Read Online The Virgin Blue by Tracy Chevalier - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tracy Chevalier
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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day but I couldn't bear the furtive glances at my erupted skin. Finally I chose a stone-coloured sleeveless dress that reached my mid-calf and a white linen jacket. I thought I would fit in with more or less any occasion in such an outfit, but when the couple opened the door of their big suburban house and I took in Chantal's jeans and white T-shirt, Olivier's khaki shorts, I felt simultaneously overdressed and frumpy. They smiled politely at me, and smiled again at the flowers and wine we brought, but I noticed that Chantal abandoned the flowers, still wrapped, on a sideboard in the dining room, and our carefully chosen bottle of wine never made an appearance.
They had two children, a girl and a boy, who were so polite and quiet that I never even found out their names. At the end of the meal they stood up and disappeared inside as if summoned by a bell only children could hear. They were probably watching television, and I secretly wished I could join them: I found conversation among us adults tiring and at times demoralizing. Rick and Olivier spent most of the time discussing the firm's business, and spoke in English. Chantal and I chatted awkwardly in a mixture of French and English. I tried to speak only French with her, but she kept switching to English when she felt I wasn't keeping up. It would have been impolite for me to continue in French, so I switched to English until there was a pause; then I'd start another subject in French. It turned into a polite struggle between us; I think she took quiet pleasure in showing off how good her English was compared to my French. And she wasn't one for small talk; within ten minutes she had covered most of the political trouble in the world and looked scornful when I didn't have a decisive answer to every problem.
Both Olivier and Chantal hung onto every word Rick uttered, even though I made more of an effort than he did to speak to them in their own language. For all my struggle to communicate they barely listened to me. I hated comparing my performance with Rick's: I'd never done such a thing in the States.
We left in the late afternoon, with polite kisses and promises to have them over in Lisle. That'll be a lot of fun, I thought as we drove away. When we were out of sight I pulled off my sweaty jacket. If we had been in the States with friends it wouldn't have mattered what my arms looked like. But then, if we were still in the States I wouldn't have psoriasis.
‘Hey, they were nice, weren't they?’ Rick started off our ritual debriefing.
‘They didn't touch the wine or flowers.’
‘Yeah, but with a wine cellar like theirs, no wonder! Great place.’
‘I guess I wasn't thinking about their material possessions.’
Rick glanced at me sideways. ‘You didn't seem too happy there, babe. What's wrong?’
‘I don't know. I just feel – I just feel I don't fit , that's all. I can't seem to talk to people here the way I can in the States. Until now the only person I've had any sustained conversation with besides Madame Sentier is Jean-Paul, and even that isn't real conversation. More like a battle, more like –’
‘Who's Jean-Paul?’
I tried to sound casual. ‘A librarian in Lisle. He's helping me look into my family history. He's away right now,’ I added irrelevantly.
‘And what have you two found out?’
‘Not much. A little from my cousin in Switzerland. You know, I was starting to think that knowing more about my French background would make me feel more comfortable here, but now I think I'm wrong. People still see me as American.’
‘You are American, Ella.’
‘Yeah, I know. But I have to change a little while I'm here.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because – because otherwise I stick out too much. People want me to be what they expect; they want me to be like them. And anyway I can't help but be affected by the landscape around me, the people and the way they think and the language. It's going to make me different, a little different at least.’
Rick looked
They had two children, a girl and a boy, who were so polite and quiet that I never even found out their names. At the end of the meal they stood up and disappeared inside as if summoned by a bell only children could hear. They were probably watching television, and I secretly wished I could join them: I found conversation among us adults tiring and at times demoralizing. Rick and Olivier spent most of the time discussing the firm's business, and spoke in English. Chantal and I chatted awkwardly in a mixture of French and English. I tried to speak only French with her, but she kept switching to English when she felt I wasn't keeping up. It would have been impolite for me to continue in French, so I switched to English until there was a pause; then I'd start another subject in French. It turned into a polite struggle between us; I think she took quiet pleasure in showing off how good her English was compared to my French. And she wasn't one for small talk; within ten minutes she had covered most of the political trouble in the world and looked scornful when I didn't have a decisive answer to every problem.
Both Olivier and Chantal hung onto every word Rick uttered, even though I made more of an effort than he did to speak to them in their own language. For all my struggle to communicate they barely listened to me. I hated comparing my performance with Rick's: I'd never done such a thing in the States.
We left in the late afternoon, with polite kisses and promises to have them over in Lisle. That'll be a lot of fun, I thought as we drove away. When we were out of sight I pulled off my sweaty jacket. If we had been in the States with friends it wouldn't have mattered what my arms looked like. But then, if we were still in the States I wouldn't have psoriasis.
‘Hey, they were nice, weren't they?’ Rick started off our ritual debriefing.
‘They didn't touch the wine or flowers.’
‘Yeah, but with a wine cellar like theirs, no wonder! Great place.’
‘I guess I wasn't thinking about their material possessions.’
Rick glanced at me sideways. ‘You didn't seem too happy there, babe. What's wrong?’
‘I don't know. I just feel – I just feel I don't fit , that's all. I can't seem to talk to people here the way I can in the States. Until now the only person I've had any sustained conversation with besides Madame Sentier is Jean-Paul, and even that isn't real conversation. More like a battle, more like –’
‘Who's Jean-Paul?’
I tried to sound casual. ‘A librarian in Lisle. He's helping me look into my family history. He's away right now,’ I added irrelevantly.
‘And what have you two found out?’
‘Not much. A little from my cousin in Switzerland. You know, I was starting to think that knowing more about my French background would make me feel more comfortable here, but now I think I'm wrong. People still see me as American.’
‘You are American, Ella.’
‘Yeah, I know. But I have to change a little while I'm here.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because – because otherwise I stick out too much. People want me to be what they expect; they want me to be like them. And anyway I can't help but be affected by the landscape around me, the people and the way they think and the language. It's going to make me different, a little different at least.’
Rick looked
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