Paris Times Eight by Deirdre Kelly Read Free Book Online

carriages used to be housed, it was close to the Chantilly forest and château, a hunting retreat at the time of Louis XIV . It attracted a well-heeled crowd. Everyone was dressed in country chic—silk scarves tied just so and well-cut blazers worn with tight but impeccably pressed jeans. As in most French dining establishments I had so far visited that summer, the talk was as thick as the cloud of blue cigarette smoke that hung in the air. The dark wood interior was offset by white linen tablecloths that supported settings of silverware that to me seemed dauntingly French—four forks and an equal number of knives, several differently sized spoons including one as big as a gourd. I observed quietly, wondering how I would tackle it all. I decided to let Luc lead the way. I discovered that day that he was something of a connoisseur, which surprised me, considering that he always looked underfed.
    I thought that by taking me there he was offering me a peace pipe of sorts, and I probably tried a little too hard to show that I was grateful. I laughed at his pale jokes. I took a cigarette when he offered one. I looked enraptured by a conversation involving truffles. Luc’s friends—she a pharmacist, he a banker—were enthusiastic gourmands who wanted to identify every ingredient of every mouthful of food. I remember thinking how boring they were, how silly. Still, I played along. I drank the wine appreciatively and, when asked to describe the flavors dancing on my tongue, I said, a little whimsically, that I could taste chocolate and pale blue robin’s eggs. Everyone at the table laughed. It felt good to be away from my keepers.
    But even away from Paris, I wasn’t free of its oppressive influence.
    There had been several courses—herrings marinated in oil followed by a rabbit in white wine and a veal marengo served with stuffed baked potatoes, peas with bacon, and lettuce. There was strawberry charlotte for dessert and an upside-down apple cake served with eau de vie and black coffee. I thought it was over. Five hours had passed. And then the cheese trolley rolled our way, boasting dozens of choices— Camembert, Gruyère, Roquefort, Brie. Luc lifted a spoonful of a creamed cheese with berries that he wanted to put in my mouth. I guessed that all the rules had changed. He said, “You must eat.” I declined, saying innocently enough, “I am full.”
    Zut! Catastrophe!
    Luc put down the spoon, the smallest one. He leaned in to me and whispered, “In Frahnce it is impoli to say that, I’m full. It is une gaucherie. You understand?” I understood.
    â€œYou never say, I am full. You say non, merci. You politely decline.”
    He left the table, ostensibly to wash his hands. His words had smarted.
    Later, when we went to the château where Condé had feted legions of guests, I heard the story of his chef who had committed suicide when the fish arrived late at a banquet. I felt his pain. I would have liked to kill myself then and there for being a social embarrassment. In Paris it seemed I would always be on the outside looking in. No matter how much I wanted the city to embrace me, it would always keep me at arm’s length while wagging a finger in my face. I had rarely felt that I fit in—at home, at school, among my peers. But in Paris that feeling of alienation intensified. I didn’t belong there, either. I shuffled back into my life as the au pair, taking the children to the park to play on the swings, playing hide-and-seek amid the statuary of gods, goddesses, nymphs, satyrs, dukes, duchesses, playwrights, painters, and other assorted heroes and heroines dotting the Paris landscape.
    A WEEK LATER, we moved away from the Rue de l’Université apartment with its inner courtyard and ever-vigilant concierge, its arched and gated entranceway and elegant stone facade. Luc’s parents were due back from the sunny south, and we had to move to less