Cheryl reaches over and shuts Lena’s handmade calendar. “All we need to know is that Tina’s concert takes place in eighteen days. We have our tickets. We’ll worry about how to get there when the time comes. Otherwise, no planning.”
Lena grins, glad that Cheryl is with her, despite her flamboyance, despite her disorganization and toss-it-to-the-wind outlook.
Cheryl motions to the waiter. “Gauloises, s’il vous plaît.”
“Since when do you speak French?” Secondhand smoke catches in Lena’s throat.
“Please, everybody knows ‘please.’ Gauloises are cigarettes.”
When the waiter returns, he brings a pack of unidentifiable cigarettes and tells Cheryl that Gauloises are hard to find these days. “C’est la vie,” Cheryl says and accepts the compact, blue pack. “It doesn’t matter.” She opens the box top, pulls out two cigarettes, and hands one to Lena. Putting the cigarette between her lips, Lena strikes a match and leans into its flame.
Chapter 23
Cheryl approaches the last roundabout before Vence: five-foot-wide, circular cement mounds of grass and flowers built at one-mile intervals in the middle of the road to the hilltop city. At each one, multiple thoroughfares converge and crook, snakelike arrows direct traffic left, right, or straight ahead.
Lena points to a tall tower. GARAGE/STATIONNEMENT is stenciled in white letters across its front. The tower’s cement angles are almost an insult to the weathered merry-go-round and the frilly, lace curtains in the restaurant windows behind it.
When the elevator lets them off atop a grassy mound, Lena and Cheryl follow a cluster of people to a narrow opening in a fifteen-inch-thick stone wall.
Inside lies a medieval city: winding streets no wider than eight or ten feet, dusty colored bricks, open markets with tables of eggplant, oranges, leafy greens, and more lined in even rows that resemble art more than food for sale; whole, wall-eyed fish and inky squid atop ice-covered bins, pigs’ heads, tails, and feet; wine and pungent disks of cheese.
“It’s like—” Cheryl whispers.
“We stepped back in time,” Lena finishes, “or more like into a fairy tale.”
Lena removes her camera from its case, focuses the lens: a whole fish ogling them from atop a bed of greens and ice, the word traiteur printed in calligraphy across a striped awning of what looks like a delicatessen, laundry dangling from a window, a small chalkboard with the specials of the day—plats du jour.
“Food now, pictures later.” Cheryl flips through the pages of a small guidebook and wanders in the direction of a restaurant she read about that serves a great coq au vin.
Lena snaps pictures without compromising Cheryl’s search. Each turn reveals more of the city’s charm. Click: a rusted door. Click: a flowering tree beside an old church. Click: a watchtower. The stone streets are spotless. Wine shops, clothing stores, bookstores, shops selling postcards and the ever-present images of cigales carved into music boxes, the tops of ceramic crocks, and scented soaps; all of southern France loves their melodious cicadas.
At the end of an empty, narrow street that seems to have been ignored by scattered tourists, the sound of sizzling meat and the nutty scent of butter just turning brown beckons them: a tiny restaurant, Chez Philippe.
“This is it!” Cheryl shouts. “This is the restaurant in the guide.”
A menu in French and English is taped on the open door. Lena takes pictures while Cheryl scours the two pages. A smiling man with a menu in each hand rushes to the door.
“Bonjour, mesdames. Lunch for two or four?”
Cheryl holds up two fingers. “But, how did you know we speak English?”
“I’d like to tell you it’s your shoes or clothes, cherie, because they are trés chic.” The man looks into Cheryl’s eyes. “But I heard you talking. And women as beautiful as you are hard to ignore.”
“Your English is perfect.” Cheryl returns his straightforward look.
“I’m from Upstate New York. I’m Philip—Philippe.” He exaggerates the French pronunciation—Phil-leep—and cocks his head at a table for two in the corner of the nearly full restaurant. “This is my restaurant.”
“California.” Cheryl extends her hand. “The land of sunshine and loose women.”
Lena slaps Cheryl’s arm lightly. “I’m Lena. She’s Cheryl.”
In between seating new diners and busing dishes, Philip— host, sometime chef and sommelier—returns to their table to chat with the two women as if they are long-lost friends.
“I hardly ever have a chance to talk to anyone from California. We get a lot of people from New York and the East Coast, but not as many from the West Coast.” He sips wine from the glass he leaves on their table. Philip is beefy. His clothes are loose and fashionable in a 1920s movie kind of way that makes him attractive though his face is not. His dark brown hair and blue eyes follow Cheryl’s while he summarizes his story: he has lived in Vence for almost ten years, and he used to run the restaurant for profit, but since 9/11 there have been fewer American tourists; although business is getting better because he’s had some publicity. Now he runs the restaurant for fun and earns his living as an English language teacher at a nearby elementary school.
“He is so sexy.” Cheryl nudges Lena as Philip guides a couple to a small table near a piano pushed against the back wall. “I love the way he looks right at my mouth when he talks to me.”
Lena rolls her eyes in a way that has now become habit and reminds her of Camille and even Kendrick whenever they disapproved of something she did or said.
“Join in the fun.” Cheryl pulls out a gold compact and checks her lipstick. Cheryl only wears red lipstick, preferring to draw attention to her heart-shaped lips; her skin is smooth save for a noticeable scar above her right eye—a leftover from chicken pox; her cheeks bear the slightest tinge of her natural blush that flares when she’s angry or excited.
Cheryl motions to Philip. Leaning into his side, she points to her lunch selection and smiles. “Are you open for dinner, too?”
Philip shoos away the only waiter in the restaurant. “If you like our food, you must come back for dinner. I sing and play the piano, and there’s a wonderful café around the corner that stays open very late.”
Lena shrugs and picks at her sweater and pants. “I’m not sure about the roads at night. And… we’re not really dressed for dinner.”
“But you both look fabulous, and my house specialty is on the menu tonight— a pork that will melt in your mouth,” Philip says, grinning at Cheryl. “You think about it, and let me know.”
Cheryl winks. “Perhaps you can invite a friend in honor of our first time in Vence.”
“Mais oui!” Philip holds his chin between his thumb and forefinger and closes his eyes as if those actions will help with his answer. “I think I can arrange something.”
A very blond and rather hunched-over man in the corner snaps at Philip. “Garçon,” the man calls out, confusing the soft French C with the hard American K. Philip turns toward the women and makes a face behind his stack of menus. “Duty calls.”
“He’s being friendly,” Cheryl says as Philip walks away. “Besides, if the white boy wants to treat us, what have we got to lose?”
“Nnnnnnn…” Lena’s tongue rests against the roof of her mouth so that the N for “no” buzzes in her nose. She shrugs again and tugs at her hair. Open up. Drink coffee here. “Why not?”
“That’s my girl. Remember, we’re here to have fun.”
“As long as your fun doesn’t interfere with my plan.”
“This is the plan.”
f f f
The Matisse museum in Vence is a short trek from the center of the old city. Lena and Cheryl take the orange trolley across a small bridge to the building where Matisse completed the colorful stained glass windows for the Chapelle du Rosaire and the Dominican sisters of Vence. As the trolley approaches the front of the whitewashed chapel, the last of a queue of men and women load into two large vans topped with bi
cycle racks and luggage. Once they’re all inside, a hand sticks out and pulls the van door shut, then the van pulls away from the curb.
“I swear those people are black.” Cheryl waves at the van frantically. “It would be great to make a connection and really have the chance to party.”
“Just ’cause they’re black doesn’t mean they want to party. Or include us. Or, that they’re American. This isn’t Oakland.” Two days in the south of France and, except for Cheryl and the backs of a couple of tall brothers Lena thought she spotted turning a corner in Vence, these are the only people of color she’s seen. Or thinks she’s seen.
“You never know.”
The inside of the tiny chapel is stark white and simple: Matisse’s stained glass windows and angled, wooden pews.
“Matisse worked on these windows from around 1948 to 1952. He wanted to convey an easing of the spirit. These windows represent the tree of life.” A priest clothed in a white, floor-length cassock holds a finger to his lips as Cheryl describes Matisse’s work. Late afternoon light shines through the windows and casts yellow, aquamarine blue, and bottle green rays onto the floor.
“You know so much!”
“Art is, after all, what I do.” Cheryl points out a lesser sketch of the windows as they walk through the hall to the small gift counter. “He’s my favorite. I love all of his work. There’s more in Nice. That museum’s larger.”
The hallway walls are lined with draft sketches of different portions of the windows: a flower here, a winding vine there, repeated from one frame to the next to show the artist’s thought process and practice.
“I wonder if Philip likes art.” Cheryl dismisses the thought with a wave of her hand. “Oh, who cares. We’ll have a good time tonight.”
Lena concentrates on Matisse’s sketches. “It says here that Matisse was searching for one-dimensional movement in this series. What does that mean?”
“You understand exactly what it means, Lena. Don’t change the subject, and stop frowning.” Cheryl shakes a finger at Lena. “You act like I’m forcing you to pose naked in the town square. You’re rusty at the dating game, so just follow my lead.”
“If I do that I’ll be in bed with a stranger before the night is over.”
“And, the problem with that is?” Cheryl pinches Lena’s cheek lightly and grins. Postcards line the small glass-topped counter. Lena selects postcards for Lulu, Bobbie, Camille, Kendrick, and Candace, and steps out onto the terrace of the chapel. Camille would love the art and history here; Kendrick would love the winding roads. From the terrace, old Vence is like a postcard: spires and turrets peak above slanted slate roofs clearly outlined against the darkening sky. Lena points her camera at the city and the valley below; she hopes that she has captured the setting sun’s rose-tinted cast, hopes that her tingling stomach will calm down or, better yet, that Philip has changed his mind and never wants to see the two of them again.
f f f
The restaurant is crowded. Votive candles are everywhere: on the tables, in the windowsills, and on the beam that rests a foot below the low ceiling. Candlelight intensifies the ebony wood. Each table is covered with a soft beige tablecloth and napkins folded into triangle points.
Philip’s face brightens when Cheryl and Lena walk through the door. He sits very erect at a small upright piano in the middle of the room where tables were arranged during lunch. The wide lapels of his old-fashioned tuxedo shine in the candlelight. He croons a lazy French song, somewhere between ballad and jazz, in a raspy alto.
“Bonsoir, mesdames,” he sings, and all heads in the crowded restaurant turn with his. “Mesdames et messieurs, je vous presente mes nouvelles amies de Californie.” He introduces Lena and Cheryl as if they are celebrities.
“Oh, the one on the left looks just like Diana Ross.” An elderly white woman with a distinctive Texas twang points at Cheryl and asks if they are singers, too. “Would you sing ‘Stop, in the Name of Love’? I love that song.”
Lena and Cheryl roll their eyes at one another. “And that is how you can tell they’re Americans,” Lena mutters. “We don’t sing—”
“But if you hum a few bars, I’m sure we’ll catch on.” Cheryl finishes.
Philip sings his own rendition, a muddled blend of French and English, before he joins Cheryl and Lena at their table near the piano. “Tonight you beautiful ladies will have a salad of baby butter lettuce, pork tenderloin sautéed in a reduced red wine sauce et bien sûr, fromage—that’s cheese to the two of you—for dessert.”
“Just what I love—a man who knows his fromage!” Cheryl slaps Lena’s arm for emphasis. “And soon you will, too.”
f f f
Two hours later, a dark-haired, puffy-eared man enters the restaurant just as the waiter brings a platter of hard and runny cheeses to the table. The man scans the restaurant briefly and heads for the piano. Philip motions to the man to lean down and whispers in his ear before they both turn their heads to look at Lena and Cheryl.
“I think that’s your date.” Cheryl tips her head in Philip’s direction.
“Don’t call it a date, don’t call it a date. I’m not ready for a date.” Lena glances toward Philip’s friend. The man is a parody of an absent-minded professor. His short, very ragged beard is striped with gray, and his glasses slip down his nose so that, in the short time that Lena has to inspect him before he comes to the table, he keeps adjusting them with both hands.
Philip rises from the piano, the professorial-looking man close behind him, and pulls up another chair to Lena and Cheryl’s table. He introduces his friend with a flourish as if he were a celebrity, and Lena figures that this, along with his penchant for vintage clothing, is simply Philip’s style. “Je vous presente mon ami, Jean-Pierre Dusquesne.”
“Enchanté, mesdames.” Jean-Pierre lowers his upper body in a feeble bow. His voice is deep and rich like a bassoon. He scoots his chair next to Lena, picks up her knife, and helps himself to a slice of cheese. “Philippe”—he uses the French pronunciation—“tells me that you ladies are here to enjoy the sights of the south of France, and I am available to help if you need me.”
Lena hides her amusement behind one of the crisp linen napkins Philip has placed on the table. Jean-Pierre’s accent is charming and almost sexy, and, she thinks, if she were to close her eyes this would not be the body or face she would attach to that voice.
Jean-Pierre grazes Lena’s hand with his, and she gently moves it away. “And how do you know Philip?”
Without looking at one another, Jean-Pierre and Philip crumple in laughter at the same time. They complete each other’s sentences, like only old friends can do, and tell Lena and Cheryl how they first met when Philip came to Vence thinking that he would sweep the French off their feet with his restaurant.
Jean-Pierre leans in to Lena so close she can smell the tobacco on his breath. “He thought we French would permit a foreigner to—comment dit-on?… how do you say in English?—come in and take over our specialty? Non?”
Philip picks up the story. “Jean-Pierre came to my rescue. He was my first chef and my teacher. He helped me improve my French, my cooking, and become a part of the community. Et voila!” He slaps Jean-Pierre hard on the back. “I couldn’t have done it without him.”
“Do you still cook, Jean-Pierre?” Lena scoots her chair to the left and away from Jean-Pierre.
“Ah, cherie, every Frenchman cooks when inspired.” Jean-Pierre takes Lena’s hand, turns it over and traces the lines of her palm. “I would cook for you anytime, anywhere.”
Without a thought to politeness or misinterpretation, Lena yanks her hand away from the Frenchman’s and folds her arms across her chest. “I’m sure you would, but we have a plan and we’re pretty much going to stick to it.” She waits for her friend to come to her aid, but Cheryl turns to Philip and squeezes his arm, which Lena takes as a sign of her plan.
“Mais non, cherie, this is France.” Jean-Pierre licks his lower lip in a way that looks like it would b
e better suited to a porno film. “And there is no better way to experience our lovely country than with a French man.”
“Okay! Time to go. It’s a long way back to Nice.” Lena taps her fingers on the table like Bobbie tapped hers against the telephone. “Philip, thank you so much for the lovely dinner. Can you have the waiter bring the bill?”
“No, no, no. Non. You’re my guests. But must you leave so early? The night, as they say, is still young.”
Cheryl squints at Lena until the tiny knot between her eyebrows is more than a suggestion to her friend; it is an order. “And there’s the café Philip mentioned.” Her voice is firm, her tone a teacher’s scolding a naughty child. She clinks her glass against Philip’s and sips until the glass is nearly empty. Their bodies relax into each other’s with every additional sip: the more they drink, the closer they sit. The more they touch, the more Jean-Pierre’s eyes insist he and Lena should be doing the same.
“And, though there is not much nightlife, perhaps you can stay the night here in our lovely Vence, eh?” Jean-Pierre’s eyebrows angle and wrinkle his forehead. “Perhaps I can make a little dessert for you? Dessert,” he says, licking his lips again, “is my specialty.” He stretches his arm, its direction aimed for Lena’s shoulder.
“I take that to mean that you’re still a chef?” Lena glowers at Jean-Pierre, uninterested in him or in watching Cheryl play footsy with Philip, the pseudo Frenchman. The last time they went out together, just before Cheryl’s first marriage, Cheryl decided to spend the night with a football player they’d met in a hotel lounge after a college game, and Lena had to find her way home because Cheryl drove. Lucky for Cheryl, the player wasn’t a maniac. He ended up being her first husband, and then he turned into a maniac.
“Your eyes, they are very exotic.” Jean-Pierre leans in closer for a better look at Lena’s light brown eyes and brushes Lena’s hair away from her ear. “You are like… Tina Turner. You American black women are so beautiful.” As soon as he presses his hand on Lena’s knee she slaps it away and jumps from her chair. “Thank you, Philip, Jean-Pierre, but I’m outta here.”
Searching for Tina Turner Page 18