Lessons in French: A Novel

by Hilary Reyl

  In any case, I began to think that she was a work of art, with all of art’s signifying power, and that right now that power was concentrated in those big strange eyes, which seemed to say, “Thank you for letting me know that my mother has asked you to spy on me. I understand you’re going through the motions of your job, but I also get that I can trust you, right?”

  I felt a perverse compunction to stop the bleeding from my own misfired gun. This was not at all what I expected.

  But just as I was beginning to think I might like her, Portia pulled herself together and asked how I was enjoying Paris. “Isn’t the shopping out of this world?”

  The shopping? On six hundred dollars a month minus four hundred for rent? Did she know she was being deeply rude? Was she clueless or was she trying to show me who was on top?

  No, it was none of those things. She was simply attempting to place me. And I felt so unplaceable that her appraising glance did not so much offend as depress me.

  What could she see? A brown-haired girl with pretty eyes and apple cheeks, broad healthy shoulders and long legs. I had a high bouncy ponytail. I probably looked like a nice, sympathetic person. I wore a short denim skirt with leggings and leg warmers and an asymmetrical sweater several years out of style. I had on shoes that Christie had bought in the last round of Parisian sales which had proved too small for her. They were two-toned olive and red. I did not look like an idiot. I did not look threatening either.

  “The Parisian women certainly are out of this world.” I let out a lame giggle. “They’re so put together compared to us Americans, or compared to me I mean.”

  I sat down on the couch and began to knead a cushion.

  Portia smoothed the buttery seat of her floating pants and joined me. From the hallway, smells of fennel sausage and onions curling in underneath the door began, softly, to knot us together. Lydia was working on the stuffing for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow.

  The living room, like Portia’s bedroom, was in a perfect state of readiness for her arrival. She knew nothing of the messy preproduction that the rest of us had endured.

  “I haven’t had time to shop much,” I added. “There’s been a lot going on here. It’s been interesting though.”

  “It’s a madhouse. Still, I can see why it might be interesting from your perspective. Dad says you have a great attitude.”

  “Your dad’s sweet.”

  She filled her face with meaning. “Listen, did my mom happen to mention, when she was telling you how worried she is about poor me, that she’s still close with Olivier?”

  I dug my nails into the couch. “Well, no, not so much. I mean she did say that it might be your perception that she’s close with him because she and he used to get along. She may have thought he was charming while it lasted, but, but, but really she is your mother. So I can’t imagine she’s too worried about staying friends with an ex-boyfriend of yours.”

  “Of course you would assume that, wouldn’t you? Any normal person would. Mothers are supposed to be loyal to their daughters, right?” She was tearing. “Olivier was here, you know, spending time with her, right before you came, going to restaurants with her and drinking wine. They were talking about me together in my own house, concerned about me like I was some child. It’s her fault he can’t take me seriously. She has no boundaries.”

  I turned my face downward to the pathetic, but lovely, suede pants. “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  No, this was not how I expected to feel.

  The living room door opened and in popped Lydia. She was wearing a yellow Provençal apron. Her voice rolled gravelly and flirtatious. “My girls, you have to come taste this. We may have to send Clarence out for more tarragon and more sage. It might be a little bland. But you’ll tell me. Come, come.”

  We followed her into the kitchen, where a bowl of cranberry sauce was cooling in the center of the table.

  The lovely smells were coming from two blue Dutch ovens, one large, one small. Lydia danced in their steam. She did not want us looking so perturbed in her festive kitchen. “You girls are much too serious. Portia, you look like death warmed over. When was the last time you ate?”

  “I eat ice cream every night, Mother.”

  Lydia sighed at me. “Her roommate spoons it into her mouth. A few bites of ice cream, and that’s it. How do you study on that?”

  “It’s the only thing I can stand to swallow right now.”

  “I wish I had that problem!” Lydia dipped two teaspoons into her stuffing, blew on them long and loudly, then held them to our mouths. “Tell me! Tell me!”

  As we tasted the stuffing, I saw a flicker of pleasure in Portia’s face. It was over as soon as it began, but it was enough to show me that she could stand to eat, and that maybe there was hope for her.

  “It’s great, Lydia,” I said.

  “More herbs? More port? Speak now.”

  “No, it’s perfect.”

  Portia looked at the smaller pot. “What’s in that one?”

  “Your brother’s stuffing.”

  “He can’t eat our stuffing?”

  “He’s announced he’s a vegan. And I can’t have my son with no stuffing on Thanksgiving. What kind of mère indigne would I be?”

  “Unbelievable!” Portia fluttered on a gust of anger. Her voice grew bigger than she was. “I cannot believe you are catering to his every whim, always catering to him. You’re creating a monster! Besides, vegans don’t eat turkey.”

  “I know that. I’m going to stuff him a pumpkin and I’m happy to stuff one for you, too, darling if you’re feeling left out. Would you like one too? A pumpkin for my pumpkin?”

  “I can’t fathom this!”

  “How did you make Joshua’s stuffing?” I asked cheerfully.

  “I’m glad somebody’s interested. I used bread cubes and lots of celery and nuts, some vegetable stock. It’s not half-bad. Would you like to taste?” And she took back my spoon and dipped it into the smaller pot.

  “Mother, stop!” But it was too late. “Mother, how can you be so completely disrespectful? He’s a vegan for Christ’s sake! You can’t plunge a sausage-covered spoon into his stuffing!”

  A spasm coiled through Lydia, halting in a crazy electric smile. “He’ll never know, will he?”

  “It’s all for show with you, isn’t it?” Portia left. Seconds later, we heard the door to her room slam shut.

  I took the spoon from Lydia and tried the vegan stuffing. “This one’s good too,” I said. I still had not met Joshua. He had vanished to his room immediately on arriving. So far, this celery and nut mixture was all I had to go on. I began to picture someone squirrely.

  “Of course it’s good.” She shook her head to relax her mouth. “It’s good because I made it for my son. You don’t think she’ll tell him about the spoon, do you?”

  “Oh no, she wouldn’t,” I said. “She wouldn’t say anything.” Portia’s forgotten all about it. I was fairly certain that her brother’s potential offense was simply one more path back to her own sorrow.

  “How do you think she’s doing?” asked Lydia. “Has Oliver been just terrible to her? Maybe you’ll be able to give her some perspective, engage with her about Paris, do museums, do some shopping, go out. I can tell she likes you.”

  “Of course. I’d love to.” The fact that I had to be nice to Portia would save me from total hypocrisy, wouldn’t it? It was part of my job to be polite even though she made me feel awful about the way I dressed and the fact that I could not afford to be like the magical women here in Paris any more than I could afford to fly home to my own mom for Thanksgiving. I needed to smile at her, no matter that she would consider me her worst enemy if she knew where I stood with Olivier, because my desire to be loved was stronger than my guilt. And because, despite her irritating qualities, I was already drawn to her. “I’ll try my best to cheer her up.”


  “Tell me, Katherine, does she blame Olivier?”

  “No,” I said in a horrible rush of relief, “I don’t think she can blame him yet.” She blames you, Lydia, ridiculous as it seems, you and you alone.

  I excused myself, ran up the five flights to my room.

  From the family photo on my packing chest, I felt the enduring light of my father’s approval. His eyes were beaming. The set of his mouth was gentle.

  During our weekly phone calls from Jacques and Solange’s house, his voice had grown progressively more positive and all-forgiving, as though he were realizing that time was too short for criticism, that the only thing worthy of passing on was unconditional love.

  It was a love I returned every day of my life. But was I proving worthy of it?

  As he died, Dad also grew more nostalgic for the myth of his French origins. He referred with outsized intensity to the two summers he had spent with Jacques camping in the South of France. He said that if he had to miss me, he loved knowing that I was getting back to our roots.

  twenty-eight

  Late in the afternoon of Thanksgiving day, Christie called me at Lydia’s to say that Bastien’s parents had told him, out of the blue, that they were getting divorced. “Bastien’s devastated. His father is almost definitely having an affair. But that’s usually not enough to break up a marriage in this country. The affair isn’t what Bastien’s upset about. He thinks they should stay together for him, which makes some sense until you realize that he’s twenty-five.”

  “That’s terrible.” I wanted to get off the phone. Clarence was getting ready to serve l’apéritif in the living room and I felt sure that Joshua would finally make an appearance. The guests would be arriving soon.

  Madame Fidelio was helping Lydia in the kitchen. There were rich smells and much clanging of dishes. A big flower delivery had arrived, masses of roses from Salman Rushdie’s French publishers filling the kitchen sink. Well-brought-up people apparently sent flowers ahead of time rather than foisting last-minute bouquets on their hosts. (“Savoir vivre is so refreshing, isn’t it? Doesn’t it drive your mother crazy, when people show up and throw loose flowers at her in the middle of a party?”) I might be expected to arrange the roses. I wanted a drink. This was not a good time to talk.

  “Christie, I should probably go. Can I call you back later tonight?”

  “Sure, but let me tell you what the upshot is.”

  “The upshot?” I have to go.

  “Bastien is so upset. He honestly had no idea about his parents. He thought they were in love. He keeps crying and playing the same piano piece over and over.”

  As she started to hum a bit of the Moonlight Sonata, Bastien’s sorrow, no matter how silly his life might seem, became flesh for me. I had seen his mother once. She had hair like cotton candy, but he adored her. I began to picture him in his vulgar beige salon crying at his piano beneath the orchid painting. It was terrible.

  Portia’s voice from the kitchen yanked me back into the Schell orbit.

  “Mother, why are all these flowers just sitting in the sink? They look so depressing.”

  “Don’t ask me. I have no idea where people have put my vases. Is your father opening the Sancerre yet? Do we need to send him a note? Where’s Katherine?”

  Christie was still humming into the receiver.

  “So, what is the upshot, Christie? I’m sorry but I should hang up. Things are heating up around here.”

  “He’s so upset that he’s blowing off both his parents for Christmas and he wants us to go to his house in Deauville with him for a Noël de réfugiés. He says the casino will be open and that winter is the best time for oysters.”

  To be a refugee in Deauville at Christmastime. I certainly didn’t have the money to go back to the States, and Lydia and Clarence planned to be in New York, where they “did” Christmas better. Paris was somewhat depressing over the holidays, Lydia said. Deauville was tempting. But I had promised Jacques and Solange.

  “I was going to spend Christmas in Orléans with my cousins.”

  Christmas Eve was the one night of the year when Solange splurged on scallops. She arranged them in a buttery tarragon sauce in their giant shells. It was a big deal. But if Bastien was really suffering, and I could somehow help, and have oysters and champagne in a seaside casino, maybe this was the moment to choose the new over the old. I couldn’t turn my back on either picture.

  “I’ll have to think about it, Christie.”

  • • •

  As I came into the living room, Clarence handed me a glass of peach-blushed wine.

  None of the guests had arrived yet. We were en famille.

  Joshua, sitting on the ottoman, had what looked like an old magazine open in his lap. He was bent over a picture of a pair of scissors. There were pimples on the back of his neck and a premature slackness to his shoulders. He squirmed in his button-down collar and burrowed his gaze into the pages.

  Clarence walked behind him, peering into the magazine. “A revolutionary invention, the scissor.”

  “Clarence,” said Lydia with high-pitched weariness, “must you go slapping down interpretations all over the place?”

  “I thought I was making conversation with my son, my dear.”

  Joshua flipped slowly to a photograph of a wrench, then blinked up at me. He was stoned.

  “Hi, I’m Joshua,” he said, holding out his hand for me to reach. When he failed to stand up, I was faintly disgusted. It seemed the manners of the French BCBG boys were leaving their impression after all. I was beginning to expect certain things.

  Joshua had his father’s full lips and generally overripe features, so that Portia, in a silk shirt dress, high heels, red lipstick and blush with pale powder foundation, looked chiseled beside him. They were both strangely old, but she wore it better.

  Madame Fidelio came in with a vase of red roses, tightly arranged. She shot an irritated glance at my wineglass, then turned to Lydia. “Ça vous plait, madame?”

  “C’est magnifique, Madame Fidelio. Put them right here, on the table basse.”

  Madame Fidelio obliged, putting the flowers on the coffee table, then rushed off, muttering insinuations in my direction about how many more flowers were still in the kitchen sink waiting to be arranged.

  I gulped my Kir.

  “Portia,” said Joshua, “what’s with the lipstick? You don’t need that shit. Does Olivier make you feel like you need that shit?”

  “You’ve all misjudged him!” Tears appeared, gathering powder as they streaked down Portia’s face, swelling into pearls. “He doesn’t take everything for granted like we all do. He has to work and think so hard. He understands how much work it takes to make something beautiful. He’s so pure that way, so honest.”

  “Like an artist,” I said helpfully.

  “Like an asshole,” said Joshua, staring at me as though he couldn’t believe I could be so disconnected from reality.

  “Please, Joshua,” said Lydia.

  “No, Lydia, let him talk,” said Clarence. “He’s only voicing his concern. It’s his way of telling his sister she’s beautiful, naturally so, and that she doesn’t need all this rubbish on her face.”

  “Yeah,” said Joshua, and flipped his bloodshot gaze back to the magazine, which I saw was the Fortune from 1955 that Lydia had recently bought at an auction. It had a famous photo essay in it by Walker Evans called “Beauties of the Common Tool.” I supposed she had put it out today for the Thanksgiving guests to admire.

  Portia did not stop crying. I went to get her a tissue, for which she looked disproportionately grateful. I finished my drink. I said the flowers were beautiful and everyone agreed except Joshua, who was tracing the wrench on the page with his index finger.

  “Joshua darling, be careful of that Walker Evans. It’s a treasure,” said Lydia. “And it wasn’t cheap
.”

  “Don’t you want your peach Kir?” Clarence motioned to Joshua’s untouched glass.

  Joshua looked up from “Beauties of the Common Tool.” “You’re right, Mom, this is a very nice essay. You should do something like this. Let’s see, what would your common tools be? Fax machine. Credit card. Diet pills. Different-color diet pills. Papaya diet powders. Straws. I can see it now, all elegance and purity.”

  Clarence picked up Joshua’s glass and thrust it outward, sloshing pink wine all over his hand. “Please let’s not start off this way. Your mother’s been cooking for two days. Have your drink, Joshua.”

  Joshua waved his father away. “Can I at least have a real drink?”

  Trembling now, Clarence turned the bronze key in the red lacquer cabinet full of bottles and glasses. I recognized the Armagnac and the lead crystal from Prague. “Be my guest, son.”

  “Got any scotch?” Joshua stood and went to look. I saw his eyes skid along the shelves and recognized his confusion. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He didn’t know his stuff.

  Clarence, as if to give him privacy in his embarrassment, turned his back to Joshua and blocked him from our view.

  “Lydia, don’t take it wrong. He’s merely showing his appreciation for what you can achieve when you’re true to yourself as an artist.”

  “Well, this is no fun.” Lydia grabbed her glass and went to the door. “I’m going to baste the turkey if no one here needs me. Clarence, give Joshua the single malt that Harry Mathews brought over last month. Harry always knows what he’s doing.”

  “Enabler,” Portia muttered. “You’re always getting Joshua drunk. It’s so irresponsible.”

  “Listen, you.” Lydia put her hands on her hips. “I know a lot more than any of you about responsibility. I helped end the Vietnam War and I will not be called irresponsible in my own house.”

  Joshua gulped his scotch and addressed me. “Mom just missed being World Press Photo of the Year in 1968. She was there when that guy took that really famous shot of the soldier shooting the prisoner, the one that was photo of the year.”