Ellen Sussman: French Lessons

Copyright © 2011 by Ellen Sussman

Illustrations copyright © 2011 by Juliette Lemontey. Used by permission.

Maps by Ilsa Brink

Part-opening art (handwriting): iStockphoto

Brilliant sunlight spills through the windows of the Vivre à la Française language school. It has been raining for days-for weeks-and the sudden flash of sun through a break in the clouds causes everyone in the dreary office to stop for a moment and turn their faces toward the light. It’s early morning and no one is quite awake-one young woman murmurs, “Bonjour, soleil.” Nico smiles. Then the door slams and everyone stirs, suddenly alert. Nico blinks and looks around, hoping for a sign of what he already knows: Something’s different. It’s not just the sun. It’s the day, new and promising. Every corner of the office looks sun-washed and bright. Even the ghostly girl behind the desk offers Nico a half smile when she hands him his daily work sheet.

Sure enough, today’s teaching assignment promises something new-Josie Felton. He likes the name. It’s so very American, and he imagines a blond, ponytailed girl, ready to conquer Paris. His Paris. He’ll show her the way. He tucks the computer printout with her name and the details of their lesson-meeting time, duration, level of French, areas of concentration-into his back pocket.

It’s time to meet Chantal at the café.

Nico walks out of the language school onto rue de Paradis. Before he turns to the corner restaurant, he looks down the street in the other direction. Something has caught his attention-a gasp, the rustle of fabric, a bare arm. He squints in the sun and sees two people at the end of the street. A woman pushes a man up against the wall of the building. Her arms, bare and tattooed, a lightning flash zigzagging across tan flesh, pin the man’s shoulders. She leans in for a kiss that takes a long time. Someone pushes through the door behind Nico and bumps into him.

“Sorry,” he says and steps aside.

Nico looks back. The woman saunters away. The man runs his hand through his hair and walks toward Nico. It’s Philippe. Nico’s first thought is of Chantal-did she see the kiss? He looks toward the café and Chantal is there, sitting at a table outside, reading a book. Nico takes a breath.

Philippe reaches him in a second and smacks his arm.

“I’m late, man,” Philippe says in French. “Order me an espresso.”

“Got it,” Nico says.

Philippe heads into the language school and the door swings closed behind him.

Nico, Philippe, and Chantal have coffee together on Monday and Friday mornings after they get their assignments at the school. There are other French instructors-who teach regular classes rather than individual sessions, mostly older men and women who seem to have nothing in common with these three-though sometimes Nico wonders what he has in common with Philippe. Maybe they only really share one thing: an attraction to Chantal.

Nico hurries to the café. He can see the curve of Chantal’s neck as she peers at her novel, her umbrella perched at her side, her cardigan neatly buttoned. He thinks of her in bed last week, after they made love, her hair fanned across the pillow, her body beaded with sweat, her features soft. A different person. He wants both of them.

He leans over and gives her a kiss on each cheek, then slides into the chair next to her. He smells her perfume, something that reminds him of the Mediterranean, and he has the odd sensation of stepping into the cool water of the sea. He looks around-the café is crowded and noisy-and every conversation seems too loud and hurried. A man shouts at the driver of a car who blasts his horn in response. Nico imagines a different café, somewhere in Provence. Let’s drive to the sea, he would say.

He can feel the heat of the newly hatched sun on his back. Chantal tilts her head and looks at him as if she wants to read his thoughts. When they made love she pulled him onto her, so that all the space between them disappeared. Now he feels the need to touch her. First her mouth, where there is a hint of a smile. Her lips are full and he sees that she has worn lipstick. Does she always wear lipstick?

“Philippe is late,” he says in French. “He’ll be here soon.”

“Of course,” she says.

“Do you have your American again?” he asks.

“The last day,” she tells Nico. “I’m a little sad about it.”

“He’s stolen your heart?”

She shakes her head. “He hasn’t tried.”

“And if he tried?”

“He’s a happily married man,” she says. “There aren’t many of them. It’s good to find one once in a while.”

Nico imagines Chantal next to him in a convertible, like a young Catherine Deneuve, a scarf around her hair, the sea stretching along the coast, the road twisting through green hills, the air full of the smell of lavender.

The waiter appears. He’s young, bored, and reeks of last night’s booze. Nico wants to tell the kid to go home and take a shower. When he looks around the café, he realizes that most of the customers are younger than he is. He’s thirty-two years old-when did he become an old guy? Nico orders a café crème and an espresso for Philippe. When the waiter leaves, Nico waves the stale air away.

“And you?” Chantal asks. “Who do you have today?”

“A woman. I don’t know if she’s young or old. Also American. High level of French.”

“Lucky you.”

“Apparently she’s a high school French teacher. Why would a French teacher need a tutor for a day?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Chantal tucks her hair behind her ears. She, too, looks older than the girls who flutter in their chairs, texting on cell phones, giggling with their friends. Nico hears the high-pitched voice of one girl- “Mais non, c’est pas possible!” -and the girl swats at a boy’s face. The boy leans forward and brushes his thumb across the girl’s lips. Nico pulls his eyes away. He looks at Chantal, who sips her espresso. She is twenty-eight. She is a woman compared to these girls. Again, he wants to touch her. He looks at her fingers resting on the table. She wears a simple silver ring, something that could be mistaken for a wedding band.

He reaches for her hand and pulls it closer to him. The band has something etched on it. Finally he sees that it’s a vine, encircling her finger.

“I like that,” he tells her.

“It’s a broken promise,” she says.

He waits for her to explain, feeling the heat of her hand in his.

“Philippe gave it to me,” she tells him, and her hand drifts away.