When she sings Piaf’s ‘Non, Je ne Regrette Rien’ I struggle to control my urge to sob aloud, but a quiet river of tears flow regardless as those emotive lyrics fill the cavern. However, I know that I have somehow scrounged an identity as a widow, living well, alone in Paris. The trick will be to take that feeling home on the aircraft.
Autumn arrived in Paris overnight. The sky is like lead, threatening thunderous rain. Instead of the gentle cool breeze and the fluttering of leaves on my morning walk, the wind howls down Raspail and the trees roar in protest. Luckily I understood last night’s weather forecast and I’m dressed for the elements.
I’m buffeted all the way and this time—the last—when I reach the treacherous intersection, I make no attempt to cross the road in one go. One must respect fierce wind.
Claire shocks us the moment we settle at our desks. She begins distributing our exam papers with a sharp ‘Ne touchez pas!’ Do not touch. Then she turns to face the class, takes a big breath, looks sternly at no one in particular and says in rapid French, ‘These are your examination papers and we must try and learn from them. They are already marked, so please put your pens away. Do not mark them in any way. You will need to hand them back after our exercise. This is not our normal procedure.’
We all know that Claire is not pleased. There is not one word of encouragement such as ‘Some of you have done very well’, or ‘A few have produced exceptional work.’
‘Please look now,’ she commands. And we turn over our papers as if we were beginning Year 12 examinations.
I look and stifle a little gasp of joy. I have passed! I have achieved 52 per cent. I cannot be the worst in the class because 52 per cent would hardly explain her demeanour.
Once more we hear the audio and after a few strategic words are written on the blackboard, we are asked to tackle the questions in the comprehension again. I don’t need to as I have received full marks, but my self-satisfaction is short-lived. I look at my French email response. My clever answer, which had filled me with pride, has red marks all over it. I had forgotten to give each noun its article (its gender). Shame of shames! There was not one ‘le’ or ‘la’ for nouns. So fundamental a requirement to express gender in French that I brace myself in case I’m singled out as the dumbest student.
The class is in a dejected mood as Claire gathers up our papers. We have failed her. Yet I have learnt so much. I was a teacher for eight years in my twenties. I know how she must feel.
Luckily, I have been excused from the final class exercise. Each student has to give a five-minute talk on a place in the world they would love to visit. We were told about this yesterday, but after the class I explained to Claire that I had an engagement in the evening and I could not prepare for it. She said, ‘D’accord.’ She could have said, ‘You have the afternoon, Nadine,’ but she wisely thought it was beyond me. I feel ashamed and so I ask her (in French) if I could ask questions of the students as if I was a journalist. Claire almost claps her hands in pleasure. ‘Oui. Bien sûr.’
I feel strongly that I must show her that I have learnt such a lot in just two weeks. Questioning had been an important skill we had learnt and now I put it into effect, asking pourqui (why), comment (how) and ‘qu’est-ce que …’ (what is). As a class, we impart so much knowledge and thoughts and feelings about other countries that Claire should feel proud of her role as our professeur.
It’s such a moving moment when Lucy and some of the young women ask me if they can take a photograph of us all together, and I suggest the stairs at the entrance. Then, Lucy shyly takes a paper packet out of her bag and hands it to me.
‘A gift for you from me,’ she says. ‘One day I hope we meet again. Perhaps in Ubud or Adelaide.’
I’m touched, and I give her the two kisses of Frenchness. ‘Merci, Lucy. I hope so too.’
I leave them and head outdoors for my last lunch in Paris. I choose Le Dôme, that famous restaurant where Olivier refused to take me. I’m making a statement that now I’m free to do whatever I like.
I find a vacant table in the glassed-in terrasse facing Montparnasse where an ageing garçon lavishes me with attention. His courtesy confirms my belief that Frenchmen feel a bit sad for women dining alone. He is charming and we talk about the weather because now it is raining hard and I could so easily burst into tears that my sojourn here is coming to its end and tomorrow I will leave for home.
I tell le garçon, ‘Je retourne en Australie demain,’ (I will return to Australia tomorrow) and it rolls off my tongue so easily I could shout out in pride.
He responds, as only a charming Parisian waiter would, ‘Il a plu aujourd’hui parce que vous partirez demain.’ It has rained today because you will leave us tomorrow. ‘Aujourd’hui je vais vous servir le meilleur repas de Paris au Dôme.’ Today I am going to serve you the best meal in Paris—at Le Dôme.
I smile at his graciousness. Surprisingly, he switches to English. ‘I bring you a very nice wine, but not too expensive. You order the fish special?’
‘Yes please.’
Left to my thoughts, I imagine this place as a buzzing hub of the famous writers Joyce, Scott Fitzgerald and Hemingway. De Beauvoir used Le Dôme as the setting for her first novel She Came to Stay, which compels me to inspect its glorious historic interior with its intimate green leather padded benches and distinctive two-toned lampshades.
I return to my table and note a few facts in my travel diary. They say you cannot intellectualise your way out of grief. Yet, I have somehow applied enough nous to survive a river of sadness when I could have so easily drowned in it like Queen Louise. Miraculously, la vie quotidienne—daily life in Paris—has let the sunshine in again. No wonder Ernest Hemingway declared Paris est une fête. Paris is a festival.
The future no longer alarms me. I have found a contentment in Paris, and most important I have learnt, alone, that Olivier did not define me; that I have been the architect of my own life.
I sip my sweet white wine as I reflect that it is miraculous how a city such as Paris, with its feminine allure, has provided me with the space to reflect, to recover and redefine myself. I have learnt many valuable lessons over these past weeks. Simply by following eighteenth-century German philosopher Georg Hegel’s advice that every era is a ‘repository’ of wisdom I have found solutions to my contemporary woes. It has been such a revelation that my French heroines, whose love stories are the stuff of movies, had suffered such dreadful losses which they endured with integrity and courage. Their losses have made their lives relevant to me as I have struggled with my own. I now really understand that grief is only a season of my life.
I recognise the time has come to allow my former life of love and marriage to quietly fall away.
My journeyings with my contemporary female friends—Jane, Mandy, Nathalie, Kaye, Isabelle and Catherine—have provided insight, too. Most of my women friends in Spain and France do not have men in their lives and yet they have created incredibly diverse lives for themselves.
Here, flaking my crumbed fillet of fish, I must face another fact: I have let my writing career slide away.
So today, seventeen months since Olivier died, I tell myself, Yes, I’m still that chameleon. I can be whatever I want to be. I can pick up that pencil and take heed of what Ernest Hemingway once wrote to his friend F. Scott Fitzgerald: ‘You have done it before and you will do it again. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence you know …’
All too soon, I am rushing along Raspail rugged up and hugging my umbrella. Oh dear, this weather is atrocious! I think as the wind continues to noisily thrash the trees.
Then, I notice a fluttering of autumn leaves, the first for the season, drifting silently to the slippery pavement.
I am helpless to snuff out the memory of how—at his funeral—I described Olivier’s passing ‘as simply and silently as an autumn leaf falling from a tree’. And the tears do seep out to blend with the dampness of the rain which falls relentlessly.
&n
bsp; Yet, I have chosen a new mantra which comes to mind—the honeymoon toast of the middle-aged man at the village picnic in St Remy: Profitee de la vie, elle est belle. Life is so beautiful; profit from it. And I am filled with gratitude for my beautiful life, my health and new-found happiness.
Despite my streaked makeup, my heart sings as I step over the puddles, cross the road and, humming Leonard Cohen’s song ‘Going Home’, I enter 31 Bis Campagne Premiere to pack my bags. Because, tomorrow, I’m going home and miraculously without my sorrow.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I owe my gratitude to many people, but firstly, to my dear friend, Jane Randall, who was my long-suffering travelling companion in Barcelona and France. She has wholeheartedly supported me emotionally and physically in the writing process over a number of years. Friends like Jane are precious and rare.
So much thanks must go to my wonderful agent, Selwa Anthony, for her unfailing belief in my story and who led me down the longest path to publication. Firstly she requested a ‘random chapter’, then ‘let’s see the first three chapters Nadine’ and lastly, in an act of faith, ‘go ahead and write the rest of the book’.
I extend a huge thank you to the two editors, Glenda Downing and Alex Craig, who worked closely with me at different stages of the manuscript development. My story could not have evolved without your expertise and supportive style.
Importantly, I want to thank Harlequin’s publisher, Jo Mackay, who bought my manuscript and who has shown such enthusiasm for its publication.
Lastly, merci beaucoup to those French women who shared their life stories with me on my travels.
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ISBN: 9781489220967
TITLE: FAREWELL MY FRENCH LOVE
First Australian Publication 2017
Copyright © 2017 Nadine Williams
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