Cherche-Midi. Our table was so small that our knees almost touched underneath.
We shared a tomato and mozzarella plate. Then I had spaghetti with baby clams and red pepper, which I tried to eat as neatly and prettily as I could.
“It’s such a pleasure,” he sighed, “to be with a woman who actually eats. So many women just play with their food.”
I flushed as the specter of impossibly delicate Portia rose between us, batting pasta around into little piles with a silver fork. I wanted to be her, and I wanted to be the opposite of her.
I took a tiny bite and got a burst of garlic.
“Sensing my discomfort, he changed the subject, “What was your French family like?”
The question caught me off guard.
“They were great. My cousin Solange taught preschool and she was really energetic. And Jacques always made these corny jokes about how everyone in the world was really a Balzac character from The Human Comedy. He was a teacher too, a literature teacher in a lycée. And they had this wild son, Étienne, who I had this love-hate relationship with. They were lovely. I mean, they are lovely.”
“But you haven’t seen them yet? Not since you’ve been here this time?”
“How did you know?”
He smiled indulgently, tossed back a curl. “I know something about moving on. You’ll look back eventually.”
“There’s something kind of martyr-like about them that makes me sad. Maybe because they are so pure. Solange has these firm, busy arms, always in motion like the kids she taught. And Jacques is quieter, with a dark mustache and a slow smile and an absolute certainty that Balzac was the greatest writer in the history of the world. He knows it’s funny—he’s onto himself—but it does nothing to shake his conviction. They took me in when my dad was sick and made me so much part of the family that I felt kind of guilty for how attached I got to them, disloyal to my own parents.”
“But your own parents sent you away.”
“They had to,” I almost snapped. I stared into the olive oil shining up from my plate. Why had my parents left me in Paris for so long? In a trough between two waves? Learning French? Life had traded me fluency for my father’s last touch. Not the bargain I would have chosen. But, as Mom would say, there you have it. Instead of asking so many questions, go make something of your gifts.
“Sorry,” Olivier said. “You shouldn’t call them until you feel ready.”
No, I wanted to protest. Ready or not, I was going to call them later today.
“Although you may not get around to much of anything,” he continued, “after Lydia gets here. It’s hard to get out of her orbit once you get caught. She and the family can be pretty overwhelming. They can erase everything else.”
He told me that I would surely be conscripted to deliver letters between the offices of husband and wife, as they preferred to speak through third parties.
I replied that while Lydia remained mysterious to me, so different from anyone I had ever dealt with, Clarence was quite knowable despite being so erudite. He never appeared shocked by my ignorance. He often liked what I had to say. And he was available to me.
Olivier warned that Clarence could be devious and that I should be careful.
“You’re wrong there,” I said, refusing to get upset. “But then again he’s wrong about you too.”
“Oh, so he talks about me, does he?” Olivier grinned, suspending a fork full of penne.
“I’m sure it’s complicated,” I tried to sound light and knowing. “I mean, you’re dating his daughter. Fathers and daughters can be close.”
“I’m going to break up with Portia,” he declared, putting down his uneaten bite.
I dropped my fork. The wall between us crumbled to lace. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Why do you think, Kate?”
I thought of Portia’s voice, so taut and wiry, its oblique mentions of Olivier, never by name, making sure his luggage was in order, managing his shirts, having me
We shared a tomato and mozzarella plate. Then I had spaghetti with baby clams and red pepper, which I tried to eat as neatly and prettily as I could.
“It’s such a pleasure,” he sighed, “to be with a woman who actually eats. So many women just play with their food.”
I flushed as the specter of impossibly delicate Portia rose between us, batting pasta around into little piles with a silver fork. I wanted to be her, and I wanted to be the opposite of her.
I took a tiny bite and got a burst of garlic.
“Sensing my discomfort, he changed the subject, “What was your French family like?”
The question caught me off guard.
“They were great. My cousin Solange taught preschool and she was really energetic. And Jacques always made these corny jokes about how everyone in the world was really a Balzac character from The Human Comedy. He was a teacher too, a literature teacher in a lycée. And they had this wild son, Étienne, who I had this love-hate relationship with. They were lovely. I mean, they are lovely.”
“But you haven’t seen them yet? Not since you’ve been here this time?”
“How did you know?”
He smiled indulgently, tossed back a curl. “I know something about moving on. You’ll look back eventually.”
“There’s something kind of martyr-like about them that makes me sad. Maybe because they are so pure. Solange has these firm, busy arms, always in motion like the kids she taught. And Jacques is quieter, with a dark mustache and a slow smile and an absolute certainty that Balzac was the greatest writer in the history of the world. He knows it’s funny—he’s onto himself—but it does nothing to shake his conviction. They took me in when my dad was sick and made me so much part of the family that I felt kind of guilty for how attached I got to them, disloyal to my own parents.”
“But your own parents sent you away.”
“They had to,” I almost snapped. I stared into the olive oil shining up from my plate. Why had my parents left me in Paris for so long? In a trough between two waves? Learning French? Life had traded me fluency for my father’s last touch. Not the bargain I would have chosen. But, as Mom would say, there you have it. Instead of asking so many questions, go make something of your gifts.
“Sorry,” Olivier said. “You shouldn’t call them until you feel ready.”
No, I wanted to protest. Ready or not, I was going to call them later today.
“Although you may not get around to much of anything,” he continued, “after Lydia gets here. It’s hard to get out of her orbit once you get caught. She and the family can be pretty overwhelming. They can erase everything else.”
He told me that I would surely be conscripted to deliver letters between the offices of husband and wife, as they preferred to speak through third parties.
I replied that while Lydia remained mysterious to me, so different from anyone I had ever dealt with, Clarence was quite knowable despite being so erudite. He never appeared shocked by my ignorance. He often liked what I had to say. And he was available to me.
Olivier warned that Clarence could be devious and that I should be careful.
“You’re wrong there,” I said, refusing to get upset. “But then again he’s wrong about you too.”
“Oh, so he talks about me, does he?” Olivier grinned, suspending a fork full of penne.
“I’m sure it’s complicated,” I tried to sound light and knowing. “I mean, you’re dating his daughter. Fathers and daughters can be close.”
“I’m going to break up with Portia,” he declared, putting down his uneaten bite.
I dropped my fork. The wall between us crumbled to lace. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Why do you think, Kate?”
I thought of Portia’s voice, so taut and wiry, its oblique mentions of Olivier, never by name, making sure his luggage was in order, managing his shirts, having me
Similar Books
