Chapter 12 #4
The meal is, as expected, delicious, though not as sumptuous as the one at Le Provencal was.
But Alain’s company is so enchanting that Mebel barely notices what she is putting in her mouth.
She thinks the starter might have had white asparagus in it, or maybe it was zucchini, she really can’t remember.
The everythingness of the night—the lights, the knowledge that she is surrounded by all of this history, enveloped in a place of learning, the sparkling conversation, and the bubbly champagne—it is all so much.
Before long, Mebel finds herself opening up to Alain about, of all topics, Henk.
“We meet through our families,” Mebel says. “Is how most people in my culture meet. We are sent abroad to school, many of us, to UK or US, and when we graduate, we return to Jakarta, and our families know we are in the market, so they help connect us to other people who are also in the market.”
“Like matchmaking,” Alain says.
“Yes, like that. But is not like how you see in the movies, so strict like that. It’s not so formal, you know?
We meet up with our families, and we can say afterward, ‘Oh, maybe I don’t really feel a spark for it, so maybe not this one.
’ And there won’t be a fuss, everyone will understand, and we move on, try to find another more suitable person. Is all very casual.”
“And you felt a spark with Henk?” Alain says.
Mebel cocks her head to one side, mulling this over. It’s been decades since she first laid eyes on Henk, and it takes effort to remember that moment. “I don’t know if there is spark, but I remember thinking: His name is spelled so badly, even worse than Mebel. It make me feel kind toward him.”
Alain’s gaze softens. “Are you saying you dated him out of pity?”
“No!” Mebel laughs. Then she pauses, because now she remembers that she did feel sorry for Henk over his unfortunately spelled name.
“No,” she says again, softer this time. “Is not pity, is more like, ‘Ah, here is someone who can understand me.’ It felt like we can understand each other better than other people can.”
“All that over a name?”
Mebel’s mouth purses into a small smile.
“Ah, you see, to you is just a name, no big deal. But your name is so nice, and is spelled so nicely. My name is a misspelling. Everywhere I go, it mark me as someone who is not from here. It…” She pauses, trying to find the right words. “It makes me look stupid—”
“Stupid?” Alain says, his eyebrows rising. “I don’t—”
“Yes, stupid. Because is like: ‘Oh, you don’t even know how to spell the name correctly. It shows you are not native English speaker,’ and people immediately treat you a bit like—how to say it—”
“Condescending?” Alain says.
Mebel nods. “Yes, exactly. And they say, ‘Why you talk like that? Didn’t you go to USC?’ Yes, I did, but I don’t speak English most of the time.
After USC, I go back home to Jakarta and live there for the next forty years.
All our friends and family speak Indonesian to one another.
Of course my English become rusty. And if you combine the rusty English with the misspell name, people automatically think: Oh, she is stupid.
She is not educated enough. She cannot understand many things.
Language is a gate to the world. It is a gate for your mind, and if that gate is broken, people think the mind is also not very bright.
Is frustrating, because I know my mind has so many bright thoughts, I just don’t know how to say in English, so then I end up not saying much. ”
“I see.” Alain looks somber. “I’m sorry that you’ve had to go through that, Mebel. I think it’s obvious that you are a very intelligent woman.”
“Thank you.” Mebel hides her smile behind her glass.
“Except maybe when it comes to Henk, because obviously he is not on your level, and you shouldn’t even have given him a chance.”
Mebel sputters with laughter. “You don’t even know what he’s like!”
“And I already know he doesn’t deserve you. You say he is with a twenty-something-year-old now?”
The laughter dissipates from Mebel’s face, leaving her feeling suddenly empty. “Yes. Our private chef Wendy.”
“Ah yes, the reason why you are here. Well, let me tell you why he doesn’t deserve you.” Alain leans forward and holds up his thumb. “First of all, who would leave you for someone barely out of her teens?”
Mebel considers this. “I think many husbands do that, actually.”
“Because they are boys, not men. There is nothing quite so valuable than a woman who has gone through life and knows exactly who she is. What she likes, what she has no time for…What can possibly be more attractive than that?”
Mebel’s eyes roam Alain’s face, searching for a flicker of—well, she’s not quite sure what she’s searching for. A flicker of cynicism? A telltale sign that he’s lying? Because of course he’s lying. No man could believe that.
“Secondly, the way you have handled yourself throughout this whole thing…that tells me the kind of woman you are. You are a fighter, Mebel. Most people would go, ‘All right, my husband is leaving me for a younger woman, I will divorce him.’ But you? You go straight to France and attend culinary school to win him back. Is that not a fighting spirit?”
Mebel glances down and is surprised to find that her hand is in Alain’s palm.
When did that happen? She blinks, looking up at him.
He’s gazing at her with what can only be described as naked admiration.
Her entire body is tingling, and she has the sense that she has just gone to the deep end of the pool.
She needs to get a hold of herself, and fast. Clearing her throat, Mebel says, “Enough about me. You tell me about you now.”
Alain smiles. “All right. What do you want to know?”
“Why are you not married?”
“Who says I’m not?”
The blood drains from Mebel’s head. God, she feels stupid.
She feels exactly the way she felt the night Henk told her about Wendy.
She pulls her hand out of his and picks up her fork instead, not wanting him to see how upset this revelation has made her.
The thing is, she also feels upset over feeling upset, which makes her feel even more upset. Damn it.
“It’s not like that,” Alain says, apparently reading her mind. “We do not live together anymore. She has her own life, and I have mine.”
“Oh.” Mebel pokes at a slice of perfectly cooked duck. “Then, why not just divorce?”
Alain shrugs. “This is both of our second marriages. I think once you get to a certain point, things start to lose their meaning. She is my wife, but she lives in Lyon, I live in Paris, and our marriage serves us well on paper, so there’s no need to change it.
We are beyond such labels, we don’t let them suppress what we want to do. ”
Mebel takes a long breath and gazes out at the city before her, a city full of young people with some of the brightest minds in the world.
What would it be like to be one of them, knowing that you have a certain intelligence that surpasses most of the world’s population?
That your worth as a girl isn’t just about pleasing your future husband, but rooted solely in what your mind is able to achieve?
She senses her own mind bending, stretching to accommodate what Alain has just told her.
If she had come across him just one month ago, before her own life fell apart, she would’ve recoiled at his lifestyle, scoffed at it and said something along the lines of These Europeans, they don’t deserve the sanctity of marriage!
But now she’s in a whole different place, having had her core beliefs about marriage completely shattered.
Who’s to say which way of living is better than the other?
At least this way, both Alain and his wife are free to do as they please without hiding it.
Neither party has had to go through something as traumatic as she’s had to go through with Henk.
Mebel sighs. She feels tired all of a sudden.
“Are you all right?” Alain says.
She nods. “I live my life a certain way this whole time, and then, poof. Everything is upside down, just like that.”
“It’s a lot to take in.”
“Did you always know when you get married that you will live separate life from your wife?”
Alain considers this for a moment. “I don’t know that either of us thought about it in such terms. We certainly never spoke about it.”
“So, how you know that your wife doesn’t want to be…you know, exclusive with you?”
“Well, she told me she is moving to Lyon and she didn’t ask me to join her, so I felt that she made it rather clear,” he says dryly.
Mebel can’t help but smile at this. She likes the sound of Alain’s wife, a woman who isn’t afraid to make her own decisions in life. She wonders what his wife is like. She must be so different from Mebel. The thought saddens Mebel, and so she strives for a quick change in the subject.
“Why you go from studying chemistry at Oxford to becoming…” She gestures at him.
“The help?” he teases, laughing at her raised eyebrow. “To be honest with you, I was an idiot. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, and I happened to be quite good at chemistry, so I thought: Why not?”
Mebel laughs. “You come to the best university in the world because you think: Why not?”
“Yes, actually. I had no idea what you could do with a bachelor’s degree in chemistry.
But I was fortunate, because as it turns out, there is a lot of chemistry to be done in the kitchen.
It’s not just about chopping and frying things.
Through my degree, I was able to learn about how the different chemicals in each ingredient work, how processing them in different ways can obtain a whole other taste and texture and look.
If I had it my way, every culinary school would offer a chemistry degree, and it would be compulsory to take a few classes in it. ”
“Absolutely not,” Mebel snaps.
Alain throws his head back and laughs, the sound filling the quiet courtyard, and Mebel wonders how she has found herself here, in this incredible little spot with this incredible man.
By the time Alain drops her off back at the Saint Honoré School of Culinary Arts, Mebel realizes that her cheeks are hurting from smiling so much. The last time she’s felt this ache was maybe thirty years ago, when Sammy was born.
“Bonne nuit, Mebel,” Alain says when they reach the doorstep.
And Mebel, full of wine and delicious food, reaches up and plants a soft kiss on his cheek.
Perhaps to Alain, who is used to a European way of life, a peck on the cheek is nothing, but to Mebel, this is the most daring thing she has done since the time she was fifteen and stole out of her house to watch a late-night movie with her cousins.
She leaves before he can say another word, her head buzzing, her mouth stretched into a lopsided grin, and traipses inside feeling as light as a butterfly.