lessons in french by hilary reyl

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This book is a work o fction. Names, characters, places, andincidents either are products o the authors imagination or

are used fctitiously. Any resemblance to actual eventsor locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Library o Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataReyl, Hilary.

Lessons in French / Hilary Reyl.p. cm.

1. AmericansFranceParisFiction. 2. Women college graduatesEmploymentFiction. 3. Women photographersFiction. 4. Psychological

fction. 5. Domestic fction. I. Title.PS 3618.E947L47 2013

813'.6dc22 2011045815ISBN 978-1-4516-5503-2

ISBN 978-1-4516-5504-9 (ebook)



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For Charles, mon grand amour



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oneThey say I have no accent and that this is a git. Sometimes, peoplecan detect a lilt in my voice, which makes them wonder whichrural part o France I come rom, or maybe which Scandinaviancountry. But no one can hear that Im American. And yet, because Iam not French, I show almost no signs o belonging to any group orclass. In Paris, I am virtually transparent. A git, perhaps. Un don,so to speak, voil. But, when you eel invisible, there is no end to

the trouble you can get into.My trouble began in 1989, on a wet September morning at

Charles de Gaulle Airport, when I decided to splurge on a taxiinto town. The worn smells o leather and tobacco were deeplyreassuring, the precise blend o odors I craved at the edge o theunknown.

But I probably shouldnt have taken that taxi. Mom claimedthat you had a much higher chance o dying on the way to or rom

the airport than you did on the plane. However, you had more sayabout how you traveled on the ground. You could go by car, bus orsubway. You could slow down, look both ways, watch your back.On the ground, you could take responsibility. In the air, worry wasnothing but a production.

I had just graduated rom college, and was trying to ignore mosto what Mom said, but I was secretly proud o her, pretending tobe as callous as she would have been to any signs o ear in mysel

as my plane ew to Paris.

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Hilary Reyl

The driver asked me where I was returning rom. Where had I

been on myvacances?I told him I hadnt been on vacation anywhere. I had been awaitress in New Haven all summer. That was a town on the EastCoast, near New York.

Ah, New York!But I was returning to Paris or the frst time in ten years.

Though I wasnt French, my grandather was, and I lived here once,or two years, with cousins, in the Nineteenth Arrondissement.

He laughed. Today, he wasnt driving me to the Nineteenth butto the Sixth. A much more chic quartier. More central. Mademoi-selle was moving up in the world!

We glided through the industrial ring around the city. We hadjust permeated its frst layer when the taxi was rear-ended at astoplight. There was a shock, a screech, swearing.

I elt so vindicated or Mom that I was strangely overjoyed bythis accident, proo-positive o her theories o relative danger. Isidelined the act that she would have told me to take the Mtro

because it was cheaper, and saer. I had wanted a driver to be myown personal shepherd into my new lie.

This was my moment in the sun. So what i it was drizzling?Experience was going to transorm all.

The driver punched the steering wheelMerde!as I ewinto his headrest.

a va? he asked, rubbing his own orehead. Are you hurt?No, no, I was not hurt, and I would wait uncomplainingly on

the sidewalk o this outer arrondissement or him to exchange thenecessary inormation with the woman who had hit us.

We were by a news kiosk. I had orgotten that the news kioskshere were green and suppository-shaped, that the newsprint wasdenser than ours, that there were Chupa Chups lollipops and Holly-wood gum or sale, a magazine called Figaro Madame, headlinesabout a pop star named Johnny Hallyday, erotic ads or coee andchocolate, small posters or chamber music concerts in Ste-Chapelle,

dog shit. It was all coming back.



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Lessons in French

3

Looking hard at the amiliar candies and magazine covers, I

saw their colors and meanings bleed into lines and shapes. I pulleda sketchbook and pencil rom my bag, keeping hal an ear to thewords between my driver and the oending woman. He wrotedown her details. She lit a cigarette.

Because I sensed the conversation wrapping up, I did not putpencil to paper. There was too much to draw in a ew moments,and I hated resorting to quick symbols and tricks. I was uncannilygood at reproducing what I saw, but only in the ulness o time.I I couldnt do it right, I would rather simply stare. I slipped mysketchbook away.

The drizzle was lightening into the gray gauze I recalled wellbut hadnt thought o in years.

In Germany, the Berlin Wall was about to come down. A photoon the ront page oLe Monde showed a rock band playing a con-cert in ront o big bright grafti on the West Berlin side. I lookedinto the crowd that flled out the Le Monde photo. People weredancing ecstatically, sensing the coming demolition, except or the

photographers, who were still, their ashes going o.I scanned the photo or my new boss, Lydia Schell, the woman

I had come here to work or. She was a photographer, a amousone. Mom had not heard o her, but once I was able to prove hercredentials, Mom was impressed that I would have the opportunityto be the Paris impresario to someone with such a name. Impre-sario was Moms term. When I had interviewed with her in herManhattan town house a ew weeks ago, Lydia had called me her

assistant.Now she was in Germany capturing the momentous happen-

ings. There was a chance, wasnt there, that she was in that crowd,peeking through her lens at me in welcome?

You made it, she would say, i only I could spot her. Bien-venue!



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twoMy dented taxi stopped on a beautiul street that owed towardthe Luxembourg Gardens, stonework giving way to rich green. Thiswas a new angle on Paris or me. Le Sixime. Even the cigarettesmoke was elegant here, twirling above well-groomed bodies in avelvet calligraphy quite oreign to the noxious haze o my youth-ul memory. There was no conusing this cigarette smoke with carexhaust just as there was no conusing the clatter o high heels

on this pavement with the street sounds outside my cousins sub-sidized building. What had those sounds been again? I couldntremember. They were mued now by the luxurious revving o aCitrons engine, by the calm rustle o nearby leaves, by the volup-tuous exhale o an impossibly petite woman in two-toned heels,which even I knew were Chanel, her shoulder pads broad enoughto soten any blow.

The taxi was gone. I was outside No. 60 with my suitcase, orget-

ting the exorbitant are as I looked down my new street, repeatingthe building code, 67FS, which I would have to punch in order toopen the door to the interior courtyard, a hidden gem, accordingto Lydia, although my husband Clarence likes to complain thatits dark and depressing. As I was preparing to punch the keys thatwould work this magical door, it opened by itsel.

Ah, cest mademoiselle Katherine?Madame Fidelio, je vous reconnais de votre photo!It was true.

I recognized her overhanging brow rom a photograph o Lydias.



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Lessons in French

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Her plumpness did nothing to soten her sculptural ace. I knew

that skull, those imposing eyebrows. She was an intimate, the Por-tuguese concierge who also helped with Lydias housework. Cestvous, non?

Oui, cest moi. Enchante, Mademoiselle. She gave a shortlaugh, overshadowed and outlasted by the suspicion in her eyes.Was I going to be a slut like so many o Madames other assistants?Was that what she was looking to know rom my brown ponytail,pale pink lip gloss, jeans, leg warmers, t-shirt rayed and ripped toreveal one shoulder?

I wanted to tell her that she had nothing to worry about. I was aserious young woman who could not aord to be careless. I neededthis job. I still wasnt quite sure what it entailed, but whateverLydias little bit o everything was, it would become my missionbecause Lydia was my frst step into a real uture. I had no intentiono being a disaster, o dragging strange men up to my maids room orcoming to work hungover. This wasnt throwaway time or me likeit had been or the other, more privileged girls. This time was real,

Madame Fidelio.You have no accent. Her tone hovered between mistrust and

admiration.I lived in Paris when I was younger. I had cousins here, cousins

o my athers. My grandather came rom France to America buthis brother stayed here, and his children were my dads avoriterelatives. His only relatives really. I stayed with them or two years.

They will be happy to see you again, no?

They have retired and moved away. They were teachers inParis, because they were sent here by the school system, but theyalways knew they would go home, to Orlans. So, Ill have to takethe train to visit them sometime.

That is a good thing, to be attached to your roots. My husbandand I, we return to our amily in Portugal every August.

Watching Madame Fidelios slow understanding nod as shespoke, I was struck by the orce o my cousins nostalgia. As a kid, I

never thought much about the act that Solange and Jacques were



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Lessons in French

7

with dignifed doors and tall windows rising all around. The build-

ings inner walls ormed a plush lining to this jewel box, knownonly to its owners and their secret guests. I elt a thrill o initiation.I also saw Clarences point. There was almost no sunlight. It wasindeed a little dark and depressing.

The apartment was on the ground oor. As Madame Fidelioturned her key, I recognized the frm, i vaguely tender, expressionrom the fnal plate in Lydias latest book, Parisians. It was a book oportraits that began with the amous literary critic Jacques Derrida,in a bathrobe, in ront o a bowl o coee at the white plastic tablein his suburban garden, and ended with this Portuguese concierge.The book had been criticized. They said Lydia Schell had lost heredge. Parisians was a mixture o Whos who andnoblesse oblige. Butit had sold better than anything else she had done.

We came into an entry hall hal-painted a color I could only calleggplant. The painting work must have stopped suddenly becausethe last brush-stroke o purple dripped down the creamy primer.

Madame Fidelio clucked at the unfnished walls. Pauvre Ma-dame Lydia, she said cryptically. Then she signaled me to ollowher down a long paneled hallway with many doors, some closed,some ajar enough to give me clues as I passed, a swatch o abric,the pattern o a rug, the icker o a mirror.

Only one door was ully opened. I saw an unmade twin bedwith a pale blue rue in the same abric as the drapes. I couldnot tell whether there were owers or little fgures on the abric,but something was going on, something delicate and complicated.

There was a dressing table strewn with bottles and tiny baskets.Cest la chambre de la jolie petite.La jolie petite must be Portia. I thought o the fne-boned blond

girl in the red leather rame back in the dining room clutter o theGreenwich Village house. As I wondered how Madame Fideliomight describe me, I tried to tread lightly down the hallway, a girlaccustomed to bed rues that matched her drapes. A girl with adressing table perhaps.

Ater a time, the hallway orked. That door down to the right,



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Hilary Reyl

said Madame Fidelio, was Monsieur Clarences study. We veered

let into the kitchen, which, on frst glance, was less substantialthan Lydias kitchen in New York. The appliances here were white,not stainless, and they appeared hal-sized.

On the wall was a ramed series o Lydias magazine covers.There was a Rolling Stone cover o Jim Morrison and one o YokoOno crying, holding a single wildower in Central Park. There wasa Time cover o Nelson Mandela. There was a Lie cover that wasprobably the March on Washington. Martin Luther King was mov-ing in a sea o signs. Voting Rights Now! End Segregated Rulesin Public Schools! The March on Washington took place in 1963.That would make Lydia about my age when she took this photo. Iwondered i she had elt young.

Ah, monsieur!Madame Fidelio smiled appreciatively, a womanwho approved o men.

Young Monsieur was sitting at the kitchen table. He was tousled,and there was a resh warmth to him, a wat o the morning breadrom the boulangeries I could remember rom my childhood.

He must have just emerged rom that sot rustled bed I hadglimpsed rom the hallway, Portias bed. Without being able tolook straight at him, I knew he was the most attractive person Idever seen. He was reedy and lithe. His hair tumbled like light overeatures o brushed elegance, light brown eyes, cheekbones curvedand quick as the paws o a cat.

Bonjour, Madame Fidelio.He had an American accent.There was a icker o annoyance in his ace, surely at the inva-

sion o his last private moments in the apartment, but the ickerdisappeared as his gaze lit on me, and in the liting o Monsieursirritation I elt mysel uplited, blessed, sun-kissed.

You must be Kate. Im Olivier.Sorry to bother you so early. It was just beore ten oclock. Lydia

says youre leaving or Italy today. You probably have a lot to do.Tomorrow, actually. He smiled. I dont y to Venice until to-

morrow morning. And Ill be back in a couple o weeks to pick up

most o my stu beore I head out or good. So, Im mellow. He



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Lessons in French

9

ung a wave o brown curls out o his eyes and looked at me again.

Then he rose and put the kettle on. Tea? Madame Fidelio? Kate?Madame Fidelio said she would leave us. Here was my key tothe main apartment. Here was the key to the maids room on thesixth oor where I would live. But not the sixth oor on this stair-case. The escalier de service. Monsieur would show Mademoiselle,please.

Pas de problme, Madame Fidelio, he said.Merci beaucoup, Madame!I added. Vous tes gentille de vous

occuper de moi.

Bonne journe, mes petits.

The three o us smiled indulgently at one another. Again, I elta certain pride in sensing I had made a avorable frst impressionon regal Madame Fidelio. I had passed through my frst gate.

How do you like your tea? Olivier asked once she had gone.I like milk, i there is any.He took a carton rom the small rerigerator.My cousins rerigerator had been an even tinier aair, drawer-

less, without a working light. But I had bright memories o theood packages inside, and they were revived in a urry by the boxin Oliviers slender hand. It was longue conservation milk, the kindeveryone here drank. It could sit in that box or months until yousnipped one o the corners and began to pour. It had a chemicalsmell that used to make me nauseated. I hated it. I had never toldMom because she had had more important things on her mind atthe time, but the milk here was terrible.

I got some honey at the armers market on Boulevard Raspail.Would you like some in your tea?

I had orgotten I liked honey but was suddenly longing or it.Sure. Honey would be great. Ive never been to the market on

Raspail. Is it wonderul? I havent been to Paris in over ten years.Where did you get that accent? You sounded totally native

talking to Madame Fidelio just now.I ell back on well-rehearsed lines. I think the timing o when I

learned was perect. I was here between the ages o nine and eleven,



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Hilary Reyl

young enough to get the accent and old enough to intellectualize the

language.No, you must be gited. Ive spent years here on and o and mymothers French and I sound awul.

I doubt that.He laughed gently. Spend some time with me then.I elt brave enough to glance into his eyes.So youre resh o the plane, he said. He made my reshness

sound like the quality o a ower or an apple. Lydia says youre apainter. Is there anything you want to see today, any art, anything inparticular in Paris?

She told me youd only have a ew hours beore you caught yourplane and youd barely have time to show me the alarm and thewashing machine and such.

She told me you were charming.But I dont leave until tomorrow, remember? I love Lydia, but

she has a lot on her mind. We cant expect her to remember otherpeoples schedules. I have a whole day. I thought maybe Id just walk

around. I have to pick something up in the Sixteenth. Figured Id goto the Marmottan. You know, where all the Monet waterlilies are? Ihavent been there this trip. I know its not very cool or contempo-rary, but Im a nostalgic person. He sighed. Im about to start a jobin New York. Investment banking. I doubt Ill have time tofnerinthe oreseeable uture. So Im open. What doyou want to do?

Can we get a croissant?



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11

threeAt theptisserie on the corner, Olivier asked what I would like.

A plain croissant, please.He bought it or me, and ordered a pain au chocolat and a pain

aux raisinsor himsel.We wandered over into the Seventh Arrondissement. On the rue

du Bac, we passed the luxurious grocery store Hdiard, and I smiledinside because Hdiard had been a joke in my cousins house. When

tienne and Jacques would reuse second helpings o Solangesood, she would say, I this isnt good enough or you, changez derestaurant! Allez chez Hdiard!

I wondered now i Solange knew that Hdiard wasnt a restaurant,but a amous store with Art Nouveau windows raming pyramids oruit and pastries against a luscious depth o cheeses and exotic teasin red-lacquered drawers. But what caught my eye, as we oated by,was a silver tray o croissants la crme de marron.I loved chestnuts,

and imagined chestnut cream to be something otherworldly. Thesechestnut croissants, with their dusting o powdered sugar, struck meas the most delicious things I could possibly eat, but I wasnt sad thatI didnt have one at this moment. I still had hal o the plain crois-sant that Olivier had bought or me, and I knew I could wander toHdiard on my own anytime rom now on. I lived nearby.

My lack o covetousness toward todays uneaten treasure was somarked that I wondered i I hadnt become a new person. So oten

I was defned by what I could not have.



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Olivier veered away rom me into Hdiard. I moved to ollow

him, but he told me to give him a second. When he reappeared,it was with two o the chestnut croissants. Second breakast. Hewinked.

When we reached the Seine, I gazed across to the Grande Roue,the giant Ferris wheel that comes to the Tuilleries a couple otimes a year.

He saw me staring. Youd like to ride in it too, wouldnt you?Its a great way to get the lay o the land i you havent been to Parisor a while. Lets go.

We had a compartment to ourselves. Our knees grazed in themetal seat. Whenever the wheel stopped, we rocked into eachother, pretending not to notice, talking too much.

Ater the ride, we were altered and unsteady. We walked quietlyalong the Right Bank all the way to the Sixteenth, where we pickedup a small paper bag that he said was or Lydia.

I get along with her pretty well, he ventured. But shes compli-

cated. And the amily is complicated. Youre in or some interestingtimes. I hope youve been taking your vitamins.

I wanted more inormation about Lydia and her mysteriousamily, but I also didnt want to be reminded that this boy acrossthis ca table rom me sipping Belgian beer, drawing glances romall around, belonged to them.

I reminded him that he had mentioned the Marmottan museumwith the Monets.

Are you sure you want to go? he asked.I would love to.That didnt sound entirely convincing. He looked at me with

an attention I had rarely elt. Are you being polite?No, no, Im strange about the Impressionists, the style. I dont

have my own style yet, so I get a bit wary, and impressed, so tospeak. I giggled lamely. But Id like to go. Id like to look at theactual paintings. Ive seen so many reproductions.

You cant not have a style.



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Lessons in French

13

Think about mirrors. No style, right?

Youre unny, he smiled, making my unniness into an appre-ciable quality, a style o its own.He told me his mother used to take him to the Marmottan

on trips to Paris when he was a boy. It was her avorite museumbecause it was small and perect, a bijou. He always made at leastone pilgrimage when he was in town. She loves the place and thepaintings, and its hard or her to travel these days. Her circum-stances arent what they used to be. Hopeully, I can start bringingher back once Im working and I can aord it. Anyway, her avoritething about this museum is the series o ootbridges over the lilypads. I think youll see why.

As we walked uphill to the end o the rue de Passy and througha dainty park, Oliviers eyes gleamed with what I took to be memory.

What areyourparents like? he asked.Well, my dad died when I was eleven. While I was living in

Paris actually. The whole time he was dying o cancer, he kept writ-ing me letters about how happy he was that I got to be here, living

with his cousin Jacques whom he adored, and learning French.He never really got uent in French. His own dad didnt speak itto himI guess he wanted him to ft in in Americaand Dad hadthis idea that my learning the langauge would somehow make mylie complete.

You must miss him.I think about him all the time, try to guess what he would say

i he could see me, especially here.

Im sorry, he said.I shook my head. Its okay.So, did your mom bring you up? I mean, ater?Basically. I guess you could say my mom is wonderul. I mean,

she was supposed to have another kind o lie. My dad was an up-and-coming movie director when she married him. She probablythought she was going to have un, but ended up taking care ohim when he got sick and then working hard as a secretary, an ex-

ecutive secretary in a law frm, but still a secretary, when she could



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Hilary Reyl

have done something truly interesting with her lie. Shes slaved all

these years to send me to good schools and shes proud o me. Itsbeen just the two o us since I came home rom France. She letsme do these things that make her seem almost liberal, like comingto Paris to work or Lydia, but its because she believes in someorm o well-roundedness to prepare you or lie. Actually, shesobsessed with me becoming a corporate lawyer because what shewants or me more than anything is security, and she knows thatyou cant rely on anyone but yoursel or that. And I eel terribleabout not wanting to be a lawyer. But I really dont. I dont thinkthat way at all. Logically, I mean. I dont think logically. It would betorture.

I was suddenly embarrassed. Had I been talking this wholetime? Did I seem disloyal to Mom? Was I?

You know, Kate, Ive only just met you, but you appear to me tobe many things at once. So, you may not have the luxury o divinginto your dreams right away. Almost no one does. Ive thought aboutthis a lot. Not everyone can do everything in the ideal order. Thats

what children o privilege dont have to ace.I imagined that he too dreamed o the reedoms o privilege

and I elt intensely jealous o Portia, but only or a second becausethe next thing he said was, They get so hedonistic sometimes, itmakes them sot. Portia and Joshua have their good points, butthey are incredibly spoiled. They just dont get it like we do.

At the mention o Joshua, I was startled into recalling that Portiahad a problematic younger brother. I elt the onrush o all I had yet

to know.

We stood in a room ull o dierent colored impressions o theootbridge in Monets Japanese garden at Giverny. Olivier explainedthat his mother had told him that it was impossible to know thatthis was a bridge rom looking at only one o the paintings by itsel.You needed the series o views superimposed in your head or thetrue image to take shape.

I see what she means, I said. Its a beautiul trick. Pretend



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Lessons in French

15

you dont know what they are supposed to be and walk around

until the bridge comes out at you.These paintings were gorgeous, but they made me uncomort-able. Even though they had become classics, they took an intimidat-ing leap o aith, painting the light instead o the contours o thething itsel, letting the subject slowly emerge on a magical surace.I was convinced I could never do such a thing. I was too literal. Iloved the Monets, but I didnt entirely trust them.

In a nearby tearoom, over the tiniest and most expensive o tomatotarts, which Oliver treated me to, he fnally told me what was inthe bag he had just gotten or Lydia. Papaya extract pills, probablymixed with speed. She gets them rom a diet guru up here.

Why areyou picking them up?She likes to involve people she eels close to in her etching and

carrying. Its an emotional thing. Shed never ask Clarence becauseshe would eel too judged, but Im sure shell want you to do it. Shestarts by asking you to pick something up somewhere without tell-

ing you what it is. But she always ends up blurting it out sooner orlater. She cant not coness eventually, but she controls her timing.

Maybe thats what makes her such a great artist.Yeah, thats what you have to remember when youre tempted

to make un o her or wanting to unnel baguettes and cheese allday, then sending you out or these damn pills. Shes amazing atwhat she does.

We made our way back across the Seine and over to the Sixth witha detour through the Rodin Sculpture Garden, where we sat on abench and watched children eed ducks in the shadow o Balzac.How lucky to grow up here, we agreed.

I asked him about the signet ring on his fnger.It was a chevalire with the coat o arms rom his mothers side

o the amily. He wore it or her.Is that castle on there your long-lost chteau somewhere deep

in the Dordogne?



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Hilary Reyl

The Loire, actually. He laughed. But youre right, its long-

gone. The land is gone too. They sold it when my mother was achild. The only piece o it let is the de in her name. Its my middlename. Im Olivier de Branche Crat.

Suddenly, I elt light among the statues in this venerable garden.Amid all these voluptuous stones straining toward lie, just short obreathing, here I was so very alive without even trying. The simplestupid joy o it was overwhelming.

I stole a glance at Olivier. I elt my throat catch. I had to saysomething to make sure that I could still speak.

Olivier de Branche, I said, with emphasis on the particle, andI reached to touch the golden ring. Maybe youll be able to rebuildthe chteau or your mother one day.

Youre sweet, but Id settle or apied--terre in the Sixth.I pulled my hand into my lap.

Back at the apartment, we sat in the hal-painted living room anddrank Lydias white wine inused with a crme de pche. She had

gotten Olivier hooked on her peach Kirs while they were here to-gether last month. Olivier had been traveling in Europe all summer,mostly without Portia, who I gathered was interning at a ashionmagazine in New York and was now headed back to college or herjunior year. I wanted both to picture her and to block her out, sothat I had a flmy image o her as a drowned princess or a girl rozenin a magazine.

Being in the Schells living room, among their many posses-

sions, cast a sheen o ormality back over Olivier and me, and westarted conversing seriously. I tried hard to ignore the act thateach o his words was a little drumbeat between my legs.

Lydia and I were good roommates, he said. She got me on thisroutine o starting with her Kirsaround fve.

We looked at an ornate clock that had been taken down by thepainters and was leaning against a striped silk ottoman. A rayingwire connected the clock to a hole in the wall above the mantel. It

was quarter to fve.



25/26

Lessons in French

17

Were knocking o early, I tried to laugh.

I had to stop mysel rom drinking too quickly and asking toomany questions. My curiosity about this household was intense, butso was my awareness that Olivier was completely bound up in it.

Ater three Kirs with no ood, I began to eel dizzy. Struggling tomy eet, I said I had to go to bed. I couldnt even count the hourssince I had last slept. The jet lag was catching up to me.

Didnt I want some dinner?No thank you. Mom had taught me what a waste o time it

was to long or the unattainable.Goodbye, then. But I couldnt quite close the door. Maybe

when youre back between Italy and the States? Are you staying inParis or a day or two then? I hoped I sounded nonchalant. Willyou stay here?

Im not sure thats such a good idea.I blushed.He smiled sadly. But I might not be able to help mysel, he

said. Flecks o green melted in his brown eyes as he leaned in or

what I realized in the nick o time was a double-cheek kiss. Thecurls that only this morning had seemed such a rare vision actuallybrushed my neck, and then it was over.

I stumbled backward.Not sure o my exact dates yet, he whispered, but Ill see you

in two or three weeks.

As soon as I reached my own tiny space, I knew I was too tipsy and

tired to unpack. But I did manage to rummage or a hal-eaten tur-key sandwich I had letover rom the plane. My frst dinner in Paris,alone, staring out at a sea o blinking windows. I had no idea whatI was doing here. This was not the Paris o Jacques and Solange,bound by all the limitations o decency, where I frst discoveredhow aithully I could draw in the illustrated letters I sent home.This was a city whose shapes were still unclear. I had no idea whattomorrow would look like, except that it would be empty o the only

person I thought I needed to see.



26/26

18

Hilary Reyl

I orced down a fnal chalky bite.

I wondered what Olivier might have whipped up or me in thekitchen downstairs. A recipe o his mothers? O Lydias?In a couple o weeks, he would pass through my lie again, on

his way back to Portia, whom we had hardly touched upon all day.Slender Portia o the toile and the bed skirt. Portia who was not me.

lessons in french by hilary reyl

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