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

booklet of first-class tickets. It was my first time in the metro and I hadn't known
there were first- and second-class tickets. First class was
empty. I was sure we were the only people in Paris who were
riding first class that day.

    We saw a day student from the College du Leman at the
Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. "He's with his parents," I
thought, "and I'm with Mr. D." I looked at his parents with
him, I looked at Mr. D with me. There were so many tourists
I couldn't see the tomb. I didn't care about the tomb. We
crossed the river to the Sainte Chapelle. We stood still in its
center. The stained glass windows turned the air around us a
saintly blue. On the Left Bank of the river, we went to the art
gallery whose phone number I had gotten for Mr. D. The
owner greeted him enthusiastically in English. Mr. D informed her that he was with me, a whiz in French. She was
to speak to us only in French. After we had seen the painting
he was considering adding to his collection, we crossed the
street to a boutique favored by Louise and Mrs. D. Mr. D said
I could have whatever I wanted. I knew it was rude to want
anything extravagant, so I chose a scarf. It was a carre (a small
square), rather than a longer foulard, in gold and blue. We
bounded toward the Jeu de Paume next, where the impressionist paintings used to be kept before they redid the Gare
d'Orsay. Mr. D was an indefatigable walker; he loved to walk
in the woods and he loved to walk in cities even better. I
could barely keep up with him, as he would walk and point
and talk, like a guide. There was nothing he liked better than
to show Paris to a young person for the first time.
    We stood in front of Manet's Olympia in thejeu de Paume.
    "Look at that painting, what do you see?"
    I saw a naked woman lying on a couch with her black
maid standing behind her:

    "A woman, lying on her side with no clothes on and another woman in back of her, a maid, holding flowers."
    "Now, look at the colors. What color is the couch?"
    "White."
    "Is it just one white?"
    The painting had a zillion different kinds of white in it,
beige gray snow ivory. As soon as I began looking for all the
different whites, the painting changed utterly. The picture
itself dissolved, but the paint came alive and I could see the
brush strokes, see that a person had been there, working, to
make the illusion.
    Seeing the painting change like that before my eyes made
me feel sharp-sighted; I felt I was getting to the substance of
my vision, to the meaning of it. I attributed my new eyes to
Mr. D and also to the city of Paris, which seemed to be organized for looking. I had never been in a place where there
was so much to observe: the benches, the wrought-iron balconies, the long cars that looked like bugs, the policemen
with their huge caps, the food sold outdoors, bookstalls
outside along the river. Everywhere I went, there was a new
tableau to take in.
    Mr. D and his wife took me and my mother to dinner that
night. He ordered a special souffle for dessert that came out
high in the waiter's hand; when I put my spoon in it all the
whites from the Manet painting came staring up at me, and I
ate the truth and light of impressionism in my souffle.
    Mr. D and his wife left for the Riviera where they were
going to look at more paintings and Mrs. D would get to
spend some time on the beach. I was in Paris with my mother,
Mrs. Vanderveer, Priscilla, and Johnny. How can I say it
was still as vivid a place, as powerful as the Paris I shared with Mr. D? I'd be lying. I've looked in my memory for the
remains of the other Paris of that spring, and the first thing I
found was the back of Mrs. Vanderveer's neck. She had a
gray poodle hairdo cut short and lines on her neck, which
she held firm and determined. She led with her neck and
we, her scout troop, followed. I was used to looking at her
neck because she drove Priscilla and me to school in her VW
bug, Priscilla sat next to her