Parisian Promises (5 page)

“Don't worry about your classes so early on in the academic year,” he reassured Annie. “We know everyone, or at least we know how to locate anyone, so we'll help you figure out the easiest class––”

“That's really not my goal.” Annie looked at Xavier for some kind of validation from a fellow scholar, but he was staring moodily down at the river. “But thank you anyway.”

Lola wandered over, tired of standing by herself.

“I'll take your offer,” she told Bertrand. “Give me all the details about the easy classes. I'm in Paris for the time of my life.”

Something about the look on Annie's face reminded Lola not to come off as totally vapid.

“I'll perfect my French conversation skills with you two instead,” she added, smiling at Bertrand and Xavier.

“Over dinner and dancing, then?” Bertrand asked the girls, reserving a lingering glance for Karen.

“We have to study first,” Annie said quickly, “but … we'll join you later to go dancing.” Lola and Karen beamed their agreement.

“
Superbe
!” Bertrand squeezed Karen's hand. “We'll take you to the most exclusive disco in the whole of Paris, Le Sept. You'll love it.”

W
hen the three coeds approached their residence on Rue de Condé in the 6
^th
arrondissement, they were surprised to discover Madame Caron de Pichet even more befuddled than usual. Through the partially opened antique wooden door that hid the still-elegant courtyard of her
hôtel particulier
, they heard the pitch of her voice reach an unpleasant high note.

“This is an affront to civilization,” she screeched. “You must agree with me,
n'est-ce pas
?”

“
Oui
, but course,
Chère Madame
, but you must take it easy.” The worn-down concierge was trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to calm her septuagenarian landlord. Through the decades, both the concierge and Madame Caron de Pichet had witnessed each other's calamities––dead husbands, ingrate friends, and now their shabby-yet-genteel existence. They trudged through an ever-diminishing quotidian life, because Madame Caron de Pichet's mismanagement of her late husbands' estates had left her with only this grand townhouse and its massive upkeep costs. She'd leased the two most valuable floors, but still retained the top floors for herself, keeping up appearances just for her own sake, as all her cohorts were either dead or shut-in, preparing to die.

A few weeks ago, Madame Caron de Pichet had allowed herself to be charmed by a vivacious redheaded American girl, and now she was renting some of her rooms to four pretty American students who entertained her with their
naïveté
. In turn, the Americans thought her batty and uninformed, but warmhearted for a Parisian. They referred to her, tongue-in-cheek, as their loony “housemother,” the name American students gave to the chaperones who lived in dorms or sorority houses, dispensing good advice and keeping an eye out for any problems––tasks which Madame Caron de Pichet performed in reverse, as all her advice was crazy, and she was the cause, rather than the solver, of problems. Madame Caron de Pichet looked only after herself, talking endlessly about the good old days in Paris when she had been the belle of so many Parisian balls, and describing her countless affairs in lurid detail.

Madame Caron de Pichet's voice could climb no further, so she leaned against the concierge and let out an agonized sigh. “Why do these people come into our country and blow things up? This is
la France
, not some dark place who knows where!”

The concierge listened to the radio all day long and felt very informed about the insurgents teeming in the avenues of Paris. She felt a wicked desire to educate Madame Caron de Pichet.

“Actually, dear Madame,” she said, “this latest group of rebels is apparently from our own border region with Spain. They are Basque separatists from Gascony––”

“You can't be serious! Not Gascogne. Why, that is the heart of the
douceur de vivre!
That's where the French live the sweetness of life––”

“So they said on the radio. They also said that it's near where d'Artagnan and the
Three Musketeers
lived. I'm telling you, Madame, ever since those student revolts in '68, our young people are mixed up. Remember the good old—”

“Hush, I beg of you. I don't care about
The Three Musketeers
. I simply don't not want to step out on the avenue and have some idiot blow me and my Fifi to smithereens. Not my darling little companion! Is she back from the groomer yet?”

“Not yet.” The concierge stroked her own gray chopped-off hair, while Madame pulled at hers nervously.

“You are ruining your flawless chignon,” said the concierge. “Please, let's go inside and have a cup of tea, shall we?”

“How can you think of tea when Paris is getting blown up by foreigners? I'm telling you that no French man, even a Basque French man, would ever harm Paris. No, never!” Madame Caron de Pichet shook her head violently, and strings of her silver hair dropped spaghetti-style onto her bony shoulders.

The concierge couldn't help enjoying watching Madame Caron de Pichet's meltdown. The old woman thought herself above everyone and everything. She had opinions about matters she knew nothing about, and the concierge was not about to let go of this moment of power.

“Dear Madame!” she said. “In fact, the police suspect that our French Basques are collaborating with the Spanish Basques.”

“Do not even mention the word ‘collaborators' around me. Believe me, I was with the
Résistance
during the war and I know all about putrid collaborators––and I know all about sacrificing my youth and my body to defend
la France
. Don't mention––”

“I'm simply recounting the facts, Madame. Do you recall last April, when the Jewish Agency building was damaged by a bomb explosion? Why, the blast twisted all the iron window bars, though at least no one was injured.”

“I do remember that incident, and I tell you that those were foreign agents who bombed the building, not French citizens. Did I ever tell you about the time during the war when I––”

“No need to relive the past, dear Madame. I am sharing the latest information about the perpetrators of the bombing, the one that just happened a few minutes ago, so you will keep safe and stay indoors.” The concierge didn't want to hear yet another monologue from the old lady about her once-flawless youthful body, how she sacrificed it for France, and how men went to extremes to meet her because of her fabled beauty. “Did you know that one of the bombers was a very tall man? I heard on the radio just now that they found the bloody stump of his long leg and the remains of Italian custom-made shoes in size––”

Madame Caron de Pichet rolled up her stringy hair into ear muffs. “Have some measure of decorum!” she shrieked. “You are speaking to your landlord, not a washerwoman who wants to know the size of shoes. Go and fetch my Fifi now.”

She was trembling so much that Lola, who along with her friends had been hanging back from the conversation, ran up to take the old lady's arm. Madame Caron de Pichet clung to her as they ambled together up to Madame's third-floor antique-filled apartment. The other girls followed.

“I've never heard you shout, Madame. What's happening?”

“Ah,
ma belle rousse
, there has been another bombing in Paris, just minutes ago. But don't worry your beautiful red curls about it. At your age you should only think about
amour
and dancing, don't you agree?”

“Absolutely,” said Lola, though she was unnerved by talk of a bombing. “But you seem very upset. Did someone you know get hurt?”

“No, I do not know any tall men with giant feet. I used to know only elegant gentlemen with impeccable manners. Did I ever tell you––”

“A tall man was hurt, you say?”

“He is dead. Apparently he was preparing or cooking up some bomb when he blew himself up––a mere few blocks from here,” Madame panted. She leaned on Lola's shoulder, and patted her luscious red curls. “No one else was hurt, and apparently his confederates fled. Oh, who cares,
ma belle rousse
? Tell me something beautiful, please.”

“Here––you sit down, Madame,” said Lola, when they were safely inside the apartment. She led the old lady into the salon. “I'll bring you a cup of––”

“Please do not offer me tea. I am old, yes, but today's bombing has shattered my spirit, I must admit. Will you serve all of us some strong Armagnac, while I freshen up?”

Madame stumbled out of the room, leaving Annie looking aghast.

“Did she say she wants us to drink Armagnac with her? Right now? Ugh! I can't do it––I have to study if we're going out later tonight.”

Karen and Lola shook their heads.

“You'd better stay for a sip of her Armagnac,” murmured Karen. “You know how she is about etiquette. Sometimes I wish I were staying in a ratty student dorm room, so I could at least do what I want. Madame is too demanding.”

Annie ignored Karen's wistful remark. She didn't want to admit it, but she had been way too spoiled in her own commodious master bedroom back home in San Marino, as well as in her big, comfortable sorority house at USC. Madame's
hôtel particulier
suited Annie perfectly––its location, size, and Old World furnishings. She was relieved when Lola spoke up.

“Are you nuts, Karen? No way would I want to live anywhere but right here with our loony housemother. Look around at all these antiques and paintings! Geez, don't tell me you of all people are used to this type of set-up?”

“I didn't say that,” Karen protested, bristling at Lola's veiled reference to her working-class background. “I'm used to being independent, that's all. I don't like to ask Madame for permission.”

“Cut the old crone some slack, would ya? She's more risqué than she lets on. Let's get her drunk and she'll tell us some kinky tales. Maybe we'll learn a thing or two. Look at all she's accumulated in her life.” Lola pointed to the art on the walls. “Don't you recognize that Degas? And, more importantly, do you see any man crowding her life? Hell, no.”

Karen was about to leave the salon when Madame returned. She had changed into a black dinner suit, circa 1950, and was still adjusting her French twist.

“My darling Americans,” she cried in a quivering voice, “let's toast to our mutual friendship, shall we?”

“Yeah, OK,” Karen said, sounding as reluctant as she felt.

Madame sashayed up to her.

“Karen,” she whispered sweetly, “you must always respond with equal charm to a toast. For example, you might say, ‘Chère Madame, to our beloved countries,' and then raise your glass daintily.”

As much as they liked Madame's eccentricity, both Lola and Annie wanted this cocktail toast to speed by.

“To France,” they said in unison, and downed their drinks. But Madame was in chatty mood.

“Let's agree to not talk about the bombings of late, shall we?”

This comment piqued Annie's curiosity. “Madame, why do you think these bombings are taking place? Who's to blame?”

“Pfft.” Madame shrugged her shoulders. “I had hoped not to talk about this topic.” She adjusted her pencil skirt and sank into a Louis XVI chair, the tapered wooden legs of which had been gnawed through the decades by Madame's many past dogs. “People come to Paris so that their voices can be heard around the world. We get all sorts of international conferences and so forth. Why, this past January delegates from your country, South Vietnam, North Vietnam, and the Vietcong's Provisional Revolutionaries met here for the Paris Peace Accords, and they signed an end to your country's involvement in the Vietnam War.”

Madame brushed phantom dust from her jacket and beamed at them, her head erect. “
Enfin
, you see, Paris
is
the center of the world.”

“But why all the bombings in Paris now?” Annie wanted this wasted time to count for something, so she might as well get some useful information out of the old lady.

“It's not just Paris, my dear. There are insane revolutionaries all over the world now. They wish to change the world order. Oh, it's just too convoluted. We've barely recovered from the Second World War, and now it's one side cheering for anti-imperialism, an end to colonialism, left-wing politics.” Her shoulders slumped, and she dropped her high-heeled shoes onto the floor. “It's the red faction of this, and pro-group of that! And on the other side is a cabal of conservative media, pro-business, police brutality, and who knows what other fascist evils. Look at what's happening in Spain, Germany, Italy, all over, yes! Even in your own country!”

The three young American women were speechless. They had thought their housemother out of touch––loony, even––but she'd just summarized the global state of affairs rather succinctly.

“So, you say today's bombing was near here, right?” Karen persisted.

Madame was up, barefoot, walking up to her Art Deco mirror bar to pour herself another glass of Armagnac. She studied the old, stained bottle label––1908 B. Gelas et Fils, Vieil Armagnac––and she cackled at her sorry state of affairs. She'd been refilling the old bottle with cheap spirits for years. Finally, she replied, “Yes, the bombing was a little too close for comfort. Apparently some tall man blew himself up in the cellar of an ancient building near the Rue Censier.”

“But that … that's just a few blocks away!” Karen was wide-eyed.

Madame guzzled her Armagnac and let out a belch. “Can you imagine all the Bordeaux wine bottles exploding in the cellar?” she sighed. “Their owners are in deep purple, mourning their loss, I assure you. Why, we French cherish our wines the way we cherish our dogs.”

She plopped down on her Recamier-style lounge chair, and waved a hand at Lola.

“
Ma belle rousse
, be a darling and go fetch my petite Fifi from that peasant of a concierge, please.”