“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?
We paused to do some window shopping. The new spring and summer fashions were still out in some stores. Some were already advertising fall clothing. I commented about some skirts and blouses enthusiastically, but she just stared with a familiar look—familiar because I could remember how Chastity gazed at beautiful clothes, realizing that there would be nothing in her size and that even if there was anything made in her size, it wouldn’t look as good on her as it looked on the mannequin in the window. I wanted to talk to Denise about her weight problem, but I hesitated. We didn’t know each other that well yet. I was sure she was supersensitive about it, which was something that also puzzled me about Chastity. Why be supersensitive about something you could control or prevent?
Our conversation drifted to what it was like growing up in Paris as opposed to New York. Our school experiences didn’t sound all that different. We talked about music and books and the movies we had both seen. Once she got started, she ran on and on, barely pausing to take a breath. I was surprised at how little she had seen in Europe other than on school trips, even though the restaurant gave her vacation time. She blamed it on her mother, who hated traveling. The more we talked and the more she told me about herself, the more I could see her putting blame on her mother for almost everything, even, as it turned out, her weight.
“When I was little, she wouldn’t let me leave the table until I finished every morsel. My mother doesn’t believe in leftovers. She always says we can’t afford to waste food.”
“You’re old enough now to take control of your own destiny,” I ventured.
She didn’t answer for so long that I thought my comment would be pushed aside and forgotten because she resented it, but suddenly, she stopped. “I’ve always been too heavy,” she offered. “My mother blames it on my father’s genes.”
“Do you believe that?”
“No,” she admitted, and kept walking. “Let’s not talk about me,” she added firmly. “What happened to your parents? Why are you in Paris? Don’t you have relatives in America? I’d rather live in America.”
Where should I begin? I wondered. I paused and nodded at a bench overlooking the Seine. The sky was practically cloudless. There were only tiny wisps, what my mother called “God’s puffs of breath,” here and there against the soft blue. The water in the Seine glistened. Sitting quietly for a few moments, I felt I could talk more freely about myself now. However, it occurred to me as I was telling my story that I was telling it like an outsider looking in. Perhaps I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to get through it, that I would break into uncontrolled sobbing. I didn’t go into any detail about Roxy, basically describing her as an independent businesswoman who had left home early. When she started to ask more questions about her, I looked at my watch and suggested we get to the café.
“Don’t worry. Vincent will wait for us if we’re late,” she said, but agreed we should move on.
“Do you have other relatives in Paris?”
“Distant cousins. My mother’s brother lives in Lyon, and her younger sister lives in Aix-en-Provence. I rarely see either of them or their children.”
“You’ve never heard from your father since he left?” I asked as we continued walking.
“No. But I don’t care. To me, he’s as dead as your father is to you,” she said, clenching her teeth.
“He wasn’t a good father before he left?”
“He wasn’t a father at all,” she replied. “He was . . . unnatural.”
I was silent, waiting to see if she would go into any of the grisly details, but she pressed her lips together like someone who was told to be quiet. A few moments later, however, she added, “I blame my mother for marrying him and having me with him. It’s really all her fault, and she knows it.”
“How does she explain that? Falling in love with a man who was self-centered and cruel?”
“She doesn’t. She won’t talk about him, and now neither will I. He’s dead to us. Look! There’s Vincent waiting outside the café,” she announced joyfully, waved, and sped up. I quickened my pace to keep up with her, laughing to myself. She was practically running to him. She could bowl him over at this speed, especially if she embraced him, I thought.
“Does he speak English, or will I have to depend on my French?”
“Of course he speaks English,” she replied. “He’s the brightest in our family. I told you. Vincent is perfect!”
Excusez-moi, I thought. I could see I had better like him or else.
Crossing the Seine
Vincent was tall, about six feet one, with a swimmer’s build, lean, with round shoulders. He had light brown hair that fell lazily over his forehead, nearly covering his dark green eyes. His firm, manly lips were in a tight smile as we drew closer. He had his hands on his hips and wore a dark blue pair of jeans with a light blue turtleneck sweater and a pair of coffee-white running shoes.
“Ça va, Denise?” he asked, and held his smile. He didn’t look at me. I thought he was a little arrogant in the way he purposely ignored my presence. Like her mother, perhaps, he was waiting for some sort of formal introduction.
“Bien,” Denise said. “Sommes-nous en retard?”
He held up his wrist to show us his watch.