Foreign Tongue

by Vanina Marsot

  I looked at it again. What was disturbing was the fact that I couldn’t remember writing it in the first place. Was there some kind of hallucinogen in the pot? Would I have flashbacks? Or was it merely an idiopathic reaction?

  I love the word “idiopathic.”

  I called Pascal and Florian to ask them about it, but they weren’t answering. I checked my temperature. I still felt weak, but I’d slept peacefully and I couldn’t take being cooped up in the apartment anymore.

  I pulled opened a drawer, looking for a bra. There it was, my expensive lingerie. I’d worn it exactly twice. The first time, with Olivier—that first time. A second time, also with Olivier. It hadn’t stayed on long, but wearing it had made me feel, for lack of a better term, gift-wrapped. I’d hand-washed it, as Clara had told me to.

  I fingered the taupe silk: it was unbearably soft, so delicate it made the backs of my teeth hurt. I crushed the panties in my fist and breathed in the smell: Woolite, with a top note of lavender, from the sachet in the drawer.

  It was only underwear, after all, not the repository of memories. How stupid was it to spend a small fortune on it and only wear it twice? I pulled on the panties, fastened the bra and tugged on the straps. I layered on warm clothes, tucked my music player in my pocket, and caught the 96 bus. I figured I’d sit in the Jardin du Luxembourg, then treat myself at the gelateria on the rue de Buci.

  I sat by the window on the bus and leaned my head against the glass until the rattling over cobblestones made my ears itch. I got out at Odéon and felt a pang as I looked up the street toward the rue de Condé and Editions Laveau. My vision blurred as I stared into the middle distance between the statue of Danton and me. It was a moment of unguarded confusion, as if I’d left a door open, and a feeling, as unpleasant and familiar as a bad habit, crept across the threshold of my thoughts: the sense that I was guilty of coasting, or worse, escaping.

  Once in the park, I could tell venturing this far from home had been overly ambitious: it was cold, and my legs were shaky from the short walk. I plunked myself down on a green chair, by a bed of limp yellow flowers. Just then, my player shut down; I’d forgotten to recharge it. A couple of joggers went by; an old couple walked arm in arm, in matching beige imperméables and brown hats. An airplane bisected the sky.

  I wondered if I’d overstayed my Paris welcome. Perhaps I should’ve only stayed long enough to lick my wounds, not develop new ones. On the other hand, I did have the right to be here, and I didn’t want to leave. Did that justify my staying? If I never heard from Monsieur Laveau again, would I look for another job? Come to think of it, who was I, if I wasn’t doing something? Was my sense of identity based only on doing things—reading, eating, working, walking, seeing friends, going to movies or museums, et cetera? Even now, I was sitting in a park, making resolutions. How did I want to define my life?

  I gnawed at a ragged skin flap around my thumbnail until I could peel it off like wallpaper. I got it between my bottom and top front teeth and worried it into small pieces. Some people just eat raspberries. I have to split the seedy bits in half before swallowing them.

  Across the allée, a man sat facing me. He had wispy, light brown hair and one of those jutting jaws that make me think of determined farm animals. He walked over.

  “Je peux m’asseoir?” he asked, pointing to the chair next to mine.

  “I beg your pardon?” I asked.

  “You were looking at me, I was looking at you,” he said, as if it were obvious.

  “I wasn’t looking at you, I was staring into space,” I protested.

  “A woman alone is always waiting for someone,” he purred, with a knowing look. “Why not make a new friend?” It wasn’t just what he said but the unctuous way he said it, as if we were playing a game, as if what I said didn’t matter. Wracked by a wave of nausea, I hoisted myself out of my chair.

  “Monsieur, vous faites erreur,” I said and walked toward the exit. At the tall gates, with iron spears shaped like arrows, I felt a pebble in my sneaker. I bent down to undo my shoelace. My vision blurred, and I fell over, scraping my knee and both palms on the concrete. A teenage boy reached down and helped me to my feet.

  “Mademoiselle? Ça va aller?” he asked. My eyes welled up at his kindness.

  “Merci, ça va,” I said and limped into the métro station. I opened my palms: they were scratched, the abrasions black with dirt.

  I got home and drew a bath, dialing Bunny’s number while waiting for the tub to fill. His voice wasn’t on the machine, but I left a message anyway. “Are you still in Italy? I don’t know if you’re checking messages, but would you please please please call me? I miss you.” My voice caught in my throat and I hiccuped. I pulled off the lingerie. My period was early; there was a dark red stain on the crotch where I’d bled into the silk. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I muttered, dumping the panties into a sink filled with cold water. I draped the bra on the window handle and climbed into the tub, cursing again as the hot water stung my hands and knee.

  I sat in the tub until the water grew lukewarm, then went to bed. What I wanted most in the world, in that very moment, was to collapse into a deep sleep, the kind that would fix everything.

  Under the fluorescent light above the mirror, my face looked bloated and haggard. I didn’t look like myself, though perhaps no one does at three in the morning, after an intense crying jag. It was a preview of what I would look like in thirty years, if I never used moisturizer again and went to work in a coal mine. I couldn’t remember what I’d been crying about, just that I woke up sobbing, beset by an unidentified sense of loss. I splashed water on my face and slunk back to bed, falling into a restless sleep.

  In the morning, I made coffee for the first time in days. The phone rang, but I’d turned the volume on the answering machine down too low to hear the caller. I remembered snippets of my dream: horrible images of an explosion, plus the shrieking of twisting metal, sirens, a voice I didn’t know, cacophony. I wondered how long I’d keep dreaming the same nightmare.

  I used to have a recurring dream. It took place in a house I’d never seen in real life. It had a stone fireplace in the living room, with a ledge I liked to sit on, and a rickety, screened-in porch, with a back wall lined with books and a desk facing the ocean. The house was raised, on stilts, to accommodate the tide, and I imagined it was somewhere in Georgia or South Carolina, places I’d never been.

  Over time, my dreams had furnished it. A circular staircase led to a bedroom under a pitched roof. The sheets were printed with extravagant cabbage roses, not my taste, but I got used to it. In one dream, I’d thrown a party: there was a fire in the fireplace, music, lots of people, noise. I could draw the house’s architectural plans, except I didn’t know where the bathroom and kitchen were.

  I’d grown fond of it; it was cozy and ramshackle. But one night, I dreamed someone broke in. It was night, too dark to see, but I knew my way around, and despite the crash of waves breaking on the sand, I could hear creaking sounds. I crept onto the porch, and someone wrapped a cloth around my neck and tried to strangle me. I woke up, the way they say you do, because you can’t die in your dreams. I never dreamed of the house again. Now I wondered if something awful had to happen to me in my recurring nightmare for it to stop.

  I went into the living room to listen to my message.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle. Ici Bernard Laveau. Auriez-vous la gentillesse de passer me voir ce matin, de préfèrence avant treize heures. J’ai un nouveau chapitre à vous confier…” Monsieur Laveau had a new chapter for me! I’d almost given up hope. I played the message again to make sure those were really his stentorian tones, summoning me with that familiar, politely veiled condescension. A new chapter! I was forgiven!

  As I walked up the rue de Condé, I shivered, despite the layers I’d piled on: a hint of winter hung in the late October air like a premonition. But the chill couldn’t dampen my mood: I wanted to throw my hat in the air, skip across sidewalks, even smile at strangers, an activity
usually associated with Americans and the developmentally challenged.

  I pushed the bookstore door open and shook it, so the cowbell would clang repeatedly. Monsieur Laveau called out, “Un instant, je vous prie.”

  As usual, he was on the phone. I cleared a stack of books off a chair and sat by the door. Bernard raised his voice.

  “Ecoute, j’ai fait de mon mieux! L’autre traductrice n’est pas disponible, et celle dont on a parlé voyage en Amerique Latine, alors que veux-tu? Soit on utilise celle-là, soit tu te débrouilles, mon vieux, parce que moi, je n’en peux plus!”

  My elation went flat, a needle to a carnival balloon. Bernard was talking about me. He was on the phone with the author, and I wasn’t his first choice of translator. Not even his second. The first one wasn’t available; the other one was in South America. Moreover, he was fed up with trying to find someone. I was the solution de secours, the emergency exit, the last resort.

  My fingertips felt cold, as if all my blood had drained into my shoes. I stared down at my feet. I wanted to disappear.

  I thought about sneaking out, but the office door swung open. Bernard sported a recent haircut, his silver hair trimmed close to his head, but the bushy eyebrows were as splendidly arachnid as ever. He wore a blue shirt under a gray V-neck sweater.

  “Entrez, mademoiselle. Merci d’être venue,” he said, gesturing for me to come in. His voice was polite, almost warm, but I didn’t waste any time.

  “Ecoutez, monsieur, j’ai entendu votre conversation.” My voice trembling despite myself, I confessed that I’d overheard him.

  “Oui?” he asked, as if to say, so what?

  I glared at him and said, “Maybe you should wait until one of your other translators becomes available.” He straightened out a pile of books on the table. “While I’m not a professional translator, I had thought I was doing a decent job. But now I find out I’m your third choice and your writer doesn’t like my work. Well, I prefer not to be foisted on anyone, monsieur,” I said reproachfully.

  He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at me as if he were trying to remember what ill wind had blown me through the door.

  “I don’t know if your mother warned you about eavesdropping,” he said conversationally, “but one of the obvious dangers is that you might misinterpret what you overhear.” A two-syllable “uh-oh” tolled in my head. I caught a pea-size chunk of my lower lip between my teeth.

  “I was on the phone with a client of mine,” he continued, eyes gleaming, “a writer of supernatural thrillers set in the American South. Because he speaks French adequately, and also because his main character is a Louisiana Creole and employs both the Creole language and slang,” he said, his voice escalating in volume as I flinched, “he is extremely demanding when it comes to the translation of his books into French!”

  Pausing to let the words sink in, he removed a linen handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. My neck disappeared into my shoulders.

  “Now,” he added silkily, folding the handkerchief, his voice resuming its normal pitch, “as I believe I have already mentioned to you, it is enough work for me to massage the temperamental egos of my writers without having to do the same for my translators. For the second time would you do me the supreme kindness of stepping into my office?” He smiled, revealing a row of small, square, ivory teeth.

  It was the first time I’d seen Bernard smile, at least at me. I walked into his office and sat. Though I’d been chastised like a snotty-nosed twelve-year-old, I felt a thrill at being lumped in the category of one of “his” translators. Until that moment, I hadn’t known exactly how much I’d been thirsting for a reason to stay in Paris, and here was Bernard handing me one, ready-made, prêt-à-porter: I was a translator.

  He poured me a cup of fragrant espresso. “A special blend. A friend of mine brought it back from Milan,” he explained.

  “Merci,” I said in a small voice.

  The phone rang, and he sank down in his chair to answer it, glaring at me in mock severity. I grinned into the coffee cup, the heat tickling my nose.

  “Ah, c’est toi. Oui. Je suis avec elle en ce moment, cher ami,” he said, giving me a pointed look. This time, it really was my author. I pantomimed getting up, gesturing toward the door, but Bernard waved at me to stay put. “Sans faute, sans faute. Evidemment. A plus tard,” he said and hung up.

  “That was Monsieur X!” I exclaimed.

  “Si vous voulez,” he said. He lifted his cup to his lips.

  “He does exist!” I said. “I was starting to wonder if you’d made him up,” I joked.

  “C’est quoi, ‘made him up’?” he asked, the bushy eyebrows drawing together.

  “To invent,” I explained.

  He leaned back in his chair, his gaze cold. “Mais voyons, mademoiselle, if I had invented him, whose work would you be translating?” he asked.

  “Well, maybe you wrote it, or…” I trailed off. Bernard was not amused. “Never mind.” I said, slouching down on the chair. Playtime was over. He handed me an envelope. I reached for it, but he didn’t let go.

  “Inside, you will find another ending, and you will recall you owe me the translation of the second one—”

  “I haven’t started that one. I didn’t know whether I should,” I said, interrupting him. “But I’ll get right on it.”

  He nodded. “So you will owe me two chapters,” he said, “and you will find also a confidentiality agreement and a standard contract, which you will sign and return to me, as well as information about droits d’auteur, or author’s rights. In addition, I want your word that you will not discuss this work with anyone. Ever.” His voice was solemn. He let go of the envelope and leaned back, steepling his fingers together.

  “You have it, of course. But I’m never to talk about it? Even after it’s published?” I asked. He gave a long-suffering sigh.

  “Mais non, mademoiselle. If it gets published, then you may discuss it. And if it gets published in English, you will, bien sûr, receive credit in very small print beneath the author’s name, or his pseudonym. If we sell the English-language rights, your rights will also include, as you will see from the contract, a bonus compensation plus royalties. If,” he repeated, shaking a finger at me.

  “Royalties? I get royalties?” I grinned.

  “Il ne faut pas vendre la peau de l’ours avant de l’avoir tué,” he said, the French equivalent of not counting chickens, except it was about selling a bearskin before you kill the bear. “Vous ne buvez pas votre café?”

  “Si, si.” I picked up the cup and downed the coffee in two gulps. He looked at me expectantly. “Molto buono,” I said.

  He nodded. “You’ll see, there’s a shift in the writing. Let me see your work by Friday midday, as I am going to the country.” He stood. I was discharged.

  “A bientôt, mademoiselle.”

  “A bientôt, monsieur, et merci encore,” I said. I stood there for a moment, hesitant, wanting to tell him how grateful I felt, but I didn’t know quite what to say. He gave me a questioning look, then nodded, understanding. I squelched an urge to kiss him on the cheek and instead gave him a jaunty salute.

  He glanced at my hand. “Qu’est ce qui s’est passé?” he asked, pointing to the bandage.

  “A bad burn,” I answered. “But it’s healing.”

  I walked out, realizing our relationship had changed. I’d felt it in the playfulness in our exchange. It was like a dance, a minuet, where I constantly trod on his toes. Behind his amused, impatient, stern manner of putting me in my place, I could tell that not only had he forgiven me but he liked me. The French didn’t bother instructing people they didn’t care about: knowledge was a gift you bestowed on people you liked. If the French were indifferent to you, they let you labor in ignorance. If they disliked you, they delighted in your lack of knowledge.

  Therefore, Bernard’s condescension, chastisement, and lecturing meant he liked me. The conclusion was so delightful that I grinn
ed at a young woman pushing a navy blue pram. She glared at me.

  I cut down to the rue Jacob and window-shopped the antiques stores. I examined storefronts displaying ormolu sconces, nineteenth-century furniture, brass carriage lamps, gravures of maps, oil paintings of jowly burghers, fraying tapestries, and my favorite, stacks of ironed, monogrammed, and ajouréd tablecloths, napkins, and bed linens.

  The sun made stealth appearances through breaks in the clouds. I crossed back over the Seine on the Pont du Carrousel and into the Tuileries. Although it was a crisp day, Parisians strolled through the garden and sat on the benches, soaking up a bit of sun.

  Up ahead, I could see the large round fountain at the end of the garden, its jets turned off. Green enamel metal chairs were arranged around it in random fashion. I’d sat there before with Bunny, usually around this time of day, after lunch at one of his haunts. The Austrian brunch place and the soufflé restaurant were nearby, off the rue de Ravioli.

  I wondered where he was. I wanted to tell him about Monsieur Laveau, how I’d nearly lost my job. As I got closer to the fountain, the sunlight shimmered on the surface, and I squinted against the starbursts of light. A large figure in a khaki trench coat, jeans, and sneakers sat on a chair under a tree, his head balanced on his fist like Rodin’s thinker. My toe stubbed a large pebble and sent it skidding over the gravel.

  It looked like Bunny, but it couldn’t be Bunny. Bunny would’ve called to tell me he was back in town, to make plans, to eat an onglet with frites at Le Petit Victor Hugo in the Sixteenth or that Indian place he called Banana. Bunny would’ve called when he got back, to complain about European drivers, the lack of good food on the road, the lamentable state of Top 40 radio. So, it couldn’t be Bunny. But the man seated on the green enamel chair looked just like him. I walked toward him in the bright midday light.