in Lac Vissey. You make such lovely perch
amandine,
Madame Mallory. I thought you would like these.”
Madame Mallory decided to teach poor Monsieur Iten a lesson and she blew out of the shop like a winter storm. Still furious, she marched up to the open-air market in the square, her heels grinding into the rubbery carpet of discarded cabbage leaves.
At first Mallory flew through the two rows of vegetable stalls like a bird of prey, her eyes darting about over the shoulders of housewives. The vendors saw her but knew it was unwise to say a word during her first sweep through the market, unless they wanted a vicious tongue-lashing. Her second cruise through, however, one was permitted to engage her, and each farmer did his best to attract the famous chef to his produce.
“
Bonjour, Madame Mallory
. Lovely day. Have you seen my Williams pears?”
“I did, Madame Picard. Not very nice.”
The vendor next to Madame Picard guffawed.
“You are wrong,” called Madame Picard, sipping a thermos cup of milky coffee. “Wonderful flavor.”
Mallory turned back to Madame Picard’s stall and the other vendors turned their heads to see what would happen next.
“What’s this, Madame Picard?” snapped the chef. Mallory took the top pear off the pyramid and tore off its small sticker proclaiming WILLIAMS QUALITÉ . Under the sticker, a small black hole. Mallory did the same to the next pear, and the next.
“And what’s this? And this?”
The other vendors laughed as the red-faced Madame Picard rushed to restack her pears.
“Hiding worm holes under ‘quality’ stickers. Disgraceful.”
Madame Mallory turned her back on the Widow Picard and walked to a stall at the far end of the first row, where a shrunken white-haired couple in matching aprons and looking rather like salt-and-pepper shakers stood behind the counter.
“
Bonjour, Madame Mallory.
”
Mallory grunted a good-morning and pointed to a basket of waxy purple orbs on the floor at the back of the stall.
“I’ll take the aubergines. All of them.”
“I am sorry, madame, but they are not for sale.”
“They’ve been sold?”
“
Oui, madame
.”
Mallory felt a tightening in her chest. “To the Indian?”
“
Oui, madame.
A half hour ago.”
“I’ll take the zucchini, then.”
The elderly man looked pained. “I am sorry.”
For a few moments Mallory was unable to move, to speak even. But suddenly, from the far end of Lumière’s markets, a booming voice in accented English rose majestically above the general din.
Mallory’s head jerked toward the sound of the voice, and before the elderly farmer couple could recover, Mallory was barging through the early morning market crowd, her baskets bunched in front like a snowplow, forcing the other shoppers out of her way.
Papa and I were at the edges of the market bidding for two dozen red and green Tupperware bowls. The trader—a tough Pole—was holding firm, and Papa’s approach to such obstinacy was to roar his price at an ever-louder decibel. The final touch was the menacing pacing back and forth in front of the stall, intimidating other potential customers from coming forward, a tactic I had seen him use to devastating effect in the markets of Bombay.
But in Lumière there was the slight obstacle of language. Papa’s only foreign language was English, and it was my job to translate his ravings into my schoolboy French. I did not mind: this was how I eventually met several girls my age, such as Chantal, the mushroom picker from across the valley, her nails always gritty with dark humus. In this case, however, the Pole across the table could speak no English and just a little French, and that protected him from Papa’s full frontal assault. So what we had was a stalemate. The Pole simply crossed his arms across his chest and shook his head.
“What is this?” Papa said, poking a green Tupperware lid. “Just a bit of plastic, no? Anyone can make this.”
Madame Mallory deposited herself
amandine,
Madame Mallory. I thought you would like these.”
Madame Mallory decided to teach poor Monsieur Iten a lesson and she blew out of the shop like a winter storm. Still furious, she marched up to the open-air market in the square, her heels grinding into the rubbery carpet of discarded cabbage leaves.
At first Mallory flew through the two rows of vegetable stalls like a bird of prey, her eyes darting about over the shoulders of housewives. The vendors saw her but knew it was unwise to say a word during her first sweep through the market, unless they wanted a vicious tongue-lashing. Her second cruise through, however, one was permitted to engage her, and each farmer did his best to attract the famous chef to his produce.
“
Bonjour, Madame Mallory
. Lovely day. Have you seen my Williams pears?”
“I did, Madame Picard. Not very nice.”
The vendor next to Madame Picard guffawed.
“You are wrong,” called Madame Picard, sipping a thermos cup of milky coffee. “Wonderful flavor.”
Mallory turned back to Madame Picard’s stall and the other vendors turned their heads to see what would happen next.
“What’s this, Madame Picard?” snapped the chef. Mallory took the top pear off the pyramid and tore off its small sticker proclaiming WILLIAMS QUALITÉ . Under the sticker, a small black hole. Mallory did the same to the next pear, and the next.
“And what’s this? And this?”
The other vendors laughed as the red-faced Madame Picard rushed to restack her pears.
“Hiding worm holes under ‘quality’ stickers. Disgraceful.”
Madame Mallory turned her back on the Widow Picard and walked to a stall at the far end of the first row, where a shrunken white-haired couple in matching aprons and looking rather like salt-and-pepper shakers stood behind the counter.
“
Bonjour, Madame Mallory.
”
Mallory grunted a good-morning and pointed to a basket of waxy purple orbs on the floor at the back of the stall.
“I’ll take the aubergines. All of them.”
“I am sorry, madame, but they are not for sale.”
“They’ve been sold?”
“
Oui, madame
.”
Mallory felt a tightening in her chest. “To the Indian?”
“
Oui, madame.
A half hour ago.”
“I’ll take the zucchini, then.”
The elderly man looked pained. “I am sorry.”
For a few moments Mallory was unable to move, to speak even. But suddenly, from the far end of Lumière’s markets, a booming voice in accented English rose majestically above the general din.
Mallory’s head jerked toward the sound of the voice, and before the elderly farmer couple could recover, Mallory was barging through the early morning market crowd, her baskets bunched in front like a snowplow, forcing the other shoppers out of her way.
Papa and I were at the edges of the market bidding for two dozen red and green Tupperware bowls. The trader—a tough Pole—was holding firm, and Papa’s approach to such obstinacy was to roar his price at an ever-louder decibel. The final touch was the menacing pacing back and forth in front of the stall, intimidating other potential customers from coming forward, a tactic I had seen him use to devastating effect in the markets of Bombay.
But in Lumière there was the slight obstacle of language. Papa’s only foreign language was English, and it was my job to translate his ravings into my schoolboy French. I did not mind: this was how I eventually met several girls my age, such as Chantal, the mushroom picker from across the valley, her nails always gritty with dark humus. In this case, however, the Pole across the table could speak no English and just a little French, and that protected him from Papa’s full frontal assault. So what we had was a stalemate. The Pole simply crossed his arms across his chest and shook his head.
“What is this?” Papa said, poking a green Tupperware lid. “Just a bit of plastic, no? Anyone can make this.”
Madame Mallory deposited herself
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