He sprinted up the two flights, fumbled with the door lock, hurried to the futon and tore open Brooke’s package. The baklava turned to lead in his stomach. Inside were a small green velvet box and an envelope. David knew that velvet box. It was her engagement ring. He opened the envelope hoping it contained some sort of explanation, the kind that said it’s not your fault, I’m just going through something, but give me time, and I’ll get over it. Instead it was a bill for two weeks rent and electricity.
David pressed his palms hard against his eyes and rocked forward, breathing through clenched teeth. He wasn’t thinking about Brooke at all. He was thinking of his father, hating him because he had been right.
~~~~
The next few weeks passed in a blur of frustration. David tried calling Brooke a couple more times. The second time he waited through her incomprehensible message and said, “Hey Brooke, just wanted to touch base. Things are going great. I’d love to show you my new apartment...” BEEP. He was cut off.
He dulled his loneliness and anger with work, but the fact that he still didn’t have internet was torture. Finally Pascal called to tell him it was hooked up and to give him the code. David was so delighted he invited the guys over to celebrate.
“Thanks again for calling the provider for me,” David said after dinner. “You want Calvados or Vermouth?”
“Vermouth. Merci.” Pascal took a sip. “You know, you should have had service three weeks ago. Have you looked into taking French classes, yet, mon cher?”
“Not yet,” said David. “But even if I were taking classes, I would never have been able to deal with this.”
“You would if you had started lessons when you first moved to Paris. If you’re going to live here, learn the language.”
David felt his temper begin to rise. “I’ve been swamped, and having to constantly use cybercafés hasn’t made things any easier.”
“I’m busy, too, and having to make calls for you doesn’t make my life any easier.”
“It’s great you have so much work, David,” Dan interjected looking at the painting of Noëlle. “This is wonderful.”
“Thanks, Dan.” David didn’t need Pascal’s shit right now. “It’s the cover art for Lilia Dufort’s new book.”
“You captured something in the girl’s eyes, a certain pathos but also an intensity. She’s beautiful. Who is she?”
“I made her up. Borrowed the pose from Delacroix.”
“Is this you behind her?” asked Pascal.
“Yup.” Now David was embarrassed. “Me as the young duke with a slightly straighter nose.”
“I think you make a very handsome duke.” David took this as Pascal’s way of apologizing. “You should let your hair grow.”
“I’ll consider it.”
It had been a while since David had seen his friends, and despite Pascal’s harping, he hadn’t wanted the evening to end. Their presence made the silence after they left more profound. For a couple of weeks David had depended on Noëlle to keep him company while he painted her, but now that the illustration was finished he had to mail it to the publisher.
“I’ll miss you,” he said to the painting. “And you probably won’t be back for months.”
She looked at him as she always did, with longing.
The next morning he carefully packed the illustration and crept down the stairs to the courtyard. He had to get out without the Hamidous spotting him. The weeks of going to cybercafés had taught him that if he let his landlords start talking they wouldn’t stop, and he’d have a hell of a time escaping. It would have been bad enough if he understood what they were saying, but he didn’t, and their chattiness had become exasperating.
Sure enough, Monsieur Hamidou was there tending his herb pots. Just ignore him, David thought, and he hurried out to the street without acknowledging his loquacious landlord. When he returned an hour later Monsieur Hamidou was still there, but he turned his back and walked inside without a word. Over the next couple of days David hardly saw the Hamidous, and when he did, they shunned him. What had he done to make them dislike him all of a sudden? It hurt. Now that they didn’t want to speak with him, David missed their baffling chatter. Well, screw it. At least he could come and go as he pleased.
Not that he wanted to go out much. If it wasn’t full out raining, the hostile Parisian sky seemed to spit cold drizzle at him whenever he left his apartment. And no matter what he did, he couldn’t warm up. He got up to stretch and put on a sweatshirt one afternoon when his cell phone rang.
“For cripes sake, I’m working,” he grumbled. Then he looked at the phone. It was his art director from Pantaloon.
“Hello?”
“Hallo, David!” said a deep British voice. “It’s Rich Black. Listen, that cover you did for Foxglove and Foolscap is absolutely sterling.”
“Thanks, Rich.”
“Everyone here is just arse over tit for it... And so is Lilia.”
“She’s seen the final?”
“She has. Actually that’s why I’m calling. She wants to meet you.” A long pause. “David? You still there?”
“I’m here. I don’t meet the authors, Rich.”
“I know, and we usually discourage it, but you know she lives in Paris.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Listen, David, she’s an important author for us.”
“I know.” David sighed. “When does she want to meet?”
“Don’t know. I’d like to give her your number if that’s all right?”
~~~~
Lilia called the next day. When she told him she lived in Passy, he suggested they meet somewhere in the sixteenth; it would give him the opportunity to visit his old neighborhood.
“How funny that you lived here, and we never met,” she said.
David was meeting Lilia at La Coïncidence. He intentionally arrived early and went by Brooke’s apartment. He felt like a fool standing there staring up at her window. Had he really hoped to see her? That was unlikely at lunchtime on a weekday. And if he did see her, what would he say? Gee Brooke, I was on my way to the lunch from hell, and I thought I’d walk several blocks out of my way just to annoy myself further by bumping into you.
Just then a cloud passed overhead casting a dark shadow over the flat façade of Brooke’s building. It seemed to say, “You’re no longer welcome here.” Well fine. He had never liked the charmless building, anyway. It was new and lacked the elegance of its Haussmannian neighbors. He raised his collar, crossed the street, and headed toward the Rue Mesnil and his meeting with Lilia.
The first thing David thought upon seeing her was, she’s so tiny. He had imagined the author of such sappy romances would be an overweight, middle-aged woman with frumpy blue hair. But Lilia was pretty for a woman her age. She was about five feet tall and slender with straight salt and pepper hair cut in a pageboy, hazel eyes slightly magnified by silver-rimmed glasses, and bubble-gum pink lipstick.
“I’m delighted to finally meet you,” she said shaking his hand. “Please don’t worry, I won’t try to tell you your business. I know why they like to keep us authors away from the illustrators, but Richard Black told me you lived in Paris, and I just had to thank you in person.”
David was surprised at how comfortable he felt with her. He was usually reserved, but Lilia was so kind and engaging, he fell into conversation with her as if they’d been friends for years.
“You know, I’ve loved all your cover art, but that last painting,” she paused to sip her wine. “How did you do it?”
“Well, I usually work in acrylic on canvas paper so the illustrations are easier to scan. And, for your books I do a fair amount of research to get the costumes and settings right.”
“Yes, but you managed to capture Noëlle as if you knew her.”
“You described her very well. To tell the truth, Foxglove and Foolscap was my favorite of your books.”
“Mine, too. It was more historical novel and less gummy romance, wasn’t it?”
; “Well, yeah. I’m sorry. I’m not into the sappy stuff.”
“I’ve done quite well with that formula, but I was bored. I missed good old-fashioned research. Did you know when I first came to Paris I was an art historian?”
As the conversation progressed David learned that Lilia had lived in Paris for thirty years, that she had a daughter, and that she was widowed.
“And you never remarried?”
“No. My husband was the love of my life. His loss shattered me. I wrote the story of our romance as a means of working through my grief. Gradually, I invented other stories and was surprised when they started selling. When my daughter was in school, the novels kept me company.”
“I understand. The painting of Noëlle kept me company too. I got the assignment right after my fiancée broke up with me.”
There was something about this warm little woman that made David want to tell her the story of his split with Brooke.
“And you think she left because you couldn’t speak French?” Lilia asked when he had finished.
“That’s part of it. I made her handle everything, and she got tired of it. And it bugged her to have to translate for me all the time.”
“Hmmm. Are you planning to stay in Paris?”
“I have to.”
“Because your work is here?”
“Because if I go back I’ll never hear the end of it from my father.” David took a bite of his cheeseburger and wondered again why he was telling this to a stranger. But Lilia sat watching him intently, and he felt compelled to go on. “My father is all about success. He’s a well-known architect who holds himself and everyone else to a very high standard. He told me I couldn’t hack it in a foreign country. He doesn’t think I can hack most things. If I go back it means admitting to him that he was right, that I failed again.”
“Is your father Samuel Glaser?”
“You know him?”
“I know of him. I know he has a reputation as a perfectionist.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“So you want to stay in Paris just to prove to your father that you can? Do you even like Paris?”
“To be honest, I don’t know. I mean it’s beautiful, but I feel so disconnected, like I don’t belong.”
“How so?”
“I never know what’s going on around me. I can’t communicate with people I need to like my landlord or my internet provider. It’s like I live in Paris, but I’m not part of it.”
Lilia rested her chin on her hand and looked at David for a long time. “I guess the obvious question is why don’t you learn to speak French?”
He looked at his plate.
“David, are you afraid to try to learn French? No, hear me out. I know I’m being forward, but sometimes when we have a very critical parent we become afraid of trying.”
David shrugged, but he felt comforted when she smiled and reached across the table to touch his arm.
“I’m speaking from experience,” she went on. “I did the same thing to my daughter.”
“You don’t strike me as the type to criticize.”
“Oh, I do it out of love. I always think I know what will make her happy better than she does.”
“Does she agree?”
“Of course not. And now, because I pushed so hard, she is immediately against anything I say.”
“I doubt my father does it out of love, but you’re probably right. Thanks to his constant tirades I’m terrified of failure.” He couldn’t believe he was admitting this, but added, “The truth is I’m afraid I won’t be able to learn French. I was terrible at Spanish in high school.”
“There you go,” she said. “Listen, I know a great school. It’s very relaxed, and you can progress at your own pace. I really think you should try it if you’re going to stay in Paris, and I hope you do stay because I’d like us to be friends.”
David laughed when she told him the name of the school. “That’s the same one my buddy Dan recommended back in September. Maybe it’s a sign.” He grinned mischievously. “Or maybe you think you know what’s best for me too.”
That made her laugh. “I probably do!”
By the time he and Lilia said goodbye it was nearly five o’clock. They agreed to meet again soon, and David headed for the Trocadéro Métro. He was in such a good mood even the rush hour crowd shoving on the stairs didn’t bother him.
When the train arrived, an old woman was struggling to make her way to the front of the throng. David used his body to block the people behind him so she could board safely. He stepped onto the car behind her and looked up just in time to see Brooke pushing her way off.
Shoulder to shoulder, Brooke looked directly at him then allowed her face to go blank and looked away. She wasn’t alone. As the doors of the car closed, he watched through the glass as a tall blond man put his arm around her and led her away.
David felt queasy. He swayed and held the pole tightly. The old woman he helped onto the train pulled on his jacket and said something he didn’t understand. She frowned when someone else took the seat beside her. David shrugged and continued staring numbly through the glass of the train doors. He didn’t move when they opened, and passengers pushed past him. He didn’t care if he was in the way. He just held on tight as the train rocked, and the people behind smashed him against the doors. When he got out at busy Châtelet, he couldn’t remember which way to go, so he leaned against the tile wall and closed his eyes to get his bearings.
He hadn’t seen or spoken to Brooke in two months. During that time he had often fantasized about her running into him. She would pass him on the street when he was hurrying some place important. He’d give her a casual peck on the cheek, then rush off without a care. She would see him in a restaurant, and he would excuse himself from his table full of laughing friends to say a quick hello. Or his favorite, she would see him with another woman, his Noëlle, with whom he would be speaking French. In that one he wouldn’t even notice her, but she’d see his Noëlle laugh and kiss him. Brooke had actually seen him today, though. She had looked right at him and pretended he didn’t exist.
It was full dark by the time he got home. He could see lights on in the Hamidous’ apartment and in several of the windows on the upper two floors. He hated coming home to an empty apartment. He hated cooking for himself, but the thought of eating alone in a restaurant, or just grabbing take-out, depressed him more. He didn’t even bother to turn on the lights, just kicked his shoes off and flopped down on his futon. He shifted to pull his cell phone out of his pocket and noticed he had a voicemail.
“Hello, David, it’s Lilia. I just wanted to tell you again what a wonderful time I had meeting you today. Also, I took the liberty of getting the number of that school for you. Please don’t think I’m pushy. Just consider me enthusiastic.”
David was nervous about calling the next morning.
“Hello?” he said to the receptionist’s bonjour.
“Hello,” she replied in English, and he slouched in relief. “Yes, we will have a beginner’s class starting the first week of November that will last for six weeks.”
David thought the two-hour-a-day schedule she described sounded a lot more intense than either Dan or Lilia had led him to believe, but so close to the holidays his work had slowed, and he had nothing better to do from two to four.
~~~~
“Bonjour, tout le monde,” said the instructor. She wrote her name, Madame Petit, on the whiteboard in large block letters. She continued speaking in French, using her hands and some silly drawings to aid her students’ comprehension, making it clear that only French would be spoken. Oh shit, David thought.
By the end of the first ten minutes, he learned he was the only American in a class of six Chinese exchange students, two Polish women, a guy from Argentina and an Iranian man. At least the class was for true beginners: Madame Petit began with how to say hello.
“Bonjour,” she said to each student, extending a chubby hand to shake.
After everyone had greeted her and each other, Madame Petit drew a crude building with a sign over the door that said, Le Magasin. Then she reached into a canvas bag beside her desk and pulled out some fake fruit, a couple of empty cookie boxes and a roll of toilet paper. That got a laugh.
“Le magasin,” she said and waved her arms for the class to repeat. She made some more drawings: a hat, a dress, a bird-like thing, a bottle. She pointed to her building, picked up her purse and pantomimed buying the objects. David understood. Un magasin was a store.
“Monsieur Glaser,” said Madame Petit, motioning him to approach.
She signaled that he was to come into the store and pretended she was the clerk. David came in, picked up a plastic banana and held it out to her. “Non, non,” she said, and led him back to the “door,” a space between two desks. Then she sat again with her hands folded and her eyebrows raised.
David looked at her. What the hell was he supposed to do?
“Ah,” said Madame Petit. She gestured for him to sit in the chair then entered the “door” herself by squeezing through the gap between the desks. “Bonjour Monsieur!” she sang at him.
“Bonjour, Madame,” said David.
“Très bien!” she said. David realized he had done something right, but what?
Madame went through the same pantomime with a few of the other students until they and David understood that they were to greet her when they entered the store and say good-bye when they left.
The next day Madame Petit blocked the doorway to the classroom with her ample body so no one could enter. David and his classmates stared at her dumbly until one of the Chinese students said, “Bonjour, Madame.”
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle!” said Madame Petit. She stepped aside and allowed the young woman to pass, but blocked the door again until each student had greeted her properly.
David wished he had been the one to realize what to do. In the past he had noticed French people always greeted each other, but he thought it was because they were acquainted. Now it dawned on him: It wasn’t that the people knew each other; the French expected to be greeted whenever you encountered them.
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