Mamie was in the kitchen with a half-apron fitted securely over her black linen dress. She was brushing her hands together in quick motion as I peeped my head around the corner. No one spoke English at chez Marion except Léonie and Constantin. As humiliating as it would be, I would converse en français or not at all.
“Puis-je vous aider?” I asked, offering to help the best way I knew how.
“Bah non,” the madame replied with a shrug of her shoulders and a graceful flick of her wrist. By her body language and the au contraire implication of “bah,” I wasn’t sure if she really meant I could help or that there was absolutely nothing she needed me to do. Uncertain of my place but wanting to offer my help, I peeked into the dining room to determine whether places had been set. They had. Blast. I hoped the kids had been commissioned for this chore, because if it was my duty and the madame had already taken up my slack, I was down by major points. But the bread was not out. I could cut bread. So back into the kitchen I wandered.
“Uhh, Madame Marion, peut-etre je couper du pain?” I asked in language that disgraced my high school French teacher.
“Bah oui!” the madame replied with almost the same body movement as she had used just minutes ago, when her answer was the opposite.
As I sliced small rounds the madame hurriedly shouted, “À table,” to the kids racing in the yard outside. We ate a salmon soufflé and while it did not sound appetizing at first, it was delicious. The more I ate, the more it felt like it had been days since I gobbled dieppois from Paul. There was an intense comfort of some sort felt in all of the meals prepared for me in France, as if I were being fed rather than merely eating. By my last bite of soufflé, I felt happy and at ease. By the time we finished dinner, Monsieur Marion, next to whom I sat, had kindly offered me two books, one magazine, and one dictionary to aid my language deficiencies. He assured me that if I chose just one article and mastered it, I would learn the language more quickly than if I tried to browse entire volumes at once. I smiled graciously, knowing that I would be lucky to master one sentence, and that was no understatement. He offered small insights into winemaking, telling me that on the hot days there, on the overcast days there, on the normal days there, he made it his passionate duty to record every aspect of the weather. He recounted which years had the most sun and which the most rain, right down to the day. I listened with humble respect while he pointedly expressed that in the twenty years between 1980 and 2000 there were more hot summers than there were in the eighty years between 1900 and 1980. Then he added a wine aficionado’s guide to Burgundy to my reading list and politely dismissed himself from the table, taking one last sip from his glass of red.
I was looking forward to following up the relaxing dinner with a relaxing evening of reading lessons when Madame Marion announced she and the monsieur were leaving for the night. They had a concert to attend outside of town, which meant I was on babysitting duty. I thought of my own grandparents, and how unusual it would have been for them to attend a concert so late in the evening, but it was obvious les Marion were the lively kind. And so I was left in charge of five children, three of them total strangers, in an unfamiliar house, with zero instruction on routine bedtime procedures. I should have asked for instructions but of course—in between learning a new dialect of the French language, counting the number of kids, remembering their names, and figuring out exactly what I was doing there—it didn’t occur to me to ask for instructions. It was going to be a bumpy night.
After they left, I raided the pantry for chocolate—every French woman keeps a stash of the most bitter, silky kind—and took a seat alone in the kitchen, trying to decide if I should just let the children play outside until dark or force them into bed earlier than ever so that I could get some peace and quiet. As I nibbled my chocolate, I added to my list of French lessons three key phrases of which I’m sure Monsieur Marion would have approved and Madame Marion would have employed: on se lave les mains (wash your hands); on se douche (take your baths), and on se couche (time for bed).
“On se douche!” I finally yelled out the kitchen windows to the summer-filled children gallivanting through their grandmother’s flowerbeds. The girls obeyed without question. The boys, stubborn and not wanting to submit to a bath, fought over who had to go first. Auguste, being the youngest, lost by a landslide. I walked outside to meet him, feeling sorry for the youngest little darling. Abandoned by his siblings and cousins, he stood looking up at me with his toothless grin. I was just wondering if he, like Constantin, would fight me about the bath when, without prompting, he placed his little hand in mine and we walked together to “on se douche.”
In the bathroom downstairs, which I would be sharing with the three dirty boys, Auguste stood staring at me, still and mute as he had been since I met him. I had no idea what to do next, so I left, in case I was breeching the contract of nanny duties versus mother duties. Seconds later, I called to him from the other side of the bathroom door, “Auguste?”
“Quoi?” he said, drawing out the word in the sweetest, most helpless tone.
“On se douche?” This time it was a question and not a demand. I really needed to find out whether or not he could take his bath alone.
“Non,” he replied obediently. So I stepped inside to find the little boy standing completely undressed next to the claw-foot tub with his thumb in his mouth and a confused expression on his face.
“Je regrette, Auguste. Désolée. Alors, on se douche.” I said, trying to reassure him I was the clueless one of the two. I started the water, which ran from a hand-held hose attachment. This would not make for pleasant bath times of my own, but I would deal with that later. Auguste climbed in the tub without any instruction, though I saw he was holding one of his tiny, knobby knees with both hands and looked a bit pained. It was bleeding—Constantin no doubt had won a game in the garden earlier. He looked so sweet and confused that all of my anxiety faded and I kissed his sweaty head, which smelled of grass and fresh dirt, and reassured him with my eyes that he would be all better—all clean and better—soon. I found in a bureau by the sink a supply of savon de la bonne mère, a soap l’Occitane makes that means “grandma’s soap.” Mamie had a stash of the au naturel scent, which smelled like a combination of butter and honey and milk. I kept the lavender scent in my own bathroom in Houston, but the soap made much more sense here, with grubby little boys swiping it back and forth on their tiny hands after a long day of play, yelling “Mamie!” The l’Occitane slogan is “A True Story,” and after my time in the country, I finally understood the image they intended.
Once we’d washed and scrubbed and bandaged wounds and gotten the little tyke all dry and dressed in his button-down pjs, I turned my attention to the others. One by one, I got them to bathe, and then, after chasing boys and girls through the house and checking for brushed teeth and clean hair, I felt at last able and accomplished enough to move them on to the next stage of the nighttime ritual.
“On se couche,” I called.
Auguste had not left my side since bath time, and he was so small and quiet that I worried he wouldn’t want to sleep alone. But when we walked hand in hand to his bedroom, he stopped next to his bedside and looked at me quizzically. “Okay, Auguste, on se couche,” I repeated gently, patting his back in the direction of the bed and expecting a Constantin-like bedtime struggle. But before I could reach over him to turn out the light, he crawled into his bed, cupped his hands and the edge of his blanket under his chin, and shut his little eyes to sleep. I could see the gap where his two front teeth should be through his slightly parted lips. He’d instantly obeyed me—I was baffled. And my heart melted. He could not have been more adorable.
Chapitre Neuf
The next morning was market day in the centre ville de Beaune, and I had been invited to accompany Madame Marion on her weekly trip. We left the house early while the sky was still gray, and I wondered if it would rain. I followed the madame the few shorts blocks to the centre ville. She kept up a brisk stride, even w
hile pulling the sizeable basket behind her. In both the city and the country, the French women transport their produce purchases in stroller-like grocery carts. Some are canvas bags with a wire frame, some are of sturdy woven straw bound at the top with leather straps. All of them are on wheels, making it easy to roll them home from the market.
The market was spread in every direction of the town’s main square. Madame invited me to watch as she picked out her selections, but also encouraged me to explore on my own. Afraid of getting lost, I stayed beside her and observed, humored, as she, like the rest, handled every fruit, vegetable, jar, or bushel before selecting the best crop. At the cheese stand, the farmer was dressed in a white-and-black-striped long-sleeve shirt, with a red handkerchief tied around his neck. He wore a black engineer’s cap on his head of unkempt gray-streaked hair that matched his beard of the same color. He had the same eyes as Monsieur Marion, drooping at the sides, pushed down by heavy, dark, bushy eyebrows. At his stand was a long row of wooden crates all full of darling rounds of chèvre, some wrapped in wax paper, some out for tasting. Some were herbed and some au cendre, encased in ash, as Alex prefers. There was a wooden board standing up behind the crates that read C’EST LE PRODUIT DE NOTRE FERME, or “this is the product of our farm.” The words were painted in black inside a drawn talking bubble that extended from the mouth of a cartoon goat. Monsieur Chèvre chuckled when he saw me staring perplexed at his cartoon goat.
“C’est vrai, non?” he asked, jesting that the talking goat was as real a part of his display as he himself.
“Voilà—un goûter!” he said, handing me a pinch from one of the herbed crottins. I smiled in gratitude and let the creamy tartness, followed by a hint of rosemary, wash over my tongue. The flavors melded together, and the intense freshness of it seemed unlikely from a cheese so dry and crumbly. The madame had wandered to another booth to inspect fresh bundles of green-leaf lettuce, and I moved to follow her.
“Merci, monsieur,” I said, waving good-bye to my new friend and wishing for un rétro upon which to slather at least five crottins at once. I arrived at Madame’s side just in time to see her reject the lettuce farmer’s rather wilted-looking offerings and move on to the next stall where, on peut espérer, she settled upon lettuce with much less dirt caked at the base and far perkier green leaves. Madame made her marketplace purchases efficiently and encouraged me to roam the crowds of Saturday morning in downtown Beaune. I breathed in the morning air, thick with rain about to fall, absorbing as much as one could of the history and wonderment of the ancient structures around me. The buildings were stacked right up against each other as if they were joined by brick and mortar, though their rooftops stood at many different heights, and their stone walls were varied shades of faded grays and browns. The buildings of Beaune had a much humbler appeal than their more lavishly carved Parisian counterparts. The people were humbler, too. There was a gentleness in the air, a warmth and companionship not present on the bustling streets of Paris. I felt at ease walking among crowds of gray-haired folks—grandmothers and grandfathers, most likely—mingling together in their gray-haired town. I could almost feel the centuries of stories. Small stories, but great ones.
I came upon a poster display of vintage champagne advertisements cluttered on the surfaces of several tables in the bit of the market designated for antiques, heirlooms, and other rare finds. I browsed the posters and found two black-and-white ads, one from the forties, one from the fifties, both of a nearby vineyard on down the Côte d’Or from Beaune. I purchased them for 12 euros exactly. It was practically the first purchase I’d made for myself, other than food, since coming to France.
I left the Saturday market to the jubilant ringing of bagpipes and Scottish dancers in the square. They danced to the music with jubilant clicking of heels, winking at the passers-by as if at one time or another they’d shared a secret or a mug of ale. I caught the glimmer in one’s eye as she winked and nodded to a serious-looking gentleman walking under the shelter of a black umbrella. I hoped for her own good cheer he smiled back.
Walking home in the misty rain, clutching my new prized possessions, I wondered what day it would be that I would visit the vineyard captured in these posters, taste the wine, walk the soil. For now, it was nearly lunchtime and I would again feast at chez Marion with fine company and the finest Beaune wine I’d tasted yet. At dinner the night before, Monsieur Marion revealed three labels I had not seen at Alex and Estelle’s, and I had since looked forward to even more discoveries. The variety was greater in Beaune, and the bottles more aged. I inhaled the wet residue of the morning, whetting my palette for a new bouquet of sumptuous Burgundy flavor.
I made it back to chez Marion just in time to volunteer myself for the setting of the table. In the country, just as in the city, setting the table is no casual affair. Aside from predicting the superfluous number of plates each person will utilize within the length of one meal, there is the additional memory game of recalling which napkin ring belongs to which person. At Alex and Estelle’s we wipe our hands and mouths on the same cloth napkins until they’re ready for a good wash. I had always been hesitant to touch my mouth to whichever napkin from the identical white collection I was given, wondering whose mouth it had touched before mine. But at chez Marion, Mamie solved the problem by using an assortment of napkin rings, each uniquely assigned to the appropriate person. Léonie used the wooden napkin ring with “Estelle” etched into it, bien sûr, fitting as it was. She was proper, beautiful, prim and well-mannered, just like her mother. I wondered if Estelle used that very one every meal that she ate while growing up in the Chanson château across the street. Madame et Monsieur used the pretty silver cuff-like napkin rings with “Hermès Paris” engraved into them (yes, Hermès). But I had not yet managed to memorize the rest, and there would surely be discussion of it when the group convened together à table.
We dined on a steamy hot pot of roast chicken and garlic, cooked together with whole round potatoes and chunky pieces of carrot. The lights were off in the dining room while we ate, leaving only the muted white light of a cloud-covered sun to brighten our meal. I couldn’t think of a better meal than roast chicken and garlic to comfort the soul and warm the bones at Mamie’s on such a rainy, drizzly day. Surprsingly, I didn’t care for the bread at chez Marion. The pain du campagne had a dense, wheaty inside and soft outer crust that was nothing like the crunchy on the outside, fluffy on the inside rétrodor I had come to crave. The kids agreed with me, but were forced to eat their rounds as Mamie would not abide it if even one scrap on their plates went uneaten. She used the leftover rounds to soak any sauce from the salad, or juice from the chicken, or lone peas rolling on the plate, and fed the kids their remnants till their plates gleamed white again.
As the kids and Mamie began clearing the table, Monsieur Marion gave me an education on the region—his wine, the weather, tending a vineyard, and then more on the weather. He rattled off all of the necessary aspects of winemaking, referencing good and bad seasons from the early seventies through the present. I listened carefully, smiling and nodding and understanding only bits and pieces as he warbled on in slow and articulate French. His passionate expression and kind conversation were contagious. He regularly remembered what years were too dry and too hot, speaking of 2003 often. Realizing the difficulties of a life so dependent on what is so undependable, I began to understand as I never had before why there is such utter respect and appreciation for one bottle of fine wine. The laborer, the owner, the cultivator—he knows he owes that bottle humble gratitude. He spends his whole life at the mercy of the land, bowing to and toiling against the ground he walks. As the monsieur spoke, I wondered whether he missed it, but I had not the courage to ask him. Once he’d finished his fascinating monologue, I contributed with a final “merci,” and I hoped he knew I was thanking him for such an education on his country and the heart and soul behind it.
We three adults convened in the sitting room for an after-lunch café and chocolate while
the kids dispersed to the playroom. I was unsure of whether or not I was off-duty, but then Mamie gestured for me to follow her into the ornate, early nineteenth century sitting room where the monsieur sat reading Le Figaro. As with Mounie et Mip, again the grandparents assumed when I said “journalism major” that I was now a hard news journalist who keeps abreast of every major political issue worldwide. When I named my most recent employer as one of America’s top ten newspapers, this did not dissuade them. All of a sudden I had a copy of Le Figaro in my lap and a hot demitasse of espresso, freshly brewed from the madame’s French press, while Monsieur quizzed me as if I were Diane Sawyer.
Ugh.
Did “journalism” mean “hard news” to everyone who heard the term? I hated hard news. I knew nothing about it. I wanted to be a features writer—human interest, stuff that mattered, stories about people’s lives, not cold, hard facts. I loved writing, it was reporting I didn’t like. The madame smoked skinny cigarettes and read her own ladies’ journals and home décor catalogues while the monsieur questioned me. He was beyond hospitable, forgiving me, if not teaching me, sentence by sentence as I butchered his language in an effort to establish conversation. Monsieur Marion had pegged me as a reporter, whether or not it made sense to either of us. I wasn’t sure I believed that he believed I could ever be a reporter, but I obliged him as well as I could and tried to insert the appropriate amount of excitement into my voice as I talked about my career change. But the more I talked, the more I wanted to ask him questions about Chanson, about growing up with Chanson, about Estelle when she was younger, about life. Oh, I could never be a reporter. Quickly, I surrendered to my old tricks, smiling and nodding so much I was sure the movement of my head was hypnotizing us both into slumber.
Au Paris Page 12