From him, I learned that Denise was an only child and still lived with her mother. Her father had deserted them when she was ten. I could sympathize with her losing her father and being an only child. Ever since my sister was thrown out of the house, I was an only child. No matter how many friends you make while you’re growing up, you’re still going home to a house without brothers and sisters, and while some were spoiled by that and even claimed to be happier, I envied those other girls in my classes who had an older or younger sister to share things with them. Eventually, I even envied those girls who had older brothers, because no matter how much they complained, I could see they were also proud of them.
Maybe Denise finally saw some of this empathy in me. A person who avoided mirrors desperately needed to find someone whose eyes didn’t condemn or reject her. I found her looking my way more often and eventually risking a smile or two. I began speaking to her. She spoke English well. Most of the young people and most of the waiters I had met here were decent English speakers. Learning a second language was very important.
“In Europe, we are so close to each other. Everyone I know speaks a little German and Italian and some Spanish,” Denise told me when I complimented her on how good her English was.
“Still, your English is better than my French,” I said, but she shook her head.
“No, you have an excellent accent. It would take someone who was very good at language to spot that you were an American.”
Funny how that seemed like a compliment. As if I should hide the fact that I was American? No one would ever accuse the French of being too humble when it came to their language, their food, their fashions, and their lifestyle, especially the Parisians. I told Denise that, and she added candles to her smile.
Soon we were greeting each other like old friends. Maurice caught the exchanges between us and told me one day that it was good. “She needs a friend,” he said.
I wasn’t surprised by his fatherly and brotherly concern for anyone in the restaurant. Most of the employees had been there for years. It was more like an extended family, and just as in any family, there were days when someone was frustrated or annoyed, but double kisses usually ended the argument and the day. At night, just before closing, most would remain for a while. They would sit around to catch their breath and talk about the various patrons they had served, especially the tourists from Russia who seemed to have a bottomless well of money.
Most everyone had a personal dream. I understood that the restaurant, despite its wonderful reputation and success, was never to be thought of as anything more than a way station, a place to build some income before going on to fulfill a bigger ambition. Only the much older employees didn’t talk much about that, and when the younger ones did, I saw how they smiled to themselves. I could read their thoughts. That is how I was once, but it’s all right. This isn’t a bad life.
Denise, however, looked like someone trapped in her job and her overweight body. She would be a waitress forever. She was making good money, and she was good at it. She had her loyal patrons, just as most of the regulars did. I was sure she wondered what else she could do with herself. She had little education. Still, she would pause when she had a chance and look out at the street to see some elegant young professional woman walk by talking confidently to distinguished-looking men. They were all fashionably dressed, with stylish coiffures, comfortable in their elegance and firmly a part of sophisticated Paris.
Gradually, I understood that Denise was like everyone else who was essentially depressed about herself. The overeating was a symptom. When she nibbled surreptitiously on something rich and fattening in the kitchen and gobbled it down like some rodent or starving dog, unconcerned about the butter or the sugar and calories, Maurice would look at me and shake his head. I could see it in his eyes.
“She’s too young to have given up,” he whispered.
I nodded, tears in my eyes. How pathetic. It was like watching someone covering up all the windows and locking all the doors before retreating to a corner to waste away.
Here I was, left alone in the world, a teenage girl who had lost her parents and her older sister when her older sister had found an escape from the life she had been in, and I found myself pitying someone else more. I used to pity my overweight friend Chastity back in New York, but she had both her parents and swam in a pool of constant envy. Denise was different. She was in a much darker place. Unlike Chastity, she didn’t let jealousy drive her into some form of bitterness. She was never nasty to anyone. It was almost too late to be jealous. Her life’s motto seemed to be Accept and go on, plod, work, and stand back to let the happier, more beautiful, and more ambitious people go by.
It annoyed me to see her behave this way, and I wanted to do something to change her. It was as if I had found a cause, something to help me keep my mind off myself. I had a feeling both Maurice and my uncle Alain were encouraging me to befriend Denise for exactly that reason. Keep me busy, and I wouldn’t think about Roxy leaving me behind or the sadness of my parents’ passing. I knew what they were up to, but I didn’t care. It was like medicine I knew I had to take myself and just went ahead and did it.
“So where do you live, Denise?” I asked her a few days after her birthday.
“Not far. A little street off the Rue Bonaparte,” she said. “My mother inherited the apartment from her father. It’s not very big, but it’s close to everything we need and close enough to the restaurant.”
When she spoke, she kept her eyes down, glancing at me only when she finished speaking. It was as if she was waiting for either approval or disapproval and actually was holding her breath. She was this way when she spoke to men, waiters or male customers, especially older men. For the first time, I considered that she might have been lucky having her father desert her. She could have been abused. Maybe that was why she was so meek. That was the way my mind went these days after having lived with Roxy when she was “in the life.” I would think of the worst, darkest possibilities. It was an education like no other, but it did make me a little more cynical and distrusting.
“Yes, that’s good. You live with your mother?”
She nodded. “She works in her sister’s bakery three days a week. I don’t think they need her.”
“Excuse me?”
“My aunt has her there to earn some income. My mother isn’t fond of my uncle and hates the way he barks orders at her,” she added, and bit down on her lower lip as if the words had literally escaped her mouth. “But we do need the money, and she has to put up with it.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. He must not be a very nice man.”
“He’s too hard on his children,” she said. “Especially his son Vincent,” she added with new energy in her voice. “He wants him to stay and work in the pastry shop, making bread and cakes forever, but Vincent could go to the Sorbonne. He taught himself how to play the piano, and he writes poetry. He’s always been a top student. He’s not going to be satisfied being a baker for the rest of his life.” Her eyes filled suddenly with more excitement. “Everyone admires him. He’s very handsome and witty. He could be a movie star. He once modeled clothing for a department store. We’re very close, even though he’s three years younger.”
My mind flew. She was in love with her younger cousin, and even if they weren’t so closely related, I was sure he would never look at her with any real desire.
It was easy to see that her future would be full of disappointment and frustration.
What was worse was that she had accepted it as inevitable. I had to wonder what gave her the strength to get up and face another day. There were times I certainly felt like that. It seemed as if darkness would seep in everywhere forever, but just when I thought the overcast skies would never end, something parted the bruised and ominous clouds to let the sunshine pour through, warming my heart and rebuilding my confidence.
Maybe I was being arro
gant when I thought that I could do that for her, create a new vision of herself and her future.
“Perhaps on your day off, you and I can do something together,” I suggested. “There is still so much about Paris I don’t know.”
She raised her eyes. Her lips trembled into a small smile. “I’d like that,” she said. “If you really want to.”
“Why else would I say it?” I asked with a shrug.
She nodded. “I’m off tomorrow.”
“Then we’re both off tomorrow.”
Her smile was full of brightness and hope.
And why shouldn’t it be? I thought. If anyone knew that, I should.
What word held more promise for anyone than the word tomorrow?
Getting to Know You
“I want to go to this address in the morning, Uncle Alain,” I said, and showed him Denise’s address. “I’m going to meet Denise Ardant.”
“The waitress?”
Maurice had obviously already told him I had struck up a friendship with Denise and probably told him everything about her.
“Yes. We’re going to spend a day together if that’s all right with you.”
“Oui, absolument. Will you be home for dinner?”
“I’ll call you if I’m not,” I said.
He nodded and smiled. “Two old guys aren’t enough company for a beautiful young lady like you, anyway.”
He told me to be careful and stood in the doorway when I left, looking a little more like my mother to me, the resemblances suddenly sharper and easier to see. He was channeling her love and concern. I missed her so much that whenever I thought about her, tears would glaze over my eyes, and I would have to suck in my breath and firm up my posture to keep from bawling like some little girl lost and alone.
I was thankful that there was so much to look at on the streets of Saint-Germain. Shops were opening. Waiters were washing the walkways at the front doors of their restaurants and cafés. The street musicians were already out with their cups or cans, hoping for monetary appreciation. Pedestrian traffic grew thicker, with a mixture of Parisians and tourists from seemingly everywhere. There were tour guides holding up red or yellow flags so none of the members of their group would get lost, and there were short lectures about history and architecture on almost every corner. A myriad of languages floated past me as people passed by. I made a game of identifying the language and country. Asians weren’t as easy as people might think. Besides Chinese and Japanese, there were South Koreans and Vietnamese. My mind was so occupied that I was surprised when I found myself on Denise’s street, a few doors from her apartment building. I hurried to it, seeing I was late and anticipating she might think I wouldn’t show.
“C’est moi,” I announced at the doorway when she responded to the buzzer. The door sounded, and I entered the very small lobby. This was an old building. The elevator looked as if it hadn’t been updated since the early 1900s, the doors squealing and groaning as they closed. There was barely enough room for two people, and of course, my mind went immediately to Denise stepping into it whenever there was someone else in it already.
She was standing in the opened doorway of her mother’s apartment on the third floor.
“Hi,” I said. “Sorry I’m late. It’s not possible to walk quickly in Paris,” I added, and she brightened.
“My mother is always accusing me of daydreaming on my way anywhere.”
“Elle fait,” I heard her mother cry out, emphasizing that she did.
Denise smirked and stepped back. Her mother came from the small living room into the short entryway to greet me. She was tiny in comparison with Denise. She was maybe five feet two, but she had been frozen in a petite body, with dainty facial features and beautiful green-blue eyes. Her dark brown hair was streaked with gray but still looked very thick and rich. She wore it pinned back but not severely. Her complexion was fair, with only the tiniest of wrinkles threatening to become crow’s-feet. Her lips were full yet dainty. This was the beauty Denise had drowning inside her, I thought.
“You are the American girl,” she said with a thicker French accent. It sounded more like an accusation.
“Oui.”
“Parlez-vous français bien?”
“I hope I will. I’m working on it. My mother was French, and I’m living now with my French uncle.”
“And Maurice,” Denise added. I wasn’t sure if she did that to drive home that my uncle was gay. I thought I saw a twitch of disapproval in her mother’s lips, but if that was there, she kept it well hidden.
“How long will you be here?” her mother asked, almost the way someone would ask an unexpected and not-so-welcome guest.
“Maybe for the rest of my life,” I said, and her eyes widened. I think my answer pleased her. Perhaps she was worried that Denise would have another fleeting friend. She extended her hand to me finally. I saw she wore no rings, especially no marriage ring. If there was any place she was aging, it was in her hands. They looked worn, thin with age spots around her knuckles.
“I am Josette Ardant. Je suis désolé. Ma fille does not have the social skills to introduce properly. Not that I haven’t tried to teach her.”
“You didn’t give me a chance,” Denise whined.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said quickly.
“I am on my way to my sister’s pastry shop,” she said, feeling a need to explain why she was reaching for a shawl and couldn’t spend more time speaking to me. She turned to Denise and told her in French not to take me to any places she wouldn’t go. Denise nodded and looked down.
“Perhaps I will see you later,” I said as she started out.
“Oui. Perhaps,” she added without much enthusiasm, and left.
I looked at Denise. “Your mother is very pretty,” I said.
“Let’s go,” she said, sounding a little annoyed that she had to acknowledge anything nice about her mother. She grabbed her shawl and, now smiling, leaned toward me to deliver a secret. “My cousin Vincent said he would be glad to join us for lunch when I told him about you,” she said, reaching for the door. “He doesn’t often take off for lunch. I’m glad he was able to on my day off. I don’t get to see him enough.”
“Yes, that’s nice,” I said. It was clear. She was using me to get Vincent to spend time with her.
It rang a warning bell close to my heart. I had no idea what she had told him about me, how much she had exaggerated to get him interested in spending his lunch hour with us. If she built me up too much, it might be unpleasant.
I stepped out, and she closed the door.
“Where are we meeting him for lunch?”
“His favorite café near Notre Dame. I always mix up the name with two others, but don’t worry. I can get there blindfolded.”
I had no doubt.
It was easy to see that Denise had few, if any, friends. As we walked, she was very eager to point out her favorite places, pouring her pent-up thoughts into my ears so quickly I had to take a breath to think. One question that obviously came to me after meeting her mother was what her mother thought of her being so heavy. Did she try to help her? Had she given up on her own daughter? Was she a selfish mother, especially after her husband had deserted her? Perhaps she didn’t want Denise to find someone to love and move out. I had seen them together only for a few moments, but I did feel a tension between them. Was it all Denise’s fault? Unhappiness seemed to be a guest who came to dinner and never left that home.
“Has your mother ever been with another man since your father left?” I asked.
The question seemed to stun her for a moment. “Another man?”
“I mean, she’s pretty enough to attract interest.”
“She has gone out on dates that my aunt arranged, but she hasn’t met anyone she says is worth the time or the sacrifice.”
&
nbsp; “Sacrifice? What is it she has to sacrifice?”
“Everything. Men are demanding. My mother devoted herself to my father, and he treated her as if he expected no less. Just like all men, he was selfish. French or American or any.”
“You can’t judge all men by the actions of one,” I said.
She paused, thought, and then smiled. “That’s what I tell my mother. My cousin Vincent, for example, is the sweetest young man you’ll ever meet. He’s always considerate, always worried about me. He cares more about me than he does about his older sister, Margot.”
“He doesn’t have a girlfriend?” I asked cautiously.
“No,” she said firmly. “He’s very particular. He knows most young women today are frivolous. He’s too serious a person to waste his time on any of them. He dreams of a real career.”
“Not any?”
She glanced at me and then said, “He’s not like your uncle and Maurice, if that’s what you mean.”
“It wasn’t. I just wondered why he wouldn’t have a girlfriend if he was so handsome,” I said. I had the sense this was something she hoped was true rather than knew was true. Besides, if she didn’t see him that often, how would she know for certain? Did she cross-examine her mother about him frequently since her mother saw him at work? Did her mother realize her feelings for her cousin? I was already wondering about her mother and the dreary life she was leading. She hadn’t tried to be with another man. What else did she have besides her job at the pastry shop? The two of them must feed themselves more and more depression. My mind reeled up the darkness in their home and stuffed it into a corner of my mind. I didn’t want to think so hard about it, especially when I had set out to enjoy myself and make a new friendship, but how do you ever become friends with anyone without being submerged in family intrigues and conflicts?