles said. “She looks even better in person.”

  “Beauty isn’t everything,” she said.

  I wasn’t able to travel overseas yet because I was still waiting to get my permanent resident card, so they made arrangements to come to New York, and we made plans to entertain them. Gilles wanted to have a special dinner at home the first night, and then go out to a few of their favorite restaurants and the opera.

  Gilles was excited to see them. With the travel dates set, he became the serious Gilles, which means he is happy on the inside. He called his secretary and asked her to clear his calendar on the dates they were coming and gave her the restaurant list to make reservations.

  In between school and my social life with Gilles, I was now taking introductory French lessons with a tutor who came to the house three times a week. I tried to learn as much as I could until they arrived, but there wasn’t much time. Even though the teacher kept telling me I was doing great, I knew I wasn’t making much progress. It was so hard to pronounce the words. I wanted to at least learn the basics, to greet the family and make them happy. Mona said it would be respectful.

  “You know, you’re such a good girl,” she said. “It’s the right thing to do. I’ll tell you, in Paris, we always appreciate when visitors at least say hello or thank you in French. At restaurants, waiters are happy to hear diners speak even basic French, you know?”

  I agreed with her but thought since they are visiting New York, how about they speak English? But I didn’t say that to Mona. She was one of those French people who didn’t smile so much. I loved her attitude.

  To provide the illusion of a traditional marriage, I moved into Gilles’s bedroom. My bedroom was transformed into a guest room. They were all staying in a hotel, but when they came over, they’d be snooping around the house. I was kind of sad to say goodbye to my bedroom for a few days, but I was excited to say hello to Gilles’s bedroom.

  The day of the dinner arrived, and Mark took care of the preparations. The dining area was decorated with white roses and candles. The table was set up for eight people with white and faded pink antique porcelain china, with vintage silverware and Baccarat glassware. Mona was working in the kitchen with two other assistants, including a white-gloved bartender who was going to greet everyone with champagne.

  I had returned from the beauty salon, and Caroline arrived with a new dress, which she helped me with. It looked great, but it was so tight there was zero space between me and the fabric. I could barely breathe, and I was afraid to eat. Gilles seemed nervous and excited.

  “Look at her,” Caroline said to Gilles as I carefully walked down the stairs.

  “Wow,” Gilles said. “I love this dress. Thank you, Caroline. You always come through.”

  “Any time, Gilles. Congratulations once again and have a wonderful evening. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.”

  “You look very attractive tonight, my husband,” I said. “Did Caroline help you with this beautiful new suit and bow tie?”

  “You look so beautiful,” he said. “This is such a French look. Chanel. I’m sure my family will love your style.”

  I was wearing a long sleeve, open back, long w
hite lace dress. I had my hair up, with light makeup on, and red lipstick. I wore no jewelry other than my diamond wedding ring. Gilles offered to buy me a diamond necklace that Caroline showed us, but I refused. I wanted them to see me, not the diamonds. The dress was enough of a statement.

  The guests arrived. Gilles and I were standing next to each other to greet them and he could introduce me. I was greeting the guests in French with a small smile that I had practiced all day in the mirror. My heart was palpitating, but I pretended I was fine. I was really worried about blushing. I covered my face with a natural-colored powder that I hoped would help.

  Gilles’s father, Rámy Durand, was about seventy-five. Slim and tall, with a deep and smart look behind his tiny blue eyes. His mother, Jeanne-Marie, was a couple of years younger than her husband. She was also slim, but petite, with straight shoulder-length brown hair. Her pink lipstick and oversized round glasses made her look extremely fashionable. Her style was simple but high-end, with a great mix of colors. She had a Hermès look.

  His sisters, Françoise and Clara, looked alike. They were both wearing long dresses with beautiful diamond necklaces and earrings. Their husbands also had a similar look, and definitely French. Françoise and her husband had a three-year-old boy. Clara and her husband had twin six-year-old girls. When they came in, all of them were wearing scarfs. I guess scarves are mandatory if you’re French.

  After a champagne toast, we sat down for the first course. There was some small talk with awkward silences in between. With the second course and more wine, the family members became chattier. Half the conversation was in English and half in French. Every time someone would say something in French, Gilles would gently remind them to speak English as he looked at me with a smile. They would pause with a forced smile and switch to English.

  By the time the third course arrived, the wine was flowing and the entire family was immersed in long conversations in French, without even thinking about speaking in English. They found their comfort zone and became even louder. After unsuccessfully trying to stop them a few times, Gilles just looked at me and rolled his eyes. I smiled.