Chapter 12 July 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager
Lily Jacobsen—program manager
Dear Odile,
Sorry it’s been ages since I’ve written—work has been hectic.
To be honest, I’m struggling. My boss hasn’t liked any of the authors I’ve booked.
(Mr. Hayes is no Miss Reeder!) Trustees are hypercritical.
When Jennifer de Narp barrels toward me to demand why I didn’t order the kind of cheese she prefers, the left side of my face twitches.
Despite coming from Dallas or New York, the wealthy all seem to know each other—they ski at Aspen, summer on Martha’s Vineyard, or their brothers attended Exeter the same year.
Sometimes, the library is fertile ground for meetings of the mind.
At others, it’s a reminder that people can be divided into two categories—tu and vous, plastic cups and wineglasses, crumbling studios and palatial apartments.
I’m at the bottom of an invisible hierarchy.
Maybe Mary Louise felt that way growing up in our small town.
Maybe I never thought about hierarchy before because until now, I was at the top.
Maybe I’m finally starting to understand her.
When you worked at the library, was it nonstop chaos?
Today, our fire alarm went off again (another teen smoking in the john), and Tolstoy, a Gulf War vet, dove under the circ desk and covered his head with his hands.
Lorenzo and I didn’t know what to do, so like penguins, we huddled with him for an hour, till his storm passed.
I long for your leek-and-potato soup. I wish you were with me. I miss your wisdom. I miss you.
Love,
Lily
At 7:00 p.m., just as I was leaving work for the day, Mary Louise phoned and asked if I could meet for dinner to celebrate our French-iversary. It had been months since I’d seen her, and in that time, we’d barely spoken. Every time I’d called—even at 9:00 p.m., she was “on her way out the door.”
Dying to see her, I rushed over. In the métro on the way to the restaurant, I wondered if I would finally meet her boyfriend, Antoine.
I wondered if she was happy, if they celebrated little things, like their one-month anniversary.
I had a hundred questions, but after our last lunch, I knew I needed to let her do the talking.
Upon arriving at l’Hexagone, I glanced at the menu, encased in a large silver frame on the side of the building.
The restaurant had two Michelin stars, and I felt a thrill at dining in a hallowed sanctum of French gastronomy, until I realized that main courses started at 350 francs, a whole day’s salary.
The waitstaff probably expected diners to order starters and desserts and drinks besides.
The price of seeing Mary Louise was a week’s wages.
Aware that my work “uniform,” bland khaki pants and a boatneck top, was not fancy enough, I dawdled at the door.
The ma?tre d’—elegant in a gray suit—ushered me in.
When I gave him Mary Louise’s name, he gestured for me to follow.
As we passed through the haze of cigarette smoke, six waiters chirped, “Bonsoir, mademoiselle. Welcome, mademoiselle.” This was the friendliest Parisians had ever been to me.
At the table, the ma?tre d’ pulled out my chair, and I slid onto the green silk seat across from Mary Louise.
At first, I thought she’d pulled her red curls into a chignon, but it was more than that—she’d bleached her hair. Beige foundation covered her constellation of freckles. The style sapped her vitality, and she looked all used up.
“A new do,” I said in the even tone my stepmother had used when I’d dyed my bangs pink.
Mary Louise reached up to pat her hair. “What do you think?”
You’re beautiful and unique, why would you want to change? I longed to say. Now you resemble every other blasé Parisienne, just like Jennifer de Narp.
“It’s always fun to experiment,” I said.
We were in one of the city’s chicest restaurants, the kind we’d strolled past in amazement when we first arrived in Paris.
In our studio, we’d spent hours discussing what we’d order in a place like this (bouillabaisse for Mary Louise, scallops for me); who we’d wear (Chanel for Mary Louise, Jean Paul Gaultier for me); and which idol we’d invite (Marc Chagall for Mary Louise, Simone de Beauvoir for me).
Now, I wasn’t sure what to say, so I tried “Have you been here before?”
“Oh, yes, Antoine and I dine here several times a week with friends.”
I didn’t know what stung more, that she chose a spot I couldn’t afford or that she’d already been here with friends. I scanned the menu for the cheapest thing—cassoulet—and marveled at how the French could make “beans and sausage cooked in duck fat” sound delicious.
“It is heavenly,” Mary Louise said approvingly. “What about a starter?”
“I’m not sure… I’m not really hungry.”
“You? Not hungry?”
She knew me so well. I glanced at the menu.
Sea scallops perched on a bed of rocket, seasoned with lemons from Sicily; foie gras on a slice of brioche, served with a bundle of green beans wrapped in bacon…
the list went on. I chose the cheapest—velouté d’asperge, a bowl of asparagus soup with a fancy name.
When the waiter arrived, he addressed Mary Louise in French, “And how is monsieur?”
“Busy with work.”
“And you? What takes your time? You did not come for three whole days, we missed you terribly!”
“Flirt!” she admonished with a pleased chuckle. “Since I quit my job—”
She quit her job? Since when?
“I’ve been going to movies and doing a little shopping,” she continued in French, “things I haven’t had time for since I first arrived.”
Movies and shopping? Why didn’t she invite me to go with her?
And what about her art? Wasn’t that why she got her own place—to paint?
How could she afford that humongous apartment on her own with no income, when I barely made rent?
Was Antoine paying for her apartment? Or was she living with him? Or worse, was he married?
“Amusez-vous!” the waiter said. “I’m happy you can enjoy our charming city.”
“Life is short, and the to-do list in Paris is long,” she replied.
Her French had become fluent. When Mary Louise and I used to go out, she stuttered, mixing up the masculine and feminine.
She got verb conjugations all wrong, so I often took over, dealing with cashiers, writing out her résumé, informing the concierge that our heat went out again.
I’d thought she needed me, but she was fine on her own.
As she recited our order, first course—velouté, second—cassoulet, I was reassured—she and I still had the same taste, still wanted the same things.
“Which wine?” he asked, like it was obvious we would order a bottle.
Without a glance at the wine list, she ordered a bottle—Domaine du Chateau de Something-or-other—that sounded insanely expensive. I felt a flash of jealousy. I’d never bought something without considering the price.
“Et le dessert?” the waiter continued.
I glanced at the menu. At fourteen dollars, tarte tatin—a slice of upside-down apple pie—was the cheapest.
“I can’t afford dessert, too,” I whispered, angry that she made me admit that I was broke.
“It’s my treat.”
“Let’s split the tarte tatin.” That’s what we used to do. We’d shared everything.
“No need,” she replied.
“I know mademoiselle prefers les profiteroles,” the waiter told her with an indulgent wink.
She handed him our menus. “Les profiteroles et la tarte tatin.”
“Thanks,” I said to her, feeling more resentful than grateful, and couldn’t help but wonder if it was Antoine’s money or her own. I hoped it was hers, because maybe that meant she’d sold some paintings. “How are your landscapes? Or are you working on portraits?”
“It’s slow going.” She took a gulp of water. “Your writing?”
I leaned back as the waiter placed porcelain soup bowls before us.
“I got a few rejections, but that’s good, because it means I’m putting myself out there.” I didn’t mention that those stories had been sent out before I started at the library. These days, I didn’t have the energy to write.
“You never give up.” She pointed her soupspoon at me. “I’ve always admired your gusto.”
Gusto? She sounded like a completely different person.
“Will I get to meet Antoine tonight?”
“He’s on a business trip.” Mary Louise pulled her purse from her lap. “But as a consolation for missing tonight, he got me a Louis Vuitton handbag.”
As if I didn’t recognize the famed checkerboard.
She held it out to me. “Feel it, isn’t it superb?”
Superb?
I ran my hand over the cold leather. Since when did she need something snooty to feel good about herself? I’d promised myself that I was going to hold my tongue but couldn’t help myself. “Remember those gold bracelets Rhonda wore to church? We hate gaudy displays of wealth.”
Mary Louise stuck her chin out. “Well, now that I have one, I like it.”
I regarded the blonde before me and did not recognize any part of my childhood friend.
She raised her glass. “Happy French-iversary.”
I touched my rim to hers. “Happy French-iversary,” I echoed quietly.
“The soup is organic,” she said to fill the silence.
“Healthy!” I replied with gusto.
I was dying to ask her about quitting her job but was afraid to say anything that would make her retreat again.
I used to dream of eating in a restaurant like this, but now…
I realized Mary Louise and I had more fun at a crepe stand—chatting with students and tourists as we waited in line, teasing the burly cook, licking the Nutella from the corners of our mouths. More money did not mean more fun.
Oven mitts on, waiters came with our cassoulet. The gold-brown sauce bubbled in each individual Le Creuset cast-iron pot. I took a bite. Honestly, Campbell’s bean with bacon soup tasted almost as good, and a can only cost a buck.
“Mmmmm.” Mary Louise closed her eyes as if it was the best thing she’d ever eaten. “This dish is from the southwest, where Antoine’s family has a chateau. We went last week, and it was divine!”