Madame was stirring.
Good morning, Bébé said as she lifted the duvet with care, folding it down around the hips. Madame preferred having her legs covered. You’re late, the old woman said drowsily. Look at the flowers! She pointed at the offending lily head on the carpet. I’d planned on screaming at you, Madame continued, but I don’t feel up to it right now. I’m sorry, Madame, Bébé said. The trains having delayed. She served up the hot tea, blowing on the surface to cool it down. For god sakes I’ve told you I’ll pay for your cab, Madame said. How can anyone expect to get anywhere on public transportation, and who knows what germs you’d catch and bring to me in here. Come, help me put on my face.
The old woman put down the teacup and raised a mascara wand.
Bébé cupped Madame’s face and applied mascara steadily. She averted her eyes from the filmy translucence of the chemise, under which Madame’s breasts hung low and loose. When Bébé was done, Madame peered into the unpolished back of a soupspoon, where hardly anything could be seen. Wonderful, Madame said. We’ll see if he doesn’t call now. Then she reached over to catch Bébé’s chin in her hand, turning it this way and that in the sparse light.
Are you wearing any makeup? Madame demanded.
Bébé shook her head, no.
What nice skin you have, Madame said, and the blush in your cheeks! Most of us need our war paint to get by, she added as she ran a dry, knobby finger down the side of Bébé’s face. You know, the makeup man is an actress’s closest accomplice, in more ways than one. On any set, he alone knows the right number to call when the producer needs to awaken an actress who has overslept—which means he knows what numbers not to call. Do you get my drift, choupette? Or perhaps you are a virgin?
Bébé felt herself blushing. The old woman laughed and let go of her chin.
* * *
—
SETTLING MADAME DOWN with the papers, Bébé placed the giant magnifying glass into her hand. Madame should have had reading glasses, but protested vehemently that glasses were for ne’er-do-well grandmothers. She waited for Madame to open up the papers before ducking down to reach the waste receptacles under the bed. For her bathroom needs, Madame insisted on a two-quart casserole dish and a porcelain pitcher with hand-painted roses. The smell of fresh newsprint masked momentarily the stench of overnight urea as Bébé conveyed dish and pitcher from the room. When she first started clearing Madame’s waste, Bébé was startled by how old-people piss smelled nothing like her own. Theirs was rich and mineral. Back in her village in Taishan, they had an outhouse with no plumbing. Heaped together, it had not been possible to isolate whose smelled like what.
In the summer they buried it over and started a new hole.
One evening after her shift on a Sunday with Madame, she made her way to the 13th arrondissement, where Chinatown was said to be. Walking under the red decorative arch with 唐人街 emblazoned across it and into the stink of wholesale vegetables and two-day-old uncollected garbage, an old man shuffling past her in broken rubber sandals worn over thickly socked feet, singing under his breath in Cantonese, the apartments crowded like bad teeth, a garish floral bedspread hanging out the window alongside an enormous faded bra, Bébé felt a revulsion that was far more tender than she might have guessed it to be. How was it that when her people traversed the world and disembarked in a port of call so far from China, they could still make their part of Paris so recognizable, so homely?
Sometimes, cleaning bathroom floors in the cavernous office building she worked at on weekdays, or flushing down loose stools at Madame’s on Sundays, she found it hard to see what being here was worth. But walking out of the subway to avenue Montaigne never failed to remind her that it was Paris, she’d made it to Paris, she was the first child on both sides of her family to have even left Guangdong province. Falling in step with well-dressed Parisians in muted colors on cobbled passages, browsing fashion magazines she could not read at street-side newsstands, stopping short at the next roundabout as a rush of pigeons landed on the outstretched arms of a limestone sculpture, Bébé felt better, then worse, then better again.
* * *
—
TODAY MADAME’S STOOL was shaped just like a petit-croissant.
She flushed it down, the petit-croissant shape coming apart with the force of the water. Bébé was fascinated by the different breads available in Paris. Bread for her meant something very different from rice. She made an effort to remember the names of all the breads, practicing their pronunciations so she would not make a fool of herself at the bakery: baguettes, boules, croissants, fougasses.
She washed out the pitcher and the pan with the bidet, scrubbing them down with pine-fresh cleaning liquid. This she’d bought for Madame with her own money. The old cleaning liquid smelled like a hospital ward, not a home. When Bébé brought the pitcher and pan back into the room and stowed them under the bed, she turned the handles outward for Madame’s easy access. Madame did not even seem to notice she was back with the emptied receptacles. She was busy reading the papers, making conspiratorial asides. Magnifying glass in hand, she looked amusingly bug-eyed to Bébé on the other side. Sometimes Madame read out headlines that caught her attention. Today she was stabbing at a picture of the newly unearthed remains of an Egyptian mummy. Be careful of archaeologists, Madame warned her without looking up from the papers, they are the worst. Them, murderous surgeons, and tabloid photographers! Why should a queen of the Nile be woken from her slumber, just because a few thousand years later some riffraff wants to have a poke at her face under all those bandages?
Bébé listened as she discarded last week’s lilies.
Replacing them with sprightly ones and refilling the water, she shook the blooms lightly so they would spread themselves out in the vase. She did not always know what Madame was talking about, but Bébé liked that Madame talked to her anyway. Did Madame talk aloud to herself this way when she was alone, or did Madame do it only in her company on Sunday? The oven dinged and she stepped out to retrieve the cotton towels and flannel bath blankets. She’d popped them in to warm them up on low heat. Draping them on her forearms, she approached Madame’s bedside with a basin of warm water. Madame went en garde as soon as she noticed the offending objects, pushing aside the newspapers as she wielded a tassled decanter. Fool, she called out, when will you understand? Bathing is for people like you! People like me have perfume.
Madame spritzed the air aggressively with her bottle.
Bébé waited for the fragrant mist to settle before approaching the bed. Before she grew accustomed to Madame’s ways, she’d walked headfirst into the cloud of perfume. It stung her eyes terribly, and as she flushed them out with water, Madame could not stop laughing: Blinded by Yves Saint Laurent, serves you right! Do you know he said he would make me a perfume?
Now Bébé knew better.
Having put up her fight in principle, Madame would surrender peaceably in practice. If you started at her shoulders and worked downward Madame would screech, but if you massaged her feet through the bath blanket, folding the bed linen back bit by bit, she would let you get through with it. Reaching Madame’s face, Bébé had learned to provide her with a small towel. She’d noticed that Madame liked to clean her face herself.
Today, Bébé put the towel aside, since Madame had just put all that makeup on.
After drying Madame off, Bébé slicked some moisturizing cream onto Madame’s papery skin. Although she was bedridden, Madame had no bedsores. Only itchy skin, soothed by the seasonal aloe Bébé procured from the Turkish supermarket near her guest workers’ dormitory. After moisturizing, Bébé trimmed Madame’s fingernails and toenails, and finally, she bicycled Madame’s legs forward and backward to exercise them. If Madame appeared to be in a fairly good mood, Bébé would encourage her to get up and walk across the room. Her flesh was atrophying from the bone with lack of use.
Try, Bébé said. Be
d to TV.
Why should I try?
Bed to TV. Bébé hold Madame.
Stop skiving on the edge of my bed, the old woman said. Don’t come so close to me. Have you washed your hands? You’d best get on with the housework before I lodge a complaint with that uppity-tuppity lawyer lady.
* * *
—
BÉBÉ’S MONDAY-THROUGH-FRIDAY cleaning job, in one of the administrative buildings of the city’s tax department, had been arranged for by a pro bono human-rights lawyer. The lawyer’s father was an old bird in the cabinet, a minister’s aide. It wasn’t difficult to pull some strings on a topical problem, sold smoothly as a pilot program her fledgling organization was looking to implement with selected female refugees: Bébé, two Tunisian sisters, an Iranian, a Vietnamese child. A private donor had given a substantial sum through the UN, and a bite-sized trial would help them build up a prototype for meaningful refugee integration, skill training, and job matching in the future on a much wider scale.
Bébé had asked the pro bono human-rights lawyer if she could take on an extra weekend job since there was nothing to do on weekends.
You should take yourself out, the lawyer said.
Nowhere to go, Bébé said.
It’s Paris, the lawyer said encouragingly, there’s lots to do.
For you everywhere, Bébé said, for me—
She shrugged and smiled.
Sensing her class-insensitive faux pas, the lawyer stammered: The parks, they are free!
* * *
—
SOCIAL ENTERPRISE WAS new to the lawyer.
It was deeply invigorating every time she was asked what she did now, and she got to say “nonprofit,” “female refugees,” and “at risk” in the same sentence. Having quit her high-flying corporate finance job in mergers and acquisitions, she was raring to go humanitarian and vegetarian at the same time to stave off an incipient menopausal midlife crisis. Founding Secondes Chances pour le Deuxième Sexe (SCDS) was more challenging than she’d anticipated. She was impatient to roll out her plans for PTSD counseling and art therapy, but of course the basic logistics like gainful employment and shared housing had to be put in place first. Her father advised her to cut it down to Secondes Chances when she was registering the charity, but the lawyer was unwilling to lose the Beauvoir reference.
Second Chances for The Second Sex, Papan. I thought you would get it right away.
I did, her father said dryly. Over dinner he told her about how the Ministry of Culture supported Legion of Honor awardees who had fallen into various states of disrepair, like Malraux and Sagan. The lawyer rolled her eyes. Men, she said. Her father wagged a finger. Not so fast, he said, Piaf before she passed, how do you think she maintained the Riviera villa? And Dietrich now, too.
She’s French now, the lawyer said, is she?
Does it matter, when you are Marlene Dietrich? All the old fogies in the cabinet are still dying to drop their trousers for her. She even wrote a postcard addressed to Mitterrand directly, asking if he could send her the new cordless telephone she had seen advertised on the TV—and a maid. I miss the General very much, she wrote, he was a personification of my code of conduct. A great man. You know we have de Gaulle’s portrait in the office. Mitterrand looked up at it, muttered, “Politics of grandeur, indeed,” and told me I’d best look into Miss Dietrich’s needs. What am I now, a personal shopper for some ancient who still knows how to milk what’s left?
An invaluable skill for any woman, the lawyer joked. Actually, she said in a serious tone now, why not use one of my refugees? They’re being trained as seamstresses, cleaners, janitors. There’ll be a fair remuneration, yes?
But, my dear, can they be trusted?
Papan!
Oh, I didn’t mean it that way!
* * *
—
BÉBÉ HAD BEEN briefed by the lawyer—the woman she would be working for on Sundays was about ninety years old, and she was once a very famous actress. She was to be treated with utmost discretion and addressed as Madame at all times.
Bébé did not know who Madame was, but dusting the cabinets and shelves and looking at all the pictures, she saw that Madame was the center of the picture even when she wasn’t in the center of the picture.
The old woman had a sweet tooth.
She was always asking for dessert and pastries, and Bébé was by now familiar with the short walk from avenue Montaigne to various pâtisseries in the huitième. Bébé kept receipts for everything, although Madame considered herself above such things. Spare me the trouble, she would say, keep the damned change! What am I going to do with a pocketful of coins, go to the arcade?
Once Madame had craved gelato, and Bébé, afraid it would melt, sprinted back from the ice-cream parlor an avenue away, cone in hand, tripping and twisting her ankle on a curb. Disguising her limp when she reentered the apartment, she handed the cone to Madame, who licked it and declared unhappily: This is banane. I said vanille!
* * *
—
IT WAS MACARONS Madame wanted today.
When Madame wanted macarons, she wanted only Ladurée macarons from Rue Royale, but Bébé could pick the flavors. A trip to Ladurée was a treat. The display, which changed regularly, could be counted on to mesmerize: lilac meringue, caramelized puff pastry, Morello cherries, rose petals. Looking into the shop window Bébé felt like the sort of girl for whom the world was precious and everything was possible. Back home in Taishan she encountered a cake just once. White cream frosted over sponge with white icing, it was ensconced in an icebox and transported from the city to her village for someone’s wedding, where it stood out amid steamed chicken and roasted pig, both fowl and beast with heads still on, eyes hollowed out.
Bébé snuck into the compound, watched as bride and groom bowed to sky and soil. Some adults disapproved of the white cake. Untraditional, funereal, inauspicious! Freely they dispensed negative comments, though that did not stop them from clamoring for a piece or two when the cake was cut. Bébé received a slice. How the cream tasted: like it was from a better, faraway place. She let it melt slowly on her tongue. On her next birthday, as she sat with her parents over the longevity flour noodles her mother had prepared, the same as she did every year, Bébé said: I would so like a cake next year.
She received from her father a little slap.
Though it did not hurt, she flinched as soon as she recognized the condescension in its lightness. She sat outside the house in disgrace. Her mother came to her. Without asking, she began combing and braiding Bébé’s hair, affixing a big red ribbon to the end of her plaits. For luck, her mother said tenderly, make a wish.
I wish I were someplace else, Bébé said.
Taken aback, her mother looked at her vacantly.
With an uncertain smile her mother wanted to know: Where?
Bébé ran to the creek on the edge of the village. Upon catching her murky reflection, she pulled off the hair ribbon and threw it into the water. Then she was afraid it would be spotted by her mother, so she squatted to retrieve it with a broken branch. Digging a hole with her hands, she buried the ribbon. As she washed the mud off, she pressed her palms together and whispered: Better off dead than to remain here. With the end of a twig she traced the characters in the sand: 给我留在这 我死了算了. Before she left she dribbled river water over them, so nobody but the earth could know.
Now, standing in line at Ladurée, sunlight streaming through tall windows under the champagne glow of crystal chandeliers, pointing out rose, lychee, and pistachio bonbons to fill a celadon-green gift box finished with a powder-pink ribbon, nodding while saying to the shopgirl, Une boîte de douze: it all made her feel so—fine. You could let yourself go in an ugly little town. A beautiful place made silent demands on your person in no uncertain terms, even as it gave nothing of itself back to you. What Bébé was
enthralled by wasn’t Paris. It was only the person she liked to think she could have been here.
* * *
—
NUMEROLOGICALLY, 1988 HAD been an outstanding year for Bébé to undertake a new venture in a foreign land. It was imperative to set out before the year was over. She was eighteen in a double-prosperity year, eighty-eight, falling under the sign of the dragon, and she had been guaranteed a job in a Nike factory in Marseilles.
For the job matching, Bébé paid a hefty brokerage commission to a subsidiary agent of the Corsican-Chinese Friendship & Trade Association in Shanghai. She’d been out of the village for three years, saving up the scant wage she made in one of the city’s new textile export factories.
When she wrote her mother in Taishan to say she was leaving Shanghai for Paris, her mother asked where that was. Bébé enclosed in her reply a world map most rudimentary, hewn from hearsay and her imagination. Her mother wrote back: Shanghai is far enough. Her mother wrote back: Explain to your long-suffering parents. What is the difference between working at a factory in China and a factory in France? Her mother wrote back: Why does our daughter have a comet for a heart? The restrained and impersonal calligraphy of her mother’s letters belonged to the village scribe (three yuan a page), who also read to her the letters she received in a reedy tenor (free of charge). How embarrassing for her mother to have dictated while wringing her thick knuckles on those scraps of fabric she had the gall to call handkerchiefs: 为何咱家的女儿有颗流浪的心?
Delayed Rays of a Star Page 3