Hilary Reyl - Lessons in French

“ Ah, c’est mademoiselle Katherine? ”

“ Madame Fidelio, je vous reconnais de votre photo! ” It was true. I recognized her overhanging brow from a photograph of Lydia’s. Her plumpness did nothing to soften her sculptural face. I knew that skull, those imposing eyebrows. She was an intimate, the Portuguese concierge who also helped with Lydia’s housework. “C’est vous, non?”

“Oui, c’est moi. Enchantée, Mademoiselle.” She gave a short laugh, overshadowed and outlasted by the suspicion in her eyes. Was I going to be a slut like so many of Madame’s other assistants? Was that what she was looking to know from my brown ponytail, pale pink lip gloss, jeans, leg warmers, t-shirt frayed and ripped to reveal one shoulder?

I wanted to tell her that she had nothing to worry about. I was a serious young woman who could not afford to be careless. I needed this job. I still wasn’t quite sure what it entailed, but whatever Lydia’s “little bit of everything” was, it would become my mission because Lydia was my first step into a real future. I had no intention of being a disaster, of dragging strange men up to my maid’s room or coming to work hungover. This wasn’t throwaway time for me like it had been for 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 of my father’s. My grandfather came from France to America but his brother stayed here, and his children were my dad’s favorite relatives. His only relatives really. I stayed with them for two years.”

“They will be happy to see you again, no?”

“They have retired and moved away. They were teachers in Paris, because they were sent here by the school system, but they always knew they would go home, to Orléans. So, I’ll have to take the train to visit them sometime.”

“That is a good thing, to be attached to your roots. My husband and I, we return to our family in Portugal every August.”

Watching Madame Fidelio’s slow understanding nod as she spoke, I was struck by the force of my cousins’ nostalgia. As a kid, I never thought much about the fact that Solange and Jacques were always scrimping and saving to build a small retirement house in a development outside their native town despite the fact of forty working years in Paris. It was simply the state of things. But it now struck me as incredible to have so concrete a vision of the future guiding your every youthful move, to know you will go home again, to live your life in a loop.

I thought Madame Fidelio might begin to tell me more about herself, perhaps her own plan to return home someday for good, but instead she said that I was prettier than the last girl and repeated that my French was impressionnant.

Relief sunk in. Along with gratitude to my cousins for their patient teaching. When Lydia arrived, she would learn from her faithful concierge that I had told the truth about my fluency back in New York, and our first bond of trust would be forged.

But, even more striking was the fact that I had impressed the impressive Madame Fidelio. I must, in fact, be someone.

She looked at me, smiled.

I read my substance in her eyes.

“I do not know if the young monsieur is awake yet,” she said. “Perhaps we should not ring the doorbell. I have a key to the apartment, of course. Allons. ”

It took me a few seconds, as we walked across the interior courtyard toward a staircase at the back, to mentally match “young monsieur ” to Olivier, boyfriend of Lydia’s daughter, Portia, who was a couple of years younger than I. Olivier was going to show me around the apartment before he left later today for the final leg of his European trip. Madame Fidelio’s hushed and reverential tone suggested a prince.

“Does he like to sleep in?” Although I had quite forgotten his existence until now, my curiosity was suddenly acute.

“He is often pale. He has many soucis, I think. But he is charmant. ”

“Ah, bon.” What kind of soucis? What troubles?

I could see why Lydia had said the courtyard was precious. It was cobblestoned and planted with manicured trees in ornate pots, with dignified doors and tall windows rising all around. The building’s inner walls formed a plush lining to this jewel box, known only to its owners and their secret guests. I felt a thrill of initiation. I also saw Clarence’s point. There was almost no sunlight. It was indeed a little dark and depressing.

The apartment was on the ground floor. As Madame Fidelio turned her key, I recognized the firm, if vaguely tender, expression from the final plate in Lydia’s latest book, Parisians. It was a book of portraits that began with the famous literary critic Jacques Derrida, in a bathrobe, in front of a bowl of coffee at the white plastic table in his suburban garden, and ended with this Portuguese concierge. The book had been criticized. They said Lydia Schell had lost her edge. Parisians was a mixture of Who’s who and noblesse oblige . But it had sold better than anything else she had done.

We came into an entry hall half-painted a color I could only call eggplant. The painting work must have stopped suddenly because the last brush-stroke of purple dripped down the creamy primer.

Madame Fidelio clucked at the unfinished walls. “ Pauvre Madame Lydia, ” she said cryptically. Then she signaled me to follow her down a long paneled hallway with many doors, some closed, some ajar enough to give me clues as I passed, a swatch of fabric, the pattern of a rug, the flicker of a mirror.

Only one door was fully opened. I saw an unmade twin bed with a pale blue ruffle in the same fabric as the drapes. I could not tell whether there were flowers or little figures on the fabric, but something was going on, something delicate and complicated. There was a dressing table strewn with bottles and tiny baskets.

“ C’est la chambre de la jolie petite .”

La jolie petite must be Portia. I thought of the fine-boned blond girl in the red leather frame back in the dining room clutter of the Greenwich Village house. As I wondered how Madame Fidelio might describe me, I tried to tread lightly down the hallway, a girl accustomed to bed ruffles that matched her drapes. A girl with a dressing table perhaps.

After a time, the hallway forked. That door down to the right, said Madame Fidelio, was Monsieur Clarence’s study. We veered left into the kitchen, which, on first glance, was less substantial than Lydia’s kitchen in New York. The appliances here were white, not stainless, and they appeared half-sized.

On the wall was a framed series of Lydia’s magazine covers. There was a Rolling Stone cover of Jim Morrison and one of Yoko Ono crying, holding a single wildflower in Central Park. There was a Time cover of Nelson Mandela. There was a Life cover that was probably the March on Washington. Martin Luther King was moving in a sea of signs. “Voting Rights Now!” “End Segregated Rules in Public Schools!” The March on Washington took place in 1963. That would make Lydia about my age when she took this photo. I wondered if she had felt young.

“ Ah, monsieur! ” Madame Fidelio smiled appreciatively, a woman who approved of men.

Young Monsieur was sitting at the kitchen table. He was tousled, and there was a fresh warmth to him, a waft of the morning bread from the boulangeries I could remember from my childhood.

He must have just emerged from that soft rustled bed I had glimpsed from the hallway, Portia’s bed. Without being able to look straight at him, I knew he was the most attractive person I’d ever seen. He was reedy and lithe. His hair tumbled like light over features of brushed elegance, light brown eyes, cheekbones curved and quick as the paws of a cat.