The French Girl

by Felicia Donovan

  I looked down and realized I was still wearing the dress from Maman’s funeral and it had several spills on it that I had not noticed before.

  “Are you hungry?” Giselle asked.

  I was a little. “No, thank you.”

  “Well then,” Giselle said as she smiled at me, “You have had a very long day. I thought you might like a nice hot bath and to try out your new soap before Jean gets home,” she said.

  As she led me down the hall I asked, “Where is Jean’s room?”

  Giselle kept walking ahead of me as she answered, “We share a room.”

  I stopped for just a moment, because I had never heard of two women sharing a room before. Even Anais and I did not share a room because there was only one bed in it. I was going to say so, but decided not to.

  “Come on,” Giselle said as she opened up a door to reveal a bathroom with a stone floor and a big old porcelain tub set by a window. The outside of the tub was painted the same gold as the bedroom. A dark wooden cabinet took up most of one wall with many drawers and openings that were stuffed with gold towels. On another wall was what looked like an old table, but it had a copper sink set in it. The dark wood, gold towels and stone floors made it feel very old.

  “Be careful the water does not get too hot,” Giselle said as she turned on the faucet and tested it. She showed me how to work the stopper. “And here is some green tea shampoo to wash your hair with,” she said pointing to a yellow-greenish bottle. “And this is a beer and egg rinse. I just mixed it up this morning if you want to put some in your hair after you shampoo.”

  “Beer and egg?” I asked staring at the glass jar with the strange contents in it.

  Giselle laughed. “I know, it sounds crazy, but it really works. Trust me. Just do not drink it,” she said. “I will call you when dinner is almost ready.”

  The tub was so deep it covered me up to my chin. I had never been in such a deep tub before and my body seemed to float above the water. I pushed my arms down, but they floated back up to the surface all on their own. I scrubbed using the new soap and let it float in the water for a while. There was a small tray next to the tub that had a bunch of bottles on it. I picked each one up and read them. Bonne Femmes (Good Woman) Lemongrass Shampoo,” read one. “Bonne Femmes (Good Woman) Lavender Rinse,” read another. Each label had a picture of a woman carrying a basket of flowers on it. I stared at the woman’s almond-shaped eyes, curly brown hair and high cheekbones for some time.

  My hair was knotted in tangles after I shampooed it. All I could think of was how Maman used to hold onto me from behind, her long fingernails digging deep into my shoulder as she ripped the brush through my hair. I did not want to go through that again, so I opened the jar Giselle had mentioned and poured the strange mixture over my head.

  “Etoile, we will be eating soon,” I heard her call from below.

  Leaning my head way back, I ducked below the water and rinsed it all out.

  I chose a prairie skirt just like the one Giselle had on and a light green sweater. The sweater was a little big, but I liked it. There was a brand new comb and brush in one of the dresser drawers. The comb glided through my hair.

  “Look at you!” Giselle said as I came into the kitchen. She reached for my hand and spun me around. “Très beau.”

  “Merci.”

  “Now you can you help me set the table.”

  Giselle showed me where everything was. I was amazed at how many things there were to put out. At home, Anais and I often ate on napkins but Giselle insisted on placemats, two different forks for each person, cloth napkins, salad bowls, a big plate and a little plate. I could not imagine washing all those dishes.

  “We like a big meal at least twice a week,” Giselle explained. “If it were up to Jean, she would have a sandwich, but I insist on eating the French way.”

  “The French way?” I asked curiously.

  “We eat very slowly and savor each bite. Food should bring pleasure, non? If it is enjoyed slowly, you will never get fat.”

  I had never heard of this before, nor had I ever watched other people eat to see if they were eating fast or slow. Perhaps Mrs. Lavasseur was a fat pig because she ate too fast?

  “Giselle?” I asked as I set three plates out.

  “Yes?”

  “Where did you get all of those bottles of shampoo and rinse?”

  “Oh those,” she said as she diced up a clove of garlic, “I make them. Many of the students do not have cars and cannot get to a store to buy their toiletries so I earn some extra money by making and selling them in the University store.”

  “But the picture of the woman on the labels…”

  “That is my Grand-mère,” she said as she tossed the garlic into a glass container filled with olive oil. She looked over her shoulder. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because… she looks like my Maman,” I said.

  Giselle stopped cutting and turned to me. “Really? Do you think so?”

  “I thought for a moment…” I started to say, but then I could not go on.

  Giselle, who was washing her hands, quickly dried them and came over to me. She offered her hand and led me to the living room where she pulled out a photo album. She quickly ruffled through the pages and handed me a very old photograph.

  “This is my Meme, Josette Simone. Jean made copies of her picture at the University so I could make the labels.”

  I took the picture and studied it for a long time. The nose, eyes, mouth, and cheekbones were all the same, still there was something different between the two. I stared at it for some time before I realized that the woman in the picture was smiling. Her smile was kindly, but very proud, the same as Giselle’s. I tried to hand it back to her, but she stopped me.

  “Would you like to keep that?” she asked. “I have many copies.”

  I looked back down at the smiling woman and thought if I pretended hard enough, it could be a picture of Maman when she was happy.

  “Thank you,” I said as I carefully tucked the picture away in my sweater pocket.

  “Come on,” Giselle said as she put the album away, “we must finish getting dinner ready.”

  ***

  Giselle showed me which side to set the wineglasses on while she uncorked a bottle and set it out on the table. It was dark red, like the kind Maman drank. My stomach started to turn at the smell, but then Giselle brought over a vase of cut flowers that smelled very sweet and placed it on the table next to the basket of freshly sliced bread. Finally, she brought over two silver candlesticks and lit the candles. It was the fanciest table I had ever seen even if the table was old with lots of scratches on the top.

  She studied the table for several seconds like an artist studying a canvas. Leaning forward, she rearranged the flowers again, stood back and nodded.

  “Voila!” Giselle said. Looking at me, she said, “Why don’t you run upstairs and wash your hands one more time before we eat, okay? Jean should be home any minute.”

  I went back up to the bathroom and found a different bar of soap by the sink. This one smelled sweet, like honey. As I looked up at my reflection in the mirror, I saw that my tangled hair was now hanging down in loose curls, just like Giselle’s. I liked how it framed my face and made my cheeks look less fat.

  I heard murmuring voices as I came down the stairs. Looking towards the kitchen, I saw Giselle standing close to a very tall, thin woman with short blonde hair and wire-rimmed glasses. I had never seen such a tall woman before. Giselle’s hand was on her sleeve and the woman was listening intently as she spoke.

  “It will take time,” I heard Giselle say. “She has been through so much.”

  The tall woman looked up and spotted me on the stairs.

  ***

  “Etoile,” Giselle said, “this is Jean.”

  She looked older than Giselle and had very blue eyes beneath her glasses and an angular face. She was dressed in trouser pants with a long white shirt hung out loosely over them and a dark vest over the s
hirt, much like I had seen in the ads for Annie Hall.

  She looked at me as curiously as I looked at her, then smiled, put out her hand and said, “Hello, Etoile.”

  “Etoile has had a very busy day and deserves a good meal,” Giselle said as she motioned me to a seat. Jean sat at the head of the table and Giselle and I sat down on either side of her.

  “You will always have a good meal with Giselle around,” Jean said.

  Giselle brushed Jean’s shirtsleeve and smiled.

  “Are you hungry now?” Giselle asked as I surveyed all the dishes.

  “A little,” I said.

  Giselle passed a salad bowl with cranberries and walnuts in it. I started to put some on my plate, but Giselle pointed to a bowl and winked at me.

  “Tonight, because this is our first night together,” she said, “you may eat or not eat whatever you choose. Tomorrow night I will ask that you try everything just to taste it, okay?”

  I could not imagine eating this much food all the time and thought no matter how slowly I ate, I could not avoid turning into Mrs. Lavasseur.

  “So what do you think of our little stone house?” Jean asked as Giselle set out small dishes in front of us filled with olive oil, garlic and fresh grated cheese. I watched as Jean tore off a small pieced of steaming bread and dipped it into the oil before popping it into her mouth.

  “It is very nice,” I said as I did the same. The bread was very crusty on the outside, but soft on the inside, much like I remembered it to be in Cote Nouveau. The combination of the warm chewy bread soaked with oil was wonderful.

  “I think she likes our red door,” Giselle said nudging Jean by the arm and giving me another small wink.

  Jean picked up her wineglass with her left hand and it was then that I noticed she had the exact same ring with the silver band and unusual green stone cut in a heart shape, as Giselle’s. Jean took a sip of wine and tilted her head towards Giselle, giving her a doubtful glance.

  “I do like it,” I said.

  After a while, Jean shook her head, smiled and said, “Fine, Giselle. The door can stay red.”

  Giselle leaned her head against Jean’s shoulder, looked up at her grinning and said “Thank you, Jean.” She turned and gave me a very satisfactory look before diving into her salad.

  “It was not red before?” I asked.

  “No, it was ugly brown,” Giselle said.

  “But the picture over the fireplace…”

  “Giselle painted that last summer after she went and painted the door red,” Jean explained.

  “You painted that picture?” I asked. It was really very good and looked just like the house.

  “Oui. Do you like it?” Giselle asked.

  “Yes.”

  Turning to Jean, Giselle said, “You see it has to stay red now, Jean, because I cannot repaint that picture again.”

  “Did you paint the picture in your room of the stream and leaves?” I asked Giselle.

  “You mean the one in our room?” Giselle asked and before I could respond, she said, “Yes, I painted that too. Perhaps we can work on a painting for your room this summer when everything is in bloom again.”

  I did not plan on being here for the summer but did not want to hurt her feelings by saying so. Still, I felt my stomach twist a little at the thought.

  “Giselle was an art major at the University,” Jean explained. “She’s a very talented artist, among many other things.”

  “That is where we met,” Giselle said patting Jean’s arm. “I took one of Jean’s classes.”

  “You…you were Jean’s student?”

  They turned and smiled at each other but did not answer me. I could not imagine a student and a teacher ever living together. It was all very strange.

  A little while later, Giselle passed a platter filled with cheeses, sliced apples and grapes.

  “Jean picked out some books for you to read, Etoile,” she said. “They are by your bed.”

  “Thank you,” I said as I reached for a slice of cheese with my hand.

  Giselle made a noise and held up a fork to me. I picked my fork up and used it to take the cheese and some apple slices.

  “I think you’ll enjoy Black Beauty,” Jean said.

  “Thank you, but I have already read it.”

  Jean raised her eyebrows slightly.

  Giselle refilled their wineglasses. “See, Jean? She is ahead of you already.”

  “There’s also A Little House on the Prairie,” Jean offered as she stabbed at the cheese and grapes with her fork.

  I sipped my milk. “I have already read that, too.”

  Jean tilted her head to the side and studied me for a moment. Giselle watched her do it and smiled.

  “What about Anne of Green Gables?”

  I thought for a few minutes. “I do not think that is one I have read,” I answered.

  “Good,” Jean said satisfactorily.

  “Jean says it tells a lot about someone’s character if they read a lot,” Giselle said. “Jean reads all the time,” she said as she passed around a dish with a strange looking melon cut in half that smelled sweet.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “Acorn squash with butter and brown sugar,” Giselle said.

  “Acorn squash?” I asked.

  “Here, watch,” Giselle said as she put one on her plate, scraped the stringy contents around with her fork and dipped it in the buttery sauce. “See?” she said. “Go on, Etoile. Be a brave Frenchwoman and try it.”

  I did as she had and scraped out some of the spaghetti-like pulp and dipped it in the pool of melted butter and brown sugar. I had never tasted anything so delicious before and without realizing it, closed my eyes. Giselle laughed and nudged Jean on the sleeve.

  “See? She even eats like me. Savor every bite of it, Etoile,” Giselle said.

  Jean pushed herself back from the table a bit and I thought that the meal was over, which was a relief because my stomach was still feeling a little strange. Giselle got up and began to take dishes away. I picked up my own plate to carry it to the sink, but she stopped me.

  “Non, Cherie,” she said smiling, “we have not even had the main course yet, but you can help me put these other things away, okay?”

  We cleared many of the dishes from the table while Jean refilled their wineglasses and poured me more milk.

  When everything was tucked away, Giselle brought over a large pan from the oven. I looked at the strange contents.

  “What is that?”

  “Saumon en Marinade de Vodka. Salmon in Vodka Marinade,” Giselle announced.

  Jean patted her stomach. “It’s a good thing I ride my bicycle to and from the University everyday,” she said as Giselle took a piece of salmon and carefully set it down on Jean’s plate then dribbled cream sauce over it. She did the same for me, then for herself before sitting down and carefully placing her napkin back on her lap. I watched as Jean ripped a small piece of bread off and dipped it into the sauce before popping it in her mouth. She nodded satisfactorily to Giselle.

  I stared at my plate for several seconds, remembering what Giselle had said about not having to try everything, but it looked so good with the cream sauce resting on top. I did want to be a brave Frenchwoman, so I used my fork to break away a small piece of the tender salmon, dipped it into the cream sauce and brought it to my lips.

  I had never tasted anything so rich before. The salmon slipped down the back of my throat before the taste of the peppercorns hit and I felt warmth rising in the back of my throat. I opened my eyes to see them both watching me, Giselle smiling.

  “You like?” Giselle asked.

  “Oui,” I said as I took another forkful and shoved it in.

  “Ralentissement. Slow down,” Giselle said. “It is very rich.”

  But I could not. I had never tasted anything so unusual before.

  I finished long before Giselle or Jean and watched as Giselle took a bite, chewed it very slowly sometimes shutting her eyes,
sat back and sipped some wine before taking another bite. I had never seen anyone eat so slowly. The children in the cafeteria shoved the food into their mouths as fast as they could to either go back for seconds or to be the first ones out on the playground. Even Anais and I ate very quickly when it was the two of us because we never knew when Maman would wake up.

  Jean pushed her plate away though it still had some of the salmon on it and stretched her long legs out.

  “Enough?” Giselle asked.

  “Enough,” Jean said, “but delicious, as always.”

  My stomach began to feel very strange again, as if it were about to burst.

  Giselle finally finished, stood up and began to clear the plates. This time, Jean got up with her. I picked up my plate, but Giselle stopped me again. I could not imagine there was more food coming.

  “Tonight, you get to sit and enjoy,” she said taking the plate from my hands. “Tomorrow night I will ask for your help with the dishes. For now, you rest. We will have dessert after the dishes are all done.”

  She opened the door to the freezer and pulled out three parfait glasses filled with layers of ice cream, strawberries and chocolate syrup and set them out on the counter. I stared at the colorful layers and licked my lips.

  “It is homemade ice cream,” Giselle explained as she set the dirty dishes in the old porcelain sink. “Jean bought me an ice cream maker last year for Christmas, so now I can make my own.”

  Surely it could not be as good as Monsieur Segal’s.

  I watched them for some time as they stood side by side, Giselle washing and Jean drying each dish. Giselle sometimes passed a dish to Jean and then spotting the slightest trace of food on it, took it back and rewashed it. They worked together for sometime chatting mostly about Jean’s classes and some woman named Gloria Steinem until all of the dishes were cleaned and the leftovers tucked away in the refrigerator.