Almost French (9 page)

It’s the suburban inertia of Levallois that creates the first tension between Frédéric and me. Although pretty in a well-maintained, middle-class sort of way, for me, cooped up in the apartment day after day, Levallois starts to seem like a prison. The city centre is a twenty-minute metro ride away—longer if you have to change lines—and so it’s not something you do for a quick coffee. I feel stranded and that only exacerbates my loneliness.

But for Frédéric, Levallois is a refuge. After all, he has an office to escape to, one that is conveniently located ten minutes away in the modern business district of La Défense. ‘We’re lucky,’ he insists. ‘We’re so close to the city centre and yet we can wake up and hear birds singing every morning.’ He doesn’t understand my frustration with where we live. Before moving to Levallois he spent ten years in Paris and although he loves the city, he is stubbornly opposed to the idea of moving back there. ‘Here we’ve got the best of both worlds,’ he repeats.

He’s right, of course—we
are
lucky to live here. It
is
a lovely area. But Levallois is not Paris. Although it’s on the city limits, it’s about as Parisian as the Sydney suburb of Roseville. Intuitively, I sense that life would be much more fun and interesting living in the thick of things. That I’d feel less alone in the pulse of urban energy. Moving into Paris becomes my dream, although Frédéric seems so resolved to stay put I’m pessimistic about the chances of it happening. In
my heart I desperately hope he comes round to the idea.

The stretch of hours between breakfast and dinner becomes a rollercoaster of optimistic peaks followed by plunges into despair. At first I seek comfort in the thick Côte d’Or bars of black chocolate that Frédéric keeps in the apartment. In my state of frustration, demolishing however many I can lay my hands on gives me a sense of achievement. But he takes to hiding them in cunning places, locking them in antique chests or sandwiching slabs between the pages of one of Jules Verne’s extraordinary adventures. Unable to fathom my lack of control, Frédéric beseeches me, ‘Where is the pleasure in eating it
all
? Why can’t you just have one or two pieces?’ I take no notice. I’ve had enough of this French restraint when it comes to indulging in everything from wine to chocolate. If anything, his self-righteous tone only strengthens my resolve. When there’s no more chocolate to be found, I resort to the jar of Nutella, ploughing through fudgy spoonfuls, sick and satisfied.

At times the decision to give up my secure job and stay in Paris seems insane. There are moments when my conviction that everything will work out wavers. Sure, being with Frédéric is fabulous but what about my life? What about my income? I want a career, not this self-punishing routine of pumping out faxes like some obsolete production line. It’s all very wonderful having the whole day to do dinner, but this frustrated housewife routine wasn’t part of my plan. Where oh where is the glamorous Paris life I envisaged?

Memories of my previous job come back to me, the images brighter than the reality ever was. At work, the noise in the open plan newsroom used to drive me mad. Forty journalists all talking on the phone at once against a background hum of twenty televisions tuned into different channels (and often
different languages) made concentrating on writing almost impossible.

But now I’d kill for a bit of office noise. I miss the conviviality of working in teams, gossiping over cappuccinos, discussing stories with camera-crews and editors; pooling ideas. Maybe if I had colleagues to share ideas with I’d have more of them? I miss my friends. I miss sun and light and can’t help wincing when someone at home tells me what an incredible summer Sydney is having.

‘You need to get out of the apartment,’ Frédéric urges, when he senses my head is about to implode. And so I take the direct metro line into Opéra and sit reading my newspaper at Café de la Paix, trying to eke out my exorbitantly priced
café crème
for as long as possible. After, I go for a wander, my melancholy mood inexplicably deepening with every step. I walk around Place Vendôme, taking in its majesty, the arc of luxury jewellers, feeling confused—guilty, even—that I should feel unhappy in a place that looks like paradise.

The biggest shock during these first months is how different France is from my romantic imaginings. In my mind it was a country of rolling revolutions, peopled by anarchists and communists who brave police truncheons and tear gas to fight for their cause. If they were a bit on the violent side, this lack of discipline only heightened their appeal. For me, the French were passionate and progressive and unafraid of change. France conjured up thrilling images of radical philosophers and cobblestone-throwing students into marijuana and all sorts of sex.

No doubt many factors helped shape this opinion, beginning with the French Revolution which we covered in one lesson of head-rolling drama at school. Seeing a television documentary about the 1968 riots; reading Simone de Beauvoir, whose uninhibited characters seemed to spend their lives having amorous adventures. This impression of sexual and social freedom was only confirmed after seeing late-night French films on SBS which featured precious little dialogue and lots of nudity. The French were the very last people in the world I imagined to be conservative or socially repressed.

And yet …

One evening we’re invited to a drinks party in Neuilly, the suburb next to Levallois which is home to famous actors,
television personalities, politicians and wealthy business types. We pull up outside a
hôtel particulier
which belongs to our host, a successful entrepreneur whom Frédéric knows through another lawyer friend. Already, the serious, stately exterior signals that the evening will be very different from the breezy barbecues I am used to where you turn up with ten friends and twice as many bottles of wine. We are self-consciously fluffing up our helmet hair when a hired butler opens the door, ushering us into an entrance with a sweeping stone staircase and teal tapestries.

The party is upstairs, in a
salon
lined with sculpted wooden panels which once decorated a Burgundy château. The round drinks table is crowded with perfectly buffed champagne flutes and bottles of expensive bubbly. But, curiously, no-one is drinking it. Although there are about fifteen people gathered, the room is oddly quiet. Everyone seems strangely inhibited—although by what or whom I can’t imagine. Couples stand together, voices discreetly lowered as if anxious not to disturb. No-one offers us a drink or tells us to help ourselves. After a brief hello our hosts have both disappeared. Although we’re surrounded by unfamiliar faces, no introductions have been made.

‘Is this a
party
?’ I mutter to Frédéric, incredulous, trying to spot someone who looks like they’re having fun. The scene is terribly grown up—too grown up for any of the grown-ups I know.

‘It’s a
cocktail
,’ he whispers back.

Surveying the uptight scene in the imposing room, I wonder if it is a typical French ‘
cocktail
’. Surely the surroundings must be grander than most. Compared to the guests at my first dinner party, the crowd here is more how I imagined Parisians would look at soirées. The women are in
chic, short black dresses, the men in sleek suits. Among the understated elegance and high heels, I feel out of place in my black pants and Doc Martens (even if I did polish them for the occasion). According to Frédéric, the guests are mainly lawyers, business and public relations people. Everyone appears ill at ease and it occurs to me that maybe the French are better at dinners than stand around drinks parties. No-one seems to want to be the one to break the ice. The guests are all hanging back. Bewildered by this cool distance, I make the mistake of trying to bridge it. ‘We can’t just stand here talking to each other,’ I whisper to Frédéric. ‘I’m going to introduce myself.’ He looks doubtful for some reason but after a tedious week of no work, I am dauntless, eager to make new friends.

‘Hello, my name is Sarah.’

Surprise scuds across the faces of a crisp couple, who step back involuntarily before accepting my outstretched hand. Frédéric, in the meantime, has just seen someone he knows and goes over to say hello. For the next ten minutes I practise my best ‘people skills’, chit-chatting in the friendly, interested sort of way which can always be relied on to start conversation. What do you do? How do you know so-and-so? These people are proving to be much harder work than I imagined, though. While they answer politely enough they don’t initiate any questions of their own. Unnerved, I try even harder, filling the silences with embarrassingly inane remarks.
Quel beau salon! Regardez les belles peintures!
Two heads nod impassively at me. It isn’t working, I realise. Far from engaging them in conversation they seem to be shrinking away from me. God, don’t they know the golden rule (show interest in others and they’ll show interest in you)? Don’t they know they’re supposed to
make an effort
? A sudden wave of
doubt rushes over me. Could the rules be so different in France? But then how else are you supposed to get the ball rolling if not with preliminary questions and conversation?

Eventually, to everyone’s relief, I run out of things to admire. We’re all surreptitiously searching for an escape. The champagne is still standing opened and untouched. If ten minutes ago I was keen for a drink, I’m absolutely gagging for one now. You’d think if our hosts bothered to get a doorman for the night they might have hired a barman. It seems incongruous in such a formal setting, but, well, I guess it must be a self-serve set-up.

‘Who’d like a drink?’ And without waiting for a response, I start filling flutes.

A pall of silence falls over the room as I attempt to distribute the champagne. The guests seem to be torn between a desire to accept and some sense of duty not to. Looking slightly faint, Frédéric takes a flute, prompting six or seven others to follow suit. The other guests stare from a distance, apparently not wanting to be associated with our renegade group.

‘Was that wrong?’ I ask Frédéric quietly, wanting to shrink behind a Louis-something chair.

‘No, um, not really.’ He smiles weakly. ‘It’s just that, it’s stupid, but maybe we were supposed to wait.’

‘What for?’

‘For the other guests to arrive.’

Stunned, I say, ‘But the bottle was already
open
.’

‘I know. That’s why it was confusing. No-one was sure what they were supposed to do.’

I am quiet for a while, too shocked to speak. All this protocol seems surreal. Why would people not know what they’re supposed to do? It’s a cocktail party for god’s sake—surely you’re supposed to chat and drink! As for this idea of
waiting to serve the champagne until all the guests have turned up (if that is what our host was planning), talk about a disincentive to arrive on time! Sensing my confusion, Frédéric squeezes my hand.

As soon as we’re out the door, I exclaim: ‘That wasn’t a party, that was another planet!’

‘They’ve changed,’ Frédéric says, disappointed at the way the evening turned out, not quite sure how to respond to my brutal assessment. ‘They’re more
madame-et-monsieur
since they moved to Neuilly.’

Back at the apartment, we carry out a post-mortem of the evening. Frédéric explains that among a younger, hipper crowd my champagne grabbing gesture wouldn’t have been such a big deal. People might have found it refreshing or funny or been plain grateful that someone had taken the plunge. But to this ‘bourgeois’ gathering, my action had appeared shockingly forward he says. Especially for a woman, because in France, apparently, serving alcohol is very much a male domain. Even before my champagne gaffe my behaviour had been far too assertive. To me, spending an entire evening talking to your partner is antisocial but Frédéric says this happens all the time at parties in France. As for my bold introduction, to the couple it would have seemed like an intrusion; my clumsy questions cluttering up each comfortable silence. Far from building a rapport, my efforts only seemed to diminish me in their eyes, as though by showing interest in them I had revealed the depths of my own dullness. Enthusiastically admiring the paintings and the lounge was inappropriate too. ‘In our culture it implies you don’t have those sort of things at home and makes you seem a bit
paysan
,’ Frédéric says. A bit of a peasant.

This last comment is almost too much to take. I might have
thought of myself as a sophisticated Sydney-sider but in that cool, urbane setting I was gauche—too smiley, too chatty, too
eager
. My clumpy Docs may as well have been gum boots, for all the grace I showed. For the next hour, I puzzle over the
cocktail
crowd. Frédéric had said it was typically Parisian, not the sort of gathering you’d come across in the provinces. Having never met people like them in Australia, I can’t grasp them. They seem to defy classification, they’re neither one thing nor the other. For example I assume ‘bourgeois’ means they are conservative in all senses, politically speaking as well. It certainly looked that way to me. But not necessarily, according to Frédéric; he says that some were
gauche caviar
—‘caviar left’ being the French equivalent of champagne socialists.