Farewell My French Love

by Nadine Williams

  ‘Veuillez vous vous asseoir ici?’ she says, herding me into the front shop to a comfortable upholstered chair. ‘Je vais chercher votre taille.’ Do you want to sit here? I’ll find your size.

  My lack of French has given away the game. I’m a vulnerable tourist on the hunt for rare fashion items in Paris—big sizes. Her husband appears. An ordinary-looking older French man, he is impeccably dressed in smart-casual mode.

  ‘Would you like a cup of coffee, Madame?’ he asks.

  Heavens! I didn’t have a coffee with lunch and I positively pant a ‘yes please’.

  Soon Madame reappears loaded with outfits—skirts, cardigans, a few dresses, jumpers, jackets and pants. One after the other, she presents couplings of garments, raving in French. Pants with a jacket, a patterned skirt with a plain shirt, a twin-set with superbly tailored pants.

  ‘I do like the cardigan set,’ I say.

  ‘Comme ça!’ she says, lifting the lace edge of her own garment. ‘C’est pratique et élégant.’ Like this! It’s practical and elegant.

  ‘Quelle est la taille?’ I ask. What is the size?

  ‘Quarante huit.’

  That’s size 48! Even in European sizes, that’s such a long way from the 42 which was my size until I turned fifty. Yet it fits perfectly and looks marvellous. My coffee arrives and I take a sip or two before returning to Madame’s next combination.

  The whole exercise—changing garments, discarding some and making choices—takes over an hour. So enjoyable.

  Madame and I are now on first-name terms—her name is Sylvie Levy—and she has had a store in London for many years named Frau Hexagone. Sylvie is not only quintessentially French in her persona, she is a sales professional who hasn’t tried to sell me anything that doesn’t suit me.

  ‘Non, non, non,’ she says on occasion, dropping her head, peering over her glasses and wagging it. Naturally, I quickly put those items onto the reject pile. I am being dressed by the best saleswoman in Paris.

  When I hesitate over the bill, she throws in a multi-coloured long scarf.

  ‘Votre cadeau, Madame!’ she offers sweetly of her ‘gift’.

  ‘Cashmere,’ she states.

  By the time I rush out of the store we have exchanged email addresses and I promise to visit her if I return to Paris. It is almost 4 pm, and I hurry down Boulevard Saint-Germain to Les Deux Magots café.

  Snug inside the glassed-in verandah facing the old church, I feel so at home. Filled shopping bags take up one chair and in them are the twin-set, two woollen jumpers, a navy-and-white gathered summer skirt, a divine black silk top, a slimming navy dress and a peach-coloured skivvy—all at sale prices. While I wait, I dig out the scarf and check its price—nineteen euros. It’s cashmere at that price! I muse. I feel as smug as anyone winning a lottery and tucked in those bags is a whole new spring/summer wardrobe of garments that all fit.

  La terrasse is jam-packed and les garçons buzz around like honeybees, perilously balancing drinks trays, dispensing many an addition. When Jane arrives, breathless, her eyes fix on the shopping bags. (She is carrying a small paper bag about the size of a magazine.) Her look reminds me of staid Saffy, the critical daughter of Edina in the British TV comedy Absolutely Fabulous.

  ‘Oh my god! You have been so restrained!’ she quips.

  Again in a Saffy-like tone she asks, ‘Well, what did you buy?’

  I shift the conversation. ‘What did you buy in two hours?’ I ask. ‘Not much by the looks.’

  ‘I have walked for hours, well two hours anyway,’ she laughs. ‘The best time!’ she says, almost as an afterthought.

  ‘Well, what’s in your paper bag?’

  ‘Oh! I bought Peter a Paris Match magazine and some exquisite cards.’

  ‘Did you buy anything for yourself?’

  ‘Not yet, but I will before I leave Paris. I’ll do my shopping on Wednesday when you take the train to Brittany to see Danièle.’

  We order short blacks, which are bitter and black as tar.

  Back at the hotel, we meditate and I fall asleep until Jane wakes me.

  ‘Let’s walk further up the hill this evening, to the end of Rue Descartes,’ she says.

  ‘Fabulous idea. Friday night should be fun with all the students in the bars.’

  Tonight, crossing Rue Clovis we stop to examine the striking wall mural on the side of the building on the corner. We have admired it from our hotel window all week. I photograph the huge wall mural in inky blue of a massive central tree bordered by small dismal portrayals of urban damage to nature. L’arbre bleu is by muralist Pierre Alechinsky and an accompanying French poem alongside of four stanzas is by Yves Bonnefoy.

  It seems ironic that this ancient Roman road now bears a warning of a future urban wasteland.

  We amble until we come to a handbag shop. Here I spot a divine bright yellow travel bag in the window. We enter, arm-in-arm. The bag is kit-bag style with a strong zip, handles and a shoulder strap. I should have walked right out given the shopping indulgence earlier today.

  Jane looks at the price tag and says, ‘Well, it’s not as if it’s Louis Vuitton. The price is reasonable for such a beautiful, big leather bag. It could be a cabin bag.’

  ‘Oh yes, it is the right size for a cabin bag,’ adds the shop assistant, sensing the momentum.

  I hesitate and look around, but I know it is a fabulous find at a reasonable price.

  ‘It has Paris written all over it,’ says Jane.

  And I smile at Jane, who is such a mystery to me—and I buy it. We have enjoyed a new experience together—shopping in Paris.

  Of course, Olivier was a surprise packet that first year he brought me to France, too. I could never predict what he would do and I was often flabbergasted by his behaviour. Especially his florid swearing in French at fellow drivers on France’s roads!

  Jane chooses a quaint Left Bank restaurant, a few eateries up from the bag shop. We are settled inside rather than on la terrasse and le garçon has brought the menu and related specials, one of which is French onion soup. Silly me. I reckon Jane will order soup and I think to join her in a strange way to validate the soups she has chosen the few nights we have eaten together this week. ‘French onion soup, please,’ I request, smiling at the pleasant young waiter. ‘And I would like a glass of this Languedoc white wine.’

  He turns to Jane, who says, ‘I won’t have anything, thank you.’

  As the waiter turns on his heels, I stare at her in disbelief. Our last dinner in the Left Bank! Oh Jane! I think, despairing. So elusive, so skinny, so seemingly fragile.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she says, analysing the look on my face.

  ‘What did you have for lunch?’ I ask, more suspicious than ever.

  ‘Sufficient,’ she retorts.

  But before I can quiz her about exactly what that means, the maître d’hôtel comes to the table with le garçon.

  In English, he says: ‘We are sorry, ladies, but we must ask you to leave the restaurant.’

  I stutter, ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You have not ordered proper meals and we need your table for people who intend to dine with us,’ he continues.

  Had Jane not gathered her bag and stood up saying, ‘Come on, Nadine,’ I would have refused to move.

  Once outside, my indignity continues. ‘They cannot do that, Jane.’

  ‘They’ve done it!’

  ‘Well, there are many other places we can go to along here,’ I say.

  But she floors me. ‘I’m going to return to the hotel. I don’t want to eat anything as you know.’ And she embraces me warmly, stunned as I am, and gives me kisses on each cheek, turns and walks back down Rue Descartes, leaving me there.

  I watch her go. I seem rooted to the spot in shock. Then I turn and walk further up Rue Descartes, in a kind of daze, until the junction of Rue Thouin where I slip into the corner restaurant barely registering its name—Le Volcan.

  The maitre’d, a kindly middle-aged fellow who
probably owns the place, asks, ‘Seule, Madame?’

  ‘Oui.’

  He sits me at a small table and I order the three-course evening special, determined to make a night of it.

  ‘Do you mind if I have only a half-serve of the mussels?’ I ask. The kilogram bowl at Place des Vosges was too much.

  An entrée of thinly sliced, perfectly pink Magret is presented with thinly baked bread slices. I survey the wine list thoughtfully and choose a label from Languedoc, in Southern France. The first glass of a young white wine settles my nerves.

  When the bowl of mussels in a spicy red sauce arrives, I order another glass. Young couples around me are deep in quiet conversation and no one pays me any attention.

  The wine warms my spirits and I allow myself a moment of reflection—how the pages of my life have skipped from those halcyon days, notebook in hand, when I attended Adelaide’s glitzy events as a VIP. The new chapter is nowhere near as glamorous … a widow sitting alone in a restaurant.

  Now, instead of writing about the dangers of how women are left feeling ‘invisible’ beyond menopause because of society’s fetish with youth and beauty, I must walk my own mantra. I relish the emotional rewards of ageing—feelings of accomplishment and freedom as feminine beauty fades. And who can deny that the unconditional love of grandchildren brings a wellspring of priceless feelings. And tonight, a new feeling—fearlessness. And that’s such an accomplishment beyond grief. I’m happy here enjoying crunchy apple tart and chantilly cream. When the coffee arrives, I know, even seule (alone) I belong here!

  The Latin Quarter enchants me as I walk back down Rue Descartes. Students are as thick as mice around cheese, spilling from open bars onto the pavement while outside tables of restaurants are full. Melodic music from restaurants fills the air and lighting in the outdoor dining areas floods the street. It’s an intoxicating atmosphere of food, wine, music and love. Everyone is eating or drinking or chatting up a desirable possible lover, or simply strolling as I do. I wish Jane was with me. Our last night in the Quartier Latin and I have stepped into the sizzling social life of the whole noisy student population from the five universities and high schools hereabouts. The scenario pulsates with hot sexual energy. Jane has missed a quintessential part of Paris—the vivacious student mood of the Left Bank. I don’t really want to return to the dull hotel. It’s only 10 pm and I want to sink into this joyous evening, which embraces me like a lover, because tomorrow morning we are gone.

  I carry such a mix of emotions up that curved staircase to our room. But mostly, it’s exasperation.

  ‘You will never guess what I have discovered,’ says Jane as soon as I open the door to find her propped up in bed. ‘Hemingway hired a room on the top floor at number 39, Rue Descartes, the exact address of the restaurant where we were thrown out.’ She is exhilarated.

  ‘What? La Maison de Verlaine?’

  ‘Yes, the very same.’

  ‘Well not even a history of Hemingway will get me to return to that restaurant,’ I comment.

  ‘I knew you bought A Moveable Feast and so I looked up on the internet “Guide to Hemingway’s Paris”. Look, it’s mentioned here,’ and she hands me her iPad. ‘He hired the room for peace and quiet so he could write full-time.’

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ I say, sitting on the side of her bed. And I read how Hemingway lived in a few different hangouts, mostly in the Left Bank around the writers’ neighbourhoods of the Latin Quarter, Saint-Germain-des-Prés and Montparnasse. His daily life involved walking from one place to another, often using the Luxembourg garden as a short cut connecting the adjoining neighbourhoods.

  ‘So, we walked in his footsteps tonight,’ she says, delighted.

  NINE

  THE MAJESTIC LOIRE CHTEAUX

  ‘France cannot be great without greatness.’ General Charles de Gaulle

  We take a taxi to Gare du Montparnasse, buy breakfast, order takeaway coffee, get the International Herald Tribune, check our tickets, find the correct platform and take our seats on the TGV fast train to Tours in the Loire Valley.

  If someone had told me five years ago that I would be travelling independently around France in an accomplished manner, I would have replied with a swift ‘never!’ Olivier was in charge of our travels in the glorious country of his birth and I was the happy passenger. It did not occur to me that he would die and that if I wanted to experience France the way I had with him, I would need to organise it myself.

  From Barcelona to today, without mishap. I’m chuffed with my organisational abilities. Now we are beginning a three-day, two-night escorted tour around the châteaux and wineries of the Loire, staying in a medieval château. Joy of joys—it includes nightly gourmet banquets.

  Bucketloads of wonderful honeymoon memories flood my mind as the train pulls out of the station. I want to relive some of the fun moments we enjoyed in the Loire, although we never dined in a château. But lurking in my mind is a niggly fear that my dear friend Jane has an eating disorder. She is very thin. Dare I put my fears into words? Over the past week of evening meals, I have only seen her eat two bowls of soup. The other nights she has not eaten with me. And our lunches have been on the meagre side. As if half a baguette feeds my body!

  Should I say nothing? Why don’t I simply settle into our glassed-in enclosure and admire the countryside I love? After all, we only have four more days together. But then she folds up the newspaper and hands it to me.

  ‘Jane, if I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t care, but I’m really worried that the way you eat isn’t healthy.’

  She stares are me, but doesn’t ask ‘What do you mean?’ or any other indignant reaction. Instead, she says, ‘Well, I’m worried about your eating habits, too. You are eating far too much and almost deliberately fattening yourself up. That is very unhealthy.’

  I cannot believe what I hear!

  ‘What size were you when we had that weekend holiday in Mornington? In 1998, you were 75 kilograms if I remember correctly. Might I ask what you are now?’

  I hadn’t expected anything like this reaction and now I should be on the defensive, but I push forward my case.

  ‘This isn’t about me. This is about you. You are far too thin. And you simply don’t eat!’ I say. ‘How many evenings have you eaten dinner with me?’

  I don’t wait for her answer. ‘The evening when we met the stranger in La Méthode and that other night at the pub at the end of Rue Lapange. You ate French onion soup each time.’

  ‘Are you keeping records?’

  ‘It’s hard not to when I sit eating alone every other night.’

  ‘Nadine, you seem to think this is all about food. It isn’t.’

  ‘Oh yes it is. It’s about depriving yourself of food. You have not enjoyed one of the best things about Paris—its wonderful food culture. You have not enjoyed eating with me on our holiday.’

  ‘People don’t come to France for the food culture.’

  I’m flabbergasted. That’s exactly why people come in their millions. It’s why there are more than 7000 cafés in Paris alone! But before I can launch into the obvious tirade, I notice her eyes blazing at me with the intensity of a red-hot poker.

  ‘Listen, Nadine, you’re a big personality—a big eater and a big spender.’ I am so shocked at her tone I can’t recognise the speaker as Jane. ‘And I just find it a bit much day-in day-out. You never stop talking … filling me with trivia. I know all this French stuff means a lot to you, but you know, I don’t care. Napoléon was a murderous thug.’

  This has become the personal, and not about the problem. Jane and I are dear friends. How did we get here?

  ‘Do you know what I feel like with this flood of information poured into me? Like those geese in Périgord being stuffed with corn to get fat. And that’s how I view your attitude to me over food. Trying to get me to eat all day, every day.’ She takes a breath and launches forth again. ‘I know you and Olivier would enjoy three-course meals at dinner much of the time, but that’s just
not me.’

  ‘Don’t you bring Olivier into this!’ I say.

  ‘You were the one who told me about Saint Geneviève, who only had three or four meals of beans or corn a week! And how old was she when she died? Almost ninety!’

  I remain speechless, mentally gasping for breath.

  ‘I eat something every day, but you show no restraint and everywhere we have gone, you automatically pick the three-course special of the day.’

  Jane and I are in stormy, uncharted waters. She has never spoken to me like this.

  ‘A dessert a day. Is that your idea of losing weight?’

  I choose not to explain that a daily special for seventeen euros only buys entrée serves and that if you take away the pleasure of food in France you miss a huge part of the French cultural experience.

  Oli and I loved eating together at many cafés, bars and restaurants throughout our annual holidays in France. After six years of my beloved teaching me the English translation of every French dish on every menu we ever examined together, the dining experience in France remains an integral part of my French life without him. It’s a legacy of my marriage.

  In case she hadn’t emotionally battered me enough, she finishes up by saying: ‘You even suffer a big sadness!’ emphasising the big.

  I’m shattered by her assault. I begin to weep and silent tears run down my cheek onto my lips. If I could, I would stop, but I cannot and I have no tissues in my bag. I wipe the tears away from my mouth with my finger, and I walk out of our enclosure to the toilet. And there I sit sobbing. For the first time, I wish I had my medication with me. That I hadn’t stopped taking it. I feel as if I am losing control and I cannot cope right now.

  When I return, I take my seat opposite Jane, lean on the window ledge and stare out at the countryside.

  Out of the long, silent stillness, a quiet voice says, ‘There is nothing wrong with a big sadness. You had a big love and you have suffered a big loss.’

  At these words I weep openly once more because it is true. I can hardly bear the pain, even sixteen months after he died. Life is such a charade pretending to be okay. It wasn’t only his death, it was caring for this big, beautiful man as he withered away from the cancer, whose pain was so terrible that he needed morphine injections to enjoy even a snippet of life left to him.