door.
Jeannot said, “My sister Carole loved you, you know. She told me that you are lovely and sweet and intelligent.” He paused. “I realize my parents are slow to warm. My father is… particulier, ”—meaning peculiar ?—“but everything will get better, Chérie , I promise.”
Pinky promise ? The shadow of my dream flitted over my heart.
Jeannot continued: “If we dine with them every Sunday, they will grow to understand you. And you will understand them. Villefranche sur Lez is such a small village. My parents are provincial. They are good people though.”
“ Of course.”
A low-pitched bong sounded—the doorbell.
“ Merde ,” Jeannot muttered. “I am not in the mood for visitors.”
“ Me either,” I said, and oh boy, did I mean it.
Only a couple of Jeannot’s friends liked to drop by our apartment without calling first—the primary candidate being his damn preschool buddy Thérèse Bonnet. Yes, she of the high heels and dead gopher purse. Thérèse had already “dropped by” twice after meeting me at the American Library, and I dreaded her third visit the way you dread a trip to the dentist when you know what the drill feels like.
Jeannot sighed and got up to answer the door while I threw on a clean T-shirt and jeans and brushed back my hair and tried to look less—well, shlumpy.
Ready to face this Frenchwoman who m I knew was in love with my fiancé.
II
“What do you plan to do with all these flyers?” she asked when I joined them in the living room.
She was standing by our dining room table eyeing the stack of concert flyers that Jeannot and I were going to post around Montpellier’s town center. And she looked exactly how I expected her to look, down to the same mummified animal dangling from her shoulder. Yellow heels that I would need crutches to walk on. Cropped pants and clingy black and white top. Oh, and let’s not forget the scarf knotted neatly around her long neck. Her skin showed not a speck of sweat despite the humidity. She came across as...arresting. Effortlessly sexy and nonchalant and oozing with the kind of savoir faire that enables French women to wrap scarves around their necks and not strangle themselves.
Do n’t give me any ideas , I thought. Though it worried me that I didn’t care for Jeannot’s parents or his oldest friend. Wasn’t feeling this way kind of like shooting myself in the foot?
“ I will be performing my own music,” Jeannot told her proudly, and explained the arrangement he had made with La Peña.
Thérèse gave a startled little cough. “Your own music? Jeannot, I am so pleased that you are still playing and composing. Believe me, I respect that. You are very talented. But a concert? I did not realize you were serious about that.”
I started to say something, but Jeannot cut me off.
“ Of course I am serious. I thought you knew.”
“ Ah, bon . Well, then.” She sat down and crossed long bare legs. “Did you do the drawing?” she suddenly asked me, pointing at a flyer.
“Yes.” It was a charcoal rendition of Jeannot at the piano with his eyes partially closed, his vision tuned to the inside.
“ Jeannot said you are a gifted artist.”
“ Thank you.” Or him.
“ Are you trying to make art a career?”
“ I hope so,” I said, wondering why I felt like I was on trial. As far as I knew, art aspirations were not yet illegal…
“ Look, here is more of Pilar’s work.” Jeannot beckoned Thérèse to our recently redecorated wall, where she blew smoke all over my charcoal sketches of the city. The medieval arches of the Montpellier medical school, its corners as dark and primitive as the amputations done there centuries ago. La Place de la Comédie, the largest pedestrian plaza in Europe and a great place to sell watches and useless mechanical birds. A French waiter who was not Jeannot, standing on the sidewalk, dishtowel over his arm as he stared at a woman sashaying by. The woman wore low-rider jeans, pierced
Jeannot said, “My sister Carole loved you, you know. She told me that you are lovely and sweet and intelligent.” He paused. “I realize my parents are slow to warm. My father is… particulier, ”—meaning peculiar ?—“but everything will get better, Chérie , I promise.”
Pinky promise ? The shadow of my dream flitted over my heart.
Jeannot continued: “If we dine with them every Sunday, they will grow to understand you. And you will understand them. Villefranche sur Lez is such a small village. My parents are provincial. They are good people though.”
“ Of course.”
A low-pitched bong sounded—the doorbell.
“ Merde ,” Jeannot muttered. “I am not in the mood for visitors.”
“ Me either,” I said, and oh boy, did I mean it.
Only a couple of Jeannot’s friends liked to drop by our apartment without calling first—the primary candidate being his damn preschool buddy Thérèse Bonnet. Yes, she of the high heels and dead gopher purse. Thérèse had already “dropped by” twice after meeting me at the American Library, and I dreaded her third visit the way you dread a trip to the dentist when you know what the drill feels like.
Jeannot sighed and got up to answer the door while I threw on a clean T-shirt and jeans and brushed back my hair and tried to look less—well, shlumpy.
Ready to face this Frenchwoman who m I knew was in love with my fiancé.
II
“What do you plan to do with all these flyers?” she asked when I joined them in the living room.
She was standing by our dining room table eyeing the stack of concert flyers that Jeannot and I were going to post around Montpellier’s town center. And she looked exactly how I expected her to look, down to the same mummified animal dangling from her shoulder. Yellow heels that I would need crutches to walk on. Cropped pants and clingy black and white top. Oh, and let’s not forget the scarf knotted neatly around her long neck. Her skin showed not a speck of sweat despite the humidity. She came across as...arresting. Effortlessly sexy and nonchalant and oozing with the kind of savoir faire that enables French women to wrap scarves around their necks and not strangle themselves.
Do n’t give me any ideas , I thought. Though it worried me that I didn’t care for Jeannot’s parents or his oldest friend. Wasn’t feeling this way kind of like shooting myself in the foot?
“ I will be performing my own music,” Jeannot told her proudly, and explained the arrangement he had made with La Peña.
Thérèse gave a startled little cough. “Your own music? Jeannot, I am so pleased that you are still playing and composing. Believe me, I respect that. You are very talented. But a concert? I did not realize you were serious about that.”
I started to say something, but Jeannot cut me off.
“ Of course I am serious. I thought you knew.”
“ Ah, bon . Well, then.” She sat down and crossed long bare legs. “Did you do the drawing?” she suddenly asked me, pointing at a flyer.
“Yes.” It was a charcoal rendition of Jeannot at the piano with his eyes partially closed, his vision tuned to the inside.
“ Jeannot said you are a gifted artist.”
“ Thank you.” Or him.
“ Are you trying to make art a career?”
“ I hope so,” I said, wondering why I felt like I was on trial. As far as I knew, art aspirations were not yet illegal…
“ Look, here is more of Pilar’s work.” Jeannot beckoned Thérèse to our recently redecorated wall, where she blew smoke all over my charcoal sketches of the city. The medieval arches of the Montpellier medical school, its corners as dark and primitive as the amputations done there centuries ago. La Place de la Comédie, the largest pedestrian plaza in Europe and a great place to sell watches and useless mechanical birds. A French waiter who was not Jeannot, standing on the sidewalk, dishtowel over his arm as he stared at a woman sashaying by. The woman wore low-rider jeans, pierced
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