Au Paris

by Rachel Spencer

  “Bonjour, Papa!” the topless, thirty-something woman called to her father.

  “Bonjour,” he said in a cheery tone, stopping to swivel heads and kiss her cheeks.

  I was stunned.

  Growing up, I used to hide my bras in between stacks of clothes during laundry cycles, and I would scorn my mother if I saw one in open view. It was enough humiliation to know she washed them, and I considered it no business of any other family member to know that I wore them. Since adolescence, I’ve abandoned some of my prudish practices, but I still feel certain that by the time I’m thirty, I will not have progressed to Anne-Laure’s level of confidence, bearing my breasts en plein-air to mother, father, aunt, uncle, nieces, nephews, and children. I retreated again to my room, not caring if my help was required for lunch. I’d decided, if possible, that I would hide out in the kids’ room until we left for Beaune.

  I surfaced for lunch and then again for dinner, trying not to cry every time I came in sight of any of the adults. It was uncertain what they expected of me, though more clear what they thought of me as I was placed at a separate table with the children during mealtimes. Honestly, I was grateful to not have to force conversation or pretend to eat foods for which I had absolutely no appetite. I ate ice cream with the kids for dessert and felt a newfound alliance with them, my confidants and constant companions.

  Going to bed that night, though hard-earned, was less than relaxing. There was an unpleasant odor in and around my bed, one that smelled curiously like urine. I tried to tell myself it was just the scent of new pine from Michel’s construction, but I worried that the sheets on my bed had not been changed since the children’s last visit. To make matters worse, the sheets were damp. The air outside sat hot and heavy, and air-conditioning was a foreign if not unknown thought at this place in Melay. For at least an hour I tried to erase thoughts of urine-stained sheets from my head, in between issuing loud, exasperated “shhhhhs” every five minutes to quiet the kids’ muffled giggles and murmurings. I listened to the lullaby of nearby flies, and prayed for morning to come quickly.

  When I awoke the next day with disheveled hair, wet pajamas, sunken eyes, and an aching back, the other beds were already empty. I dressed quickly, all thoughts of appearing stylish completely abandoned. There was no way I would make it through the day without washing my hair. I decided to eat breakfast and then take refuge in the shower. Grumbling, I climbed down the wooden steps into the main house. There was immediate heat beaming from the sky, baking the brick and dirt grounds of the house. No relief. I met the group at the patio table outside for breakfast, where the coffee was not the rich brew of Mamie’s French press, but instant grounds dissolved in boiling water. Sacrilege. I mourned the loss and dreamed of the high-tech espresso machine back in the Vladesco house in Paris. The kids gobbled tartins slathered with syrupy honey while I sat in the sun and stewed. I was sure I couldn’t stand the discomfort of another day in the country, drinking instant coffee from a bowl, as if mugs were a highly valued commodity or too formal for the breakfast setting.

  To avoid screaming in a burst of utter irritation, I locked myself in the bathroom to take my shower. It felt like days since I’d had one. I depended on it, even at this early hour, to give me a half hour of much needed freedom from the kids and to wash away the events of the past twenty-four hours. I felt overtaken by an alien mood of cruel and evil intent, cursing nearly everything I saw. I hated this place, but I would love the shower.

  This of course proved my naivete. There was no shower. There was just a claw-foot bathtub—the kind that any other time would have looked charming. I guess I should have been grateful for the slight update to its antiquated design, but I wasn’t. So I cursed the damn handheld shower hose attached to the faucet. Whatever, I was desperate. I stripped off my clothes that were already wet with sweat—either from the heat or my temper—and started the water. Ice cold. Dammit. I couldn’t cuss enough. I don’t cuss, though, do I?

  Then seconds later ... bzzzz. Damn flies. Damn flies and damn breasts everywhere in this place. My skin crawled at the thought; I’ve never felt so uncomfortable in my life. By that point, I was mad enough to ignore the fact that the water was freezing cold. I climbed into the tub, wondering how on earth anyone could wash hair adequately under such a miserable drip. I was leaning backward against the porcelain, contorting my body to maneuver the handheld hose over my head while using the other hand to shake water through my hair when I heard noises at the door. I froze.

  You have got to be kidding me.

  Someone knocked, and before I could even shout, “I’m in here!” the three youngest boys ran straight through the bathroom, hollering and chanting, to a door on the opposite side of the room and flung it open as if to use it. Then they discarded it and ran back across the bathroom to the main door, which connected to the hallway. I yelped in humiliation but they paid me no mind, disappearing once again and screaming more nonsense as they went—leaving both doors wide open. Apparently the locks were decorative.

  After my makeshift shower, which proved more stressful than beneficial, Anne-Laure appeared, looking grimly toward me from the hallway. I guessed she had heard me screaming at the boys who denied me privacy.

  “How was your shower?” she asked.

  “Not much of one,” I said. “I guess I didn’t lock the bathroom doors!”

  “It was only Geoffroy,” Anne-Laure said.

  I narrowed my eyes and looked at her, making no attempt to smile, which is how I usually excuse myself from unwanted conversation. I didn’t understand how her statement was any sort of justification. In fact, it wasn’t even relevant. Whether it was “just Geoffroy” had nothing to do with the fact that I still hadn’t had five minutes alone. It wasn’t “just Geoffroy,” by the way. It was Geoffroy, Auguste, and Constantin screaming at the top of their lungs. Why did they get to scream and I didn’t? And now, I wanted to scream louder than ever.

  In the late afternoon, when the sun grew too hot, the adults called the children out of the pool in exchange for a bike ride or indoor play. Secretly, I wondered if the real reason for this was that the parents wanted their “adult swim.” But I stopped myself before more nude images soiled my mind, volunteering instead to accompany the kids on their bike ride. At least it would get me away from the house.

  We left, the oldest four and I, to journey the unpaved road beyond the sign that read MELAY and beyond the cows loitering in the fields. Constantin, Auguste, and Geoffroy stood whining in the front drive as we wheeled away. I felt bad, but I knew they were too young to keep pace with the older bunch. I promised Constantin I would take him for a ride, just the two of us, when I returned. Rarely have I fully appreciated the freeing sensation of wind against my face as I did that day, riding at full speed along the country road. The sound of the wind in my ears was equally therapeutic—no children laughing, crying, whining, arguing, talking, breathing, nothing. No nonsensical French chitchat itching my ears. No sounds, no restrictions, just wind.

  It was also the first time I’d gotten exercise in many days. Since coming to Beaune, all of the benefits of my daily Parisian walks had been reversed by the feasting and relaxing at chez Marion. I peddled harder, breathing easier, feeling strongly renewed. I gave thanks to God for that moment of freedom, that quiet untouched moment. I would never again take for granted the beauty of being alone, free to do what I wanted. My heart welled in gratitude, washing clean the hours and days I had spent frustrated and idle in the country.

  Just as we reached the end of the path, there was a loud, quick bang. I hopped off my bike, ready to jump into action. Before I could determine the cause, another shot rang through the air. I left my bike and jogged up the path to meet the kids, who were gathered around Joseph, laughing. Nearing the scene, I saw his bike tumbled over to one side on the ground, both tires hopelessly busted and deflated. The kids thought this was hilarious, and made their own bursting nooses followed by loud laughter, using the word “explosé” to descri
be the debilitated state of Joseph’s bike. I shooed them on their way, instructing Léonie to lead them straight home to explain what happened to Tante Mireille and Mamie.

  After the others sped ahead and faded from view, Joseph and I picked up his bike and mine, and slowly made our way down the travel road toward home. We walked in silence, and I attempted to wheel both Joseph’s bike and my own, as Joseph had bloodied knees and palms to contend with and I felt sorry for him. But seeing me struggle, he took his bike, with wheels too battered to roll, and carried it along. He was a good-hearted, well-raised country boy, who did not see fit to have me, a girl, compromise my own comfort on his behalf. We made the bike exchange without words, since I didn’t speak French and he didn’t speak English, supplementing with sighs and slight chuckles. Since coming to the campagne, Joseph had made eye contact with me maybe two or three times at most.

  I wasn’t sure if he was afraid of me or if he was shy, but I hadn’t had the time or energy to attempt to draw him out of his shell. But as we walked along the dirt road, he smiled a polite grateful smile, and I knew this was my chance. I spoke to him in broken French, asking questions about Bergerac and past summers at Mamie’s. He answered all politely with one or two words, keeping his eyes on the dirt path, but smiling all the same. As we walked, the sun dozed to our left, hanging low over the unspoiled fields and distant hillsides.

  It was my favorite time of day and I told him so, the hour when the sun casts a golden glow over the land and shadows grow long. He told me that the French have a phrase for that time of day: coucher du soleil. Translated into English, it means “the sun putting itself to bed.” And then he agreed with me that it was the most beautiful time of day.

  We made it home and were greeted in the front drive by Monsieurs Marion and Michel, tools in hand, ready to evaluate the “explosion.” I left the men to their work and went inside to wash hands and prepare for another dinner with the kids, dreading yet another French country mystery meal and longing for the gourmet of Alex’s kitchen. To my surprise, I found my napkin ring at the grown-up table, and so I took my place between Monsieur Marion and Tante Mireille.

  There were several courses for the adults. The kids though, ate in one course, finishing quickly in order to present for the adults a dinner theatre, so to speak, written and directed by Mademoiselle Léonie Vladesco. Not knowing there would be an admission fee, I borrowed a centime from Michel (who passed them to all adults at the table) to place in the bucket Jeanne carried around the table. I relaxed considerably, one might say, after more glasses of wine than I could count, and felt neither an ounce of guilt nor inappropriateness for it. And if I turned into an old French man, I would at least die a happy one! We watched and clapped and cheered, until the sky was too black to observe the darting children in the yard.

  I fell into bed with relief, too intoxicated to care about the urine smell or the buzzing flies, and thrilled at the promise of returning to Chez Marion the next day. I dozed off to sleep before I could count the hours until morning.

  I had forgotten how good air-conditioning felt on a sticky, sweaty hot face. I sat in the front seat of the car with the monsieur and aimed the jets directly toward me. The three boys sat in the back, uncharacteristically quiet, as we headed home toward Beaune. I turned around to check on them, and saw that they were all awake but with drooping eyes and tired faces. They were exhausted after hours and days of hard play in the country. We sputtered along slowly, discussing weather and politics, while Mamie drove separately with the girls in her car, speeding dangerously along the autoroute.

  Being in the country—the real wild-animal, fly-plagued, plumbing-deficient French country—was the most sobering French experience I’d had thus far. In fact, I was so sober that I would never feel the need to return under such dire circumstances—I would never again describe such antiquated methods of bathing as “quaint,” nor would I call the ways of the inhabitants “charming.” I, who once professed to friends and relatives that I was born two centuries too late, was finally grateful for having been born at the time I was. I made a vow to return to Paris with an immense gratitude for all of the amenities of modern life. In my post–French country days, I would buy any fancy electronic gadget that was thrust at my face—just as long as it did things more quickly, was fly-free, and came with air-conditioning. Au revoir, French country.

  Sure, I appreciated the educational aspect of seeing other regions of France. But I would put this education to use for one purpose and one purpose only: to remind me never to return to such an environment. I was grateful to have visited once in my life so that I would never have to question again whether I was a country girl. No matter how “romantic” country living seemed, now I knew I did not belong there. Regardless, two things were certain. One, even if I wasn’t sure whether Paris was a perfect fit for me, I could live there my whole life without wondering ever again whether perhaps I was better suited for country living. And two, it was certain that the only way I would ever return to the country would be if I stayed under the roof of a Michelin-rated five-star bed and breakfast, complete with Jacuzzi tub, wireless internet, and other modern conveniences.

  I leaned back in the seat, letting the air conditioning pummel me. In a few days, my sister Sarah was coming to Paris to visit. In my head, I made a list of all the modern, shallow, commercial things we would do when she arrived. I hoped she would share with me an unabashed pride to be an American tourist in Paris. What had I ever felt ashamed of?

  I shut my eyes and inhaled, wishing I could open my eyes to Sarah right then. Instead, I opened them, sighed in exhaustion, and prayed silently, half joking and half begging for mercy. God bless her, my dear sister Sarah. And always, God bless America.

  Once we returned to chez Marion, we only had the remainder of the day and the night before catching the train to Paris. The time passed so quickly I never got to ask about visiting the vineyards. There were fabric shops and wine shops and several museums I had wanted to visit as well. I felt foolish to have not once asked to be dismissed from the house to explore the ancient town at my leisure, but then, I wasn’t a tourist here. I wasn’t sure I was a nanny, but I was certain I wasn’t a tourist. The next morning, we said good-bye to Madame at her front door. She smiled tightly but warmly and briskly patted the back of each of her grandchildren as they exited the doorway toward the car where the monsieur waited to chug us along to the train station.

  There were parts of Beaune I missed before I even left. I loved saying “à table!” three times a day. There was no joy like watching five French children scurry to their grandmother’s table, eager to stake claim to their respective serviette. (I didn’t correctly remember both the assigned seat and assigned napkin ring of each person until our last dinner there.) Dinnertime, despite my ill attention to Marion family napkin traditions, was my favorite time of all. The kids behaved more sweetly when they came to the table dressed in their pajamas. I knew the day would end soon enough, so I could relish that mealtime hour when everything seemed right and good—the hour when the sun “put itself to bed.” I would never forget it.

  Most of all, I would miss the monsieur and the books he loaned me, all of which described just a hint of the vineyards, mysterious land on which I never stepped foot. Glancing at them from a distance through the glass of a car window was as close as I came. But I would keep my posters of Le Chateau de la Tour, a treasure from the market, and perhaps make it my goal to visit Beaune again one day. I considered Monsieur Marion the last of the père et fils of Chanson. The vineyard and the wine were once his life. But now it was one of many labels lost, under the ownership of Bollinger. Monsieur Marion—and all the fathers and sons before him for 249 years—catalogued every drop of dew in their land. He remembered every year by heart. It was in his blood; it was the air he breathed. During our final dinner in Melay—the night when we all indulged more than usual—Michel brought a dusty green glass bottle of wine to the table. It wasn’t labeled, or marked in any way. Michel
poured the glass for Monsieur Marion first—a test, I believe it was, to name the year in which the wine had been produced. Monsieur Marion smelled, sipped, and smiled. “1972,” he said, not to be stumped by his brother-in-law. At once Michel stepped back in disbelief. He slapped his knee and hollered a loud cheer, applauding Monsieur Marion for his near-flawless skill. It was a 1973 white Burgundy. I was impressed. Impressed that a man could be so attuned to the elements of his work that he could taste a wine and recall which 365 days drew forth such flavor. The wine was a little musty for me, but then again I wasn’t alive in 1973. So I trusted it was a gem, as it was described by those with a more acquired taste, on peut dire.

  I learned from Monsieur Marion that Beaune wines were made mostly, if not all, from Aligoté grapes, or raisins. I wondered what the ground would do with any other seed. It seemed after centuries of tradition, the Aligoté and the Beaune earth were one—inseparable as marrow to bone, soul to spirit. Oh, to have tasted and seen all the very good years.

  And so I left the Aligoté earth intrigued and humbled and wanting more, feeling I owed it that. But I left the country exhausted enough to welcome Paris back with open arms, the city where maybe I belonged after all, where my sister would help right all that had gone wrong, and where I would usher in my quickly approaching return to America.

  Chapitre Onze

  I was already standing when the TGV rolled into the Gare de Lyon. Graffiti-covered concrete walls again bordered both sides of the train as we slowed to a stop. Everything outside looked dirty. It was noisy already and the urgency of the city was back. Passengers stood and pushed toward the exit of the train, and I pushed right along with them, anxious to smell that rotten city air outside.