“You know what this is?” he asked, his voice full of genuine surprise.
“Mais oui. Like all Lamborghinis, it’s named after a famous bull.”
“You know cars?”
“A little,” I said. Mrs. Brittany’s advice was to always be modest and always permit the man you were with to believe he knew more, even if he didn’t.
“The male ego lacks vitamin C,” she’d said, half in jest. “It’s easily bruised.”
The truth was, I did know a lot about cars. One of my requirements with Professor Marx was to learn about expensive automobiles. I actually knew the ten most expensive ones and could discuss their engines and their accessories. Most rich and powerful men loved their expensive toys and appreciated someone who could share their enthusiasm for them.
Sometimes when Mrs. Brittany was trying to share her male-female wisdom with me, I would stop and think that a man, any man, was at quite a disadvantage when he was with one of her girls. There were so many contrivances, manipulations, all done subtly so that they weren’t aware of how under control they were.
Paul looked at me and nodded.
“What?” I asked.
“You really are an amazing young woman.”
“You mean you didn’t mean it before when you said it?”
“Well, yes, but . . . what are you, nineteen?”
Another Brittany quote came quickly to mind. “It isn’t the time you clock, it’s what you clock in the time you’ve had,” I told him.
His eyes widened, and then he laughed. “Well said, well said. I think I’ll use that on my father when he lectures me about something and stresses how young and inexperienced I am.”
“Be sure to give me credit.”
After I got into the car, which was obviously brand-new, he asked me about the famous bull for which his car was named. “I mean, I know they do that when they name cars,” he said, “but I don’t know why one bull is more famous than another.”
I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth. Was he testing to see if I really knew anything? I said, “Murciélago was known for having survived twenty-eight sword strokes in a bullfight. The crowd called for his life to be spared, and the matador did just that.”
“Have you been to a bullfight?”
“No, but I’ve read about them, and I read Hemingway’s Death in the Afternoon.” It had been one of the books on Professor Marx’s required reading list.
“Really? I’ve heard about it, but I haven’t read it.”
“Well, now, since you own a car named after a bull, maybe you will.”
“I’ll buy it as soon as possible. And then maybe you and I can discuss it.”
“Have you ever discussed a book with a woman?”
He shook his head, smiling. “Hardly.”
“Then it really will be a new experience.”
“Yes.” He started his engine and patted the steering wheel. “Well, thanks to you, I’m even prouder of my vehicle now.”
“Good, but you don’t have to survive twenty-eight accidents,” I said. He laughed and drove onto the Basse Corniche, which he explained was the lower highway that would take us to Monaco.
“There are three main roads here: the Basse Corniche, the Moyenne Corniche, and the Grande Corniche. I like this route. It’s more scenic.”
It was. The views of the sea were awesome. We went through a short tunnel cut out of a rock and cruised through the village of Èze-sur-Mer, where I saw fruit and vegetable kiosks at the side of the highway. It reminded me about how proud Mama was of the freshness of French food. I didn’t realize how quiet I had become when I thought about her, but once again, I realized that I was in France, closer to Mama’s family and where she was born than I had been for a long time.
“You okay?” Paul asked, noting my long period of silence.