squarely in front of Papa’s path as he paced, and he was suddenly forced to stop short, his great bulk towering over the little woman. I could see this was the last thing he expected—to be stopped by a woman—and he peered down at her with a puzzled expression.
“Wah?”
“I am your neighbor, Madame Mallory, from across the street,” she said in excellent English.
Papa gave the woman a dazzling smile, the Pole and the savage Tupperware negotiations instantly forgotten. “Hello,” he boomed. “Le Saule Pleureur, nah? I know. You must come over and meet the family. Have tea.”
“I don’t like what you are doing.”
“Wah?”
“To our street. I don’t like the music, the placard. It’s ugly. So unrefined.”
I have not often seen my father at a loss for words, but at this remark he looked as if someone had punched him hard in the stomach.
“It’s in very bad taste,” Mallory continued, brushing an imaginary thread off her sleeve. “You must take it down. That sort of thing is all right in India, but not here.”
She looked him straight in the face, tapped him on the chest with her finger. “And another thing. It is tradition here in Lumière that Madame Mallory has the first choice of the morning’s produce. It’s been this way for decades. As a foreigner, I appreciate you would have no way of knowing this, but now you do.”
She offered Papa a wintry smile.
“It’s very important for newcomers to start off on the right foot, don’t you agree?”
Papa scowled, his face almost purple, but I who knew him so well could see—in the downturned corners of his eyes—he was not mad but deeply hurt. I moved to his side.
“Who you tink you are?”
“I told you. I am Madame Mallory.”
“And I,” Papa said, raising his head and slapping his chest, “I am Abbas Haji, Bombay’s greatest restaurateur.”
“
Pff.
This is France. We are not interested in your curries.”
By this time a small crowd had gathered around Madame Mallory and Papa. Monsieur Leblanc pushed his way into the center of the ring. “Gertrude,” he said sternly. “Let us go.” He pulled at her elbow. “Come, now. Enough.”
“Who you tink you are?” repeated Papa, stepping forward. “Wah dis talk in third person like maharani? Who you? God give you right to all best cuts of meat and fish in the Jura? Nah? Oh, then perhaps you own dis town. Yaar? Is that what give you right to the fresh produce every morning? Or perhaps you are some big important memsahib who owns the farmers?”
Papa thrust his enormous belly at Madame Mallory and she had to step back, a look of incredulity slapped across her face.
“How dare you talk to me in this impertinent manner.”
“Tell me,” he roared at the onlookers, “does this woman own your farms and your livestock and vegetables, or do you sell to highest bidder?” He smacked his palm. “I pay cash. No waiting.”
There was a gasp from the crowd. This they understood.
Mallory swiftly turned her back on Papa and shrugged on a pair of black leather gloves.
“Un chien méchant,”
she said dryly. The assembled crowd laughed.
“What she say?” Papa roared at me. “Wah?”
“I think she called you a mad dog.”
What happened then is forever burned in my memory. The crowd parted for Madame Mallory and Monsieur Leblanc as they began to leave, but Papa, agile for a man of his size, quickly ran forward and stuck his face close to the chef’s retreating ear.
“Bowwow. Roooff. Rooff.”
Mallory jerked her head away. “Stop it.”
“Rooff. Rooff.”
“Stop it. Stop it you . . . you horrible man.”
“Grrrrr. Rooff.”
Mallory covered her ears with her hands.
And then she broke into a trot.
The villagers, never before having seen Madame Mallory ridiculed, roared with amazed laughter and Papa turned and joyously joined them, watching the elderly woman and Monsieur Leblanc disappear behind the Banque Nationale de Paris on the corner.
We should have known then
“Wah?”
“I am your neighbor, Madame Mallory, from across the street,” she said in excellent English.
Papa gave the woman a dazzling smile, the Pole and the savage Tupperware negotiations instantly forgotten. “Hello,” he boomed. “Le Saule Pleureur, nah? I know. You must come over and meet the family. Have tea.”
“I don’t like what you are doing.”
“Wah?”
“To our street. I don’t like the music, the placard. It’s ugly. So unrefined.”
I have not often seen my father at a loss for words, but at this remark he looked as if someone had punched him hard in the stomach.
“It’s in very bad taste,” Mallory continued, brushing an imaginary thread off her sleeve. “You must take it down. That sort of thing is all right in India, but not here.”
She looked him straight in the face, tapped him on the chest with her finger. “And another thing. It is tradition here in Lumière that Madame Mallory has the first choice of the morning’s produce. It’s been this way for decades. As a foreigner, I appreciate you would have no way of knowing this, but now you do.”
She offered Papa a wintry smile.
“It’s very important for newcomers to start off on the right foot, don’t you agree?”
Papa scowled, his face almost purple, but I who knew him so well could see—in the downturned corners of his eyes—he was not mad but deeply hurt. I moved to his side.
“Who you tink you are?”
“I told you. I am Madame Mallory.”
“And I,” Papa said, raising his head and slapping his chest, “I am Abbas Haji, Bombay’s greatest restaurateur.”
“
Pff.
This is France. We are not interested in your curries.”
By this time a small crowd had gathered around Madame Mallory and Papa. Monsieur Leblanc pushed his way into the center of the ring. “Gertrude,” he said sternly. “Let us go.” He pulled at her elbow. “Come, now. Enough.”
“Who you tink you are?” repeated Papa, stepping forward. “Wah dis talk in third person like maharani? Who you? God give you right to all best cuts of meat and fish in the Jura? Nah? Oh, then perhaps you own dis town. Yaar? Is that what give you right to the fresh produce every morning? Or perhaps you are some big important memsahib who owns the farmers?”
Papa thrust his enormous belly at Madame Mallory and she had to step back, a look of incredulity slapped across her face.
“How dare you talk to me in this impertinent manner.”
“Tell me,” he roared at the onlookers, “does this woman own your farms and your livestock and vegetables, or do you sell to highest bidder?” He smacked his palm. “I pay cash. No waiting.”
There was a gasp from the crowd. This they understood.
Mallory swiftly turned her back on Papa and shrugged on a pair of black leather gloves.
“Un chien méchant,”
she said dryly. The assembled crowd laughed.
“What she say?” Papa roared at me. “Wah?”
“I think she called you a mad dog.”
What happened then is forever burned in my memory. The crowd parted for Madame Mallory and Monsieur Leblanc as they began to leave, but Papa, agile for a man of his size, quickly ran forward and stuck his face close to the chef’s retreating ear.
“Bowwow. Roooff. Rooff.”
Mallory jerked her head away. “Stop it.”
“Rooff. Rooff.”
“Stop it. Stop it you . . . you horrible man.”
“Grrrrr. Rooff.”
Mallory covered her ears with her hands.
And then she broke into a trot.
The villagers, never before having seen Madame Mallory ridiculed, roared with amazed laughter and Papa turned and joyously joined them, watching the elderly woman and Monsieur Leblanc disappear behind the Banque Nationale de Paris on the corner.
We should have known then
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