Au Paris Page 8

  As we rounded a corner, a distinctive, unpleasant odor overpowered the lingering sweetness of fresh fruit and earthy vegetable goodness. I couldn’t place it right away, though the smell was familiar. Constantin, ever the proper Frenchman, lifted his head in alert and led us to a storefront a few steps away. When I saw the name Alleosse printed across the awning, the same as the logo on the bags from Alex’s Saturday shopping trip, I knew cheese was inside. Constantin and Léonie tugged me inside, eager to survey the shop’s daily offering of fromage. Near the entrance of the tiny shop was a solid wheel of cheese so large that Constantin could have laid down on top of it with room to spare. Léonie made her way to the counter, looking lustfully at the crottins de chèvre, some rolled in herbs, some encrusted in ash. I spoiled the kids, and myself, with a small taste of creamy white crottins. But the chèvre seemed only to heighten our appetites, and by the time noon rolled around, we’d visited at least a dozen more stalls and the kids were whining for lunch.

  For a lunch out and about in Paris, there is nothing better than a baguette and a poulet rôti to share among friends or, in my case, petit friends. Do not confuse the poulet rôti en baguette with its rather boring English translation: roast chicken on bread. Buying a poulet rôti hot off the streets from one of the many Parisian rotisserie stands is no minor league experience. Order one coupé, and the games begin.

  But since I was an American in Paris, I was unfamiliar with the street fare and its serving rituals. I was among the tourists who thought by ordering “Un poulet rôti, s’il-vous-plaît,” I would walk away with a neatly boxed chicken and perhaps some plastic cutlery, as it is très populaire to take lunch in the style pique-nique.

  Ah, I still had a lot to learn.

  When I gave my order to the friendly rotisserie man, he replied, “Coupé?” and then nodded at the children for encouragement. Rather than stop to think about the meaning of the word before replying, I nodded and smiled out of habit and said, “Bien sûr!” before I could stop myself. Then I flipped through my mental French to English dictionary as quickly as I could.

  Coupé, coupé . . . The meaning of the word didn’t dawn on me until the rotisserie man pulled out a set of crazy-looking chef’s knives. Of course! Coupé meant “to cut.” With a “Bon!” and a grunt, the rotisserie man—we’ll call him Monsieur Rôti—chose a poulet, cooked to a luscious golden brown, and sent it flying. I stood in wonder as Monsieur Rôti threw the chicken into the air, caught it on the tip of one knife, and batted it back into the air with the other knife. Without deviating from his task, Monsieur Rôti winked and nodded at us, as if already expecting applause. But his teasing look said, “Oh wait—there’s more,” and off he went once again with the knives.

  Monsieur Rôti chopped with devilish delight, slicing every last bit of the succulent meat from the bone. The blades of his knives glistened with juices as they flew side to side to side. Then with one swipe of the blade, Monsieur Rôti cleared the surface of his chopping block, sweeping our meat into a sac and tossing the carcass and scraps to the dirty sidewalk below. I looked down at the filthy street in surprise, wondering what beggar or dog had first dibs on Monsieur Rôti’s scraps.

  Monsieur Rôti presented me with a tied plastic bag containing every ounce of meat from the once-whole poulet. Coupé. C’est magique. I walked away in amazement, leaving Monsieur Rôti to his long line of waiting customers. The whole scene amused me more than it did the children, as this was an ordinary occurrence to them.

  Perhaps the most marvelous thing about eating a poulet rôti coupé on fresh baguette is that the steam and fresh juices from the meat make enough moisture to create their own sauce. By simply cutting the baguette and stuffing the middle full of meat, the two components stick together perfectly to form un sandwich extraordinaire. Even the most prim of my civilized Frenchies approved of this gourmet meal. We stuffed the baguette with the hot poulet, tearing it in hunks to gobble. Breaking bread together, we munched happily in silence and left not a bite unsavored. Afterward, I took turns carrying Léonie and Constantin on my back as we walked the mile or so home, partly because their little legs had walked far enough for one day, and partly because I wanted to make sure our entire outing and their entire prelude to les vacances was grandly entertaining.

  The day was going far too well to be over. Not long after we returned home, the phone rang. I ran for it, assuming it was Diane calling to check in.

  “Hello, Rachel?” It was Estelle.

  “Yes—hi!” I said, raising my voice above the friendly din of the house. Constantin was occupied using one of my legs as his personal jungle gym while he sang a song about l’escargot at the top of his lungs. Léonie had turned on the stereo full blast and danced around us to the wild melody of Abba’s “Dancing Queen.”

  “Did Léonie attend her piano rehearsal?”

  I didn’t answer, mostly because I had no clue what she was talking about, and I was certain Estelle would not be impressed if I asked her to clarify. I flipped frantically through the nanny book, sure that it was empty. But in my panic, I couldn’t find the correct page. I had already checked it that morning! The first day of vacances and the nanny book was empty, right? On the other end of the phone, Estelle sighed impatiently.

  “Um, no,” I finally answered, while attempting to unpry Constantin from my leg, turn down the stereo, and be as professional as possible. I continued flipping pages for notes on a rehearsal.

  “Hmm.” There was a long pause. Estelle was very skilled at delivering the most intimidating long pauses. I had the distinct impression that, if she were standing in the room with me, the corners of her mouth would be turned up in a wry smile.

  “This is very disappointing,” she said in a tone I didn’t recognize from her. Whatever the tone, it was rather clear that Estelle was not amused. Then she switched to French, which she rarely did with me, knowing full well I could not understand what she was saying. Thank heavens, because I couldn’t stand the heat.

  When she finally switched back to English, she instructed me to rush immediately to the house of the Baroness, where the rehearsals were held. I hadn’t the slightest idea of the Baroness’s address, or how on earth I would find my way there, but I didn’t dare ask. Instead, I prayed silently that Léonie would know the way. I wanted to say something to Estelle, to apologize, to offer some sort of consolation so she would believe I was taking good care of her children while she was away. But from her tone, I knew I had committed too grave a fault to even make an apology worthwhile. Instead, I swallowed my words and hung up the phone with no more than a serious “thank you” that was full of remorse, apology, and immediate repentance.

  After I hung up, I stood staring at the date in the nanny book. I must have looked at the wrong page that morning. There was a long list of items—food to buy at the market, pants to take to the tailor’s, Diane’s end of year exam schedule. And right in the middle of it all, at twelve noon exactly:

  Repetition—Léonie, 17, Boulevard Malesherbes

  Répétition means “rehearsal.” A piano rehearsal, in this case.

  With no explanation, I swooped up the kids and raced out the front door with Estelle’s words ringing through my head. Disappointing. Ugh.

  Léonie immediately realized the problem and became very serious, like she was channeling the frustration of her mother. Léonie was a dutiful, focused child who took a very vigilant approach to her schoolwork and her extracurricular endeavors, with very little adult supervision. I’d not once asked her to practice her piano, yet she did so every day, willingly. I often heard her upstairs, pounding away on intermediate level Bach while Constantin and I played games and puzzles and cards. Knowing how dedicated she was to her practice made me feel even worse about missing the rehearsal.

  Much to my relief, Léonie knew the way to the Baroness’s. We arrived more than two hours late at a grandiose townhouse, and Léonie anxiously rang the bell while I stood behind like an ill-behaved puppy. Despite our late arrival, Lé
onie was allowed a delayed practice. Constantin and I waited outside, and passed the time by taking a walk down the street. When I retrieved her from her lesson, I also learned of her recital, which would be held in the Baroness’s home in just a few days’ time.

  I spent the evening, after supper and bedtimes, carefully outlining my responsibilities for the following day, determined to fulfill all of them. Diane would be finished with her exams by then, and she had three free days before heading to Spain for an exchange program. I was hoping to spend some quality girl time with her as well. After nearly two weeks in the sole company of children, I was ready for a little bit of teenage energy. But the truth was, in the entire time I’d been living at the Vladesco home, I’d hardly seen Diane at all.

  Chapitre Six

  In addition to the fact that I was failing daily to fulfill my nanny duties, Diane was beginning to weigh more heavily on my mind. Her mysterious absences had become a constant source of worry in the pit of my stomach, despite Estelle’s assurances to the contrary that everything was fine.

  Despite our warm greeting on my first day, Diane had breezed in and out of the house with little regard to me the handful of times I’d seen her since. However, considering the fact that I was still adjusting to my new nannying duties, and considering she often took dinner with friends (with her mother’s permission), I had no reason to believe there were any real problems than a Constantin-size handful. At fourteen, Diane was probably too old to need a nanny. But I figured at the very least we could be friends—we could go on lunches and go shopping or maybe even see a movie.

  My Pollyanna daydreams came to a shattering end the afternoon I expected her home from her last exam. Léonie was playing at a friend’s house and I had just dropped Constantin off at his two-hour pottery class. I spent the entire walk home planning a shopping trip with Diane, as now seemed the perfect time to venture out together. I turned my key in the door the three times around it requires to unlock, unlock again, then unbolt the door, and pushed the door open to what I thought would be an empty house.

  But no. Instead, I heard male voices, teenage male voices, and I looked up and found myself face to face with five teenage boys. Now, I didn’t even know what to do with teenage boys when I was a teenager, and the sad truth was, I hadn’t made much progress since then.

  They stood in the entryway to the kitchen, and, strangely enough, they looked like they had been expecting me, though I’m sure they were just as surprised to see me as I was to see them. I instantly felt the need to hold up a NO LOITERING sign as if they had intruded after hours in a public park. But I knew better. They were in the house because they had been invited into the house. By Diane.

  I wanted to ask them who they were, but instead I said nothing and breezed past them on into the kitchen, which was easily full of as many girls as boys. I was seized with panic and unsure of what to do. I did know there were way too many teenagers in the kitchen, though. Estelle specified that Diane was to have no more than two female friends over at one time. She’d never mentioned a rule about male friends, probably because they weren’t supposed to be there at all. A reasonable rule for a fourteen year old, but obviously one that Diane found debatable.

  I stared at Diane without saying a word, giving her ample time to offer up an explanation or apology. But she did neither. She just stared back at me as if she was perturbed I’d interrupted her party at all.

  “Umm . . . Diane?” I said, trying to give her another opening in which to explain herself.

  “Uhh, yeah, we’re just leaving,” she said with such blasé nonchalance I was almost convinced that it was appropriate for her to set the rules. At her words, her group gathered up their things. I was absolutely boiling with anger. She knew. She knew she wasn’t supposed to be there and she knew she could take advantage of me. Well, I wasn’t going to let that happen. I wanted to seem strong and sure, like a respectable authority. But when I opened my mouth to speak, the familiar and frustrating language block took over, and my voice came out small and weak. “Ooo-okay,” I said in my strange Franglais accent, and stood back, feeling helpless, as Diane and her crowd filed out of the house, unhindered and entirely unaffected by my presence, lest it be unclear who held the reigns. As angry as I was at her disobedience, and even though I had no idea where she’d gone to, it was okay that she left. Spending the afternoon supervising a houseful of hormones high on summer fever was a job that even I, failing nanny as I was, didn’t deserve. Whether she was allowed to be leaving the house again or not, I was relieved to dismiss Diane and her caravan from my supervision.

  Once the walls had stopped vibrating, I ventured into the kitchen to commence a thorough investigation of whatever youthful activity I had interrupted. On the counter over the bar cabinet was an open bottle of rhum. On another counter, the disassembled parts of a blender lay in small puddles of juice. The sink was filled with juicy film-lined glasses, which had obviously contained whatever my little chef had prepared for her guests. I sniffed one of the glasses. Whatever they were drinking, it was definitely alcoholic. Now, I know that the legal drinking age in Europe is under twenty-one, but I’m pretty sure it’s not as young as fourteen.

  I quickly put the rhum away and washed the dishes, hoping to have the place spic and span before Maria Celeste arrived. That woman was a detective for trouble and a mess as très grave as this one would be sure to set off her sirens, especially where Diane was concerned. She threatened to quit almost every time we talked about Diane, impressing upon me the importance of taking action at her behavior.

  “C’est PAS bon!” she always said, with a dedicated emphasis on the “pas.”

  To which I would reply something along the lines of “Ahh oui! C’est pas bon! Elle écoute pas?! Non!” I agreed with Maria Celeste that indeed, Diane didn’t listen, and no, the situation was not good. But despite her concerns being valid ones, Maria Celeste and my mock responses provided me more comic relief than cause for concern.

  Even though I couldn’t really understand Maria C, I was smart enough to know that the conversations were très important to my relationship with her. I wanted her to know we were working toward the same goal. Besides, Maria C loved to tell stories of the poor jobs previous nannies had done (except for Sarah, of course). And though I knew I would never be elevated to Sarah’s angelic heights in Maria C’s mind, I didn’t want to be lumped into the “bad nanny” category, either.

  To keep Maria C from growing an ulcer, I dried every glass and returned it to its proper place. I realized this was the worst thing I could do if I wanted Diane to understand the consequences of her actions, but I didn’t have the backbone to nag her to clean up her own mess, let alone facilitate the therapy sessions that obviously needed to take place here. After all, I was just the au pair and since Estelle gave Diane all the freedom in the world, what could I really do about it? Realistically, my authority as an au pair meant about as much to Diane as Maria C’s squawking French meant to me.

  Because Estelle and Alex were away for the next two days, I feared Diane’s rather rebellious independence would continue unhindered. However, Diane was supposed to sleep at home tonight, and I would have a talk with her. Ignoring the knot of fear that had lodged in my stomach, I went about my afternoon duties with the younger children while mentally rehearsing what I would say to Diane when she came home. I also mentally rehearsed what I would say to Estelle upon her return. It would be tough, but I felt I could endure the next two days knowing that authority would soon be enforced.

  But by dinnertime, Diane was still not home. I set the table for four anyway in hopeful anticipation, though quite frankly I wanted her home more for my own relief than because I was in any way looking forward to our next encounter.

  “À table!” Constantin screamed up the stairs to Léonie, who was perpetually attached to the computer on the fourth floor, frantically instant messaging her friends. If she weren’t so instantly obedient, I would have tried harder to pry her away from her cyber s
ocial life.

  Constantin waited a mere thirty seconds before again summoning his sister to dinner. “À table!” he screamed in a voice so shrill I cringed while filling our tableside water decanters. Still, I couldn’t help but smile at his antics. Though Constantin was rarely instantly obedient himself, he demanded an immediate response from everyone around him, or at least their immediate attention. Yelling the phrase that beckoned the family to the table at meal time provided a sense of accomplishment for his ever-growing ego and his burgeoning man-of-the-house status.

  Just as we were sitting down to dinner and I was exhaling for maybe the second time all day, the phone rang.

  “Allo?” I answered, trying to sound as French as possible.

  “Uhh, yeah. Hi, Rachel, it’s Diane.” She paused for a moment, and I thought I heard giggling voices in the background. “Yeah, I’m having dinner with friends. I’ll be home later.”

  “Uhhh . . .” I stammered, knowing I should interject or protest here, but my mind was completely blank, and Diane hurried on before I could think of something to say.

  “I called my mom, she said it was fine, okay? ’Bye.” The dial tone blared in my ear. It was the second time that day Diane had blatantly ignored me, and I was starting to believe I had lost all ability to formulate opinions or make decisions.