and freezing. ‘You may want to take a shower before dinner,’ he said, waving to the small bath tub which had a shower attachment. ‘I know Americans like to be very clean.’ Nothing in the world would have induced me to bathe – I could barely keep my teeth from chattering as it was.
Bernard was the picture of civility, as calm and warm as Edith was tense and cool. I started to relax and almost immediately began to understand a bit of French. Edith fed the children and put them to bed, and sometime later the three of us sat down at a candlelit table in the kitchen next to the fireplace, the only warm spot in the house. Bernard explained that the house had an old coal furnace which Edith had to fill several times a day. Even when full it didn’t offer much comfort. Some day they would change it.
Edith had made a simple meal – carottes râpées, a mound of sarrasin buckwheat groats with a garlicky, lemony vinaigrette and braised leeks, a huge garden salad, a Camembert so creamy it melted in my mouth. Dessert was an apple clafoutis. I had nearly died of starvation during the afternoon – accustomed as I’d become to my daily La Varenne snacks of baguette slathered with butter – and the edge of hunger made it taste even more delicious. I was enraptured.
The following morning everyone rose early. Bernard was vice-mayor of the village, so he was off to some function or other. Edith had more plans to work in the garden. The children took care of themselves. I headed for the wheelbarrow and, together and in silence, Edith and I worked until lunchtime. We had soft-boiled eggs, which tasted like molten essence of egg; I watched the children as they stuck little sticks of toasted, buttered bread – called mouillettes – into their eggs, and did the same. I easily made my way through two eggs, the most delicious I had ever tasted. I reveled in the intensely garlicky, tart salad, had more Camembert with the hearty wholewheat bread Edith had bought the day before at the healthfood store, then enjoyed another clafoutis, this time with pears instead of apples.
My train back to Paris left mid-afternoon, and Bernard arrived home just in time to take me. I bid Edith goodbye – there was a flicker of warmth from her, but not much. The kids yelled, ‘Au revoir!’ At the station Bernard bid me a safe journey and told me I was welcome to return any time, and if I needed anything all I had to do was call. He kissed me on each cheek, then was gone.
I was completely charmed. By Bernard, of course, and by the whole experience. I had finally gotten the soil of France on my shoes, visited a tiny, beautiful litde village, stayed in a 300-year-old maison bourgeoise, frolicked with (and yelled at) three darling French children, been inspired by the simple foods I had eaten. I was walking on air.
On returning to the school the next day I suddenly found my French was better – it was finally emerging from my head. I could understand better, and I dared say a few things. My fellow stagiaires gaped at me.
That was the only weekend trip I took. I was too captivated by my life in Paris and five and a half days a week of school. I lived in a chambre de bonne, or maid’s room, with a bed so narrow I had to carefully engineer my body to turn over. My few clothes hung in a small armoire, and I had a sink and small window that let in a flood of light. I loved it. My life was whittled down to the essentials. I showered at a friend’s apartment, used the toilet down the hall, had virtually no housework to do, and the only bills I had were my monthly carte d’orange, or Métro pass, and the 700 French francs (about $175) I paid each month, in cash, for my room. I had no phone and didn’t miss it, no kitchen to mess. The biggest problem with my lodging was its location on the sixth floor, without an elevator, and that was a problem only when I’d forgotten my pen and notebook upstairs. Usually, I just bought new ones.
I subsequently moved into two other chambres de bonnes, each one slighdy better equipped. The best one was in the sixteenth arrondissement above the apartment of the American cultural ambassador. It was the size of a small studio, had an elevator and a washing machine and a bathroom I shared with one other person. For that, I traded occasional cooking services. Another stagiaire, my cooking partner at school, lived down the hall and together we were expected to prepare food for dinner parties when the ambassador and his wife entertained. It was a fine situation except that the ambassadress would call us at the last minute to prepare a meal, and there was never any food in her house. We learned to bring home from school ingredients that would otherwise have gone to waste – fresh herbs, for instance – and we had certain staples on hand. We became very resourceful and expert at making lovely little canapés from canned tuna and fresh bread. The ambassadress seemed happy and for us it was the life of Riley. After months of traipsing down a dark hall to the toilet it was pure luxury to have one at hand and to be able to stretch and not touch a wall with either hand.
But a small cloud had formed over my experience. My French, which I discovered was extremely literary and terribly impractical, wasn’t improving. I was tongue-tied, and even with the chefs I had to concentrate so hard to catch what they were saying that I would fall way behind in classes. I desperately wanted to translate a cooking demonstration for the English-speaking guests, banter with the chefs and the delivery people, have a conversation with a French person that lasted more than two seconds. As it was, I didn’t really know any French people besides the chefs, since everyone who worked at the school came from an English-speaking country. For a while I traded conversation with a Frenchman who wanted to improve his English and it was with him that one of my most infantile romantic ideas was shattered – even though a person is French and speaks English with a sexy French accent he can be crushingly boring. My French didn’t get much better.
The month of August, when all of France goes on vacation, approached. The school would close. Paris was already empty, the weather was stifling, most of the stagiaires had exotic vacations planned. I was scheduled to work through the month, though there was really nothing to do but type up recipes. One day, Edith – from my weekend in the country – called. Bernard had had a terrible accident and would be laid up for three months in bed, at home. She wanted to paint, and she needed someone to come out for the month of August to cook and help around the house. The children would go to day care. Did I know anyone? Without hesitation I said I would do it, and we made arrangements. I had to check with the head of the school to see if I could get time off, something I was certain would be granted. To my surprise she refused. I begged. She relented, though not without letting me know that she wasn’t happy. Evidently, the typing was more important than I’d realized. Nonetheless, a week later I was on the train to Normandy.
Edith was friendlier this time when she came to pick me up. She told me right away that she couldn’t believe I wanted to return after she’d been so rude. She explained to me that she had been completely exhausted and that, frankly, she hadn’t really felt like welcoming an American who lived in Paris and didn’t know why she’d said yes when I called. It was several years before I admitted that I had thought her behavior was perfectly normal.
I arrived to find Bernard in a wheelchair, surrounded by friends, drinking chilled cider and expounding on something. He’d fallen some forty feet off a ladder while pasting up a campaign poster for a friend. Despite the fact that his back and legs were a mess, his spirits were high, his greeting warm.
I joined the circle around him long enough to drink some cider, then went in to see what I could do for dinner. That evening began one of the most memorable months of my life. Edith turned out to be funny, filled with energy and up for anything. I had already glimpsed Bernard and knew he was easy-going – but he turned out to be more than that. Brilliant, always searching to learn, he immediately set up a schedule of daily French and English lessons with me. Edith and I agreed that I would cook two meals a day for the family, and after my first few dinners she began inviting all of their friends, so that each night there were eight to ten people for dinner. I was in heaven, cooking exactly what I wanted within a vegetarian diet – which was fine with me, since I had been a vegetarian for nearly ten years. However, once I began school, it wasn’t long before my vegetarianism collapsed.
Edith,
