Ellen Sussman - French Lessons

“Philippe knew of a door in the back-a part of the servants’ quarters-that had a broken padlock. I wondered if he had taken other women here before me, but I pushed the thought away. We sneaked into the château and climbed the many stairs to the master bedroom, guided by Philippe’s flashlight. We stepped over the rope that blocked the entrance to the room and Philippe took me to bed.”

Chantal is looking at her hands, which rest on the table in front of her. She has long, tapered fingers and pale skin. Jeremy imagines those hands on his face. And then Chantal looks at him, breaking her own trance. Her eyes are bright and wide.

“I had never done anything so daring in my life. I loved him that night.”

She stops speaking and shakes her head.

“Crazy. Imagine if we were caught.”

“Did you love him or did you love danger?” Jeremy asks.

Chantal looks puzzled.

“I’m sorry,” Jeremy says quickly. “It’s none of my business.”

“It’s a good question,” Chantal says. “I can answer it.” She pauses and sips her wine. “I loved him.”

“And you still love him?”

“I don’t know,” Chantal says.

“Does he make you a more daring person?” Jeremy asks.

“For one night,” Chantal says with a sly smile. “And for that I loved him.”

Jeremy doesn’t understand. He wants to ask questions but he feels that he has intruded enough.

And then, like a sudden storm, he feels irrationally angry: What does breaking into a château and making love in someone else’s bed have to do with love?

For a moment he confuses Chantal with his daughter. He wants to give her advice, tell her that she’s wrong, that Philippe is the wrong man, that love has nothing to do with danger. And then a loudspeaker breaks their uneasy silence and he hears a static-filled roar of words-something about Notre Dame and the Île Saint-Louis. It is the bateau-mouche again. And again, tourists are waving madly. Why? What would it matter if he waved back? He turns away from them and reaches for more cheese.

She places her hand on his. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It was an inappropriate story.”

“I remember what you said at the café earlier,” Jeremy says. “That sometimes we have to run away from ourselves to find ourselves. Maybe Philippe helped you do that.”

Chantal smiles. “I like that. And so I have learned once again that I am truly a good girl at heart. And I should find myself a better man.”

He looks at her hand and she takes it away.

Jeremy is not accustomed to so much talk. If he were younger, he would take her hand and lead her downstairs to her bedroom. No, it has nothing to do with age. He would do it now. This is the moment he has waited for since he arrived at the métro this morning.

He thinks about sex with Dana. In bed with her, he finds his truest self. Their lovemaking is deep and rich-they rarely speak in bed, and yet he feels he knows her best when they’ve made love. She gives herself to him, he gives himself to her. In ten years, their passion has not quieted.

“Let’s walk,” he says to Chantal.

She stands too quickly and knocks the table. Her glass of wine topples and Jeremy catches it before it falls to the deck. But wine spills on Chantal’s sandaled feet.

“Oh, how clumsy!” she says, and her face turns the same shade of pink as her blouse. She flees-Jeremy can hear her feet clattering down the stairs of the boat and into the space below.

Jeremy cleans up. Most of the wine landed on her feet, and he mops what landed on the deck with a napkin dipped in water.

He gathers the bowls and plates and basket and puts them back on the tray. Much of the food is gone-and so is the wine. He’s surprised to see the empty bottle.

He’d clear the dishes, but he knows that the kitchen is below-along with Chantal and her bedroom. No, he’ll leave it all here.

His cell phone rings. He pulls it out of his back pocket. It is Dana.

For a moment he feels caught-but then he shakes his head. I’ve done nothing wrong. A lunch, some wine .

“Allô?” He says it with a French accent-she’ll be amused, he thinks.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly, and then in French: “I have the wrong number.”

She hangs up before he can stop her.

He calls her back.

“It was me,” he says in English. “I was pretending to be your dashing French lover.” And then Chantal is standing there, in front of him. He looks down. She is wearing white sneakers-Keds-and again he thinks of his daughter.

Dana laughs, her movie laugh-rich and deep. Chantal takes the tray and walks away.

“I’d like to meet her,” Dana says.

“Who?”

“The French tutor.”

“Why?”

“Lindy says she is very pretty.”

“You saw Lindy?”

“Not yet. She called. Bring your tutor to meet me.”

“The lesson is almost over,” Jeremy says, though it’s not. He glances at his watch. Two P.M. “There’s no reason to meet her.” He lowers his voice to a whisper.

“We’re shooting early. Pascale called a couple of hours ago. Something about the rain. She’s setting up now. I want you both to come.”

“Where?”

“The Pont des Arts. Your little friend will enjoy it.”

“Dana.”

“Lindy says you’re smitten.”

“She didn’t say that. That’s not even a word she would know.”

“Maybe we’re all taking language lessons these days.”

“Dana.”

“I’ve got to go, sweetheart. Come by soon. We start in half an hour.”

“Where’s Lindy-”

“She’ll be there.”

“Did she tell you about the monastery?”

“Monastery? I have to throw clothes on and dash over there. I’ll see you soon.”

She hangs up.

Chantal is gone. So is the food, the wine, the momentary illusion of a different Jeremy.

No , he thinks. He will not bring her to meet Dana. Lindy was behaving like a petulant child. That’s all.

He remembers Chantal’s hand on his.

He thinks of his house in the Santa Monica Canyon, his dog, his shop, and he wishes he were home.

He walks to the front of the boat. He sees the stairs-a steep ladder really-that lead below. He can’t hear anything-no dishes being washed, no water running.

“Chantal?” he calls.

“J’arrive,” she says. I’m coming.

She appears at the bottom of the ladder and looks up at him. Has she been crying? Did he say something on the phone that would have upset her? There’s no reason to meet her .

He steps back and lets her pass by. She keeps on walking and he follows her to the edge of the boat and then onto the quai. This time she does not offer her hand as he leaps from the boat to the land.

“My wife invited us-” he begins and she turns to him. She has put on lipstick. Her lips are moist. I can go back, he thinks. I can take her hand.

“Yes?”

“-to watch them film. She thought you might be interested.”

“How nice of her.”

“We don’t have to.”

“Of course,” Chantal says.

“It’s very slow. It’s nothing as glamorous as Hollywood would like us to believe.”

“I’d like that very much.”

Lindy meets them at the entrance to the Pont des Arts. A huge crowd has gathered behind barricades on both sides of the river. Lindy hands them badges on twine that they hang around their necks.

“Mon papa!” she tells the young guard, who has not taken his eyes off the girl. Jeremy looks at his daughter through this man’s eyes. She is luminous, despite the shaved head-the word “ripe” comes to mind, and Jeremy hates himself for the thought of it. She’s wearing a tight tank top over breasts that seem to have grown since last fall. She’s gained a little weight, which becomes her-her face is fuller, her body less waiflike. Jeremy looks back at the guard and wants to deck him.