by Sandra Byrd
I was getting to know them, but they still hadn’t warmed up to me. Maybe it was because my uniform had no name. Maybe everyone knew what that meant. I was the only one in the bakery who had a plain uniform. It felt like a naked badge of shame.
In the back of the bakery, the friendly baker, Kamil, was rolling out dough. He grinned and waved. I waved back. The angel was making the croissant.
I looked to my left, where Odette was refilling the coffee machine. She grimaced. I smiled. The devil was making the coffee.
A few hours later, I was bent over a large mixing bowl, pouring in the exact measurements Maman had left, when I heard a voice.
“Alexandra!”
I turned around.
“Luc!” I wiped my hands on my apron and went to shake his hand. He greeted me with two kisses on the cheek, French style, and then gave me a hug, American style.
“How are things going?” he asked, nodding around the bakery. He reached for one of my hands, took it in his own, and looked at it. “Red knuckles. Your training has begun,” he joked.
Just seeing him dissipated the homesickness I’d felt for days. “I’m so glad to see you. Marianne is here, also?”
“Ah, oui,” he said. “Getting a fitting for the wedding dress”. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “La Sophie asked me to give you this”.
I took it from him. It was a business card that listed her as the assistant manager of L’Esperance. A wave of homesickness enveloped me again as I imagined her driving my asthmatic Jetta to work each day. I smiled and slipped it into my pocket. “I’m very happy for her”.
“I too am very happy,” Luc said. “She is so good I can leave and know things will be fine. You are ready to start school in September?”
“Yes, and thank you. Philippe told me you insisted I come”.
“I believe you will do a good job here,” Luc said. “You will not let me down. You will be an asset to the Delacroix bakeries”.
Hearing him say that made me more determined than ever.
He checked his watch. “Je regrette that I cannot talk longer,” he said. “I am only here for a short time, and there is so much to do. But I am glad to see my friend happy in France. And now, I must go. I am sure the others will tell me how things are going, and I will see you again when I come back for Christmas. It will be just about time for your exhibition, then”.
“Ah, oui,” I said, barely choking the words out.
He’d see me at Christmas. Luc had called me his friend, yet I was clearly not going to the wedding. No wedding. No navy polka-dotted dress. No good time together, en famille. I felt the corners of my mouth tug down. I wondered, fleetingly, what my exhibition was, before returning to the depressing news that there would be no wedding invitation forthcoming.
Luc kissed my cheeks again in good-bye, and I did the same, mechanically. Then I turned away, not letting Kamil see my face, and went back to pouring flour.
All the Delacroix had left town, and the bakery was closed. Even Odette had gone back to her family in Alsace. The village was dead. Everyone who had any money at all was on vacation, and even the little grocery store in town was abandoned with a Back in September sign hand drawn and tacked to the door. I had to take the train into Rambouillet for provisions. I sat in my cottage the first day, stunned, really. I e-mailed Tanya and poured out my self-pity at being left behind.
The next morning when I woke up, I clicked on my new e-mail and found one from her.
Hi Lex,
I’m so sorry about the situation. I totally understand what you mean—you thought it was going to be like an exchange student program, where you fit in with the family. But maybe it’s more like, well, being an employee. In the long run, even though it’s lonely, isn’t that better? They’ll start seeing you more and more as a baker, not a kid. I’ve gotta run—am setting up next year’s classroom. But I’ll pray for you.
Love,
T
Tanya was right. I was in France! And I was going to play tourist for a few weeks. Cheaply, yes, but still do it. Tomorrow I headed to Versailles. It had been my lifelong dream to visit the Château de Versailles. I could barely sleep that night, thinking about it.
I woke the next morning and boarded the train. Apparently everyone else had decided to take the train to Versailles too. The French had bugged out of town, but every tongue and dialect in the known world had gathered for the first time since Babel and swarmed into greater Paris.
At the Château de Versailles, I stood in line for two hot hours to buy tickets to the palace. It took another hot hour to get in. I didn’t care. I spent the time in awe of the château, the envy of European royalty for centuries, and the focal point of the beginning of the end of the French monarchy I’d studied so long.
It was huge, overwhelming, unlike anything I’d ever seen. During the heyday of Louis XIV, nearly five thousand people wined, dined, slept, and ate breakfast in this one castle alone. I read in my guidebook that one head of state had said the horses of Versailles lived better than he did.
Once inside the castle, it was nose to armpit all the way, surrounded by dusty, sweaty bodies and shrill foreign voices. I hardly noticed. I gazed at the ceilings, enraptured by the swirling, painted frescoes that had taken months to paint. I stood for fifteen minutes looking at the extravagant bed in which Marie Antoinette had given birth and the tiny door to the side where she had tried to escape and retain her head. I walked down the Hall of Mirrors, thinking that Madame de Pompadour had bustled down this same hallway, arranging conquests for the king. Then I came to the chapel installed by Madame de Maintenon, who had married another French king in order to save his soul.
As I looked at the altar, I realized how much I’d missed going to church. I hadn’t gone since I’d arrived in France. I’m sorry I’ve forgotten You in the bustle, Lord.
After wandering the gardens and pathways, imagining the king on his horse on the very same trail, mingling with his squealing, flirting courtiers, I trudged to the station and boarded the train home, where I was forced to sit next to a mother and her screaming baby.
Watching the royal city retreat into the distance as the train pulled away, I remembered what a friend had told me. There’s no sense at all in visiting anything as stunning as the Taj Mahal if you have no one to turn to and say, “How beautiful!”
Among the throng of humanity squeezed into the train, I felt more alone than I could ever remember feeling.
The next morning, I checked my e-mail again. Seeing my empty in box, I decided to be proactive. I found Sophie’s new business card and sent her a note. How are things going? I asked. Have you been getting along with everyone? I’ll check back in a few days. I’m going to Paris!
Almost everyone at home thought I was having the time of my life. I needed to at least try to have some fun. And this was likely the only vacation time I’d see for a while.
I decided to splurge and made a reservation at a Parisian hotel for two days. That way I wouldn’t have to rush my sightseeing. Breakfast was included, and I’d feel pampered. I packed my suitcase and looked at the navy dress. I packed it too, sighing. It was the only way.
Once in Paris, I checked into the little hotel and headed back to the Eighth Arrondissement. I took the dress, hat, shoes, and beads back to the secondhand designer shop.
The saleslady remembered me. “Ah, you have returned!”
“I’m bringing the dress back,” I said softly.
Her brow wrinkled. “You didn’t like it?”
“No, I just didn’t need it after all”. I didn’t want to tell her I hadn’t been invited, and that if I wanted to sightsee, I needed the money.
“The wedding was called off, eh?” She nodded knowingly. “That’s okay. You visit me next time”.
I nodded, knowing there wouldn’t be a next time, and handed over the outfit. Then I set off for Nôtre Dame.
I took the Big Red Bus, just like every other tourist, because the Métro was underground and
I wanted to drink the city in through my pores. I plugged in the earphones and chose English, thirsty to hear my native tongue.
Paris, the narration said, is stunningly beautiful. They were right. The bus wound through tree-lined streets, past row upon row of three and four story buildings, all similar but not boring. Their sandy exteriors were the color of lightly burned butter, warm and smooth, inviting. Each window was graced with black wrought iron, curling like dark eyelashes and just as mysterious. Window boxes spilled over with a gluttony of flowers. I smiled. This was Paris.
I got off at Nôtre Dame, the most famous church in the world. I recalled watching The Hunchback of Nôtre Dame as a young teen, Tanya and I in our sleeping bags in my family room, me dreaming of France, a little Francophile already. Now I was a woman at the very church itself. I swallowed some sorrow and wished Tanya were here to see it too.
The sanctuary was airy, musty, and thick with the history of the city it dominated. The gargoyles grimaced at me, liked they’d escaped the legions of hell. A plaque read, All distances in France are measured from Nôtre Dame. Nôtre Dame is Mile One.
As I walked out and waited at the Big Red Bus Stop, I thought about that. It made me sad. The French marked their way from the church, but God was the last person on anyone’s mind. The cafés were full to bursting. The churches were empty of anyone save tourists.
I ate an orange crêpe to stave off my hunger as I walked down the Champs-Elysées, wind blowing in my hair. Everyone held hands with someone, or had their arm around a loved one’s waist. I put my hands in my pockets and kept walking, looking for a place to eat dinner. Every corner had a café, of course, but I didn’t want to stop. Finally, I looked at one of the many chalkboards proclaiming today’s specials.
Tables spilled from the café’s interior to the patio outside, full of kissing couples and laughing families and friends. I wasn’t hungry.
I trudged back to my hotel room, walked up the stairs, and closed the door behind me. And then I cried.
So God, I prayed through ragged breaths, here I am. Some dream. No friends, no family, no one to hold hands with. I’m working with red knuckles. I’m not going to a friend’s wedding. I sold the most beautiful dress I’ve ever owned so I could sightsee alone. Is this the dream You had in mind for me? Why didn’t You tell me it would be like this? I could have saved myself the hassle, gone to some cooking school in the US, stayed with Dan, hung out with my friends, and had a life.
I waited for God to explain Himself. He remained silent.
I washed my face with a cold washcloth to cool my cheeks. I picked up the phone and ordered a bucket of ice. So what if they knew I was American. I was paying. I took a Coke out of the minibar, not caring if it cost $7.50. When the ice came, I poured the Coke over it and slammed the whole glass in one guzzle.
Then I sat, waiting for God again. I wanted to hear from Him. I really did. I thought, look in the Bible, but then remembered I hadn’t packed my Bible. In fact, I hadn’t read it at all since arriving in France.
I opened the drawers of the desk and the bedside table. Nothing. Of course not. The French didn’t put Bibles in hotel rooms.
I really wanted to read the Bible. This was the first time in my life I had craved it, and none were accessible. I felt empty.
I looked at my watch and called my dad.
“Hi, Dad!” I said, trying to sound happy.
“Hi, Lexi. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just calling to say hi”.
“At eight in the morning?”
“Time difference, you know,” I said. “I’m sightseeing in Paris. I went to Nôtre Dame today”.
“Good, honey, I’m glad you’re having fun. I was a little hesitant about you doing this French thing, but if you’re happy, I’m happy. It was worth the cost of the ticket”.
I swallowed a lump. “Thanks, Dad. I’m doing well. Everything isn’t as easy as I thought it would be …”
“Nothing is ever as we expect it to be, Lexi. The higher the expectations I have for something, the more disappointed I usually am. Take all of your expectations and throw them out the window. You’re not French, remember. You don’t give up”.
My sorrow cracked a little, and I laughed. “No, Dad, you’re right”.
“And you can come home after your schooling if you want,” he said, hope in his voice. “I’m sure you could get your old job back at the bakery, at least. Though I don’t know how you’d live on it”.
We chatted for a few more minutes. He told me Mom was having fun in Italy, and then we hung up. I brushed my hair, revived by the pep talk, and reapplied my lip gloss. Then I walked back down the road to the café. It seemed friendlier now, and everything on the menu looked great.
I ordered and asked God to bless my meal.
“Bon appétit!” my waiter said.
I grinned. Bon appétit, indeed. Dinner was delicious.
I walked back to the hotel, looking at the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the distance. I didn’t feel like visiting it alone.
I spent the next day strolling the streets of Paris. I visited an outdoor market just to have someone else to talk with. I walked all the way to the St. Michel neighborhood where the bookstores were and bought myself a French Bible. I drank another $7.50 Coke. Restored and refreshed, I was ready to head home.
The train ride back to Presque le Château went quickly. Once it arrived, I rambled back to my cottage, re-technologized, and checked my e-mail. Sophie had written back!
“Dear Lexi,” I read aloud. “Life is great here, the car is fine. No new piercings!” Then I read silently until I came to the end. “Oh, guess what? We hired someone to take your job. He’s had some pastry training at a community college and is picking things right up. I know you won’t mind, now that you’re a Parisian. He doesn’t have your creative touch, but he’s a hard worker, and he’s so thankful to have the job that he does just about anything, and I know he won’t quit. And Margot likes him! So that makes all of our lives easier. Mine, especially, because we are now fully staffed”.
It sounded … final. Scarily final. I took a couple of deep breaths to steady myself and tried to process what this meant for me. The only thing that came to mind was a line from a hymn sung in my mom’s old church.
“No turning back, no turning back”.
Three
Bouillabaisse is only good because it’s cooked by the French, who, if they cared to try, could produce an excellent and nutritious substitute out of cigar stumps and empty matchboxes.
Norman Douglas
Ladies and gentlemen, you hope to become professionals. I do not graduate people from this école who are not prepared for the rigors of life as a French pastry chef. I do not graduate bakers who want nothing more than to bake bread or show up late, do their work, and go home”.
Monsieur Desfreres paced in front of the class, all of us at attention, uniforms pressed, chef’s hats firmly on our heads. Five long counters lined the room, and eight of us stood at each one. There were no chairs. The first requirement of any chef was the ability to stand for hours on end without taking a break.
I stole a few quick glances at the others out of the corner of my eye. You’d have thought I’d stumbled into the L’École Militaire instead of the L’École du Pâtisserie. It was that serious.
I was nervous and thrilled. It was my first day of school. New month, new life.
Chef tapped the stainless countertop in front of one sleepy-looking young man. “I do not graduate students merely because they have paid tuition or because their patrons have paid tuition. In fact, I consider it a service to the patrons if I can tell them at this early date that one of their employees, regrettably, shows very little aptitude toward becoming an accomplished pâtissier”. He looked pointedly at the man, who stopped slouching, but the words rang through to my spine.
“En général,” he finished, “ten percent of the students who begin this course will, after their exhibition, complete it wi
th honors. Let me make one thing clear—at graduation, you are not a pastry chef. Mais non. You are then prepared to become a pastry chef. My name will be on the diplôme. You will conform to my standards or it will become clear to both of us that another career path would be a better choice”.
He clapped his hands together, gold link bracelet shimmying on his wrist. “Bon—let’s begin”.
I opened the textbook in front of me. Each of us had a locker, and I’d found mine stocked with textbooks, recipe books, the uniforms I’d be responsible for keeping spotlessly clean, and a slip of paper to exchange for soft-soled chef shoes.
I glanced at the others along my counter. They wore the same black-and-white checked chef pants I did, the white coat with a double row of buttons on the front, neatly starched and cuffed. I swallowed back a bit of homesickness as I put on my chef’s toque blanche, the hat with a thousand folds, and remembered the first time I’d done that at the bakery in Seattle. The journey of a thousand pastries had started with that first step.
The woman beside me looked about twenty-one. She oozed chic. Her watch had the subtle flash of real diamonds around the face, but it wasn’t gaudy. Her skin was polished and flawless.
“Hello,” I said as we got out our materials. “My name is Lexi”.
“Hello,” she replied, her voice neither warm nor cool. “My name is Désirée LeBon”. She emphasized her last name, and I got the hint. The LeBon family owned a large chain of high-end pastry shops in Paris. Everyone knew that.