Au Paris

by Rachel Spencer

  The day passed, long and slow and enjoyable. There was so much to learn from the monsieur, a native Bourgognian, et madame, Bourgognian since she married. I strained to do so by observing them and teaching myself from their conversation. But most of the day I sat reading in the sitting room, scouring the epicurean delights of France, region by region, in a book lent me by the monsieur, and listening with one ear at all times for any sounds of discord echoing up the stairs from the playroom.

  It seemed opulent to eat again at dinnertime, but I didn’t dare suggest skipping a meal. And the wine, of course, I could never oppose.

  I woke the next morning with mounds of small bumps all over my face and throat. I was either allergic to the country or I was getting cabin fever from not taking the long evening walks I had grown accustomed to in Paris. I couldn’t have had two more hospitable hosts, but uncertain of my duties and encased by stone walls and an electronic gate, I’d have felt slightly out of line requesting the key and remote control it would take for me to leave the house unaccompanied just for an evening walk. And so I spent most nights inside.

  I examined myself in the mirror and I could’ve sworn my nose looked not only redder, but more bulbous than it had the day before. Was I turning into a Frenchman? And then it occurred to me—the wine. Maybe I was allergic to the wine! Were all Frenchmen with flushed cheeks and red-veined bulbous noses allergic to their own wine without knowing it? I had no idea how to tell my wonderful hosts they had poisoned me. So I went upstairs for breakfast hoping they would not notice the change in my appearance, as they had not noticed their own.

  No such luck, though. When I walked into the kitchen, Mamie looked at me, aghast. “Qu’est-ce qui se passé?!” she said, looking at me expectantly for an explanation. I pondered for a brief moment how I would explain to her en français that I was allergic to her and her husband’s wine, and that it was possible that her husband was just as allergic. Perhaps he took some sort of antibiotic for his ailment, and perhaps I could continue doing the same throughout my visit. But this was a lot of explaining to do on my limited vocabulary. So I settled on a phrase that told her how many glasses of red wine I’d had the day before, telling her that five was a high number for me and perhaps I should not take any today.

  She stood there, looking confused, and then hollered “Philippe?!” in a tone so serious I almost expected her next words to be “Call 911.”

  The monsieur entered the kitchen and examined my splotched face with sincere pity. I blushed, if it was even possible for my face to redden more. Then he turned to his wife, and with tilted heads and furrowed brows, they began a rather heated conversation on either my behalf, or more likely, on behalf of the Burgundy production of wine en generale. There were a lot of “bah ouis” going on with more hand gestures and wrist flicks than usual. I stood half invisible, half humiliated, awaiting a diagnosis. Once they’d finished, the monsieur turned to me and proclaimed, “C’est normale.” Normal, he’d said. I was turning into a country Frenchman and this was considered normal. He reinforced his prognosis by making sure I had neither fever nor other symptoms and then reassured me once again, “Oui, c’est normale.” Then he left the kitchen to take the kids with him to morning mass.

  The madame shrugged, pursed her lips in question, and then went about her kitchen duties. She was supposedly taking me to tour the town ramparts while the others were at church. I wasn’t clear on what time we would leave, exactly what it was we were doing, nor what I needed to do before we left, so I stood in her kitchen with my splotchy face until she turned to me and said, “Vous êtes prêts?”

  I was ready, though I would have liked a sack to put over my face. We left the house on foot for a walk to the centre ville again where a crowd of tourists with local guide assembled. Madame Marion knew the guide and chatted with him briefly till he commenced the tour with an introductory history of Beaune. I realized immediately that this tour would be conducted entirely in French. If I had a difficult time conversing with the cousins from Bergerac, I might as well tune out this guy from the start, who was already deep into the progression and ramifications of the French Revolution. I followed the crowd along the gravel and stones atop the town’s ramparts, a little slower than the rest, as I’d chosen my open-toed kitten heels for the excursion. I was sorry I had worn them, but I had done so remembering Mamie’s shoes from the day of my arrival. When I glanced at her feet that morning, I noticed she was wearing flats for the first time.

  There was an easy sophistication about Madame Marion that, despite her age, made her seem younger and even more beautiful. She was sort of the no-fuss, brush-your-hands-together, a-pinch-of-this-and-that type who confuses girls like me who try so hard to find themselves. She was smart, practical, and alert—all qualities I have never possessed, and I didn’t need the shoe lesson to know it. I was reminded of Estelle in the way she walked, the brisk turn of her head when her name was called, and in her suave maneuvering as she moved about the house with the children, and even as she toured with pressing interest the town in which she has resided for the past forty or so years.

  That evening, Madame Marion invited me to join her for a piano concert in the nearby town of La Rochepot, while grandpère took the kids to the neighbor’s swimming pool. Wanting nothing to do with a bathing suit and being quite a lover of classical music, I gladly accepted her generous invitation.

  In no time at all, we were driving on the famous road that stretches from one vineyard to the next all the way from Beaune into the Rhone valley wines. Tiny wooden signs marked each town, all of which seemed so humble for the amount of publicity they receive monthly in my Food & Wine magazine at home. As we drove out of Beaune, the road became a valley and the land sloped upward on either side. Perfect stripes of green lined the hillsides, row after row. I had gone from never having seen a vineyard to seeing some of the best in the world. Les vignobles fascinated me, not only as simply beautiful land, but as true works of art. There was no mistaking that before me lay centuries of tedious, strenuous, incessant labor. Though I had nothing to compare it to and no education on the matter, I couldn’t help but see it as a marriage between earth and man. The man must give his utmost faithfully, daily. But he works knowing he is at the mercy of the Creator. The earth bears fruit—a product of soil, sun, rain, wind, and lastly, the labor of man. I had taken no wine at lunch or dinner in fear of turning a deeper shade of Burgundy, but there was no mistaking the beauty, the alluring mystery, the timeless fruit of the country that produced a drink so alive and full of the earth. I sighed, as I would have to be inhuman to truly be allergic to such a wonderful thing. Fortunately for me, my mumps had begun to subside.

  We arrived in La Rochepot and Madame, exhibiting yet another youthful quality, parked a few blocks from the church where the concert was being held by yanking the car in reverse and planting it half on the curb in two swift movements. She popped out of the car, and I followed more slowly of course because one of us had to be the grandmother. Outside the church, bundles of families and couples gathered for the concert. The church, which was probably built for this tiny dot of a farm town in the seventeenth century, was humble in size and design, though much more charming than the the churches of America. After the madame graciously paid our way, we took our seats inside on narrow wooden benches so primitive and uncomfortable that I was beginning to believe my seventeenth century building estimate was accurate and that the benches were the originals.

  The concert began, and the thunderous pounding of piano keys filled the high-beamed ceiling of the church. I became lost in the music, and let my eyes wander to the church rafters. And there, I spotted a bird. The music poured on and as the bird nervously flitted round and round in circles, I suddenly felt beyond the setting of a piano concert in a French church where an audience was crammed onto wooden benches. I wasn’t uninterested but entranced, though I found myself stifling many yawns so as not to offend the madame on my right.

  We drove home in silence, both of us
drawn into ourselves after the evening’s languid serenade. I stared once again out the window as we passed the world-renowned vineyards, wishing I could stand in one while the sun set before us.

  To my delight, Monday morning was not much different from the weekend at chez Marion. The only differences I noted immediately were the lack of fresh bread and the addition of a housekeeper who was busily setting out breakfast like Mamie had done over the weekend. Actually, I didn’t realize she was the housekeeper at the time, so when she greeted me with a friendly smile and a “Bonjour,” I thought it only proper to assist her with the breakfast plates. Wrong move, of course, as she took her duties seriously, and wanted no one infringing on them. She shook her head and swatted me away in that pesky French way I’d grown accustomed to, considered cordial in France but hilariously rude in any other country. So instead, I took my place at the breakfast table while she poured my French pressed coffee. I felt suddenly out of place. Even though I was where I was supposed to be and doing what I was supposed to do, none of the things I was doing were remotely relative to the position of an au pair.

  The five kids stumbled in with sleepy eyes shortly thereafter, some dressed, some still in pajamas. I made it my immediate task to serve them breakfast before housekeeper or grandmother could remove me from my position. I was still uncomfortable that no instructions were given, so I made whatever obvious efforts I could manage, pouring milk and Nesquik and spreading a soupy, milky pale yellow honey on stale tartins. Before I could wipe spilled honey, the housekeeper rubbed the table with a wet rag. Mamie collected breakfast goods and returned them to their appropriate shelved, refrigerated, or countertop spots. I watched the two busy bees. The kids sat there gobbling, making a mess, and having a ball of a time, as usual, while I sat helpless in the face of the professional housekeeping skills around me. I felt completely intimidated and completely unneeded. What good was a nanny in a situation like this? I couldn’t understand what they were saying, and I was unsure of what to do (or not to do) so I mustered the strength to ask Monsieur Marion, who sat in his living room reading, for a house key. If I wasn’t needed at the house, I was going for a walk.

  The monsieur had warned me we might be taking a day trip shortly after breakfast, but I ventured into town for a few minutes anyway. I just needed to check my e-mail—my link to the real world, or at least to one where I was fluent and a functioning member of society. Perhaps a certain acceptance letter had come. I wanted it to be good news because I couldn’t stand rejection. To me, rejection of any kind is the most shameful, battering feeling of all. I didn’t want to be rejected, but I sort of wanted a reason to deny the acceptance. I was hoping for financial restrictions, or maybe it was too late to register. Maybe I could defer one semester. I wasn’t so sure I was ready for grad school. I wasn’t so sure it was the right thing.

  But there were no e-mails from my mom. I would have to wait. More time to think couldn’t be too bad a thing, could it?

  We spent the day at the neighbor’s pool and I was finally forced to succumb to the cruelties of bathing suit attire. I worried on the way to the house that I would be pressured to sunbathe topless, as it was très normale, especially in these remote parts. And in the not-so-remote parts, c’est normale to embrace topless and bottomless tanning. Mamie wore a bikini skimpier than one I’ve ever owned, though I couldn’t complain. At least she was wearing one.

  Lunch was taken on the patio in picnic style, as well as goûter, which Mamie had brought in her insulated sac. And this was the style of summertime at Mamie’s. Dinners were light and fresh and taken at home. We ate often on the patio where our skin cooled with the breeze after the day of sun. Wine was poured in abundance, more chilled white than red the hotter and longer the days were in the sun.

  On a rainier day, I was perfoming “puppet show” with Constantin in the clubhouse when I heard him say something about what he “can do” at his Aunt Mireille’s. This was a new name to me in the line of Marion-Vladesco relatives, so I asked him to clarify.

  “Tante Mireille!” Constantin sang, providing me no further clarification, but at least confirming his sincere like for the person, which is oftentimes more important. Auguste piped in from the other side of the marionette, echoing Constantin in a chant for Tante Mireille. Still confused and slightly curious why I was just now hearing the name of this famous aunt, I prodded.

  “You see her often?” I asked, slipping into elementary French in case Auguste could provide clearer answers.

  “Demain!” they both chimed at once. So I assumed that Tante Mireille must be coming for a visit soon. This gave me no reason for alarm until I met Léonie, Jeanne, and Joseph at the bottom of the clubhouse where they were packing up the items from the fort they had made and kept in the garden outside.

  “Léonie, why are you guys taking down the fort?” I asked, a little sad to see the nostalgic reminder of my own childhood disappear.

  “Because we’re leaving,” she answered.

  “We’re going home early?” I asked. As far as I knew we had four more days until the departure date printed on our train tickets.

  “No,” she said. “We’re going to stay at my Aunt Mireille’s. Mummy’s aunt.” I knew it was very likely that Madame and/or the monsieur had informed me of this trip, and that when they did I was practicing my smile and nod routine but hadn’t processed a word they’d said. So I gathered my wits and went inside to begin firing away to the madame, in broken French, questions about Aunt Mireille, where she lives, what I should pack, and when we would leave.

  Melay, France, is the hometown of the madame and her sister, Mireille, and where Mireille—Tante Mireille—lives with her husband, Michel. I was not clear on the length of stay, but assumed it would be no more than one night considering we would be going back to Paris shortly after, and I packed my bags once again for the next leg of my campagne experience. We left in the early morning, and the farther we drove away from Beaune, the more removed and disoriented I felt. Less and less often was English spoken, less and less was my understanding of my purpose in being here, and I had less and less time to escape even for an hour-long walk. I was completely unneeded but completely unable to leave all the same. Boredom and homesickness were creeping in.

  Chapitre Dix

  We arrived in Melay and almost immediately I had a new word to add to my French vocabulary: les mouches. Flies were everywhere in the campagne. They were at the dinner table, on the food, on the walls of the bedroom, and of course, buzzing over the toilette. I thought that Beaune was the country, but I was wrong. Beaune was more of a city centered amid the French countryside. Melay, on the other hand, was true campagne. It was so far removed from civilization that the road into town was not paved at all, but beaten down to a well-trodden dirt path that parts two fields. The two fields were relatively empty save a few cattle and their waste, all of which baked in the sun ruthlessly.

  Tante Mireille was genial and warm in every way. So was her daughter, Anne-Laure, who came complete with husband and two kids: Tanguay and Geoffroy. As all of the kids ran around the front yard, I stood in the front drive, letting it sink in: I was now the nanny of seven—count them—seven children, two of whose names I couldn’t even pronounce. Uncle Michel, comical, light-hearted, and dark-skinned, showed me to my room while I tried to recover from my new nannying news. Michel led me up the stairs of a guest house he’d recently built, complete with electricity and plumbing. It was unfinished, but an impressive two-story development at any rate.

  He was going on about sheet rock or some other material in carpentry when he walked me into my room, which was filled, from one wall to the other, with a row of single beds—five in all. Before I could ask any questions, Léonie, Jeanne, Tanguay, and Joseph filed in behind us, setting suitcases on beds and claiming girl versus boy territory in the room. I held back tears of frustration, thanked Michel with a smile, and walked to the other side of the room where the fifth single bed sat, unclaimed. The kids were out of the room bef
ore I even reached the bed. I collapsed facedown, accompanied by a few buzzing flies, and reached under the covers to grab the pillow. I patted around a second, felt nothing but mattress, then lifted my head to look for the pillow. There was no pillow. I glanced down the row of beds—no pillow on any of those, either. I held back my tears, saying to myself, It’s just one night, Rachel. You can handle this. It’s no big deal. Just get through this, and before you know it, you’ll be back in Paris. Shortly after my return to Paris, my sister Sarah would be there for a visit. Then together, we would go back home. I sat in the primitive attic room and held on to that thought as tightly as I could.

  I wasn’t able to summon the courage to leave the room until lunchtime. But I finally ventured downstairs and back into the main house, hoping to assist Anne-Laure with the lunchtime fare. I walked into the kitchen to find casseroles in the oven, a pot of beans on the stove (where flies swarmed furiously), and a bowl of what appeared to be crepe batter sitting out on the counter. The door from the kitchen to the backyard was wide open, as were all the windows and doors in view. The flies, I supposed, were welcome guests. My skin crawled at the thought of swarms of flies in every room and I fled out the kitchen door in a slight panic. It was much cooler outside than inside and the entire adult crew lay out by the pool watching the kids play in the water. I was by no means comfortable suiting up in front of this crowd and was just about to announce I’d be in the house, when Anne-Laure stood to walk inside. She was topless. I did my best to keep a straight expression, but had completely forgotten what I was about to say. Then her father, Michel, walked from around the house toward her.