Read Online Almost French by Sarah Turnbull - Free Book Online

waist.
    Throughout dinner, Frédéric tries to include me in the conversation, seizing any opening for me to contribute to the discussion: ‘Oh your brother works in TV?’ he says to his neighbour at one point. ‘Sarah used to work in television too.’ I am touched and amazed that after my earlier efforts he would encourage me to open my mouth again. But the conversation is mostly too rapid for me to follow, let alone worry about contributing to it. I only catch odd words and phrases. Something about a very ‘poetic’ book by Marie someone. A joke about De Gaulle which makes everyone laugh, so I do too. Now they’re talking about virility and femininity and I’m frustrated not to understand more because this sounds interesting. It’s only when they start examining the bottles of Burgundy on the table that it clicks—they’re talking about the wine.
    The conversation is, frankly, a bit intimidating. Although animated, this dinner is nothing like the garrulous mealtimes with Jean-Michel and his family in Auvergne—it’s nothing like any dinner I’ve ever been to, actually. It seems so practised, as though the guests and hosts have spent centuries refining their respective roles, their manners and interjections. They all seem so articulate, so knowledgeable. Apparently it’s okay to interrupt because everyone does. If only I could think of something worth saying. What illuminating pronouncements could I add to the wine discussion, for example? C’est bon. Je l’aime .
    Just after midnight we move from the table to the comfortable chairs in the salon. Sylvie goes into the kitchen toprepare coffees and herbal teas and I wonder why Benoît doesn’t do it—he’s done nothing all night except seat us and pour the wine. All this smiling and concentrating and feigning avid interest in conversations I can’t follow has been exhausting and I’m keen to go. Although surrounded by noise and people I feel apart. Alien.
    We finish our teas. But no-one makes a move. For the next hour the guests stay talking. The scene is remarkable for the startling absence of alcohol: the wine dried up after dinner. I’m used to it flowing in reckless, bottomless quantities. It’s not a lack of generosity on the part of our hosts—the Burgundies served with dinner were very fine, expensive crus . Maybe this is something I’ll have to get used to in France: smaller, measured quantities of wine.
    Finally, at almost half past one, someone makes a move to go. This seems to be the cue because then everyone stands up and the room fills with a buzz about leaving. Hugely relieved, I leap to my feet too. But the business of farewelling and thanking takes another fifteen minutes. I am astounded—a little impatient too. Why so much procrastinating? Why does everything seem to take ten times longer than it would in Australia?
    A few days later, after telephoning to thank his friends for dinner, Frédéric tells me the impression I made.
    ‘They thought you were nice.’
    I pull a face. So much for being fabulously interesting or entertaining. ‘Didn’t they say anything else?’
    ‘Um, no. Just that you seem the quiet type. Shy.’
    ‘SHY?’ I bellow in disbelief. ‘I’m not shy!’
    ‘But you were quiet. Anyway, don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter what they think.’
    But Frédéric hasn’t grasped the measure of my frustration.Actually, it does matter to me that I’m now perceived as quiet, nice and boring (that’s not their word but, of course, that’s what they meant). And the reason it bothers me is because it’s true. Looking back, I’d said very little all night. When I did speak, it was to issue child-like statements or ask simple questions which made me cringe at my own dumbness. Most of the time, Frédéric was the only one actually listening to me—the others had already leaped two topics ahead. Eventually my nerve vaporised into the mushroom cloud of cigar smoke.
    Things will be much easier when I can speak