When I first discovered Paris, I was quickly drawn to its contrasts; its tawdry, rough neighborhoods appealed to me as much as the Haussmannian, majestic ones. I craved its paradoxes, its secrets, its surprises. It took me twenty-five years to blend in, but I did it. I learned to put up with impatient waiters and rude taxi drivers. I learned to drive around the Place de l’Étoile, impervious to the insults yelled at me by irate bus drivers, and-more surprisingly-by elegant, highlighted blondes in shiny black Minis. I learned how to tame arrogant concierges, snotty saleswomen, blasé telephone operators, and pompous doctors. I learned how Parisians consider themselves to be superior to the rest of the world, and specifically to all other French citizens living from Nice to Nancy, with a particular disdain toward the inhabitants of the City of Light ’s suburbs. I learned how the rest of France nicknamed Parisians “dog faces” with the rhyme “Parisien, tête de chien.” Clearly, they were not overly fond of Parisians. No one loved Paris better than a true Parisian. No one was prouder of his city than a true Parisian. No one was half so arrogant, so haughty, so conceited, and quite so irresistible. Why did I love Paris so? I wondered. Maybe because it never gave in to me. It hovered enticingly close, yet it let me know my place. The American. I’d always be the American. L’Américaine.
I knew I wanted to be a journalist when I was Zoë’s age. I first started writing for the high-school newspaper and had never stopped since. I came to live in Paris when I was a little over twenty, after graduating from Boston University with an English major. My first job was as a junior assistant for an American fashion magazine I soon left. I was looking for meatier topics than skirt lengths or spring colors.
I took the first job that came up. Rewriting press releases for an American TV network. It wasn’t fantastically paid, but it was enough for me to stay on, living in the eighteenth arrondissement, sharing a place with two French gay men, Hervé and Christophe, who became long-lasting friends.
That week I had a dinner date with them at the rue Berthe, where I’d lived before meeting Bertrand. Bertrand rarely accompanied me. I sometimes wondered why he was so uninterested in Hervé and Christophe. “Because your dear husband, like most French bourgeois, well-to-do gentlemen, prefers women to homosexuals, cocotte!” I could almost hear my friend Isabelle’s languid voice, her sly chuckle. Yes, she was right. Bertrand was definitely into women. Big time, as Charla would say.
Hervé and Christophe still lived in the same place I had shared with them. Except that my small bedroom was now a walk-in closet. Christophe was a fashion victim and proud of it. I enjoyed their dinners; there was always an interesting mix of people-a famous model or singer, a controversial writer, a cute, gay neighbor, another American or Canadian journalist, or some young editor just starting out. Hervé worked as a lawyer for an international firm, and Christophe was a yoga teacher.
They were my true, dear friends. I did have other friends here, American expats-Holly, Susannah, and Jan-met through the magazine or the American college where I often went to put up ads for babysitters. I even had a couple of close French girlfriends-like Isabelle, garnered through Zoë’s ballet class at the Salle Pleyel-but Hervé and Christophe were the ones I called at one in the morning when Bertrand had been difficult. The ones who came to the hospital when Zoë broke her ankle falling off her scooter. The ones who never forgot my birthday. The ones who knew which films to see, which records to buy. Their meals were invariably a delight, candlelit and exquisite.
I arrived with a chilled bottle of champagne. Christophe was still in the shower, explained Hervé, greeting me at the door. In his mid-forties, Hervé was slim, mustachioed, and genial. He smoked like a chimney. It was impossible to get him to stop. So we had all given up.
“That’s a nice jacket,” he commented, putting down his cigarette to open the champagne.
Hervé and Christophe always noticed what I was wearing, if I sported new perfume, new makeup, a new hair style. When I was with them, I never felt like l’Américaine desperately trying to keep up with Parisian chic. I felt myself. And I loved that about them.
“That blue-green suits you, goes divinely with your eyes. Where did you buy it?” Hervé asked.
“H &M, on the rue de Rennes.”
“You look superb. So, how’s the apartment coming along?” he asked, handing me a glass and some warm toast spread with pink tarama.
“There’s a hell of a lot to be done,” I sighed. “It will take months.”
“And I imagine the architect of a husband is thrilled at the whole thing?”
I winced.
“You mean he’s indefatigable.”
“Ah,” said Hervé. “And therefore a pain in the ass for you.”
“You got it,” I said, sipping champagne.
Hervé looked at me closely through his tiny, rimless glasses. He had pale gray eyes and ridiculously long eyelashes.
“Say, Juju,” he said, “are you all right?”
I smiled brightly.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
But fine was far from what I felt. My recent knowledge about the events of July 1942 had awakened a vulnerability within me, triggered something deep, unspoken, that haunted me, that burdened me. I had dragged that burden around with me all week, ever since I’d started to research the Vel’ d’Hiv’ roundup.
“You just don’t look yourself,” Hervé said, concerned. He came to sit next to me, putting his slim, white hand on my knee. “I know that face, Julia. That’s your sad face. Now you tell me what’s going on.”
THE ONLY WAY TO shut out the hell around her was to bury her head between her pointed knees, and cup her hands over her ears. She rocked back and forth, pressing her face down onto her legs. Think of nice things, think of all the things you like, of all the things that make you happy, of all those special, magical moments you remember. Her mother taking her to the hairdresser, and everyone complimenting her thick, honey-colored hair. You will be proud of that head of hair later on, ma petite!
Her father’s hands working on the leather in the warehouse, how fast and strong they were, how she admired his skill. Her tenth birthday and the new watch, the beautiful blue box, the leather strap her father had made, its rich, intoxicating smell, and the discreet tick-tock of the watch that fascinated her. She had been so proud. But Maman had said not to wear it to school. She might break it or lose it. Only her best friend Armelle had seen it. And she had been so jealous!
Where was Armelle now? She lived just down the road, they went to the same school. But Armelle had left the city at the beginning of the school vacations. She had gone somewhere with her parents, somewhere south. There had been one letter, and that was all. Armelle was small and red-haired and very clever. She knew all her multiplication tables by heart, and she even mastered the trickiest grammar.
Armelle was never afraid, the girl admired that about her. Even when the sirens went off in the middle of class, howling like enraged wolves, making everyone jump, Armelle remained calm, in control, she would take the girl’s hand and lead her down to the musty school cellar, impervious to all the other children’s frightened whispers and Mademoiselle Dixsaut’s quavering orders. And they would huddle together, shoulder to shoulder, in the dark dampness, candlelight flickering on pale faces, for what seemed hours, and listen to the drone of the planes far above their heads, while Mademoiselle Dixsaut read Jean de La Fontaine or Molière and tried to stop her hands from trembling. Look at her hands, Armelle would giggle, she’s afraid, she can hardly read, look. And the girl would glance at Armelle with wonder and whisper, “Aren’t you afraid? Not even the tiniest bit?” A contemptuous shake of glossy red curls. No, I’m not. I’m not afraid. And sometimes, when the shudder of the bombs seeped through the grimy floor, making Mademoiselle Dixsaut’s voice falter and stop, Armelle would grab the girl’s hand and hold it tight.