Read Online French Lessons: A Memoir by Alice Kaplan - Free Book Online Page A

wanted to share him with me, her friend who didn't
have a father. Even when he wasn't with us, we would plan
all day how we would tell him what we were doing. We
would spend the day shopping in the D family department
store: Louise would have the D's charge card, and when she
showed it the sales people would be nice to her and act
flustered. I would buy a lipstick or stockings to be in on it,
and then the driver would take us back to her house. We'd unwrap all the packages, together, in front of Mr. D, telling
him the story of each purchase. He'd always educate us,
pointing out the new package design, asking us if we had
spotted the undercover shoplifting detectives at the store;
his favorite was a woman who dressed like a bum.

    On New Year's Eve when Louise and I were twelve, Mr. D
left his grownup's party in the main house. He came with a
bottle of champagne into the living room of the guest wing
where we were staying. It was my first taste of champagne.
Mr. D told us it was important to get used to drinking. Soon
we would go on dates. The boys would drink too much, and
it would be our responsibility to drive them home. Louise
and I drank the champagne until we were both dizzy. I woke
up with a headache. At 9 A.M. on New Year's Day, I stumbled
into the living room of the guest wing. I looked out the huge
picture window. Mr. D was galloping on a horse on the field
below. His horse took a jump over a wooden fence right below the window. I had a perfect view.
    He looked sturdy. I could count on Mr. D not to die.
    When I got my acceptance letter from the College du Leman, I called Mr. D. That same day, a bottle of perfume was
delivered to my house by Mr. D's driver. Joy perfume.
    I sent cards to Mr. D during the year-one from Milan,
where my class went on a weekend trip. He wrote back to
say that Milan had one of the most beautiful cathedrals in
Europe. "I am surprised that you didn't climb up to the top
and take your whole group along. You have the energy and I
think you missed a good opportunity to show them what a
good sightseer you are." At Christmas I wrote him and enclosed notes to him from my friends at school. "I loved your
letter," he wrote back, "and I enjoyed hearing from all your friends." On Valentine's Day I got a card with a puppy dog on
it, signed "anonymous" in his hand.

    In March I wrote him that I would be in Paris with my
mother for spring vacation. Was there any chance he would
be there, too? He wrote back right away, sending me an official itinerary of his vacation with Mrs. D-two weeks in the
Riviera and a week in Paris. He hoped I would get in touch if
my dates overlapped with his: "I would love to see you. It
would be especially nice to have you go walking around
Paris with me." He added that Louise and her sister would
be in Aspen for spring vacation: "I am sure she will have a
good time but I know she will miss not having you there."
    But I knew I wouldn't miss her. Mr. D and I were going to
scale the cathedrals together!
    My day with Mr. D in Paris was the best thing that happened to me when I was fifteen. I left my mother back in the
Latin Quarter with the Vanderveers. I crossed to the Right
Bank in a cab. The lobby of the Ritz Hotel where he stayed
was drenched in a golden light. Mr. and Mrs. D greeted me
in the living room of a vast suite, Mrs. D in a tapestry bergere, Mr. Don his feet, Michelin Green Guide in hand. Mr. D
asked me to telephone the lobby for a phone number. The
concierge on the other end of the phone dictated a long
number to me, and I got the number right, realizing that the
French have a different word for 70 than the Swiss. Mr. D
said, "I asked you to call because your French is better than
mine." I lived off that idea for a long time, the idea that my
French was better than Mr. D's and that I could be useful to
him because of it.
    Mr. D and I said goodbye to Mrs. D for the day and walked
to the nearest metro. Mr. D bought a