French Lessons

by Ellen Sussman

  “Let’s move outside,” Chantal says.

  Jeremy glances at her. Does she read him so easily?

  “The grounds are beautiful,” she says, as if he needs further urging.

  She’s right, and Jeremy breathes more easily. Once they’re through the front door, the Jardin des Plantes spreads out before them. They walk through gardens that represent different ecosystems while Chantal offers the French names for different flowers, trees, wild ferns. On a central path in the large park, the children follow their teachers in two straight lines, like Noah’s animals. The air is thick with woodsy smells, and Jeremy remembers the evening after the rafting trip in Costa Rica. They had camped in the jungle along the side of the river, and the river guides had cooked fish wrapped in banana leaves on an open campfire. Lindy told Jeremy that she had a crush on their river guide, a wiry, dark-skinned young man who had taught them to spin the boat in the rapids. “Don’t tell Mom I like him,” she had said. “I won’t,” he told her. It was the first time she had offered a secret. He held it close to him, an extraordinary gift.

  “I want to live in the country one day,” Chantal says.

  Jeremy is surprised. She has told him so little about her life.

  “Why not move?” he asks.

  “My boyfriend loves Paris,” she says. “Though he told me this morning he’s thinking of moving to London.”

  “And you?” He tries to ignore the twinge of jealousy. Of course she has a boyfriend. And what does it matter?

  “I spend a lot of time in this garden. This is my favorite spot in the city.”

  Jeremy looks around with different eyes. He wants to know why she loves this particular garden and yet he won’t ask. He thinks he might come to know Chantal if he knows this garden.

  “Will you move to London with this boyfriend?” Jeremy asks.

  “I saw him kissing another woman this morning,” Chantal says. “Maybe I deserve a better boyfriend.”

  The sky darkens and then flashes white. A growl of thunder follows immediately.

  “Let’s go inside,” Chantal says.

  “No. We’ll duck under the trees,” Jeremy tells her. “Let’s watch the storm.”

  She looks at him, surprised, and then her face lights up. They can hear the high-pitched shrieks of the children, who dash back into the closest exhibition hall as the skies open.

  Jeremy wraps his hand around Chantal’s upper arm and leads her deeper into the woods. They step over a low fence-a sign reads INTERDIT!-and under the wide canopy of trees. The rain hits the back of Jeremy’s neck in sharp little stabs. And then they’re protected, the thick shelf of leaves and branches above them sheltering them from the downpour that surrounds them.

  It is wild. The sky is almost as black as if day had changed to night. Peals of thunder roll across the sky, bumping into one another without a break. And the rain! It comes down in solid sheets, loud, crashing on the paths, the lawn, the tree canopy above them.

  Chantal presses against Jeremy’s side as if frightened. But he sees her face-she is thrilled by the storm. He smiles to himself, glad that they didn’t run for cover.

  And finally there are no words-even the jumble of French and English in Jeremy’s mind slows and quiets. There is only this: the lashing of wind at the trees, the pounding of the rain on the earth, the clamor of the sky.

  Jeremy can smell Chantal’s shampoo-something like tangerines. He breathes her in.

  He made love with Dana last night when they returned from their street fight sometime after three in the morning, having walked all the way from the Marais to their hotel near Saint-Sulpice church. She had turned to him as soon as they climbed into bed.

  “I need you,” she whispered, and he glared at her. Did she need sex or him? He pushed her back on the bed and, pinning her shoulders down, climbed on top of her.

  “What do you need? Say it,” he said.

  “You.”

  “Sex,” he said.

  “You.”

  “You don’t need me,” he said. He leaned close to her and she reached up for his mouth-their kiss was full of hunger and rage. They tore at each other, tangling themselves in the sheets, and at one point Jeremy felt Dana’s mouth on his neck, her teeth sharp. They turned each other over and pushed each other back, each fighting to overpower the other. They had never done this, never been rough or scrappy in bed. Their lovemaking was always tender, intimate; their eyes always locked on each other. This time, they barely looked at each other.

  When Jeremy came, his orgasm seemed to go on for a long time. And then Dana didn’t wait for him to pleasure her-she took his hand and pressed it between her legs. She held it there and moved against him, her body scrambling for release. When she found it she called out his name.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her, when they slid into their sleeping positions, his body curled against her back, his arm wrapped around her and curled between her breasts.

  “I need to come home to you,” she said softly.

  The storm stops as suddenly as it began. Chantal moves away from Jeremy’s side. It makes him catch his breath, as if he might stumble without the weight of her against him.

  “Merci,” she says simply.

  “Avec plaisir,” he tells her, smiling.

  “Regarde,” she says, pointing out toward the expanse of gardens. New light spreads across the lush greenery, bouncing off drops of rain as if electric. Everything looks newly sprouted, astonishingly different. It’s as if he hadn’t even seen the garden before.

  She does not name what they are looking at.

  They step carefully through the wet grass and over the small fence and back onto the path. Chantal lifts her closed umbrella and laughs. “What a silly thing it is.”

  “I hate to leave,” Jeremy says with real regret, “but we need to meet my daughter.”

  “Of course,” Chantal says.

  “I asked Lindy to meet us across the street at the mosque.” He pauses, searching her face. “If that’s okay with you.”

  “That’s a very good plan,” she says. “I would have suggested it myself.”

  Jeremy feels a swelling of pride, as if he has written an A paper. A schoolboy’s crush, he thinks. What a fool.

  And yet there is some comfort in naming these odd sensations swirling through him today. As if now he can put it in its place. It is translatable, after all.

  He wonders suddenly: Did Lindy sleep with the river guide that night? The next day, at the airport in San José, she had sobbed before they boarded the plane, and she wouldn’t talk to her mother. When Dana went to the bathroom, Lindy whispered to Jeremy, “I want to stay with Paco. I can’t leave him.” Jeremy kissed the top of her head. “Is this love?” he asked, smiling. “Of course it’s love!” she shouted, and stormed off.

  Why does naming a thing give it so much power? Jeremy wonders.

  Chantal glances at her watch. “It is almost eleven-thirty. I am the only person in Paris who is always on time. Let’s not ruin my good record.”

  That, too, pleases Jeremy. Of course, Dana is always late-the meeting ran over, the photographer didn’t show up, the director demanded twenty takes of the same damn scene. He brings a book with him whenever he sets out to meet her. And he expects to wait. When she finally arrives, he usually forgets any annoyance as soon as she begins to tell him about her day. Her days are filled with stories. He works quietly with his wood and his tools and his silence. At the end of his day, it’s as if Dana opens the window and lets the world in.

  They walk quickly through the gardens. Jeremy feels breathless, as if the storm might reappear at any moment. But no, the sky is light, the clouds gone. Chantal has shifted the bags on her shoulders and now, instead of feeling her body brush against his, it is only her tote bag that bumps his hip as they hurry along.

  “Jeremy!” Lindy shouts when they reach the gates of the Jardin des Plantes. She dashes across the street and throws herself in his arms before he even gets a good look at t
he girl. She squeezes tight and he finds himself laughing. His child. There is no question she is his, even though she has only spent half her life with him. She has chosen him, which is even better than what most dads get.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says when words come. He holds her out in front of him. It is still true: the shockingly bald head makes her green eyes even more luminous. Her smile is radiant.

  “En français!” she scolds. And then she turns to Chantal and offers her hand. “Je m’appelle Lindy.”

  “Chantal. Enchantée.”

  “Does he really speak French?” she asks conspiratorially, in French, as if Jeremy is not there.

  “Very well,” Chantal says. “As do you.”

  “Bof. I’ve forgotten my French. I need practice-I need a French boyfriend. That would help.”

  “You can have mine,” Chantal says.

  Jeremy looks at her-she is smiling effortlessly. Jeremy feels as if he’s lost control of this conversation. He doesn’t speak girl talk in any language.

  “Shall we find the tearoom?” he asks in French.

  “Oh, you sound different in French!” Lindy exclaims.

  “How so?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. You’re so-sexy.”

  “Apparently I’m not sexy in English,” Jeremy explains to Chantal.

  “No, not that,” Lindy says. “You’re like someone I don’t know. You could be anyone.”

  “Not your stepfather.”

  “My stepfather wouldn’t be out on the town with a beautiful young Frenchwoman.”

  Chantal looks away quickly.

  “Lindy,” Jeremy says, then stops. The girl’s smile looks devious. But Lindy is never devious. She is so truly an unaffected girl, even with all the flash and glamour of her mother’s life thrust upon her. She is always unfailingly honest.

  “This is a French lesson,” he explains, his voice low and serious.

  “Well, of course it is,” Lindy says.

  They cross the street and enter the mosque. It’s a Moorish building with an impressive minaret, all white on the outside, coolly inviting. They pass through the outside café and enter the inner courtyard. It’s beautifully tiled, with tables set around fig trees and fountains. Arabic music plays in the background; Jeremy can smell incense. He feels transported to Morocco and remembers a trip with Dana to shoot a movie in Marrakesh. One evening they walked through the medina, and even though Dana wore jeans and a tunic, every man turned his head to watch her pass. Jeremy never relaxed his guard, watching and waiting for trouble while Dana shopped for trinkets, oblivious to the stir of male attention around her. By the end of the evening he was exhausted but oddly pleased. It was his job; she needed him there.

  “Une table pour trois, monsieur?” the waiter asks. Jeremy looks up, surprised. The young man seems inordinately pleased with the sight of these two young women at Jeremy’s side.

  “Oui. S’il vous plaît.”

  The man ushers them to a table at the edge of the courtyard. They’re next to a fountain, and suddenly the noise-of the cascade of water, the incantatory music, and, oddly, the squawk of a bird trapped inside the room-makes Jeremy feel claustrophobic. He should have chosen to sit outside.

  The waiter says something in rapid-fire French and Jeremy looks at Chantal, completely lost.

  “No,” she tells the waiter. “We’ll only be having drinks.”

  They settle into their chairs and tuck their bags of cheese and fruit and meat under the table. Jeremy notices that the baguette is soggy from the rain. He looks up and sees Lindy, eyes on him.

  “Tell me about your adventures,” he says to her.

  “Well,” she begins, but then the waiter is there, speaking too quickly for him to understand. Is it the Arabic accent? Too much noise? There’s a pause. Chantal orders tea. He does the same. Lindy orders a citron pressé.

  “Spain? Portugal?” he prompts when the waiter is gone.

  “Tell me about your French lessons,” Lindy says. “What are you learning? French conjugations? The imperfect tense?”

  She’s looking back and forth between Chantal and him. She’s got a mischievous gleam in her eyes, as if she’s taunting him.

  “Lindy,” he says, his voice low.

  “Jeremy and I have conversations about the things we see as we walk around Paris. I teach him new vocabulary. I correct his mistakes. I encourage him to practice what he already knows.”

  Chantal is remarkably calm, as if she is often confronted by irrational twenty-year-old bald daughters. Jeremy begins to relax.

  “What fun,” Lindy says, as if it’s not fun at all.

  “Your mother set up these lessons for me,” Jeremy explains. He doesn’t mention that it’s an anniversary gift.

  “How gallant of her.”

  Gallant, Jeremy thinks. Lindy’s French surprises him. She, too, sounds like someone else, someone more sophisticated. Someone with an edge.

  “Tell us about your travels,” Jeremy urges.

  “Well, here I am,” Lindy says. “All roads lead home.”

  “But you’re not home,” Jeremy says.

  “I’m with you,” Lindy tells him. “That’s home.”

  He reaches out and places his hand over hers. She flinches but doesn’t take her hand away. He sees her glance at Chantal and back again, quickly.

  The waiter arrives and sets tea in front of them, lemonade in front of Lindy. He makes a grand gesture of pouring tea for Chantal but leaves Jeremy to serve himself.

  “Did you see your mother this morning?” Jeremy asks.

  Dana was still sleeping when he left for his French lesson. Her filming doesn’t begin until late this afternoon-they’re shooting evening scenes on the Pont des Arts. He has promised to come watch tonight, something he doesn’t often do. But tomorrow is their anniversary and he needs to make up for last night’s fight. Before Lindy called to say she would arrive in the middle of the night, they had thought they would take a train to Chantilly and explore the château. But now Dana wants to stay in Paris, just the three of them, roaming the city. “I haven’t had a chance to walk the streets of Paris,” she had said last night. “You’re the one who’s having all the fun.”

  “Mom was sleeping,” Lindy says. “My mother is an actress,” she tells Chantal.

  “So I’ve heard,” Chantal says.

  “You’ve mentioned her?” Lindy asks Jeremy.

  “Chantal taught me the words for director and cinematographer and film editor,” Jeremy tells her. “Apparently I know more words about food than I do about film.”

  “Mom could teach you those words.”

  Jeremy looks at the teacup in front of him. He has the uneasy feeling that his French lesson has ended. He and Chantal have worked until three every day. Should he let her go early? But today is his last day with her. He wants to start over. He would tell Lindy that he can’t meet her until late afternoon, that he’s busy all day. But of course, he’s never been too busy for his daughter.

  “Alors,” Lindy says. “Mom was sleeping and I didn’t want to wake her. Her note said that we should meet her at the Pont des Arts at six this evening.”

  “We’ll watch them film a couple of scenes,” Jeremy says. “Should be fun.” He’s lying; it’s never fun. It’s slow and boring, and each scene is so out of context that it’s hard to know what’s actually going on. Lindy usually hates film shoots unless a sexy young actor is on the set. Even then, she resents that her mother is more often the object of the young man’s attention than she is.

  Last summer, Lindy decided she wanted to be a theater actress. It’s more serious, she said. It has more substance, more weight. Jeremy worries that it’s even harder to succeed in the theater. He wishes his daughter would find something less daunting, something that is not filled with rejection and criticism and ego-driven competitors pushing you aside. Lindy is not made of the same stuff as her mother, he worries.

  “Will she come?” Lindy asks.

  Jeremy l
ooks at her, confused. She’s gesturing with a nod of her head at Chantal. Will Chantal come to Dana’s film shoot? Of course not.

  But it’s Chantal who answers. “No. I have to meet some friends when our lesson is done.”

  “Quel dommage,” Lindy says.

  Jeremy wonders if something has happened to Lindy on this European trip. She has sharp edges, something he has never seen before.

  The waiter appears and places a plate of little cookies in front of them. He says something to Chantal-Jeremy can’t understand a word he says. Did they order cookies? Is the waiter showing off for Chantal and Lindy? Chantal thanks him. Jeremy sips his tea. He’s surprised by its sweetness.

  When the waiter leaves, Chantal asks Lindy where she has traveled.

  “I’ve been in a monastery,” Lindy says. “In the South of France.”

  Is she lying? In her emails she wrote that she had bought a Eurail pass. She and a couple of friends were traveling through Spain and Portugal. In her phone calls she talked about youth hostels and parties on the beaches and getting lost in Lisbon. When he heard lots of background noise in one phone call, she told him she was at a pizza restaurant and it was someone’s birthday party. Monastery?

  She won’t look at him. She’s telling Chantal this story. He’s the stranger now, listening in.

  “I dropped out of college in March. I didn’t know why I was studying anymore. To learn what? Environmental science? What was I going to do with that? The literature of the sixties? Cool, but so what? I just needed to know why. I don’t mean I needed to know what I was going to be when I grew up. I mean, I needed to know why I needed to learn. To take a test? To get an A? To please Papa?”

  “No,” Jeremy says, interrupting her. “I never put any pressure on you-”

  “Oh, it’s got nothing to do with you,” Lindy says, waving him off. “You’re easy. You just love me no matter what.”

  “That’s important,” Chantal says. “To be loved like that.”

  Jeremy looks at her, and it’s as if his bones settle in his body again. He needs to hear Chantal’s voice, he thinks. Even Lindy’s French, which is very good, makes him work too hard. He has to grapple with words, to make sure he understands what she’s saying. And it’s so important that he gets this, that he hears her story. For the first time, he wants to say, Let’s speak in English. I don’t understand. A monastery?