by Rozsa Gaston
Would Jean-Michel notice a change? I decided not to share too much of my overriding thoughts about Yale during our time together. It was a world apart from the one he inhabited. And moving toward it meant moving away from him. I didn’t delude myself that Jean-Michel was terribly in love with me, but we were attached. Loss loomed on the horizon.
When he came out of the doorway, I hugged him extra hard after exchanging kisses. He looked pleased, his dark blue eyes casting greenish-gray in the late afternoon light. We strolled down to the Cinémathèque entrance in the gardens of the Palais de Chaillot to watch the movie-goers line up for the early evening show. It was a well known foreign film theater in Paris. We’d never gone to a movie there ourselves, content enough just to watch the crowd line up for whatever foreign art film was currently playing.
In Paris, people-watching was an art form. Jean-Michel was a discreet observer of public conduct and style, unlike my friend Elizabeth, who was unabashedly snide in her commentary on the failings of other human beings, with her snarky British wit. I enjoyed time with Elizabeth until invariably I felt as if I were participating in some sort of vivisection of poor, hapless strangers who really weren’t all that inferior to us. But with Jean-Michel, I learned a great deal from his restrained commentary on the people around us. He wasn’t so much judgmental as he was instructional. Now, he motioned to a woman with henna’d hair standing next to a man in line.
“Look at the woman there,” he said in a low voice. “You see her scarf?”
I glanced in her direction, pretending to survey the crowd as I caught sight of the long black, white, and gray scarf loosely slung around her neck.
“Yes. What about it?”
“That’s how to wear a scarf,” he sniffed.
“Do you mean long like that?” The scarf was generous, draped over one side of the back of her black jacket.
“I mean everything like that. The black and white is chic but would be too severe without the gray. The design is not too busy. And the way she wears it shows she knows how good she looks in it. The scarf has made her jacket come alive.”
I’d never had a conversation like this with an American man.
“It is chic, isn’t it?” I agreed.
“It’s not the scarf that’s chic,” he explained impatiently. “It’s the woman wearing it who is.” He squeezed my arm in reprimand.
“Right. That’s what I meant,” I corrected myself, chasing away a tiny cloud of irritation. His fussiness annoyed me but he had a point. Who cared about a piece of clothing? It was the person who wore it who gave it whatever value it possessed. I wondered how I’d do in a black, white, and gray scarf. Immediately, I vowed to look for a similar one then practice draping it in the mirror.
Tugging at his arm, I led the way toward the placid pond in the gardens of the Palais de Chaillot. Fountains shot jets into the late afternoon air. The temperature was warm, the heat of the day still lingering as did the scents of trees, shrubs, and flowers bursting into bloom all around us. My eye wandered over Jean-Michel’s rugged profile and leather jacket. Our relationship worked as long as he played teacher and I played student. Any other dynamic would upset his apple cart.
“Your thoughts?” he asked.
I smiled up at him. “You’re just right for me,” I said, leaving out ‘for now’. Some things were better left unsaid. Especially things that couldn’t be changed.
He smiled back, but something wry rather than joyful was in his expression. “You say that because you’re leaving.”
“Do I?”
He was right. I’d said it because I had a way out. Otherwise, staring into the face of a man perfect for me at age twenty would have scared the living daylights out of me. I was far from ready for perfection. Ahead of me lay a whole world to discover, mistakes to be made. I wanted a happy home life one day, somewhere far in the future after college, a taste of the work world, and more than a taste of whatever men loomed in my future, both perfect and not-so-perfect. At this point, the oyster shell of perfection didn’t beckon to me as a permanent home. I just wanted to grab the pearl and make off with it.
We stared at each other for a moment, all the while the sound of the fountains soothing the harsh reality of where we stood. I thought he was perfect because I was leaving, and he knew it. I could only guess what his thoughts were. Perhaps he was assessing the harshness of my blithe, superficial heart, accepting but hardening his own heart against it. I had a plan and so did he. Mine was to enjoy a few more months in Paris in his company, his was to enjoy mine until I left, at which point he would resume patrolling the Latin Quarter for unschooled, chubby American girls.
I was having a relationship with a man whose company I enjoyed. This wasn’t Anna and Vronsky or Romeo and Juliet. Who knew what Jean-Michel thought about us as a couple? His hard, blue eyes told me he was a realist about romance. It had a beginning, a middle, and an end. Suddenly, I wondered if he’d ever been head over heels in love.
I linked my fingers through his and waited to see what he’d do.
“You’re a minx,” he finally said, taking my chin in his fingers, giving it a little twist. It might have been an affectionate gesture, but the sharp way he did it spoke volumes.
“Ouch.” I pulled away, wondering at his words. What was “minx” code for? Liar? A young, superficial, hard-hearted girl having an experience with an older man she would soon leave?
For the first time with Jean-Michel, I knew I was in the driver’s seat. But I didn’t want to be. I just barely had my driver’s license. All I really wanted was to be a passenger while we passed some pretty scenery, then get out when the ride was over.
Unsure of myself, I avoided further references to Yale. What was the point of rubbing salt into a wound? Another idea came over me. I would explore what more Jean-Michel had to offer in the lovemaking department. Would a touch of urgency transform my moans into screams? I wondered if fear of abandonment might not light a fire under him I hadn’t yet seen.
If I was to be a minx, although I’d never felt like one up to that moment, then I’d try to fit the part. I put my arm under his and squeezed. His bicep was evident, compact, jutting, and hard, like the rest of him.
“Let’s go,” I said.
“Where?”
“Back to your place,” I whispered.
“Why not yours?” he asked, for the first time.
I’d never thought to invite him to my room. It was my inviolate, feminist sanctuary, the place where I read Simone de Beauvoir and Anaïs Nin while pondering self-actualization strategies. In the eight months since I’d arrived in Paris, no man had stepped over its threshold.
I made a face, hoping it was minx-like. “It’s too small. Not comfortable.”
“Your room is smaller than mine?” He looked startled.
“Not just the room,” I teased.
“What else?”
“My bed.”
“Your bed?” His bicep throbbed under my fingers.
“Your bed is nicer,” I murmured.
“You like it?”
“When we’re in it together, yes.” I’d taken a page from his comments on the woman, not the scarf, being chic. It was all about human beings, not objects, wasn’t it?
“What about dinner?” he asked.
“Let’s go back to your place, then go to dinner.”
“Mais, c’est pas normal,” he reproved me, using the French phrase for, but it’s not normal, or, it’s not the way it’s done.
“So what?” I challenged him.
I was fed up with hearing that phrase used over and over again by what appeared to be the entire French population. It was right up there with je m’en fous, or I could care less, a seemingly opposite sentiment. Apparently, the French cared a great deal when it came to doing anything differently from the way things were usually done. It grated on my freedom-loving American spirit.
He seemed shocked. “We dine, then go to bed.” He looked at me as if I’d just suggested putting
on our shoes before our socks. Another twinge of irritation ran through me. Didn’t he realize I was trying to add some zing to our sex life?
“How about if we make love, then dine, then go to bed?” I suggested, thinking he might find the idea exciting. I did.
“Minouche, c’est pas normale. Now is time to eat, later is time for bed. What are you thinking?” He was practically scolding me.
What kind of man reproaches his nubile, thirteen-year younger girlfriend for suggesting they make love sooner rather than later? I was vexed. Was there a French word for fuddy-duddy? I’d ask someone in my French class the following week.
Jean-Michel was steering us in the direction of Montparnasse. All I could think of was how utterly boring and conventional life would be beside him. Here I was trying to juice up our Friday night routine, and instead of being pleased, he acted put out. Until that moment, he’d never heard me talk this way. In fact, we never talked about making love at all. We just did it.
I already knew he was prudish in some ways. It was consistent with his fastidious nature, the way he polished and buffed his shoes before going to work. Did I like it? Hmmm.
I, on the other hand, was only prudish because I was inexperienced. The encounter with the couple in the underpass a few nights earlier had unleashed a curiosity in me far outweighing any prudishness I falsely exhibited. I was eager to get back to Jean-Michel’s place so that I could find out if there was something more our intimacy that night might awaken. The sands had shifted in the balance of power between us.
“Okay, let’s get something to eat and then go back to your place,” I agreed, squeezing his bicep again.
“Of course. That’s what we always do,” he agreed calmly.
And that’s why this has nowhere to go, I added silently. For the first time, I identified something about the French that wasn’t vastly superior to my own countrymen. It was their unquestioning sense of conventionality, the distaste for anything out of the established order, say, making love spontaneously at an unexpected time of day, having something to eat on the street or outside of mealtimes, ordering the wrong wine with a dish, or just doing anything differently from the way everyone else did it.
Dull. Very dull. My inquisitive American blood simmered in indignation at the sheer, plodding conformism of it all. I wanted to try something new in bed with Jean-Michel. But he was a tough nut to crack. If nothing changed between us that night, then something would for me. Jean-Michel would not be the only one to test his partner in this ménage.
Finally, dinner was over. Itching to begin my experiment, I waited for Jean-Michel to make the first move. When he pulled his chair closer to mine, I was ready.
He kissed my neck, making the short downy hair there stand up on end.
Turning my face toward his, I kissed him back below his left earlobe. Then, I used my teeth, digging into him.
“Doucement, cherie,” he whispered. Go easy, sweetheart, was what he meant.
I didn’t want to go easy. I wanted to go hard. Wasn’t that what that couple had been doing in the underpass along the Seine?
“Bite me,” I whispered back. “Go on.”
He continued to nibble on my neck.
“Harder. Use your teeth,” I insisted. It was a command, not a request.
“Shhh, Minouche. Don’t be crazy,” he said, as if trying to reassure me.
I wasn’t looking for reassurance. I was looking for the stairway to heaven. It was nowhere in sight.
Later, I lay back on the bed, staring into the dark. Jean-Michel snored gently next to me. Our lovemaking had been nice. I’d moaned. But nothing moved me to scream. Probably Jean-Michel wouldn’t like it if I had screamed. It might disturb his neighbors, which wouldn’t do.
My thoughts whirled. If a woman had the capacity to scream like the woman in the underpass, didn’t that mean if her partner knew she could go there, he’d want to be the one to send her? I mean, why stop halfway if you knew you weren’t all the way to your destination?
If I knew anything about men, I knew they liked to know how things worked. What guy would put down a new piece of equipment until he’d figured out how to get maximum capacity out of it? I thought of the few males I’d dated back in Connecticut. They’d all been obsessed with their cars or motorcycles – Triumphs, Corvettes, Harley-Davidsons. You name it, they’d pulled them apart and put them back together again, then taken them out on the road to see how fast they could go. Didn’t this innate tendency to tinker extend to their interest in women? In other words, wouldn’t any red-blooded male want to see how high he could make his woman fly?
I pondered these thoughts and others as I thought about the nice time I was having with Jean-Michel and how to go about leaving him as pleasantly as possible. My mind’s eye returned again and again to the image of the couple in the underpass. One day, a man would make me scream in ecstasy – it just wouldn’t be the one sleeping beside me. He had no idea he’d failed my test. It was better if he never did. There was no reason to ruffle fond memories of the time we spent together.
CHAPTER FIVE
Le Petit Cochon (The Little Pig)
The month of May was gorgeous. I responded with a speedy yes to the Yale Admissions Office. My very uncertain future suddenly had turned into something concrete and bright. I shared news of my Yale acceptance with Elizabeth, but she’d been more impressed that I lost two pounds since the last time we met.
The weeks flew by flush with planning and anticipation. My diet was working, albeit slowly. I was becoming addicted to fromage maigre, much as I’d previously been addicted to the pain chocolats, pain aux raisins, creamy Bretons, and other delicacies in the pastry shop windows. The nutritional label on the side of the fromage maigre containers thrilled me. High protein content combined with almost no fat to make it an ideal diet food. I’d grown up with chops, steak, and roast beef as cornerstones of my diet. I’d also been slim until I hit age seventeen and somehow slid into a pastries and sugar addiction. My final semester of high school in Maine, I took a job at Dunkin’ Donuts. My size six donut girl uniform no longer fit by April of my senior year. Around Easter time, the owner of the franchise diplomatically said nothing as he handed me a brand new uniform, size ten. I was straining it at the seams by the time I quit in June, graduating from high school and exiting the state of Maine to return to Connecticut, and civilization as I knew it, as fast as I could.
At the tiller of my own sailboat for several years, I’d steered it into irons. Now was the time to get out of them. I knew where I was headed, New Haven, Connecticut, first week of September, 1978. I just needed to be ready to arrive there.
On a Sunday evening in late May, Jean-Michel went downstairs for a few final dinner supplies and came back with a small white package stamped Gaillard Patisserie on the wrapping paper.
“Un cadeau, Minouche,” he said, handing it to me. I eyed it suspiciously. Was there ever going to be an end to his habit of presenting me with fattening presents? I had foregone further thoughts of flying to the moon with him when we made love, since it was clear circling around somewhere in space before coming back to Earth was as far as Jean-Michel thought I should be going.
My own behavior toward him was highly conciliatory, now that the end of my stay in France loomed in sight. Could I not receive a little consideration on his part when I told him I was dieting and pastries were not on the plan? How many times had I mentioned that I was trying to lose a few pounds?
Obviously, he didn’t care. With a tender smile on his face, he instructed me to unwrap the surprise. I sullenly did.
It was a marzipan petit cochon. I didn’t even like marzipan. And it was in the shape of a little pink pig. Is that what he thought of me? His plump little American pink pig girlfriend? The blood rushed to my head as I stood up.
“I don’t want it,” I said, handing it back to him.
“But Minouche, I got it for you,” he cajoled, thrusting the pig back into my hand. “Isn’t it cute? It’s cute, like yo
u,” he continued, pleading with me.
“Thanks. I’ll eat it later,” I said, furious. I’d dump it in the trash on my way home the next day.
“No, Minouche. Eat it now. I want to see you enjoy it,” he insisted.
It was enough to make me sick. Not only had he not remembered I didn’t like marzipan, but he didn’t care that I’d told him numerous times I was on a diet and off pastry and sweets. The moment of truth had arrived.
“I’m not eating sweets now. I’m on a diet. How many times do I have to remind you?”
“Dieting isn’t good for you. You shouldn’t be dieting. You should be bien dans ta peau, like April. Eat it, cherie. I got it just for you.”
Comfortable in my skin like April, huh? I thought back to what April confided to me the afternoon I met her. She’d told me Jean-Michel was always trying to stuff her with sweets like the profiteroles he’d suggested at a restaurant that evening. She’d turned down his invitation. Whatever he thought she was, April was comfortable in her own skin AND on a diet.
As Jean-Michel moved back to the kitchen table to unwrap the rest of the groceries, my chance presented itself. Above us, the skylight of his sloping eaves roof was open to let in the soft spring air. With one quick swing, I tossed the petit cochon out the skylight.
“What are you doing?” he cried, grabbing my arm and shoving it down. “What did you do that for?” His eyes blazed and a vein in his neck throbbed out.
“I told you I’m dieting,” I yelled. “You don’t listen to me. I’m trying not to eat sweets, but you keep buying them for me. It’s a problem. Understand?” I’d had it. This time, my tormentor wasn’t my grandmother, and I was no longer ten years old.
Jean-Michel looked shocked, then incensed. I felt a brief flash of sympathy, thinking how nasty he must think I was to have tossed his present out the window. But there was a point to be made that hadn’t gotten through in conversation alone.