Hilary Reyl - Lessons in French

“Are you kidding? Blame me for anything!”

We had a hilarious afternoon going through her pile of neglected correspondence, pretending I’d misplaced letters and inverted dates. As I scribbled her responses on a legal pad to type up later, she painted me as a distracted intellect. It was flattering in a backhanded sort of way. With each completed reply, each fresh easing of her conscience, she grew more buoyant and more brazen in the lines she dictated until finally I had used some poor woman’s invitation to a chamber music concert as a bookmark in my Foucault and forgotten all about it.

With the opening of every envelope she gave me a quick portrait of the sender so that I would be able to recognize him or her when we did meet. The cast of characters sounded fascinating. And the events we had missed were fabulous. There was a soirée where we almost definitely would have seen “Sam” Beckett. There was a note from Salman Rushdie’s French publisher. We had to answer that one carefully. There were art openings and wine tastings, some in New York, some in Paris, a hunting party in England, a cocktail party for the New Yorker in Rome. It all blended into an enticing swirl of missed faces and events gone by, the stuff of future dreams.

“Thank you, Katherine. I could never have faced all that alone,” said Lydia as the sky through her office window started to darken. “Now, I think we’ve earned a peach Kir, don’t you?”

I dared to look at my watch to see how much time stood between me and Olivier. It was almost five o’clock. Three hours. I would have a drink with Lydia, excuse myself around six, spend half an hour showering and dressing, head back to the Marais and our horseshoe bar.

“Absolutely, it’s time for a Kir. We have earned it,” I echoed, flooded with relief at my complicity with Lydia.

“Listen, before we go knock off, I have to mention something. I couldn’t help but notice in your notebook some jottings about fashion journalism. I know Clarence is getting you to help out on his book. He’s having you transcribe the things he says into that little tape-recorder thing of his, isn’t he?”

I nodded.

“Well, I don’t mind,” she continued. “Really, it’s okay. It means he trusts you and I’m happy for him that he has someone he can rely on a little so he doesn’t feel so at sea in this whole process. This book is a big deal for him. He needs to publish. Nothing has happened in his career in years and it’s very, very hard for him. Very hard for a man with his intelligence, especially since I’m so visible. You understand, don’t you? This sabbatical is a crucial time for him. And there’s a big risk that he’s going to lose his focus on the fashion thing, for which he already has a book contract and which is where he needs to be concentrating his energy. He could blow it and start trying to publish articles on the whole Muslim fundamentalist fiasco. He keeps talking about translating his theories about capitalism into some explanation of what’s going on. And he’s in so far over his head he has no idea. If he tries this he will be a laughingstock, an absolute laughingstock. I love the man, but current events are not his strong suit, and what he needs right now is a critical academic success. So, anything you can do to help him stay on target and in the nineteenth century has my blessing. Does that make sense to you?”

“Absolutely.” My alliance had so shifted to my boss that I too saw Clarence in shades of pity.

“And there’s no need for him to know we’ve had this conversation. Obviously, we both want what’s best for him.”

“Obviously.” Line for line, I was reflecting back to her. I couldn’t help myself.

“Oh, and, if I’m not too tired, we may have to do a bit more work this evening.”

“A bit more?” My inner world shook.

“I doubt I can handle it, but if the force is with me we should begin transcribing some of the interviews of my German subjects. There’s a massive amount to do.” She dug her eyes into my face. “You look pale. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of work?”

“No, not at all. It’s just that I had plans tonight, but—”

“Oh, I see,” she snapped. “Well, never mind then. No work if you have plans.”

“Thanks.” I found I could still breathe. “I could do it late tomorrow night if that’s good. Or any other night or through the weekend.”

“You know,” she clucked, “we may just have to do tonight. We’ll see. We have a deadline tomorrow. But I’ll make a call to my editor. You should probably be fine for your plan. And I’m exhausted anyway. Although I feel better now after dealing with that avalanche of mail.”

Lamely, I aspired to buoyancy. “Cool.” But my voice cracked.

“Well now, it’s time for that drink. What do you say?” And she stood up, opened the office door and yelled down the hallway, “Clarence, darling, Katherine and I are ready for our crème de pêche!”

After Kirs with Clarence and Lydia, and her joking assurance that he and she were going out in the neighborhood tonight for a proper bourgeois grande bouffe to celebrate her arrival , pity I couldn’t join them, I went to dress for my final date with Olivier.

I showered and primped. I even dabbed perfume from my free sample collection. Chanel No. 5. Then, after two applications of lotion, I dressed. Black leggings and an off-the-shoulder gray dress in softest sweatshirt material. I put on mascara. I pulled on heels.

I slipped a fresh pair of underwear and some flats into my bag, locked my door, unlocked it to get a lipstick and a book to stare at on the Métro. Then I headed down flight after flight, my heart skipping to the music of the unaccustomed heels.

As I hit the bottom stair and faced the marvelous prospect of the courtyard, the door to Lydia’s apartment swung open. It was as though my first step into the night air had triggered a spring. Out popped Lydia in a silk paisley bathrobe.

“Christ, it’s freezing,” she said. “Come in! Come in! Hurry! The heating bills on this place are killing us.”

“I was just heading out actually.”

“Yes, I can tell. Nice shoes,” she added, ushering me into the foyer. “But you might want to take them off. We have a long night ahead of us, my dear. You have to understand that you did not sign on for a nine-to-five job. No time clocks here. No punching in and out.” She gave my face a look that managed to be both cursory and searching. “Of course, if that’s not what you want …”

“No, no, no. I mean yes.”

Although I had no idea what I meant, she took my words as a declaration of my readiness to get down to business. We had to transcribe those German interviews right now. History was marching forward and we couldn’t afford not to meet it head-on.

Steadying a tremor as I hung my coat, I asked if I could have a couple of minutes to call and leave a message for the cousin I was supposed to meet. I didn’t want him to worry.

This was not, I assured myself, a total lie, as this was the night I had promised Étienne to go to his dinner party. I was breaking two dates.

She said fine, showing no interest. But I felt compelled to add, as we walked down the hallway right past Portia’s room, all lavender and perfume bottles, that Étienne had invited me to his apartment near the Bastille tonight, that he was the one whose family I’d lived with as a kid, whose parents had retired back to Orléans, and that he was in Paris now, doing some kind of art.

“Oh, well that makes me feel a hell of a lot less guilty. You can see your cousin anytime if he’s local, can’t you? Tell him you are standing him up in the name of truth and beauty.” She laughed, closing her office door behind us.