‘I think you probably do.’ Amy smiled her sweetest, dimpled smile.
‘She wished me to dissuade you.’
‘Just so, Madame Chastine was concerned about you making a mistake,’ the baron agreed.
‘I on the other hand tend to think you should buy it, if you can afford it,’ Emile said.
All this seemed confusing; she had thought Géraldine approved of the affair. ‘Did she ask you to come down here?’
‘Géraldine suggested I have a talk with you,’ agreed Emile vaguely.
‘I told her I’d come have a look,’ said the baron.
‘You came all the way because of me?’ Amy began to find this irritating. After all, she could make her own decisions.
‘I wanted to see the place. And Persand suggested I come down, since I had to see the notaire anyway. Persand is opposed to Americans buying French real estate,’ said Emile. ‘I suppose I am, too, in general. But there are Americans one would want to see more of.’ Both Emile and the baron, seizing on that happy turn of phrase, beamed at Amy. The combination of beauty, a big fortune, and enlightened social thinking was an assemblage of qualities Emile had never before encountered; he couldn’t blame himself for being dazzled. If he could get rid of this Austrian.
Fortune hunter, lecher, this was deplorable, thought Otto.
It was hopeless, Amy saw, these men were going to keep each other in view till midnight. ‘Good night!’ she said, and got up. ‘Thanks so much. It’s incredibly sweet of you both.’ She hoped her glance at Emile would be readable. She smiled again and left them.
‘Would you like a cigar?’ the baron was saying to Emile.
In her room, Amy, putting on her nightgown, weighed whether to leave it off entirely. Europe! where she could behave as she pleased. In a high state of excitement, she wondered what she would do if after all it was the baron who should tap on her door. She didn’t think it would be. Her excitement was more than sexual, it was a sort of sense of being on a life cusp, between what and what, she had no idea, but she had glimpsed it earlier, strands of self-understanding knotting into a strong frond that she could depend upon without giving it a self-indulgent amount of thought in future.
Fortunately it was Emile who knocked at the door. Standing modestly aside, despite herself she glanced down the hall, half expecting to see Otto also tiptoeing toward her door, as in the play she had seen by Feydeau, one of the few theatrical events Géraldine had sent her to which she had understood – people tiptoeing down corridors carrying their shoes, and hiding under beds. Emile came in and took her in his arms.
After some time, when neither of them had anything more to wish for – the phrase was Stendhal’s – Emile said, ‘I was trying to explain how I fell in love with you – in a way. It could have been either your air of mystery, or the fascination of your alien tribe, but in fact it was when I saw you being nice to some fat Americans in front of the Invalides. No, not love “in a way,” I fell completely in love with you. You were concerned to save the honor of the French. Well, it was actually before that. Once, in Valméri, you wore your hair down at dinner. Do you remember? It was then I saw your beauty for the first time.’
Amy did remember, it was the night she had slept with the baron. So, evidently Géraldine was right about the importance of hair as about everything, including how amusing Emile would be in private, as she had just learned.
‘Well, of course I had remarked it before, at that lunch and even before. You are “noticeable,” after all,’ Emile went on. Amy was quite content to be praised for any attribute by such a perfect creature.
‘For me, it was when you didn’t kill the lobster,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t know it right then. I only let myself know it when I heard Victoire had left you – you see how scrupulous I am. So you don’t think I should cut my hair?’
‘Perhaps shoulder length,’ he agreed, as if he had given it some thought. That was when she knew he was truly French, member of an alien tribe.
‘Do you think it’s too late for us?’ she wondered. ‘I’m going back to California.’ Tears sprang to her eyes, surprising her. Emile held and kissed her with considerable conviction. Amy clung to him, but a shred of self-preserving instinct remained to her to protect her heart. Emile seemed to feel the same wariness.
‘Must you go back?’
‘Yes, I don’t belong in France, I know that.’
‘Any more than I do, I suppose. We are both outsiders. That’s our opportunity.’
‘You should go back to your room. Being together just makes it harder,’ Amy said. But he stayed the rest of the night – it was irresistible after all – both of them firmly agreeing that what they were doing didn’t count, and would not interfere with their various real-life resolutions.
‘What is your mysterious secret?’ Emile asked at some point.
She wasn’t quite sure what he meant; she was boringly transparent to herself. It could be her money, she knew – it was the one thing she couldn’t talk about, a kind of shameful secret.
They were never sure they didn’t hear the baron – or someone – outside her door in the wee hours; whoever it was must have heard the noisy moans and cries within.
40
Back in Paris, Amy had walked around for a few days in a dream state, wandering through the Jardins de Luxembourg or the Bon Marché without looking at anything, her resolutions wavering. At moments she dreaded going back to Palo Alto with a visceral panic. Once she heard herself give a great hiccupping sob in the Monoprix. She knew the future, unwelcoming and bleak: she would never again see Emile; the love of her life was behind her; the years to come held nothing in particular to look forward to but good works, which she didn’t find as satisfying as she ought. Was her unhappiness relative, because she had had little to trouble her in life? Her eyes filled with self-pity that she would always be outside, excluded, and that by her riches she had put herself beyond deserving any form of consolation. Who could feel sorry for her, one of the luckiest people on earth?
She knew she didn’t really want a château. It had been a stupid idea. She was not a châtelaine, and not even a European, she was someone who hadn’t even got around to furnishing her condo. Her authentic self was not an exile in a tower; like it or not, she was an American person from Palo Alto, there was no getting around this. A château would be a burden far from her interests and abilities, a sort of pretentious diversion from her real life. She thought of her colleague Ben, stranded on his vast tracts in Patagonia, and of the forlorn, bored expression in his eyes when he came back to California, as he rarely did now.
What was the fine line between boredom and depression? Could whole nations be depressed? Bored? Walking along the Paris streets, looking at the thinner bodies of French people and thinking about their longer lives: were they less bored than Americans? Was it because they could see things at eye level, walking along, instead of being trapped in cars? Or did they feel limited, shackled by the lack of wheels?
Of course she bore in mind the disappointment she was causing to Victoire, Posy, Rupert, Kerry, and Harry, and even herself, though the decision not to buy lightened her, too, routing the specter of the leaky, giant, cold edifice reproachfully looming in her consciousness, if not also in her unconscious, where the primitive real estate gene still emitted its disturbing dream influence. She was going against her own principles of mutual aid, not to do something so clearly for the general good.
Amy had been reassured by Emile that Géraldine would be pleased that she wasn’t buying the château. Nevertheless, she explained her decision to Géraldine with some trepidation. ‘Baron Otto says not to buy it, everyone seems to say it would be unwise,’ she apologized.
Géraldine had heard this already – had had phone calls from Emile, Baron Otto, the consternated Pamela, and the desperate Rupert. She had asked Emile if it was he who had talked Amy out of the château affair.
‘I? No, I haven’t talked to her about it,’ he said, not quite untruthfully.
<
br /> ‘I’m sure you are right,’ said Géraldine to Amy now. She was relieved but didn’t wish to seem too pleased.
‘I have mixed feelings. I can imagine so many people happy there, little Harry, Victoire… In so many ways, I can see it ...’
‘I’m sure you’re longing to be at home,’ said Géraldine. ‘It must be lovely, all those palm trees and beaches.’ She was thinking that Amy didn’t really look like she was longing to go home. There was now something about her, at once a glow and something triste. Géraldine would like to keep her a few months longer. Amy was on a cusp, clearly, and could fall either way, but probably would fall back into California’s simple, even barbaric ways; she had told Géraldine about take-out food, for example.
‘Not really,’ said Amy, thinking of freeways, Burger Kings, gas stations, traffic, garage door openers, resentful Salvadoreans doing the hedges, war, religious fundamentalists in A-frame churches with vinyl siding, all the anger and ugliness she knew she would find at home these days. She thought of the Ukiah of her childhood, hot and dusty, where you could ride your bike everywhere, and of Palo Alto today. But you couldn’t escape, that was the probability, you could only try to become better at being where you were. Roots were nonsense. What a lot of trouble she had gone to, to discover only this rather banal and simple truth.
‘You will visit often, you have your apartment,’ Géraldine reassured her. ‘It will not be a disappointment to Victoire not to live in the château – she would not after all have lived there. She has decided to take her husband back, I’m happy to report. Perhaps she listens to me more than I supposed. A mon âge, I think I do know a few things.’
Amy did not know how to feel about this news. In principle, she believed in stable social relationships like marriage. Géraldine began to air her views about marriage. ‘Somewhat conventional, I know,’ she assured Amy. ‘But the point of folk wisdom, is it not, is that there is so much experience behind it?’ She emphasized that it was Victoire to whom her strictures were directed.
Géraldine had been relieved, though somewhat baffled, that Victoire had decided to patch things up with Emile and go on leading the life she had led before. She suspected it was because Victoire had seen him in his glory at her party for Amy, handsome and surrounded by admirers, treated collegially by the rising Antoine de Persand, reverently by the grandest of her guests, and with the new prospects of earning a better living.
Géraldine had not expected to find in Amy such a glowing, changed person, someone altogether in the kind of altered state that often meant its wearer had fallen in love. At least Amy’s transformation didn’t seem to be related to real estate. Of course she wouldn’t pry, but the sight of the girl’s enhanced radiance led her to contemplate, and dilate upon, the subject of love in general. As she spoke, she watched Amy to see if Amy understood that she, too, could profit from the motherly wisdom Géraldine dispensed.
‘Victoire is so idealistic. She is so apt to neglect the very ordinary things that make love last,’ she said. ‘The old recipes suffice – the negligee, the candlelight, should not be underestimated. Perfume – so important. Even, dare I say, a change in – sexual positions – from time to time? I wish to say, physical love is the basis of all.’ She went on discoursing about womanly wiles, and the fitful nature of Eros, so apt to displace himself when the tiniest bit bored.
Wiles did not interest Amy greatly; she disapproved of them. Anyway, Géraldine’s wisdom was no more than what any ladies’ magazine would say. Why was Géraldine telling her things like this? For a moment Amy feared she had guessed something about Emile and her, and wanted to warn Amy off with descriptions of how happy Victoire and Emile were going to be in their perfumed bed. But Géraldine didn’t appear even to know that Emile had gone to Saint-Gond, so no doubt she was speaking only as a disinterested representative of her generation, bound to convey vital information to younger women coming up.
It was occurring to Géraldine as she spoke that another plausible explanation for Amy’s changed manner and stylish shorter haircut – thank heavens she had got rid of the Heidi braid – was her relief at going back to California. Géraldine was not sure she could count Amy among her successes. Two of her real successes had involved American divorcées achieving marriages to Frenchmen, though only one of those marriages had lasted. In comparison, what had Amy accomplished, really? Still, she was intelligent and observant, and perhaps had evolved some in her few months here. She looked smarter in her clothes now, seemed to appreciate art and food, and had referred to reading several books! Géraldine had also overheard her mention the grisaille French weather.
The most likely explanation for Amy’s present happiness, she decided, was that Amy had fallen in love, and it suddenly occurred to Géraldine that the lover could be Baron Otto! That must be it! They had both been in Valméri, and were both in Saint-Gond, Otto dutifully doing Géraldine’s bidding by going down there to look at the château. She certainly would not have proposed he seduce the girl. Perhaps Otto saw a ski chalet in her future? Géraldine found this idea somewhat annoying, but refrained from asking him about it later. What she did, whom she slept with, what she bought, were Amy’s concerns.
Amy’s radiance was love, it was clear to herself, but it was also relief at having settled the issue of love, found an object for her heart. She had a grateful sense of having got life’s principal drama behind her. If loneliness, misery, and unbearable pangs of desire got the better of her from time to time, well, she would fly to Paris. It was these insights that gave her a glow of inner calm. She had broken through to the raw edge of something, felt it, and would suffer – and this new intensity was after all, maybe, what she had come for.
‘I’ve never seen you look so well, Amy,’ said Géraldine. ‘Just when I’ve made a Parisienne of you – what a pity that you’re not staying longer.’
41
Amy had decided the menu for her farewell party would be tiny caviar tacos, lobster enchiladas, nachos, quesadillas, rare roast beef chili, giant prawns marinated in lime juice, champagne, and margaritas. Géraldine had tactfully added some items to the hors d’oeuvres and proposed two versions of the chili. For those – almost every French person – who weren’t fond of spices, it would be chili without chili powder, more of a boeuf bourguignon with beans. For the music, there would be mariachis. Amy had brought two of her tablecloths to cover the long buffet, which the waiters were spreading as she watched, their snowy perfection and distinguished monograms invoking a venerable tradition of hospitality.
The white ship Elba lay at anchor in the Seine, with a metal gangplank leading to it from the quay, festooned with ropes and life preservers. The feeble afternoon sun had set, but the weather was still mild. Géraldine had known whom to call to hire this bateau-mouche, which would leave its dock in the yacht basin Henri IV at nine-thirty and make a circuit during dinner of the splendid monuments along the Seine, fixing them in the powerful battery of lights it swept along the darkened banks. For Amy, this was almost a metaphor of her French experience – a dark and shadowy reality momentarily illumined with flashes of clarity.
At nine, her Paris acquaintance began to climb the gangplank to the bateau. She was surprised at how many people she had come to know in a few months, counting her singing, cooking, and other teachers, American advisors, French people who had invited her, friends of Géraldine, the whole Venn clan – for Pamela and Rupert were coming over from London again, as was now so easy on the Eurostar. Here came the Valméri contingent, Joe Daggart, the prince and princesse de Mawlesky, and Madame Dové-Chatigny. Perhaps Baron Otto would be in town; he wasn’t sure.
Assembled, it was a handsome, even glamorous group, which Amy mentally contrasted with her friends at home. How was she going to find them? Changed? Would they find her changed? No matter, parties were mutual aid at its sweetest, proffering pleasure, each guest acceding by his presence to the principle of human sociability. As they arrived she greeted the various American women who had hel
ped her and their French husbands. She expected Géraldine and Eric, Victoire with them – a hundred people in all.
Posy Venn and Robin Crumley were among the first, tripping up the gangplank hand in hand, Robin almost dapper in a nautical blue blazer, Posy in a windbreaker and white trousers. They hardly noticed Amy in their absorption with each other, but were delighted when they spotted her, and rushed to her side.
‘You will be amazed,’ Robin said, kissing her on both cheeks like a Frenchman. ‘We want you to know we are going to be married! You are the first to know! It will be announced. We’ve written to The Times.’
They did seem to project a bridal radiance that confirmed this surprising development. Amy was as amazed as they could have wished. Surely the lunch in Saint-Jean-de-Belleville was the first time they had ever been in each other’s company? Amy asked herself whether she could imagine being married to Robin Crumley, but it seemed far from any imaginative leap she could make. She concluded that Robin and Posy had not heard of Amy’s projected purchase of the château, hence had not known the disappointment felt by Victoire and Rupert when she decided not to do it.
‘You must announce it tonight. An engagement is so much nicer than a farewell,’ Amy said as they moved happily along the deck toward Emile, who had arrived separately from Victoire and Géraldine and stood at the rail gazing solemnly down into the water. Perhaps, Amy thought, he felt as forlorn as she did. They almost didn’t dare to look at each other for fear that anyone could see their emotions.
‘Abboud, dear fellow! Providence works in wondrous ways, as one is always being told. Posy and I are to be married! All that one could wish from a romantic escapade – we’re off to Monaco tomorrow, you know, on these wondrous French trains. We’ve sent word to The Times. You’ll see it one of these days…’
‘Congratulations, Crumley. A very intelligent choice.’ Emile pumped Robin’s hand with hearty sincerity. He could easily see in Posy the sturdy mother of Englishmen she was destined to be, could envision the little rosy blond tots, Posy knitting woollies and making trifle, or other elements of their odd cuisine – she was perfection for Crumley, for anyone. He embraced Robin, and kissed Posy on each cheek with an admirable detachment and genuine affection.
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