Ellen Sussman - French Lessons

“This pain au chocolat comes from the best pâtisserie in all of Paris,” Riley says, digging into her backpack and producing a somewhat squished bag.

“J’aime pas,” Philippe tells her.

“What?”

“I can’t eat chocolate.”

“That’s impossible.”

He makes that peculiar French face-raised eyebrows, puffed lips-that seems to mean all things: Who cares? What do you know? I think you’re grand .

Riley takes a bite of her pastry. It is perfect but so is every other pain au chocolat she eats.

“I wanted to look at you,” Philippe says. He’s looking at her, all right. Did she forget to get dressed when she ran out the door? Is there not a baby perched right there on her mountainous chest?

“So who’s the actress?” she asks.

“Dana Hurley. She is making a movie with the great director Pascale Duclaux.”

“Dana Hurley’s the real deal,” Riley says. “I’d love to see her.”

Philippe is staring at her, his mouth slightly parted.

“Where are they filming?” Riley asks, glancing in the courtyard at Cole, who swings his leg out to kick the ball, misses completely, and falls back on his butt with a hoot of laughter.

“On the Pont des Arts. Soon. We will have a glass of wine first.”

“I thought you drink beer.”

He looks confused. “Oh, the apartment. I am sorry. I did not know-”

“Wine is good,” she says quickly. “Let’s have wine.”

They order two glasses. Riley looks around. The café is crowded, of course, and all the tables seem to be filled with couples. One young couple has locked lips and, for a bewildering moment, Riley thinks the woman looks like a very young version of herself; the guy could be Vic before he grew up and became The Victor. Did we ever paw each other in public? she thinks. Never.

She remembers one time she kissed Vic in front of his parents the first weekend she met them in Ohio.

“My parents aren’t really comfortable with that kind of thing,” he had whispered, taking her hand so as not to upset her. They were sitting on the couch, mid-Super Bowl party.

“What kind of thing?” she whispered back.

“Sex.”

“That was a kiss. You want sex, I’ll show you sex.”

“Later,” he promised. He asked his father to turn up the volume on the TV so they could all hear the football announcers instead of his crazy girlfriend.

Philippe leans toward her across the table.

“Ce soir,” he murmurs.

“ Ce soir I’m making macaroni and cheese.”

“Feed me,” he whispers.

“Five’s a crowd at the dinner table,” she says, though there will only be three of them, of course. She points at the baby-as if Gabi could possibly understand this conversation-but Philippe either ignores her or she’s not using the international symbol for “Shut the hell up.” She remembers her father often saying “Not in front of the children,” which meant to her: Pay attention! Parental drama ahead!

“I want to see you again,” Philippe says.

Riley spreads her arms wide -lookee here . But what’s here is a baby girl staring back at him. Girls are so damned intuitive-maybe she knows what’s going on. Who needs words when a guy has sex written all over his face?

“Let’s talk about your life,” Riley says, patting Gabi’s head. She spends so much time patting the baby’s head that she’s surprised the kid has any hair at all. Maybe that’s why the stuff whirls around her head like it’s hula dancing.

“Bof,” Philippe says.

“Okay. Translate that. I’ve been here a year and every damn person I meet says bof in every conversation. Bof . Bof. Bof . What’s up with the bof ?”

“There is no translation,” Philippe says.

“What kind of tutor are you?”

“The best kind,” he says, smiling his Satan smile. The shirt is definitely not cool. It is shiny-smarmy, not shiny-hip. I’m learning, Riley thinks. I may not know words, but I know my shirts.

“So. You got a girlfriend?” she asks. There was no sign of a female touch in that lovely abode she visited earlier, but who knows? The girl could be a beer hog.

“Elle s’appelle Riley,” Philippe says.

“Got that wrong,” she tells him.

“Pourquoi pas?”

“ Parce que I’ve got this load of love in my lap and the other running in circles over there.”

“It is not the same kind of love.”

“We’re talking love?”

“We do not need to talk. We need to love.”

“You’re talking about s-e-x.”

“ Faire l’amour . To make love.”

“In our country-”

“You are not in your country.”

“And in your country love and s-e-x are the same thing?”

“Perhaps.”

“Un-fucking-believable. I love this city.”

“C’est vrai?”

“Today. Right now. This second. I heart Paris.”

With that the waiter pours their wine and they clink glasses.

The sky darkens; thick black clouds have moved in again. Riley puts her monster shades up on her head.

“I used to think that every time I had s-e-x I loved the guy,” she tells Philippe. “Now I know. It’s s-e-x that I love.”

“But it is the man. It is always the man.”

“What’s always the man?”

“You have loved him. You have loved me.”

“Sorry, Charlie.”

Philippe looks confused.

“It’s an expression. I know your name.”

“Bon.” Philippe looks unhappy, as if she called him the wrong name in the heat of passion.

“I think you’re wrong,” Riley says. “You’re just a ride.”

“Je ne comprends pas.”

“You made me feel good today. Thanks. But it ain’t love.”

“We need each other. All of us. We cannot be alone.”

Riley looks around. Philippe must be talking some kind of Parisian truth, at least in this café. Not a solitary soul in sight. The make-out couple looks ready to tear up some bedsheets.

“Anyway, c’est fini . I’m not heading your way tomorrow for an afternoon delight. If you know what I mean.”

“ Pourquoi pas? A few hours ago you were very, how you say, with passion.”

“But I’m not with passion now. I’m with kids now.”

The littler of those kids starts to squirm in her Snugli.

“I don’t want to breast-feed her in the middle of the café,” Riley mutters, fishing for a pacifier in her backpack.

“I will be very happy to see you breast-feed.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“Americans believe in groups,” Philippe says. “You have all your expat groups and your maman groups and your book club groups. Do your groups make you not lonely?”

Riley shakes her head. She is most acutely aware of how lonely she is every time she enters someone’s apartment for one of her many group meetings and hears the clamor of so many voices and sees the spread of food and tries to find a place for herself in the middle of it all.

Riley tried to befriend someone at the last expat meeting. While most women boasted about their husbands’ positions as CEO of World Bank or editor in chief of Newsweek Europe or head of Apple’s international division, a shy bohemian woman introduced herself by saying, “I have to be here while my husband plays in Paris.” Riley assumed the woman was mocking the guy. But no, he was the new lead violinist of the Paris Symphony Orchestra.

“Want to get together one day?” Riley had boldly asked the woman. “I don’t know many people here.”

“Sorry,” she had said, “but I’m immersing myself in French life while I’m here.”