security that it seemed crazy to risk on a boy.
I picked up the snapshot of my parents and heard my mom from years ago. “I can’t handle both of you. It’s for the best. You will be better off in the long run with your cousins. And won’t it be wonderful for you to learn French? Daddy never really learned, you know, and he’s always wished he had.”
“Yes, French.” My dad’s voice was not strong. “A big regret. Why the hell your grandfather never spoke it to me will always be a mystery. It’s a good thing Jacques was a patient kid, best cousin a guy could dream up. Spent two of the greatest summers of my life horsing around with him, each one trying to speak the other’s language. You’ll see, he’s a lovely man. And he will teach you to talk like a novel. I’m so proud of my little girl . . . French. It’s the one that got away.”
I had gotten the language quickly, and I had had more time to practice than anyone anticipated because my father outlived the doctors’ predictions.
I remember Étienne saying to me, over his shoulder as he passed me on a bicycle, that I was hanging around longer than I was supposed to. I’d been with his family almost a year. “They told us you’d only be here for a few months. Tu traines.” Literally, you’re dragging. You little beggar.
We were riding rented bicycles in the gardens of Versailles. His parents had thought it would be a nice cultural outing.
There were daffodils everywhere, but it was still cool, and the long formal lines of poplars rippled in a May wind. The enormous château, reflected in water everywhere, looked like a gilt prison we had somehow escaped to race along these sandy paths past ornate statues, secret flower patches and temples of delight in marble and sandstone. É tienne’s parents had said they would meet us at one o’clock for a picnic in front of thePetit Hameau,Marie-Antoinette’s “rustic retreat” where she once played at raising sheep. There they promised to explain to me why this place demonstrated the absolute historical necessity of the French Revolution.
Perhaps Étienne was annoyed at having to spend an afternoon en touriste with his earnest American cousin instead of prowling the streets with his friends, and that is why he would not wait for me when I stopped to tie my shoe. “You’re dragging again.”
All I wanted was to belong with somebody, to feel a presence at my side in that spring chill. Instead, I got lost in a green maze trying to get to Marie Antoinette’s farm. When I finally did find “my family” behind a mound of lavender—Solange, kneeling on a small picnic blanket, buttering baguettes for sandwiches, Jacques buried in a paperback of La Cousine Bette —I was crying.
Solange began unpacking sliced ham and cheese. “Katie, there you are! Te voilá! We thought you had decided to try a different restaurant.”
Marie Antoinette’s village and model farm were kept weirdly clean and charming. The sheep looked overfluffed. It was creepy, I thought, to be picnicking in the shadow of the toy farm of a beheaded queen. No matter how charmant it was.
Étienne was sprawled in the grass beside his bike, looking not proud. I dared to suspect he felt sorry for me.
I felt utterly rejected. I hated my parents for sending me to France. I hated Versailles, full of ghosts. I hated this cold air. I hated these ham sandwiches. Too much bread and yellow butter and not enough meat because Solange and Jacques were saving for their retirement house. Always saving. I wanted to go home.
But, when I called that night, Mom reminded me that she and Dad had talked it over many times and it was for the best that I stay in France.
When she passed the receiver to Dad, he said, “I’m delighted to think of you making your way in Europe. Very proud. They tell me your accent is perfect. What I wouldn’t give . . .” For as long as he could still speak, he repeated those exact words in every phone call. “They tell
I picked up the snapshot of my parents and heard my mom from years ago. “I can’t handle both of you. It’s for the best. You will be better off in the long run with your cousins. And won’t it be wonderful for you to learn French? Daddy never really learned, you know, and he’s always wished he had.”
“Yes, French.” My dad’s voice was not strong. “A big regret. Why the hell your grandfather never spoke it to me will always be a mystery. It’s a good thing Jacques was a patient kid, best cousin a guy could dream up. Spent two of the greatest summers of my life horsing around with him, each one trying to speak the other’s language. You’ll see, he’s a lovely man. And he will teach you to talk like a novel. I’m so proud of my little girl . . . French. It’s the one that got away.”
I had gotten the language quickly, and I had had more time to practice than anyone anticipated because my father outlived the doctors’ predictions.
I remember Étienne saying to me, over his shoulder as he passed me on a bicycle, that I was hanging around longer than I was supposed to. I’d been with his family almost a year. “They told us you’d only be here for a few months. Tu traines.” Literally, you’re dragging. You little beggar.
We were riding rented bicycles in the gardens of Versailles. His parents had thought it would be a nice cultural outing.
There were daffodils everywhere, but it was still cool, and the long formal lines of poplars rippled in a May wind. The enormous château, reflected in water everywhere, looked like a gilt prison we had somehow escaped to race along these sandy paths past ornate statues, secret flower patches and temples of delight in marble and sandstone. É tienne’s parents had said they would meet us at one o’clock for a picnic in front of thePetit Hameau,Marie-Antoinette’s “rustic retreat” where she once played at raising sheep. There they promised to explain to me why this place demonstrated the absolute historical necessity of the French Revolution.
Perhaps Étienne was annoyed at having to spend an afternoon en touriste with his earnest American cousin instead of prowling the streets with his friends, and that is why he would not wait for me when I stopped to tie my shoe. “You’re dragging again.”
All I wanted was to belong with somebody, to feel a presence at my side in that spring chill. Instead, I got lost in a green maze trying to get to Marie Antoinette’s farm. When I finally did find “my family” behind a mound of lavender—Solange, kneeling on a small picnic blanket, buttering baguettes for sandwiches, Jacques buried in a paperback of La Cousine Bette —I was crying.
Solange began unpacking sliced ham and cheese. “Katie, there you are! Te voilá! We thought you had decided to try a different restaurant.”
Marie Antoinette’s village and model farm were kept weirdly clean and charming. The sheep looked overfluffed. It was creepy, I thought, to be picnicking in the shadow of the toy farm of a beheaded queen. No matter how charmant it was.
Étienne was sprawled in the grass beside his bike, looking not proud. I dared to suspect he felt sorry for me.
I felt utterly rejected. I hated my parents for sending me to France. I hated Versailles, full of ghosts. I hated this cold air. I hated these ham sandwiches. Too much bread and yellow butter and not enough meat because Solange and Jacques were saving for their retirement house. Always saving. I wanted to go home.
But, when I called that night, Mom reminded me that she and Dad had talked it over many times and it was for the best that I stay in France.
When she passed the receiver to Dad, he said, “I’m delighted to think of you making your way in Europe. Very proud. They tell me your accent is perfect. What I wouldn’t give . . .” For as long as he could still speak, he repeated those exact words in every phone call. “They tell
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