by Linda Kepner
Etien said, “Oh, Bishou. I have a letter from the université that came for you in care of us — it arrived this noon. It’s in my car. I’ll go fetch it.” He hurried off.
Louis offered to give her a tour of the offices. Bishou saw smiles pass between the two secretaries as they left the room, and observed to Louis, “You’re not fooling them in the least, you know.”
“Then let’s not attempt to fool them.” He dragged her back into the room. “Claire. Anna. Venez.” Smilingly, obediently, they came over to their boss. “I am not telling you a secret if I say Bishou and I are about to be married, am I?”
Both women giggled. “Non, Monsieur.”
“There, see?” he said to Bishou, who was laughing, too. “Mademoiselle Bishou said no more secrets. So there are no secrets. Fixed.”
The secretaries convulsed into laughter.
Bishou snorted, “Les hommes!” Men!
“We wish you the greatest happiness, Monsieur et Mademoiselle,” Anna said.
Louis guided her through the factory, showing her the machines that cut tobacco, made cigarettes, packaged them, and boxed them. He showed her where the new cotton-filter equipment was being installed, to remove seeds from the cotton bolls, pack it into filters, and package cigarettes similarly. It was a huge operation. Bishou had a hard time conceiving of the amount of tobacco that this plant handled daily, the number of crates of cartons of cigarettes it shipped.
“It must blind you after a while.”
“It is very absorbing,” Louis agreed. “Etien finds it sometimes overwhelming, and must step away and look back at it from a distance.”
“Ah, here you are!” Etien caught up with them. He handed her the envelope. “Is this about the université job, then?”
“Université job?” asked Louis blankly.
“Oui, Bishou had applied for a position as literature professor at UFOI,” Etien told him. “I met her in front of the gates, yesterday.” Not much of a lie, better than the whole truth.
Bishou opened the envelope and read the same letter she had read as a carbon copy. However, there was a handwritten enclosure. She wondered if the secretary had known about this. A little envelope labeled “Dr. Howard et Invite” — Dr. Howard and Guest — accompanied a note that read:
Dr. Howard,
I hope you can spare the time, after your presentation, to join us at the University Library for the opening of the newly established Clemenceau Rare Books Room. There is a reception, which would, I hope, give faculty and staff an informal opportunity to meet you. It is inspiring to our women students to meet a woman with your achievements. I hope you and your guest will join us.
Sincerely,
Dr. Serge Michelin, President d’UFOI
The engraved invitation, her ticket, was enclosed.
“So,” said Louis, “still, your brain wants academia?”
“If I do not use it, I will lose it,” Bishou replied, thoughtfully frowning at the enclosure.
“May I see that?” Louis asked, in his mildest voice.
Instinct told her this was not a time to say no. She handed over the letter and the enclosures to him. He read carefully, with Etien standing by, and then folded the papers and put them back in their places. She had forgotten how careful and neat he was.
“So — you give a sample lecture? Is that it?” Louis asked Bishou.
She nodded, wondering how he was going to take this.
He smiled. “It is sensible. They cannot walk in on one of your lectures, like I did.”
“I know. They must see me at work. It is a very stressful time, though, for a professorial candidate.”
“I hate to make it more stressful by becoming the Guest,” said Louis.
“I expected that,” said Bishou.
“Bien sûr. If your job depends on the lecture of Wednesday, knowing you will be married on the same Friday, you are either going to need an escort or an ambulance attendant,” said her fiancé.
“Ambulance attendant,” she sighed, putting her arms around his neck.
“All Americans are nuts,” Louis said, holding her, and Etien dissolved into laughter.
Chapter 17
Denise Campard laughed and laughed. “And then what happened?”
“Then we got on the telephone, and made a transatlantic call to Bat Howard,” Louis told her, as they ate mango ice cream in the little living room. “My secrétaire Claire took notes, so she would know how to do it next time, but Bishou did the actual telephoning.”
Bishou took up the tale. “When he answered, ‘Howard residence’ I said, ‘Got your bags packed, brother?’ Bat said, ‘Sure enough, the black-and-whites are ready to go.’ He told me that he was coming, maybe with one of my brothers or both. He’d heard from East Virginia University that they’d been asked for references for me from UFOI. I asked him what his plans were, and he said Logan to Orly to Garros. And they would see me when they saw me.”
“Claire can tell us when that will be,” Louis interjected.
“Bat can tell us when that will be,” Bishou answered. “He is rather independent-minded.”
“Quelle surprise, when you are so docile,” teased Louis. “I must make sure there is a clause about ‘obedience’ in that marriage vow.”
“Yes, you must,” she said, looking at him seriously.
“Hah!” Louis recognized genuine commitment before witnesses when he heard it. “And would you dare to say it?”
“I am marrying a tobacco-man. I must take risks.”
Louis smiled gently and hugged her.
“Do your brothers have passports?” Denise wanted to know.
“Oui. Our parents were professors. We traveled to many places. Also, because we are of mixed parentage — Canadian and American — we have dual citizenship, and need documentation.”
“And now that you have reached your majority, you have declared yourself?” Etien asked.
“American. As my brother has done. The governments are tightening up the rules on that, but I think Andy and Gerry will eventually choose to be American, too. We have been to Canada only to visit relatives at the big universities. My younger brothers won’t miss having Canadian citizenship.”
“Although it is a way to avoid military service, in your country,” Etien observed thoughtfully.
“True. The one who first qualified for an exemption is the one who gave it up first.”
“Semper fi,” Louis murmured.
She nodded. “Semper fi. Always faithful. The United States Marines. It was very hard on Bat, but he worked through it — or up to it.”
“And then, in turn, he taught the soldiers. Sergeant Major.”
She smiled, agreeing, “And then he taught them.”
“Teachers all,” said Denise.
• • •
They were driving back into town, in the dark, when Louis pulled over to the side of the road and shut off the ignition. It surprised Bishou. They had gone many miles in complete silence.
She couldn’t see his face in this utter African darkness. “What’s wrong?”
“Many things,” said Louis. “Maybe it is what they call cold feet, hein?”
“Well, then, let us warm up the cold feet,” she said agreeably.
“How you say that. That is one of the things.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“This is not …” Louis began again. “This is not love as I know it, Bishou. I keep waiting for the pain. I have learned that love is pain.”
“And where there is no pain, there is no love?” she asked softly.
“Carola took everything from me. She poisoned me because she couldn’t bear to see how much I hurt, so ashamed and disgraced.” His voice was full of emotion. “And when I realized what she did, I said — ”
“ ‘I know what you are doing. Fill it up. I can’t bear to live without you.’ Yes, I know.”
There was a long silence in the darkness.
He said, “That was when she burst i
nto tears and said to me, ‘I finally understand that love is always pain.’”
“But she did not refill your glass.”
“Non.” Bishou knew that Louis was crying. “We ran away into the snow, into the darkness, together. And we had no hope. None at all.” She heard him hit the steering wheel. “What am I doing?”
“Not what am I doing. What are we doing,” she said.
“You, Bishou! You don’t know. You are like a child, like I was then. To be seduced, to learn how to be seduced, to be miserable every moment you are with your lover, and miserable without her! Not to kill her, but to kill for her, and live with that the rest of one’s life!”
Bishou reached out, and found his shoulders in the darkness. She wrapped one arm around his shoulder. She spoke steadily. “Non, vrai, those are things I do not know. But I know how shattering it is to see a mother’s body and spirit destroyed in a ridiculous accident, and a father’s mind ruined as a result, and see all hope of a normal family life, of ordinary happiness, vanish. No father, no mother, no true family. And we stupid children, desperate to keep our family together, despite all odds.”
She heard him sniff. “What you are saying is that I am not the only wreck adrift in this storm.”
“Bien sûr.”
“Oh, hell, where is my handkerchief?” She heard him blow his nose. “You don’t want this horrid thing, do you?”
“I’ve got one in my purse if I need it.”
“I will bet you don’t.”
“I will bet I do.” She felt around the car floor. “Hey, where’s my purse?”
“Ah-hah!”
“You skunk, you’ve nicked my purse!”
“I will win this bet if I have to sit on your purse all the way to town. Oo-hoo! Mam’selle, watch where you place those hands. I am an engaged man.”
• • •
The ship’s horn sounded later in the morning. That’s right, she thought, it’s Saturday. I’m finally adjusting to day and night on the island.
Bishou had slept the night through, and hadn’t felt the need for an afternoon nap, even with the seductive noon-to-two siesta hours calling to her. When she came downstairs, later than usual, Eliane and Marie were waiting for her. They had knowing looks on their narrow French faces as they motioned her over to the counter.
“Qu’est-ce que j’ai fait?” she asked. What did I do?
“Rien, rien.” Nothing, nothing.
Marie pulled her by the arm, and Eliane counted cash out of the drawer.
Bishou stared. “I don’t understand.”
“It is a refund. You have overpaid for your room.”
“What? How can that be?”
“Your room was paid for by the man with your ring on his finger.”
“Ah, non!” she exclaimed. She covered her face with her hands. “He is being too kind.”
“He is behaving like your husband,” the elder sister scolded, “even if you are not yet married.”
“Oh, it looks so improper.”
Both women laughed. “Bishou,” Marie chided, “how can you speak of ‘improper’ on Réunion Island? Don’t you know how the first women arrived here? They were bought and paid for. This is only a room.”
They laughed at her crimson face, and brought her behind the counter to their little nest for coffee and croissants.
“When did he come here?” she asked them.
“Early this morning, while you still slept, and said not to wake you. But then I said, ‘Ah! The ring!’ and the whole story came out,” Eliane replied. “And you said nothing when we told you his history. You should have your ears boxed, young lady.”
“Don’t be hard on me,” Bishou returned. “I didn’t want to damage his reputation even more. When I first arrived here, I only thought I would see him, say hello, and see how he felt about me.”
“Well, I think that question has been answered,” said Eliane.
“Do you love him?” Marie pressed.
“I am a fool for him,” Bishou admitted. “Only he brought me to this island.” She counted the money they had pressed back in her hands — a week’s lodgings. “What shall I do with this money?”
“Spend it foolishly,” Marie advised with a smile.
Chapter 18
She bought the sundress she had been admiring in the store window. While she purchased it, Bishou discussed underwear with the woman manager, particularly for a full-figured girl such as herself — not a subject she got much help on at home.
“Your figure is not as flat-chested French as it is voluptuous African,” the woman advised with a smile. “While you are vacationing here, in this climate, you might adopt looser clothing, for comfort. It is very easy to get rashes and skin infections, unless one is careful.”
“Unfortunately,” said Bishou, “I must attend several more formal functions, and I must look — forgive the term — Western.”
Madame Ross, obviously a Frenchwoman, merely laughed. “Buy your casual clothes here, and let Nadine’s shop fit you formally. Not the flounced skirts that are now the rage, Mademoiselle. They go well on small-chested women. You need fitted, well-tailored, below-the-knee skirts on your party dresses, with tight shoulders and a tight bodice, showing the curves of your breasts — everything that is totally against la mode. But you will look most elegant in them.”
“I am so grateful for your advice,” Bishou replied fervently, paying cash for her purchases. “I grew up in a house full of brothers. I have only a vague idea what is right or wrong in fashion, and I don’t want to embarrass anyone. But certainly none of the men will come shopping with me, to tell me what they like or don’t like.”
Madame Ross laughed again, both in appreciation of the compliment and the cash. “Remember that your figure is not that of France, but that of Réunion, and you will be all right.”
Her words stayed with Bishou. Not of France, but that of Réunion. She moved next door to Nadine’s — the place she had mistaken for a bridal shop — and entered. A number of almost-finished, rather nice dresses hung on racks. These dresses are tiny, she thought. For teeny, flat-chested Frenchwomen. Is that what Carola was?
She was ignored by the two saleswomen in the store as they chatted with another couple, obviously about to get married. From the corner of her eye, Bishou saw white dresses on another rack, with veils piled nearby, looking tediously conventional. Except the trains — the trains on these dresses seemed miles long, shimmed up behind each dress like a caboose. Bishou smiled to herself and shook her head.
She examined the colored dresses on another rack, and was struck by a beautiful blue fabric that she couldn’t name — not exactly cotton, but not silk or satin, either. Bishou wondered if it was a local fabric. Both saleswomen were helping the couple, and Bishou felt intimidated, for the first time. Why was it that she could face the fiercest secretary, but was intimidated by a saleswoman in a dress shop?
“Pardonnez-moi,” she said to a saleswoman, who barely stopped speaking to the other customers to give her an icy stare. “Forgive me,” Bishou continued humbly, “but Madame Ross referred me to you for assistance with a formal dress. Is there someone who could help me?”
“You can wait your turn, Madame,” the saleswoman said coldly, turning her back upon her.
“Brrr! I suppose I can,” said Bishou with a mock shiver and left the store.
She went back to Madame Ross, who looked up in surprise as she entered her shop once again.
“I have been told off, in the best Parisian fashion,” Bishou said to the manager, who stifled a smile.
“They are très correct,” Mme. Ross admitted. Very correct. “And you are …” Madame hazarded a guess, “not patient, and not Parisian.”
“Non, je suis Americaine.”
“Ah, an impatient Americaine from a houseful of boys, who likes the African styles but must wear European ones. And do you have a name, Mademoiselle?”
“Oh, mes apologies. Je m’appelle Bishou.”
“Bonj
our, Mademoiselle Bishou.” Mme. Ross folded her elegant hands on her little countertop, and looked amused. She had pretty blond hair, longish but held up in a way Bishou only wished she knew how to mimic. “Now. In your brief time in Nadine’s shop, did you see anything you particularly liked?”
Bishou realized this trip was completely demoralizing her. “I am ready to run away, Madame. I understand now why men run in terror from shopping trips.”
“Frightened by one saleswoman?” Mme. Ross placed her hand on one of Bishou’s. “You are a tomboy, aren’t you?”
“I suppose so,” Bishou admitted.
“And why are you standing your ground, now?” Mme. Ross asked shrewdly.
“All right,” Bishou confessed. “I want a special dress for a special man.”
“I see.” Madame seemed more amused than convinced.
“Madame Ross,” said Bishou earnestly, “I have camped on a Vermont mountainside in snow and ice, with winds raging about me, at temperatures of thirty degrees below zero. I have ridden mules in the Grand Canyon, and traced the path of the Canadian Voyageurs by canoe. But nothing frightens me like that dress shop. Will you come with me, if I pay you to be my guide?”
“Ma petite,” said the elegant little owner of the casual dress shop, “I will come with you for nothing. You appear the same age as my own daughter. She is twenty-eight.”
“So am I. But you do not look old enough to have a daughter that age. I was just thinking how young and beautiful you are.”
“You flatter me. My little Alicie is studying in Paris, at the École du Louvre. At this rate, I may never see her interested in buying a beautiful dress for a special man. Come.” Mme. Ross clasped her hand. “We go to Nadine’s. Watch things here, Ceci.”
“Oui, Madame.” The Creole shop assistant giggled.
Mme. Ross stepped inside the shop next door, with Bishou behind her. Together they walked over to the rack of colored dresses. The saleswomen looked up at them sharply, and returned to their important customers — although it was obvious they had recognized Mme. Ross and were keeping a cautious eye on her.