Foreign Tongue (11 page)

They had California-style heat lamps, and there were several people sitting under the yellow awning. I got a seat in the back and smoothed my hair. A piece of plastic caning dug into my leg and snagged my stocking.

“Un lait chaud,”
I said to the waiter.
“A la vanille, s’il vous plaît.”

Beyond the intersection, the bridge curved up so that I couldn’t see the street in front of the apartment I’d left, though I could make out the lights on the top floor. I scrunched down and felt along the back of my thigh, tracing the hole in the nylon.

Well, that was a narrow escape. My adrenaline evaporated, leaving behind an oppressive, sticky layer of disappointment. I hated disappointment. It was like nuclear waste, circling the globe on a barge with nowhere to go. When would I learn? When would I learn to stop getting ahead of myself? I shouldn’t have assumed Olivier was available, just because he’d kissed me, just because…just because I wanted him to be.

I sat up as the waiter brought my hot milk. There was a thick layer of foam on top, and I stirred in two paper tubes of sugar. On childhood visits, my French grandmother had insisted I drink a big
bol
of it each morning. She made it with whole milk and a vanilla bean, and there were flecks of cream in it. It was too rich and too earthy for my low-fat-milk palate. I remember thinking I could smell the cow in it, cud and hay. It was vile, and the only way she could get me to finish it was by challenging me to guess whether she’d used the Quimper
bol
with the little boy or the little girl painted on the bottom.

Now she was gone, and here I was, drinking the hot milk I’d hated as a child. I wondered if certain things become second nature if you practice them enough, like raising one eyebrow, or calling someone “darling,” or walking out on parties that make you uncomfortable. I wondered what happened to the little breakfast
bols
. I missed my grandmother, and I felt tears prick the backs of my eyes. I took a sip of the milk, but the frothy white sweetness blended badly with the salty taste in my mouth. I looked across the
place,
squinting as a figure crossed the street. It was Olivier, with his head bent against the rain. He walked directly toward the café.

I scrunched down farther in my chair. For a moment, I wondered if he hadn’t seen me, if he’d just left the party and strolled toward the first random spot for a nightcap. That would have made more sense, because
that story—the one where I was by myself, feeling sorry for myself in a café, on a park bench, in my car on the Santa Monica Freeway—that story, I knew. But this story, the one where the guy left the party to look for me? I didn’t know it. I didn’t know how it went, and I didn’t know what to think.

He pulled up a chair and sat, looking grim. I folded my arms and glared back at him. We sat in silence for a moment. Two police cars raced down the
quai
, sirens blaring.

“Well, say something,” I said, finally.

“Non, toi.”
It was clipped. Yeah, he was pissed. Maybe I’d embarrassed him by leaving. Maybe it had been awkward. Maybe he wanted to tell me off.

Maybe I wanted to tell him off. This was the jerk who’d kept me waiting at that damn party for over an hour.

“I didn’t think you were going to show up,” I said.

“J’ai laissé trois messages sur ton portable: pour te prévenir, pour faire mes excuses, pour te demander où tu étais,”
he said, explaining each message he’d left.

“I forgot my cell phone at home,” I said.

“Je suis désolé,”
he said, not sounding apologetic.
“Un calva,”
he said to the waiter. He looked back at me, his features softer but still not friendly.
“Quoi d’autre?”

“Bernard wasn’t very nice to me.”

“Il n’est jamais de bonne humeur. Tu le connais,”
he said, pointing out Bernard was rarely cordial.
“Pourquoi tu es partie comme ça?”
he asked. I folded the empty paper sugar tube into a small accordion. He touched my hand, and I snatched it away.

“Who’s Estelle?” I asked. His face clouded for a moment.

“
Une grande actrice
. She’s starring in the play I’m directing.” His tone was short, factual. He lit a cigarette.

“She’s very beautiful,” I said.

“Evidemment,”
he replied, implying I was stating the obvious.

“Victorine made it clear you were involved. I didn’t feel the need to stay.”

“C’est qui, Victorine?”

“One of the guests I was talking to,” I said.

He exhaled a plume of smoke.
“C’est du passé,”
he said.
“Et puis, ça ne te concerne pas.”
It’s in the past, and it’s none of your business. Usually, conversation between bilingual people ends up in one of the languages, but he refused to speak English, and I refused to speak French. It was a novel way of fighting.

“Are you mad at me?”

“Je ne te comprends pas.”

“Yes, you do. You understand me perfectly well,” I snapped.

“Je comprends l’anglais. Toi, je ne te comprends pas.”
He shook his head, aggravated.
“En plus, tu es partie juste au moment où je suis arrivé,”
he said. So he knew I’d taken off just after he’d arrived. I gnawed on the inside of my cheek.

It occurred to me that he might care what I thought. It also occurred to me, not for the first time, that I could be a pain in the ass. Somewhere in the back of my head, there was background noise. I heard “He’s here, he’s here, he’s here” repeating, over and over. Actually, it was “He’s here, you dolt,” but never mind.

“You’re here,” I whispered. Timothy hadn’t come after me when I’d left him in the middle of the night. But here was Olivier. The knife pleats in his trousers blurred.

“Comment?”

“You’re here,” I said, enunciating. When I looked up, two tears rolled down my face. He looked surprised. He stretched out a hand and pulled me to him. I leaned my head on his chest, holding on to the sides of his leather jacket.

“I’m sorry I was late,” he said, switching into English. “Was it very awful?” I shook my head and made a muffled sound. I straightened up and blew my nose with the rough paper napkin under my hot milk. He
gave me a tender look, and I smiled back at him. The air grew thicker between us, and I could feel my pulse beating in my throat. I leaned forward again, feeling like I was falling, and we kissed. He tasted of apple brandy and cigarettes, and his tongue was firm and gentle, sending a shooting thrill through me.

“J’aime tes larmes,”
he said, caressing my face with his thumbs. I love your tears.

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” I muttered.

“They make your face more beautiful,” he said. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

T
he rain stopped, leaving the night air damp and velvety. We walked arm in arm up the avenue Montaigne. I tried to match my stride to his, but I had to take little half steps on the slick pavement to keep up. Jagged neon letters undulated backward in the shallow puddles. I felt dizzy, happy, and nervous, and I liked it.

Across the street, a woman sat underneath the bus shelter. She was dressed in black, with a beige raincoat draped over her shoulders, her face bathed in underwater blue-green from the illuminated print ad next to her. She seemed to be watching me, with a look that said: Even though you may not notice me, I am smiling at you with envy or nostalgia or solidarity or fondness for the happy, oblivious spectacle you are.

“Wait,” I said. A small tingle went up my spine.

“Taxi!” Olivier called out, not hearing me, and waved at the driver. Up ahead, at the Plaza Athénée, a cab emptied itself of a trio of passengers. Olivier held the door open, and I slid in. Across the street, a
night bus lumbered by, not stopping. After it passed, the bus shelter was empty. Olivier put his arm around me. I leaned into him and gave the driver my address.

“What were you looking at?” he asked.

“Mon sosie,”
I murmured, using the French term for double. “Smiling at me from across the street.”

“Your doppelgänger,” he said.

“My twin.”

“Your nemesis.”

“Peut-être. Mais je ne pense pas,”
I said. My ears popped as we drove into the tiled tunnel under the city center. Orange lights danced on grimy white ceramic. “Have you ever seen your double?” I asked. Boulevard Sébastopol to rue Réaumur.

“Une fois,”
he murmured. When I looked at him, he kissed me. Rue du Temple to République. My dress rode up on the leather seat, and I tugged it down. He put his hand on mine. I closed my eyes and didn’t open them until the taxi came to a stop. Just in case we hadn’t gotten it, the driver cleared his throat.

“Would you like to come up?” I asked.

“Perhaps I should let you sleep?”

“No, I’m fine. Come up,” I said, frowning. His question threw me. It wasn’t even eleven. Was this politeness or reluctance?

We didn’t speak in the cramped elevator. Inside the apartment, the minor awkwardness I felt took hold. He seemed too large for the space. I didn’t know what to do with him. One of us was de trop, and I figured it had to be him.

“What can I get you?” I asked, resorting to hostess behavior. I held up a bottle of rum, a clear liqueur that looked like
poire William,
and a brand of Scotch I’d never heard of. Olivier stood formally in the living room. “Whiskey?” I suggested.

“
Oui, merci
. May I look around?”

“Yes. And take off your jacket,” I said. He took it off and looked at
the bookshelves. His fingers touched my hand as I handed him a glass, but I pulled away and stood in front of the stereo.

“What would you like to listen to?” I asked, feeling like one of the polite cartoon chipmunks: after you.

“Comme tu veux,”
he said. No, no, after you.

“Come on, help me out.” I insist, after
you,
old chap.

“Du piano, alors.”

I put on a Chopin CD and lowered the volume. He went to the desk and ran his fingers over my laptop. There was a draft of the translation next to it. He held up a page.

“The latest?”

“Yes,” I said, watching him. “You can’t read it.”

“I can’t?” He held the piece of paper above his head. I’ve always hated this game. It rubs me the wrong way: both the holding something out of reach and the reading—or pretending to read—of something private. I tend to be completely humorless about it.

“I mean it, Olivier.” I plucked the page from his hand and shoved it in a folder. Crossing the room, I sat on the sofa. He looked surprised but sat next to me.

“Who lives here?” he asked, looking up at the ceiling moldings.

“No one. Usually, it’s rented out to tourists. But it belongs to my aunt.”

“And where is she?”

“Most of the time, San Francisco. She’s lending it to me.” I felt guilty for being brusque about the translation, but I didn’t apologize. The piano music grated on my nerves, and the air was stuffy inside the apartment. He pressed a finger to my forehead, between my eyebrows. I blinked and pulled away.

“You’re frowning,” he said.

“I think too much.” I shrugged.

“Don’t,” he said.

“I hate it when people tell me not to think. Like that’s possible,” I
said. I tried to quell my annoyance, but it was there anyway. He took my hand, playing with my fingers.

“I was disappointed when you weren’t there,” he began. “Bernard gave me a very odd look—”

“He wasn’t thrilled to see me,” I interrupted. “Luckily, Antoine saved the day. It’s hot in here.” I got up to open the windows.

“Antoine?”

“Antoine Berlutti, Victorine’s husband.” I pulled the card out of my bag. “He came to my rescue.”

Olivier didn’t look at the card. “I had a small problem at the theater. I couldn’t leave,” he said.

“Fine. Whatever,” I said. Did he think I wanted an explanation? Was I acting like I wanted one? Come to think of it, what kind of small problem takes over an hour to fix? I sat down again, not looking at him.

“Eh, oh! Je suis là,”
he reminded me. I nodded, biting my fingernail. I knew he was there; I just wasn’t sure I wanted him to be. “Why did you come to Paris?” he asked.

“It’s a long story.”

“Tell me,” he said. I took a sip of his drink. It burned my throat. I would never be a whiskey drinker.

“Un chagrin d’amour,”
I said.

He was quiet for a moment. “That’s not a long story,” he observed.

“I don’t want to tell you a long story. I’ve been telling it for weeks, and it’s worn me out.” I could hear how unfriendly I sounded, but I couldn’t help it. Anxiety made me prickly. I shrugged off the jacket.

“Why are you so far away?” he asked, looking at me.

“I don’t know.”

“Viens,”
he said, putting down his drink.

“Non, toi,”
I replied, batting the ball back over the net. Sometimes if you get a rally going, it almost feels like a game. He pushed up his sleeves and flipped through the Le Corbusier book on the coffee table.

“I think I will go,” he said, closing the book.

“If you like,” I answered.

He put on his jacket. I walked him to the door. It felt like the wrong way to end the evening, but since I couldn’t make up my mind, this was how it was going to end. Except now that he was going, I didn’t want him to.

“Bon,”
he said.

My stomach knotted. “Olivier…” I said.

“Oui?”
He looked at me coolly.

“Je ne veux pas que tu partes.”
I don’t want you to go. Even as I said them, the words felt experimental, like I was trying them out for the first time.

He leaned back against the door. “But you don’t want me to stay, either,” he said, looking puzzled. “You don’t trust me around your translation, you don’t want to tell me your story, you stay far away from me on the sofa…”

I winced; he was right. “I’m awkward,” I explained. “I’m awkward and I’m nervous, and I think too much and then I tie myself up in knots and behave oddly,” I said.

This didn’t seem to clear things up. Maybe what made sense to me didn’t make sense to him—or wasn’t enough to convince him that I did, in fact, now want him to stay. He was going to leave, and it would be just like that scene in
Anna Karenina,
where the two characters who seem so right for each other go for a walk in the woods to pick mushrooms and then nothing happens and by the time they come back, the romance is over, squashed flat by the weight of missed opportunity.

Olivier grasped the door handle. Mushrooms!
Anna Karenina
!

I thought about the translation. Eve wouldn’t have this problem. Eve would be clear about what she wanted. Eve would shut the fuck up and do something. I lurched forward and wrapped my arms around his neck.

“Please stay, Olivier,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. I kissed his earlobe. “I don’t want you to go,” I murmured, dragging my tongue
down the side of his neck.
“Reste avec moi,”
I whispered. Stay with me. I scraped my teeth lightly across his skin. This was fun. I could feel him wavering. He let go of the door handle but seemed to require more persuading.

“Olivier,” I said, planting tiny kisses on his jaw.

“Oui?”

“J’aime ton nom sur mes lèvres,”
I said. I like your name on my lips. It was a line I’d borrowed from Eve. I unbuttoned his shirt and pressed my tongue to his chest. I alternated kisses and buttons. Then I tilted my head up and pulled his lower lip into my mouth. He hesitated a moment longer, but now it was because he was enjoying himself. He pushed me against the wall and kissed me back.

A poker buddy once told me, “The game begins before the game begins.” I remembered I was wearing the killer underwear and grinned.

“Quoi?”
he asked.

“Rien,”
I answered, not telling, still grinning.

I pushed his shirt and jacket off his shoulders. He felt around my dress for a zipper and, not finding one, tugged one side of the hem up to my waist as we kissed. I lifted my leg, wrapping it around his hip, and pressed into him, feeling him hard against me. He ran a hand along the back of my thigh, exploring the edge of the stocking, the bare flesh above it, and reached inside my panties.

I pulled him into the bedroom. He came up behind me and tugged my dress over my head. He undid the clasp of my bra and slid the straps off my arms. I liked being undressed. He stroked my breasts, bit the sides of my neck, then moved his hands down my stomach and inched off my underwear. My breath caught in my throat, and I hiccuped. I glanced at him in surprise, and then we both started laughing.

He fell backward onto the bed, pulling me on top of him. When the mood got intense again, I discovered he liked the lights on and kept his eyes open. Everything about him demanded I be fully engaged, and it seemed to raise the stakes. I was almost shocked when he held my
face and moved inside me. It was like being in the last car of the roller coaster, at the top of the drop, hurtling forward at top speed.

I woke up a few times at night, alternately panicking as I felt him in the bed—
What are you doing? You barely know him!
—and grinning—
What are you doing? You barely know him!

In the morning, he crept out of bed and got dressed. I pretended I was still asleep. He tiptoed down the hall, and I heard the front door click. A getaway! Not very gallant, I thought, but probably just as well. I’m bad at breakfast, let alone first ones; I’m barely civilized until I’ve had coffee, and even then, I feel raw and clumsy.

In the living room, his jacket was draped over the sofa; the door was propped slightly open. I glanced out the window and saw him walk into the
boulangerie
across the street. I made coffee and waited for him to return with a mounting sense of dread.

He came back with a baguette, croissants, and newspapers. He leaned over to kiss me at the same moment I lifted my coffee mug to my mouth, so he got my cheekbone instead of my lips. I made a big show of searching the cupboards for jam.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked my back, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“No!” I snapped. He looked taken aback. “Did you?” I asked, softening my tone.

He shrugged and sat down. “I bought you the
Herald Tribune,
” he said. “For the crossword puzzle.”

“How did you know?” I asked, sounding suspicious. He bit into a croissant.

“The bathroom,” he mumbled, his mouth full. I remembered the pile of crosswords between the toilet and the tub. I was being prickly again.

“Olivier, le matin, je suis sauvage,”
I said, switching into French to explain that I wasn’t a morning person.
Sauvage
doesn’t just mean sav
age. It also means uncivilized, timid, shy, unsociable, rude, and/or barbarous.

“Pas que les matins,”
he observed, splitting open a length of baguette. He pushed the newspaper over to me. I relaxed a fraction and settled down to read the front page. Olivier read
Libération
. I opened the paper. He didn’t look up. I turned to the crossword puzzle.

“What are you doing this evening?” I asked.

“A rehearsal, but it’s over by nine.” He opened the jar of marmalade I’d unearthed in the pantry. “And you?”

“My friend Althea’s birthday party. She’s half-American, like me. An old, dear friend.” I bit into my
tartine
. There was another silence. “Have you always liked marmalade? I’m conducting an informal survey. I believe it’s an acquired taste,” I said.

“Yes. I have liked it since I was a very small child,” he said gravely.

With that, the rest of my tension dissipated. “Would you like to come to the party with me? It’s in the Twentieth, a cute little house in Ménilmontant,” I said.

“Or perhaps I can call you on your
portable
and meet you later, after my rehearsal? If you remember to take it,” he said and ruffled my hair.

“You can do that,” I said, beaming. I liked this. Birthday party
and
Olivier. Cookies
and
cream. Having cake
and
eating it:
le beurre et l’argent du beurre
. The hair ruffle made me feel tousled and sexy, like I should have been wearing his pajama top and nothing else. The faint taste of bitter oranges lingered on my lips after he left. Perhaps I could learn to like marmalade.

I scooped up the bra and panties off the bedroom floor and dropped them in a sink full of bubbly Woolite. I thought about my friend Marielle in New York, and her affair with a real estate attorney. He usually called her on Thursday afternoons before coming over after work. After the call, she would perch on the edge of her tub and shave her legs. It
became such a ritual that the mere smell of mentholated shaving cream turned her on.