~~~~
“So you just walked past him?” said Pascal.
David sipped wine while Dan and Pascal prepared omelets and salad. “I was in a hurry. When the Hamidous start talking, I can’t get away.”
“And she gave you baklava?”
“Yeah, once.”
“Have you ever done anything nice for her?”
“I let her talk at me.”
“You just said you don’t.” Pascal shook his head. “This is why we say you Americans are rude.”
“Pascal, don’t be so hard on him.”
“Daniel, he’s lived here for five years, and he’s just learning this?”
“Christ, Pascal, at least I’m finally learning.”
“Too bad you didn’t learn sooner. You might not have lost Brooke.” David saw Dan shoot a warning glance at Pascal. “No,” he said. “He need to understand this.” When Pascal got upset his English degraded.
“You saw Brooke?” said David.
“I have lunch with her last week.”
David crossed his arms challenging him to go on.
“Pascal, this isn’t a conversation we need to have,” said Dan as he handed David an omelet. “So how are your classes going?”
“Great. I can actually speak a little now.” He glared at Pascal. “And I understand a lot more.”
“You treat Brooke same as your landlord,” Pascal said. “You ignore her needs. All you think is what you need, how you feel.”
“Is that what she told you?”
“Yes, but I see this myself. You want other people, your friends, to do for you. If they cannot, you become angry. You are angry with me when I cannot call the internet provider for you right away.”
“No I wasn’t.”
“You were. I could tell. You don’t call us for three weeks until I finally fix it for you.”
“I didn’t want to bother you, and I couldn’t call myself because I couldn’t speak French.”
“You think you’re the only American in Paris? They have English speakers there. You just like to feel sad for yourself.”
David felt his face growing hot. “Jeezus, is that what Brooke told you?”
“She say she ask you many times to learn French, but you like not understanding. It force her to take care of you. She say you force someone to take care of you so you feel loved. Then you embarrass her when she try to make good connections with colleagues because you cannot understand. She say if something is not easy for you, you walk away. You can’t give to others, but you take very well.”
“Fuck you, Pascal.”
Dan stood up and put his hand firmly on Pascal’s shoulder. “Arrête!” David had never heard Dan raise his voice, but at least he understood the word “stop.”
“You know, David, other people can be having troubles that are not about you.” Pascal was sobbing. Dan put his arm around him and led him to the bedroom. It was all too weird.
“I’m so sorry,” Dan said when he came back.
“What the hell is going on? What have I done that’s so wrong?”
“He’s very upset tonight. Here, have some more wine.” Dan divided the rest of the bottle between their two glasses. The omelets sat untasted before them.
“Did I insult him that badly?”
“Of course not. His mother called. His dad has stage four lung cancer.”
“Oh shit.”
“Pascal told her he’d come down for Christmas, and she said his father doesn’t want to see him. He considers him an abomination.”
“She actually said that?”
“Unbelievable, right?” said Dan. “I’m taking Pascal to Nîmes for Christmas. We’ve got friends down there.”
“How long will you be gone?” David felt his chest tighten. What would he do for the holidays with them gone?
“We’ll go down on the twentieth and come back on January third.”
David downed the last of his wine and stood to go.
“You haven’t eaten,” said Dan.
“It’s OK. Go take care of Pascal. He needs you.”
A flutist was playing The Dance of the Reed Pipes from The Nutcracker in the Hôtel de Ville Métro station. Normally David would have passed by, wallowing in his hurt feelings, but this time he stopped to listen. How could anyone make a living like that, he wondered, and tossed a couple euros into the open flute case before walking to his platform in time to the music.
The two-beat rhythm of the Tchaikovsky piece was still stuck in his head when he got off the Métro. Belleville twinkled with Christmas lights, every one matching the beat of the music. It seemed each flickering tree and blinking balcony was saying, “On-off. A-lone. So-sad.”
Why did the prospect of spending the holidays alone bother him so much? He was Jewish. He’d never celebrated Christmas growing up. Heck, his family never really celebrated Hanukkah; they went out for Chinese on one of the nights. He could do that. But he’d still be alone. Maybe he’d get a television. He was starting to understand more French. He’d need the practice. But he only had one more class.
A-lone. One-class. Too-bad.
~~~~
David got to class early the next afternoon with a big plate of chocolate chip cookies for the Christmas party.
“Salut,” said Juan Diego, the Argentinian, coming up behind him. He and David had gotten coffee together a few times after class and could communicate fairly well between their high school Spanish and English and their broken French.
Gradually the other students assembled in the hall outside the locked classroom.
“Where teacher?” said one of the Chinese girls.
“Do we...” the Polish woman paused, thinking. “Do we hear?” she tried.
“We wait,” said David, understanding she had mixed up the verbs for “to hear” and “to wait.”
“Pardon,” said a real French voice from behind the milling students. “Excusez-moi.”
A small, dark haired woman pushed to the door and unlocked it.
After all the students had greeted her and taken their seats she explained in simple French, “Madame Petit is very sorry. She is ill and cannot come to the last class. My name is Jeanne Burghelle. I am a teacher in the next level. I will teach your final class today.”
David sat mute and paralyzed staring at her wide-eyed.
“Ça va, Monsieur?” she asked.
“Oui,” he whispered.
“Pardon?”
“Oui,” he said a little louder.
Some of the other students giggled. Juan Diego gave David a playful slap on the back that seemed to say, Yeah, she’s a far cry from Madame Petit.
Mademoiselle Burghelle smiled at him.
The class passed in a blur. One minute they were going over reflexive verbs, the next they were eating sweets from their various countries and wishing each other a joyful Christmas. The whole time David gave himself psychic pinches: He blinked, rubbed his eyes, turned away, then back. Is this real? This can’t be real. My God, she’s real.
She was his painting, his Noëlle, come to life: the large, intense gray eyes with thick dark lashes, long wavy black hair and full pink lips. She was obviously slender, though it was difficult to discern her figure under her heavy black sweater. But she wore leggings and boots that accentuated shapely legs. David looked up quickly when she approached to sample one of his cookies. He noticed she had green and blue stains around her cuticles and under her short nails. Aha!
“You are an artist?” he asked.
“How did you know?”
“Your...” He didn’t know the word so he pointed to his own fingernails.
“Ah, yes. Disgusting. I cannot clean them.” She laughed. Her laugh was beautiful. She was beautiful.
He was staring at her again. She started to turn away so he said, “Me, too.”
“What?”
“I’m a painter. I do acrylics. And you?”
“I paint in oils. You understand?”
“Yes.”
Then she turned to speak with the Iranian man. Damn. How could he get her attention again?
When class ended, David took his time covering his plate of cookies with plastic wrap. There had been so many sweets at the party the plate was still piled high.
“You want go café?” Juan Diego asked.
“I cannot. I send you text, yes?” David tilted his head subtly toward Jeanne.
“Oh ho!” Juan Diego winked and left.
Jeanne put her coat on and looked at David. He couldn’t read her expression.
“I must lock the door,” she said.
“Do you drink coffee with me?” he blurted.
She paused before answering, which he hoped was a good sign. He held his breath.
“I cannot,” she finally said. “It is forbidden to—a word he didn’t understand—with students.”
“Fréquenter?” he asked.
“Socialize,” she said in perfect English.
He felt his face start to crumble. He couldn’t lose her.
“But I’m not really your student.”
“I cannot.”
Cannot or will not? David watched his dream stride briskly away. He slumped against the wall beside the locked classroom door. His throat squeezed shut. When he was finally able to move again he trudged like a condemned man out of the building toward the Métro.
Christ, did every Métro station in Paris have buskers playing cloying Christmas music? David waited for his train at Opéra with his free hand covering his right ear, the one closest to the musicians. In his left he held the plate of cookies. Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he nearly dumped them on the platform.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” It was Jeanne Burghelle.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m on my way home.”
“Where’s that?”
“I live in Belleville.”
“So do I.”
She stood beside him on the crowded train. They came out onto the street across from La Veilleuse.
Jeanne said, “Perhaps I’ll get a coffee, and you’ll just happen to get one too.”
As they sipped their coffees, David asked, “Why did you change your mind?”
“Well, you looked so hurt when I refused you after class. But also, I was curious. It’s too coincidental that we’re both artists, we both live in Belleville, and I bumped into you again at Opéra.”
“You’re superstitious?”
“A little. I like signs.”
“Then have I got a sign for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve painted you.”
She laughed. “What?”
David told her about his illustration, but when he finished she had a funny look on her face.
“David, what’s your last name?”
“Glaser, why?”
“I know your work. You’re very good.”
“Thanks. I’d love to see yours sometime.”
She didn’t respond. Had he said something wrong? She looked at her watch. “I have to get going.”
“I’ll walk you home.”
“No, that’s OK.” She stood and put on her coat. “Thanks again for the coffee. It was nice to meet you.”
“Wait a minute. That’s it?”
She held out her hand to shake.
“Can I see you again?”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
David grabbed his coat and the plate of cookies and hurried after her, but she had disappeared by the time he got out the door.
He wanted to tear down every tinsel decoration strung across every street and cut the wires to all the damned lights. He hated every smiling person heading with a friend or lover into the overfilled cafés. He detested the blow-up Santas and the fake snow. Most of all he loathed himself. How could he screw that up so badly? His father was right, damn it. He was a total fuck-up.
But what did he do wrong? Maybe she thought the story of his illustration was kinky. Shit. Why did he tell her? She probably thought he was some kind of psycho. And at the moment his emotions were so out of control he felt like one. At least he knew her name, and he knew she lived somewhere near him because she got out at the same stop. But if he tried to find her she might think he was a stalker. He could sign up for another class. She said she taught the next level. He would request her.
Having a plan did little to lighten his foul mood. To make things worse, the automatic light didn’t come on in the courtyard of his building. Some illumination came from the Hamidous’ apartment, but the stairs were black. David stumbled on the first step and slammed his shin and elbow trying to save his cookies.
“God damn it,” he shouted rearranging them on the plate. He’d tell that Hamidou a thing or two. He knew the word for light and how to say no.
David pounded on their door. Madame Hamidou parted the curtain and peered out at him. The expression on her face disturbed him. My God, she’s afraid of me, he realized. Fear always brought his father to mind. He thought of how terrified he always felt before the old man let loose on him. Madame Hamidou probably thought he was going to yell at her. And he was, wasn’t he?
Monsieur Hamidou opened the door. He wasn’t smiling.
Before he realized what he was doing, David held out the plate of chocolate chip cookies and said, “For you.” When Monsieur Hamidou just stared at him he went on, “I am sorry to be bad. I do not understand, but now I learn French. I learn to say hello. I learn that this is important. I give you this to be friend if you please.”
Madame Hamidou squeezed in front of her husband. A huge smile brightened her round face. She accepted the plate and gently led David into the apartment by the arm. She stopped in the entry and gestured to a rack of shoes. David took his off and put them neatly beside the others.
“Monsieur Glaser, please sit down.” She directed him to sit on a couch then took an armchair opposite a low coffee table. Monsieur Hamidou had followed them in but went through to the kitchen. David could hear him rattling pots.
Madame Hamidou said something David didn’t understand.
“Slowly, please,” he said.
“How—did—you—learn—to—speak—French?”
David told her about his class and did his best to answer her questions about himself. Monsieur Hamidou returned with a teapot on a tray and three glasses. Then he gracefully poured each glass from a surprising height.
David took a sip. It was sweet and minty. Monsieur Hamidou refilled their glasses as soon as they were empty.
“The first glass is as gentle as life, the second is as strong as love, and the third is as bitter as death,” he explained.
Their conversation wasn’t easy. David used his cell phone to look up vocabulary he didn’t know or words the Hamidous used that he didn’t understand, but it was fun. They ate cookies and laughed and muddled through stories of who they were and why they were in Paris. David finally understood that the Hamidous weren’t French, either. Why hadn’t he realized this?
He left their apartment two hours later with a feeling of connection that warmed him. He had friends, his own friends that he made himself. Of course he had Pascal and Dan, and he supposed he was friends with Lilia, although he hadn’t seen her since October. Then there was Juan Diego from class, and now the Hamidous. He wished he could have been friends with Jeanne Burghelle. More than anything, he wanted to get to know her.
He got out his sketchbook and drew her sipping coffee at La Veilleuse. He drew her again from a different angle, and again. He got up and went to his computer to look at the scan of his painting of Noëlle to compare it to his sketches. An email from Lilia popped up.
“Hello, David! I’m having a small dinner party next Saturday night, and I’d love you to come. I’m killing two birds with one stone. It’s a Christmas party, but I’m also celebrating the publication of Foxglove and Foolscap. Please say you’ll join us. Lilia.”
David wrote back immediately, “Thanks Lilia, I�
��d love to. Just tell me when and where, and what I can bring. David.”
~~~~
Lilia said not to bring anything “but himself,” but he hadn’t wanted to arrive empty-handed. He thought about the joy on the Hamidous’ faces when he gave them the plate of chocolate chip cookies. It still made him smile. Brooke usually brought wine or flowers to the parties they attended. Lilia would probably like flowers, he thought.
“Oh David, is that you behind there?” Lilia said when she opened the door.
“It’s me.” He was holding the biggest Christmas plant they had at the florist.
“My dear, this is the most beautiful poinsettia I’ve ever seen. We’ll use it for a centerpiece.”
“It’s heavy, I’ll carry it for you,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket.
David looked around as he followed Lilia into her apartment. It had magnificent high ceilings and enormous windows, but best of all, her art collection was phenomenal. Several handsome paintings adorned the walls, many clearly by the same artist. Guests gathered around a low marble table that held an elaborate plate of crudité. Some stood and others sat on an elegant couch and chairs. David could hear music from The Nutcracker playing softly under the murmur of their voices.
“Lilia, this place is beautiful,” he said. “I love your paintings.”
She got a twinkle in her eye. “Would you like to meet the artist?”
“He’s here?”
“Follow me.” She led him to an ornate Christmas tree where two women stood chatting with an older man. She gently tapped the smaller woman’s shoulder.
“David, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Jeanne Noëlle Burghelle.”
Jeanne Noëlle looked from him to her mother and back again. David had seen that wide-eyed stare before. At least this time she couldn’t run.
“Chérie, this is my illustrator, David Glaser,” Lilia went on gayly. “I told Noëlle all about you, David. I wanted to get you two together sooner, but my daughter is very elusive.” She winked at him.
Lilia also introduced David to the taller woman and the man, but all he heard was the Dance of the Reed Pipes playing in the background. This time, the rhythm of the music didn’t match the blinking of the lights on the tree.
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