And when he’s done, more words and then he pulls the knife across my cheek. I can feel a wetness and I know it’s the blood emptying out of me.
It isn’t a dream. I dream it tonight in Paris, but it isn’t a dream. It doesn’t happen in Paris. It doesn’t happen in my country. I’ve never seen my country. The Jews took it away.
It’s them who cut my cheek.
They took my country, made my father leave so I had to live in the place where my brother’s friend raped me and cut my cheek.
I’ve never met a Jew.
I met my brother’s friend and he raped me and cut my cheek.
~
dinner
from her table at the traiteur chinoisSarah watches an old woman slowly cross the street. She’s hunched like a narrow question mark inside her leopard-skin coat in the warm evening, wearing a brimmed hat with a veil, labouring her frail way with her wobbly bundle-buggy. A bag-lady, they’d call her at home, as if what weighs her down identifies her. Head down, intent, she just misses being levelled by a bus heading down rue de Rivoli. Sarah sees a brief rage quickly suppressed on the driver’s face. He doesn’t even honk, probably doesn’t want to startle the woman as she plods ahead. Civil society. The bus driver must somehow recognize the woman as a fellow citizen, and so worthy of his civility.
The Formica table smells of vinegar, the waiter has just wiped it down, gathering every crumb. A middle-aged man in a rumpled white shirt is standing at the cash, waiting for his take-out as the cashier piles the wire-handled cardboard cartons into a brown paper bag. It’s only 6:30, but Sarah’s starving as usual. Michael said he wouldn’t be home till after 9:00, so she’s eating alone. She’s come to the traiteur to feed up on nostalgia as well as wonton soup – the last time she had Chinese was Gail’s apartment. She’ll order honey garlic ribs and beef with broccoli in black bean sauce, Gail’s standard order, in her honour.
An older woman, perhaps in her mid-seventies, is seated at a table across from Sarah. When she catches Sarah glancing at her, the woman looks back with quiet disdain. Sarah looks away, but she has taken in the woman’s stolid solid stout form, her cardigan, the distinguished wooden cane one hand closes austerely over. The woman’s skirt goes unfashionably to mid-calf, her thick ankles end in grave, sombre shoes. Sarah can imagine her wearing the same outfit a decade ago, a decade from now, immutable, unmoveable. She seems Parisian through and through. What would it be like to really live here, to live here so long she grew old here? What would it be like to live her life in another language? Would she be a permanent foreigner, a ‘foreign national’ like the Jews who were rounded up in 1942, or would she be able to become a part of civil society, the real thing, Parisian?
And now yet another old woman has come into the traiteur, a desiccated, bird-like woman, who, though she’s elegantly dressed in a light-weight cream blouse and narrow cream skirt, seems more than half starved, the grim corners of her mouth turned permanently downwards. She hesitates in the doorway, peering round for a seat. Something familiar about her. Then Sarah spots the dog at her feet, a little spaniel whose floppy ears are tinged grey against the white of its fur, its tail swaying eagerly. It’s the woman Sarah saw in silhouette walking her dog on Rue des Barres that night she was startled out of sleep with the waking dream, the first time she had the dream in Paris. The waiter nods the woman to an empty table. She carefully picks her way to it, steadies herself on its surface as she sits herself down, the little dog at her feet, no rules against dogs in Paris restaurants. The woman must live in the neighbourhood.
Sarah rests her chopsticks on the plate; she’s already made a big dent in the beef with broccoli. Yesterday she was at the Post Office trying to reach Rose. When she couldn’t get through, she found herself asking the operator to dial Gail’s number. Listening to the empty rings, she tried to imagine her sister’s voice, what they’d say to each other. How many weeks now since they’ve spoken? She doesn’t even know if there’s any fight left between them, whether it’s just a residue, a sediment of resentment building up, making it harder and harder to pick up the thread. When the ringing finally stopped and Gail’s recorded voice told her to leave a message, all she could think of was a feeble, It’s Sarah, I’ll try later.
Maybe she should call now. She takes the penny from her pocket, flips it into the air, turns it over on the table. No. The penny says no. But suddenly Sarah doesn’t care what the penny says. She’s so tired of being a stranger. She’s hungry for family. She can’t wait, she has to hear her sister’s voice. She’ll try a pay phone, keep ringing till Gail has to pick up. She polishes off the rest of the food, goes to the register to count out her francs. She’s being careful; she doesn’t want to have to borrow from Michael. Even with the expense of the presents, that one drink at the Ritz, her share of the food costs, her savings should hold out. She sees a public phone just across the street, its windows smeared with graffiti. If she’s lucky, it will actually work and she’ll be able to talk to Gail, at the very least hear how Gail thinks Rose is doing.
When Sarah picks up the greasy earphone, she’s surprised to hear a dial tone. She listens to the thunk as the coins drop, flips her penny inside her pocket as she waits for the line to connect.
“Hello?” Gail picks up almost immediately.
“Gail, can you hear me? It’s Sarah.”
“Sarah. Wow. Are you in Paris?”
“Yeah, I’m in a phone booth not far from my apartment.” A bus snorts and chuffs down the street. She closes the door against the noise, against any bit of breeze as well. “It’s a bit noisy here, the traffic, can you hear me?”
“It’s loud, but I can.”
“Did you get my postcards?”
“Yeah. Did you get mine?”
She can hear Gail slurping coffee. “I did. Very funny. Do you know how Rose is doing?” Sarah asks. “I spoke with Mom a while back and she sounded worried.” The couple of brief letters that Sarah has had from Pat since the call have been noncommittal, and she needs to hear what Gail has to say.
More coffee-drinking sounds. “Yeah, I guess you know we’ve been worried because she seemed down again. The docs changed her meds, and we just have to hang in there, see if it works. They think she might be perking up a bit, these last couple of days.”
“Is that what Mom says?”
“Yeah. Mom and Dad. And I spoke with Rose yesterday.”
“You did!”
“Yeah. I did. It’s not hard, Sarah. I picked up the phone. You could too.”
Except that she doesn’t have a phone. Except for the time difference. Except that she did call. “I tried calling her from here yesterday but she wasn’t home. I called you too. I left a message on your machine.”
“Damn. I didn’t know. I never check my machine.”
“Well, I don’t have a phone here anyways.” Anyways. Why is just talking to Gail rattling her like this? “So how was she, Gail, what did she say?”
“Well, she didn’t talk for long. Then David got on the phone.”
“What did he say?”
“He said the doctors told them that the new meds seem better, but the dosage still probably needs tweaking. She’s had some nasty side effects, appetite loss, which isn’t great because she’s so thin already.”
Her big sister even thinner. That slip of a girl, fingernail paring. Moon crescent waning.
“That’s too bad.”
“Look, we just have to wait it out. Eventually they’ll get it adjusted right. Look – really, she’s pretty stable. The setbacks are minor. She’s at home, not in the Psych ward. Just stop worrying so much and go back to eating croissants or whatever it is you’re doing there.”
Clicks and buzzes on the line and then an unintelligible mechanical voice says something in French.
“Gail? Gail? Hang on a minute. I have to add more coins.” Her hands are shaking as she fumbles in her pocket, drops the coins into the slot.
“You there?” Gail asks. The line is clear now.
“Yeah, but I don’t know how many minutes I still have in my pocket. Just fill me in a bit more.”
“There’s no reason to get into a flap, Sarah. At least her colour’s better. Mom says her colour’s much better. Before we know it she’ll be looking like her old beautiful self.”
Another garbled interruption by the French voice.
“I think that means I have ten seconds left or something.”
“Well, okay. When are you coming home?”
The line goes dead.
Sarah thinks about fishing around in her purse for more coins, but she’s not sure it would do any good, another two minutes of hasty conversation with Gail. At least they spoke to each other at last. At least Gail thinks Rose is pretty much stable. A minor setback. Minor side effects. She’ll get better. She has to get better.
Sarah’s sweating in the airless booth, it’s stifling, a little hothouse, but she waits a bit before hanging up, feels the weight of the handset, the weight of Gail’s voice. Go back to eating croissants or whatever it is you’re doing there. She’ll walk back to the apartment, to do whatever it is she’s doing here. She’s gone on her own to the Palais-Royal, one of the urban gardens from Charles’ list. The square is right across from the Louvre, about a twenty-minute walk from the apartment. It reminds her of Place des Vosges – another refuge in the city, another garden walled by perfect façades. She’s going to write up some notes, do some decent diagrams from the sketches she made there. She has so many questions for Charles when they meet next. Whatever it is she’s doing here, when she sees Charles, she wants to talk with him not just about the design of the Palais-Royal, but about going to school when she gets back to Toronto, what he thinks about it, whether it makes any sense to him. And she’s starting to think about what it would be like to take on public projects, maybe work for the City. She wants to talk with Charles about that too.
When she makes it up the stairs, the apartment is cool. She’s opened the door to the smell of apricots. She left a little bowlful out on the table, they didn’t seem quite ripe. And now the scent is intense, essence of apricots, a smell she can almost taste. Real apricot, not the apricots they have in North America, imitations, impressions of apricots. Here in Paris food gets to be food.
And when Sarah gets back to Canada, will Rose be Rose, not some pale imitation of herself? And what will Gail be – her usual impossible self? And what will Sarah be, what will she decide at last to be?
~
Later that week Michael comes home earlier than usual, brings a broiled chicken from the street vendor, the room filling up with the smell of crisp brown skin. A whole chicken and roasted potatoes too. A Michael form of apology for the spat they’d had the day before. Michael had been super nervous about the dinner they’d been invited to at a famous Danish restaurant on the Champs-Élysées. They met with a group of partners from the Toronto office who’d flown in for the week, some of the local Paris lawyers too. Sarah had been specifically invited, though she wasn’t quite sure why. The food was a nice change, no heavy buttery sauces, and, as Michael had promised, there was very little shop talk. Sarah was way more talkative than usual, chatting about the design of the Palais-Royal, the differences in layout as well as use between it and Place des Vosges. She’d been pretty sure she held up her end.
But in the taxi home, it turned out Michael was ticked off with her. According to him, she’d flubbed things at every point. He really needed her to brush up on her French manners. There was a whole list of offenses: when they got to the table, she just plunked herself down without waiting to be told where she was to sit; then, when the cocktails were served, she started sucking hers back before they’d had a chance to make the toast; she started eating before they said bon appétit; she used the wrong fork for the main.
Michael had told her all about these kinds of rules when they were on the subway to the restaurant, but she hadn’t paid much attention. And it was all new to her. They don’t eat like this at home. She doesn’t know French manners. She knows Winnipeg manners: Feed people the second they walk in the door. Have at least three times as much food as anyone could possibly eat. Food first, alcohol next, if at all. Nobody in her family drinks. Keep offering more to eat no matter how many times people say no until they just give up and accept more helpings. Send everyone home with leftovers. Winnipeg manners. There’s nothing wrong with Winnipeg manners, even if this isn’t Winnipeg.
She hadn’t ever been to that kind of fancy schmancy dinner before. And as far as she was concerned, everybody seemed to be having a perfectly good time. Michael was the only one keeping score. When Sarah pointed this out, he seemed to settle down a bit, and she figures the broiled chicken for dinner tonight is a peace offering. Michael takes a bite or two, spears a roasted potato, then asks Sarah what she was up to today.
What is she up to? Go back to eating croissants or whatever it is you’re doing there. It’s fine and dandy to want more, to want to be more. And she does feel the city filling her up, feel her ideas about gardens coming into being, coming clear. But she’s not sure any of it counts. All her fine new ideas, will she even be able to spit them out on paper if she does take some courses, much less make them work in her clients’ suburban gardens back home? She puts down her fork. “I was at the library at Centre Pompidou. And I met with Charles; he’s giving me a reading list for when I get home.”
“Glad to hear it. Listen, when you do decide to take those courses, I want you to know I’m happy to bankroll you.”
“You know I can’t do that, let you pay for things.”
“Okay, don’t get on your high horse. Make it an interest-free loan. To be repaid when your business takes off.”
“I want to do this on my own.”
“I get that. I just want to back you any way I can. So please, don’t waste the little time we have left here worrying about what you’ll do when we get home.”
Michael always pushing her, hand at the small of her back, nudging, prodding. “Will you stop telling me what to do? Quit this job. Get that job. Go to school. Come here, go there, do this, pick that. And all the while you have your own agenda.”
“What’s my agenda?!”
“I don’t know. Having a girlfriend who follows you everywhere you go. Who doesn’t embarrass you at company dinners.” She sets her napkin down. “Did anybody say anything at the office? About last night?”
He bites his lip, smiles. “About last night? Um, not anything negative. In fact, both my bosses John and François made a point of telling me how charming you were, how intelligent, what a lucky dog I was, etc. etc. I was urged to propose before someone else snaps you up.”
A lucky dog. With a chicken in its mouth as an apology.
“It’s just, look – I don’t want you to feel that you don’t know what the right thing to do is in those situations. I want you to feel that you’re as good as anyone else. But that was just dumb,” he says.
“What was?”
“Bugging you about manners nobody else was worried about.” He’s grinning that irresistible Michael grin. “Was coming with me to Paris really such an awful idea?”
“There have been worse ideas.” Sarah grins.
“Hey, are you still taking French classes from that friend of Laura’s, Marie-Claire? I asked Laura at work but she kind of skittered around the question.”
“It’s a long story.” Part of her wants to be pissed off at him, grin or no grin, chicken dinner or no chicken dinner. But it isn’t easy, not with Michael. And when she fills him in on the fiasco at the Ritz, he goes predictably ballistic, stops eating, starts pacing the room.
“Just who in the hell is this woman? And what on earth is wrong with Laura, why would she introduce you to someone like that?”
“Laura was mortified, Michael. She looked quite ready to slice Marie-Claire into bits herself.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t figure Laura has much patience for bigots.”
“She doesn’t. She told me
that Marie-Claire has made that kind of remark once or twice about Black people, but that she hadn’t fully twigged on to just how bad it was.”
Michael’s still pacing.
“Why don’t you sit down and have your dinner?”
“I am starved.” He sits down, settles into the remains of his meal. “Listen, Sarah, I wanted to let you know that we might iron out the last details on the contract a bit earlier than we planned, and I’m pretty sure I can take the extra time as a bit of holiday for us. Italy maybe? The South of France?”
“Sounds great. Either.” Maybe they can go to Giverny, see Monet’s garden.
He takes another sip of his wine. “Hey, I’ve got an idea –”
Rue des Rosiers Page 21