I suppose what made Denise stand out more, however, was her size. Ever since I could remember, I heard othe
r women ask my mother why so few French people were fat. My mother had a svelte figure to her dying day. Her simple answer was, “We don’t snack between meals.” Because of my father’s hours at his investment firm in New York, we didn’t eat our meals on weekdays with the regularity my mother was used to when she lived in France. However, fresh fruits and vegetables were always very important to her, as they still are in most places in France, and the portions she served us for all our meals were small, even tiny, compared with the portions of food my friends had in their homes. When my father started gaining weight because of his business lunches and lack of exercise, she was even more attentive to how much and what we ate. Maurice told me, however, that the French were getting Americanized with fast food, which, as a chef, he despised.
None of the other women working at the restaurant was nearly as overweight as Denise. She was a little less than five feet eight but surely at least twenty-five pounds too heavy. She didn’t have big breasts, but her shoulders and upper arms were somewhat manly, and her waist and hips had no suggestion of feminine curves. To me, her plump face was like a mask hiding the beauty she had once possessed. Occasionally, I saw it flashing in her soft mouth and those electric eyes.
Although she was as pleasant as anyone else when it came to the customers, her smile blew out like a lightbulb when she turned away or entered the kitchen. She was the same the few times I had seen her in the street coming to or leaving the restaurant. She hobbled along with her head down, her arms crossed, tightly embracing herself just under her breasts. Even on sunny days, she looked as if she was racing to get out of the rain. Shadows followed her the way feral cats might trail behind someone who carried the scent of fish.
“She has no life outside of her home and this restaurant,” Miles Goodman, a thirty-some-year-old Englishman who spoke perfect French, told me a few days before Denise’s birthday. He had come over from Guildford as an exchange student and remained, secretly hoping to be discovered as an artist. I had yet to see one of his paintings, but I understood him to be something of an abstract painter, maybe too abstract for anyone to appreciate. At least, that was what Maurice muttered about him. He was tall and slim, with a nose and ears that reminded me of Ichabod Crane’s in “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” He had extraordinarily long, thin fingers, which enabled him to carry ten cups at the same time easily.
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.