Ellen Sussman - French Lessons

“I need you,” she whispered, and he glared at her. Did she need sex or him? He pushed her back on the bed and, pinning her shoulders down, climbed on top of her.

“What do you need? Say it,” he said.

“You.”

“Sex,” he said.

“You.”

“You don’t need me,” he said. He leaned close to her and she reached up for his mouth-their kiss was full of hunger and rage. They tore at each other, tangling themselves in the sheets, and at one point Jeremy felt Dana’s mouth on his neck, her teeth sharp. They turned each other over and pushed each other back, each fighting to overpower the other. They had never done this, never been rough or scrappy in bed. Their lovemaking was always tender, intimate; their eyes always locked on each other. This time, they barely looked at each other.

When Jeremy came, his orgasm seemed to go on for a long time. And then Dana didn’t wait for him to pleasure her-she took his hand and pressed it between her legs. She held it there and moved against him, her body scrambling for release. When she found it she called out his name.

“Are you all right?” he asked her, when they slid into their sleeping positions, his body curled against her back, his arm wrapped around her and curled between her breasts.

“I need to come home to you,” she said softly.

The storm stops as suddenly as it began. Chantal moves away from Jeremy’s side. It makes him catch his breath, as if he might stumble without the weight of her against him.

“Merci,” she says simply.

“Avec plaisir,” he tells her, smiling.

“Regarde,” she says, pointing out toward the expanse of gardens. New light spreads across the lush greenery, bouncing off drops of rain as if electric. Everything looks newly sprouted, astonishingly different. It’s as if he hadn’t even seen the garden before.

She does not name what they are looking at.

They step carefully through the wet grass and over the small fence and back onto the path. Chantal lifts her closed umbrella and laughs. “What a silly thing it is.”

“I hate to leave,” Jeremy says with real regret, “but we need to meet my daughter.”

“Of course,” Chantal says.

“I asked Lindy to meet us across the street at the mosque.” He pauses, searching her face. “If that’s okay with you.”

“That’s a very good plan,” she says. “I would have suggested it myself.”

Jeremy feels a swelling of pride, as if he has written an A paper. A schoolboy’s crush , he thinks. What a fool .

And yet there is some comfort in naming these odd sensations swirling through him today. As if now he can put it in its place. It is translatable, after all.

He wonders suddenly: Did Lindy sleep with the river guide that night? The next day, at the airport in San José, she had sobbed before they boarded the plane, and she wouldn’t talk to her mother. When Dana went to the bathroom, Lindy whispered to Jeremy, “I want to stay with Paco. I can’t leave him.” Jeremy kissed the top of her head. “Is this love?” he asked, smiling. “Of course it’s love!” she shouted, and stormed off.

Why does naming a thing give it so much power? Jeremy wonders.

Chantal glances at her watch. “It is almost eleven-thirty. I am the only person in Paris who is always on time. Let’s not ruin my good record.”

That, too, pleases Jeremy. Of course, Dana is always late-the meeting ran over, the photographer didn’t show up, the director demanded twenty takes of the same damn scene. He brings a book with him whenever he sets out to meet her. And he expects to wait. When she finally arrives, he usually forgets any annoyance as soon as she begins to tell him about her day. Her days are filled with stories. He works quietly with his wood and his tools and his silence. At the end of his day, it’s as if Dana opens the window and lets the world in.

They walk quickly through the gardens. Jeremy feels breathless, as if the storm might reappear at any moment. But no, the sky is light, the clouds gone. Chantal has shifted the bags on her shoulders and now, instead of feeling her body brush against his, it is only her tote bag that bumps his hip as they hurry along.

“Jeremy!” Lindy shouts when they reach the gates of the Jardin des Plantes. She dashes across the street and throws herself in his arms before he even gets a good look at the girl. She squeezes tight and he finds himself laughing. His child. There is no question she is his, even though she has only spent half her life with him. She has chosen him, which is even better than what most dads get.

“You’re beautiful,” he says when words come. He holds her out in front of him. It is still true: the shockingly bald head makes her green eyes even more luminous. Her smile is radiant.

“En français!” she scolds. And then she turns to Chantal and offers her hand. “Je m’appelle Lindy.”

“Chantal. Enchantée . ”

“Does he really speak French?” she asks conspiratorially, in French, as if Jeremy is not there.

“Very well,” Chantal says. “As do you.”

“ Bof . I’ve forgotten my French. I need practice-I need a French boyfriend. That would help.”

“You can have mine,” Chantal says.

Jeremy looks at her-she is smiling effortlessly. Jeremy feels as if he’s lost control of this conversation. He doesn’t speak girl talk in any language.

“Shall we find the tearoom?” he asks in French.

“Oh, you sound different in French!” Lindy exclaims.

“How so?” he asks.

“I don’t know. You’re so-sexy.”

“Apparently I’m not sexy in English,” Jeremy explains to Chantal.

“No, not that,” Lindy says. “You’re like someone I don’t know. You could be anyone.”

“Not your stepfather.”

“My stepfather wouldn’t be out on the town with a beautiful young Frenchwoman.”

Chantal looks away quickly.

“Lindy,” Jeremy says, then stops. The girl’s smile looks devious. But Lindy is never devious. She is so truly an unaffected girl, even with all the flash and glamour of her mother’s life thrust upon her. She is always unfailingly honest.

“This is a French lesson,” he explains, his voice low and serious.

“Well, of course it is,” Lindy says.

They cross the street and enter the mosque. It’s a Moorish building with an impressive minaret, all white on the outside, coolly inviting. They pass through the outside café and enter the inner courtyard. It’s beautifully tiled, with tables set around fig trees and fountains. Arabic music plays in the background; Jeremy can smell incense. He feels transported to Morocco and remembers a trip with Dana to shoot a movie in Marrakesh. One evening they walked through the medina, and even though Dana wore jeans and a tunic, every man turned his head to watch her pass. Jeremy never relaxed his guard, watching and waiting for trouble while Dana shopped for trinkets, oblivious to the stir of male attention around her. By the end of the evening he was exhausted but oddly pleased. It was his job; she needed him there.

“Une table pour trois, monsieur?” the waiter asks. Jeremy looks up, surprised. The young man seems inordinately pleased with the sight of these two young women at Jeremy’s side.

“Oui. S’il vous plaît.”

The man ushers them to a table at the edge of the courtyard. They’re next to a fountain, and suddenly the noise-of the cascade of water, the incantatory music, and, oddly, the squawk of a bird trapped inside the room-makes Jeremy feel claustrophobic. He should have chosen to sit outside.

The waiter says something in rapid-fire French and Jeremy looks at Chantal, completely lost.