At the Far End of Nowhere
Page 25
“Non, merci,” I say, and begin my first real conversation in France.
“What’s Pernod, M. Duval?” I ask.
“Call me Paul.”
The Pernod arrives, and Paul holds his glass up to the light.
“You ask me, what is Pernod? Well, Lissa, to answer that question, one must employ several of the senses. First, one must look at it. And what does one see? What is the color of it?”
“It’s very yellow,” I say.
“Yes, my dear. More brilliant than the sun, and more radiantly clear.”
He passes the rim of his glass under my nose. “Next, one must sniff it. And what does the nose tell you, my dear?”
“I think I smell licorice.”
“That’s it.” He swishes the glass gently around under my nose. “The nose reveals to you a mélange of licorice, anise, garden herbs, carnations, and fennel. Now taste it.” He hands the glass to me.
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Here. Place just the smallest of drops on the tongue.”
I take a very small sip. “Umm,” I say, so as not to hurt his feelings. But I really don’t like the taste of licorice.
“It’s exotic, n’est pas? Powerful. Bittersweet.”
By now, the waiter has arrived with my sandwich. I take my first bite. It is such a delicious sandwich! Unlike anything I’ve tasted before. A fresh, crisp, skinny baguette, spread lightly with butter and layered with thinly sliced ham and a soupçon of Dijon mustard.
“How do you like it?” Paul asks.
“C’est formidable!”
Paul tries to persuade me to come spend a few days with him at his country home. He tries to paint a seductive tableau, describing its abundant orchards, limpid fish pond, and tranquil sunsets.
“Non, merci,” I tell him. “I have to catch a train.”
He looks disappointed. He implores me to reconsider, but I insist, “No, no. I must go. I’m expected at the dormitory.”
It feels good to say no, to know what I want and what I don’t want, to do what I want, to assert myself, to take care of myself, to be responsible for myself. I feel the release of an unidentifiable constriction. I experience something I have never felt before, a palpable wave of self-determined new beginnings. Everything is possible. This is where everything begins!
In the early afternoon, I board the train to Clermont. It whisks me south, past waves of French countryside, stopping at Nevers, Moulins, Vichy, and Riom/Chatel-Guyon. It’s nearly six P.M.—or 1800 hours, as they count it here in France—when I step off the train in Clermont, carrying my suitcase.
Disoriented, I cross a series of train tracks. Suddenly, I see a train coming right at me. I must be crossing at the wrong spot. At the front of the approaching train, I see the engineer gesticulating at me. I hear the clang of a warning bell and the grinding of brakes to slow the train. At the last instant, I race across the tracks, just in time to avoid being hit.
I hurry through the station and get into one of the cabs waiting outside. I give the cab driver the address of my new dorm. He drops me off at Place de Regensburg, and removes my suitcase from the trunk. I pull out one of the unfamiliar franc notes from the wad of bills stuffed into my coat pocket. Spence got the French currency for me at Maryland National Bank before I left home. When a huge smile spreads across the taxi driver’s face, it dawns on me that I must have really over-tipped him.
The driver points toward my destination: just across the square to a dormitory, built to accommodate young workers from the surrounding countryside who have found jobs in Clermont. The dorm also houses foreign students like me. It has two slim and distinctly separate towers—one for young men, one for young women—joined by a lobby on the rez-de-chaussée. I ring the buzzer at the door, the concierge buzzes me in, and I cross the threshold.
A curious vibration rises up my spine and explodes out the top of my head. A new door flies open, and through it shines a pure, white light—so very bright, and yet it doesn’t hurt my eyes. I soar beyond once upon a time—to here, to now, where everything begins.