by Jo Maeder
“I feel more like a referee than a son.”
Alyce wondered what she would do if she married Nelson and found out he was unfaithful. Carmelita’s face popped into her head. Her only encounter with her was in the ladies’ room at the Manhattan mega-toy store F.A.O. Schwarz. Nelson was meeting her there to do a “switch-up” with Junior (after he plunked down $500 on various stuff she was sure the boy would have no interest in the following month).
Alyce recognized her from photos she’d seen at Nelson’s apartment. There was one of her and Junior done by a professional when his son was still a toddler. It was nicely framed and prominently displayed in his living room.
“I feel obligated to my son to keep it out,” he’d said.
She wished he’d put it away in between visits but said nothing. Wanting to come off as unthreatened, she said, “She’s pretty.”
He showed her another where she was more natural. She was grinning so much you could see a prominent gold tooth.
Sometimes Alyce put herself in Carmelita’s place. She wanted a better life and she took the only path she knew how to get it. Could Alyce blame her?
When Alyce saw her in the ladies’ room at the toy store that day, she put on a smile and introduced herself. Carmelita had the nerve to say, “I know you must be havin’ a good time with him because I taught him everything.”
Alyce refused to be intimidated. “Thank you. You did a great job.”
She kept coating her full lips with dark red lipstick. “That’s right, Annie.”
“Alyce.”
“What-evah. I stopped rememberin’ the names a long time ago.”
She flashed her metallic smile and turned on a spike heel, leaving Alyce holding her leather purse so tightly it was permanently damaged from sinking her nails into it.
“Al-ees? Are you listening?”
“Sorry, Julien. Lot on my mind.”
This time she got up to go for real.
“Julien, would you like to have dinner tomorrow night? It’s my birthday.”
“I would be honored to celebrate with you.”
“How about at my cottage? We can cook.” He brushed his hair out of his eyes to get a better look at his good fortune. “First, though, I have to see how Jean-Luc feels about it.”
“I will not be upset or surprised if he does not agree. I will take you out.”
“I’ll text you.” Flashing a smile, she said, “You’re so cute.”
“Dogs are cute. I am sexy.”
When she arrived home, she walked through Jean-Luc’s kitchen (no more walking all the way around the house through grass that hadn’t been cut in ages now that Isabella was gone) and spied dirty dishes on the counter. Better to get them out of the way before more joined them. She plugged up one sink, filled it with soapy water, and pulled on long yellow plastic gloves.
He appeared a few moments later looking annoyed. What was his problem now?
“Al-ees, how am I supposed to work when women cannot stay away from me.”
Good grief. What an ego. “Stay away from them.”
“Precisely. Why do they take it so personally?”
She slid some leftovers into Didon’s dish. “Once you sleep with someone, Jean-Luc, it’s pretty hard not to take things personally. Stay away from women before you—”
“I did! I told Pauline I was not interested and she persists in inviting me out.” He rested his index finger on his chin. “Where were you?”
Going back to the sink, she answered, “What are you, my father?”
In a low voice he snarled, “American she-devil.”
She wheeled around. “Your insults are like the birds that fly into the windows here and bounce off the screens.” She pretended she had just done the same and teetered with a stunned expression. “Boing! No harm done.”
“A most beautiful simile, Al-ees!” She thought he was going to hug her until he said, “If you weren’t from the United States, I might like you.”
“A man intelligent as you hating an entire nationality seems pretty dumb to me.”
“Mmmm,” he responded, as if he relished her harsh words.
She remembered one insult Julien taught her, held her right yellow-gloved arm out straight, slapped the soapy left one on the bicep and brought her right hand back sharply toward her face, sending water and bubbles everywhere.
“Va te faire foutre.”
His eyebrows arched. “Most women don’t tell me to fuck off until they know me better.”
“You really are pathetic.”
“That is true.”
“Incidentally,” she said, as she scrubbed coffee stains out of a cup, “I’d like to have a guest for dinner tomorrow. May we use your wonderful kitchen?”
“No.”
“So then you’ll cook for us?”
“Is it your lover Julien?”
“We’re friends.”
Reaching over her and the sink, he turned off the water and pulled off her gloves.
“Come, let’s have a glass of wine. And you will tell me why you are friends with Julien when you are supposed to be in love with Nelson.”
He set out a baguette, room-temperature brie, and insisted she try them together. She washed it down with two gulps of a local rosé that hardly tasted alcoholic.
“I came here to improve myself and get over Nelson, if he didn’t want me back.”
She went to cut another slab of cheese across its bottom and was stopped by the firm grasp of Jean-Luc’s hand.
“Please cut the cheese wedge from the side so it retains its shape.”
She stared at him a moment. “Is that a French thing, a Jean-Luc thing, or are you gay?”
She didn’t wait for an answer as she gulped down more of the cheese, baguette, and wine. Oh, that cheese. It had an earthy scent, and a taste that went from robust to almost burning her throat, and yet she could have eaten the whole wedge right there.
“Stop eating and drinking so fast!”
“Okay, okay.” She put her glass down. Between the wine with Julien and this, she was getting schnockered. “So I was sure it was over with Nelson but it isn’t over, so nothing is happening with Julien.”
“You are exhibiting remarkable restraint. I hope it works out with your Nelson.”
“So do I. How long were you and Isabella together?”
“Not long at all.”
“What happened?” She brought the yummy snack to her mouth and took a delicate bite instead of shoving it in.
“I did not love her and never would. It is as simple as that.”
Alyce wanted to ask him about the woman in the photo but couldn’t let him know she’d found it. “Jean-Luc, how many times have you been in true love?”
“I am not sure. Either countless times or never. Why?”
“I was just wondering who Colette was.”
He seemed to clench his teeth. “Why do you say that?”
“You know, your password on your computer.”
He rubbed his stubbly chin, as though thinking about whether to tell her something. “She was a dog I loved very much that died. Now I must work.”
“What kind of dog? Do you have a photo?”
“No! And never mention her again!”
She knew the French loved their dogs, but that seemed an extreme reaction.
“I will do the cooking tomorrow night as my birthday gift to you.”
Nothing like changing the subject. “That’s so sweet. Thank you.” Another thought hit her as she turned to leave. “Are you sure it’s not because you’re afraid I’ll screw up something in your kitchen?”
He didn’t answer.
“And you need an excuse not to write?”
“That, too.”
As she made her way back to her cottage, she gazed again at the pool and wished she could swim in it. Perhaps Pauline would see to it that it was fixed.
13
La Vie en Rogues
Alyce was surprised when Liliane poked her hea
d in her classroom door and motioned for her to come out.
Once in the hallway, she said, “There is something you need to see.”
“Your timing couldn’t be better. We were about to do a conversation exercise.”
She thought they were going to her office but instead kept walking. When they reached the pétanque court, Liliane pointed in the air. Alyce leaned back. Written in white smoke against the pure blue sky:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY ALLY
SEE YOU SOON
XO NM
“Omigod! I can’t believe he did that!”
Liliane smiled. “Ah, to be adored by a man whom you adore in return.”
Alyce took out her phone and snapped photos. During the next break she couldn’t resist sending one to her sister, Chantilly. Her husband had never done anything that over-the-top.
Liliane gave Alyce a handcrafted birthday card from her two sons that put her on the verge of tears. She easily translated: To Alyce who is getting better with her French. We love you, Stéphane and Benoit.
Back home, Jean-Luc said to her, when they passed in the kitchen, “Bon anniversaire, Al-ees. You have a palpable glow today.”
She showed him photos of the skywriting.
He sniffed. “No imagination.”
She sniffed even harder. “Well, I loved it.”
Before she exited toward her cottage in a huff, he said, “I could use some help preparing dinner. You may consider absorbing my great culinary wisdom a birthday present, too.”
She was in too good of a mood to let his self-importance get to her. “But of course. Thirty minutes, okay?”
“D’accord.”
She returned to his kitchen showered, hair still damp, skin perfumed, but not, Jean-Luc noticed, sporting a seductive outfit. She had on jeans and a loose blouse.
“That is what you are wearing?”
“I told you, Julien and I are just friends.” She reached for a bowl of black olives on the counter and popped one in her mouth. “What’s for dinner?”
“An essential dish that even you could manage. A roasted chicken.” He produced it, uncooked, from the refrigerator. “It is from a neighbor’s farm. What is wrong?”
“It looks sick. A chicken is supposed to be yellow. This one is practically white.”
Mon Dieu! She was the most culturally deprived woman he’d ever known. “This is what a real chicken looks like! Not some hormone-fed creature.”
He could not wait to tell this story to Liliane.
It got better when he showed Alyce what to do to before trussing it. “First rub sea salt inside the cavity and over the skin. Then cut a piece of ginger root and do the same. Again with half of a lemon. Now slice a lemon and slide the pieces under the skin, covering the breast. It will be infused with a lovely lemon flavor.”
He then showed her how to truss it with metal skewers and kitchen string.
“What’s the point of trussing, anyway?”
“To make the legs stay close to the body so it will cook evenly. Also to make it more attractive when you serve it.”
“Looks fine to me without all that bother. And what’s with the rubbing stuff on the inside of the chicken?”
He mimicked her. “What’s with the rubbing stuff?” Back to his normal tone, he said, “It makes it more flavorful.”
“But you don’t eat that part.”
“We will now speak only in French for as long as I can stand it.”
Taking out a bottle, he explained in his native tongue, “I am serving you something special for your birthday. Rosé champagne. It is made by blending a touch of red wine with a base of white before the secondary fermentation.”
About all Alyce understood was “rosé champagne,” but it was enough for her to say, “Bring it on!”
He’d have to remember to put that expression in his notebook on her.
His toast was “To the new and improved Al-ees.” Hers was “To a birthday I’ll always remember.”
“I doubt that will be the case if you stay friends with Julien.” He waited until she had finished half of her glass before saying, “May I give you a social pointer?”
“Sure.”
He told her she should always say “Bonjour” to anyone behind the counter of an establishment she entered and “Au revoir” when she left. When she asked a stranger for help to use these magic words: Excusez-moi de vous déranger, madame, monsieur. Mais j’ai un problème.
“Excuse me for…”
“Disturbing you.”
“…but I have a problem?”
“Very good!”
She repeated it several times. “If the French are so polite, how come they’re stereotyped as being rude?”
He patiently explained that the French are discourteous only when given good reason. Foreigners, especially Americans, are astonishingly gifted at providing such instances. The only person allowed to criticize a French person was his or her mother. Yes, they insulted customers who complained. Who wants to have their reputation and integrity publicly questioned?
“In the words of Napoleon,” he said, “the French can be killed but not intimidated. This is the opposite of America, where owning up to mistakes and bending over backward for a customer—even if he is at fault—is typical.”
“Sorry, but that seems flat-out obnoxious. Especially if you’re being so nice to them when you enter and leave their store.”
He liked the soundness of her argument. “I will think about that.”
He slid lemon slices under the skin of the chicken breast, laid five sprigs of fresh rosemary on top, then put the bird in the oven to roast.
“Other than all that nonsense with the cavity,” she said, “that was pretty simple.”
He hated to admit she had a point. So he didn’t.
By the time Julien knocked on the front door she had almost finished her wine. He knew what a lightweight she was with alcohol and couldn’t wait to see what this night would bring.
But it wasn’t Julien. It was a florist delivering two-dozen red roses to Alyce.
“How can you squeal with delight over such an ordinary gesture? Let me see the card. Hugs and kisses on your 27th birthday. Love, Nelson. That is it?”
She looked around. “I don’t see anything from you other than cooking a dinner you’re going to enjoy as well.”
Damn her impertinence. He opened a cupboard and handed her a small, beautifully gift-wrapped box. He hadn’t used paper. He found a piece of amber Chinese silk, put that around the box, tied it with the leaf from a palm frond and stuck a twig of fresh lavender in it.
“Jean-Luc, it’s so beautifully wrapped. Who did it?”
“I did!”
“Oh.” She carefully removed the silk from his gift. “Cheez Whiz I can squirt!”
Her joyous laugh flew around the kitchen like swallows darting about a barn at dusk. She gave him a quick but warm embrace. “Thank you. How did you know I liked this?”
“Tragedy spreads quickly.”
“Where did you find it? I’ve never seen it here.”
“But of course, the Internet.”
She popped the top off and squirted a big blob on her finger as though she hadn’t eaten in two days and popped it in her mouth. Just as he expected a satisfied grin to spread across her face, she made a terrible grimace, ran to the sink, and spit it out.
“That’s disgusting. How did I ever eat that shit?”
Again she had him laughing harder than he had in a very long time.
With all the attention Nelson was showing her in emails and texts, Alyce wasn’t inclined to get too cozy with Julien. She hoped meeting Jean-Luc would be enough to satisfy him. But by the time he arrived she was more than a little tipsy. He was so cute and smitten that she thought, again, how not having someone to at least snuggle with on her birthday was so un-French.
She led Julien to the kitchen. Jean-Luc was standing at the screen door looking out at the swimming pool. A light breeze made his long gray hair move a bit.
He turned and warmly acknowledged his visitor, who was carrying a bag with several of his books.
Jean-Luc held up one. “Horrendous translation.”
Julien offered, “I thought Al-ees might like to read some of your books in English and French to help her comprehension.”
He kept rummaging through the bag. “Crap, crap, and more crap.”
“Would you please, if you don’t mind, sign them for me?”
“If you insist.”
Alyce punched his bicep harder than she intended. “Why do you have a problem with someone liking your work?”
Julien inhaled sharply.
“Down, girl,” said Jean-Luc.
Didon was giving Julien a good sniffing. Leaning down and giving her a good chest rub, he said, “Poodles are very smart.”
“That’s a poodle?”
She directed Julien to the toilette so he could wash his hands. Back in the kitchen, Jean-Luc chided her. “What did I say about being polite, my delicate flower?”
“You said it was okay to be rude if someone was rude first. And you were rude.”
That shut him up.
Alyce and Julien sat on stools by the wooden counter as Jean-Luc entertained his captive audience with his cooking skills and stories—and more bubbly. At this rate, she was going to pass out on the floor before the food reached the table.
Jean-Luc raised his flute. “A toast to our birthday girl.”
She was surprised to feel a lump in her throat. Why did 27 feel so old?
Julien touched her glass with his. “To a real woman.”
Jean-Luc added, “To a woman beginning to blossom but who still has a few prickly thorns.”
She produced a most unfeminine guffaw and could not care less. “Takes one to know one.”
For a split second, she was glad they were settling into a friendship. Of sorts. Or was it the wine talking?
“Jean-Luc.” Julien looked to Alyce for reassurance. She had no idea what he was trying to say. He took a deep breath and it all came out in a rush. “As someone who wants to become a writer and eventually support a wife and family, your well-known financial difficulties are giving me second thoughts.”
He let out a long, weary sigh. “Most writers struggle to make a living for various reasons. For me, a lot of it goes back to when I was a child, when my father left. My mother quickly became poor and turned to prostitution.”