Charlotte in Paris (7 page)

I had to catch my breath as my eyes drank in the vision before me…the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower,
Napoleon’s tomb, the Notre-Dame and the Sacré Coeur churches, and there—running through it all—the silver waters of the River Seine. I wanted to pinch myself to make sure it was real.

From La Samaritaine we took the
métro
to Avenue Victor Hugo and rue du Faubourg St-Honoré, where we walked past row after row of boutiques full of the latest creations of Yves Saint Laurent, Chanel, Lanvin, Balmain, Givenchy, Christian Dior, and other top French designers.

Madame led me to the windows she considered most appealing and I took pictures, careful not to use the flash to avoid the reflection off the windows. I hoped the pictures wouldn’t come out too dark on this foggy day. I used up all but three of the pictures on Katani’s camera, just in case I saw some other fashions later in the week.

Madame Morel stopped in one of the smaller boutiques and bought a silky scarf. “One more gift for you,” she said as she handed it to me. My scarf had a brown, lavender, and white pattern. I bought a similar one for Katani with lots of yellow—her favorite color—in it. She would love it.

When we finished our shopping, Madame hurried me over to Collège St-Louis, where I would spend the afternoon visiting my former classmates.

BACK TO SCHOOL

F
or a moment I felt like I was in a time warp…as if I were still a student at Collège St-Louis and would be punished for arriving late to class. The school day in Paris was longer than in the United States, lasting from eight in the morning until five in the afternoon, including a long break for lunch. French students had Wednesdays off, but they went to school for a half-day on Saturday. Despite the longer hours, I loved the schedule in France. We worked very hard in school, but there was built-in time to relax. Maybe I could propose the French school schedule to Mrs. Fields, the principal at Abigail Adams Junior High.

Madame explained that she was allowing Sophie to take Tuesday off and because there were teacher meetings on Thursday and Friday, Sophie would not have to return to school until Saturday morning—the day I was leaving. I couldn’t believe it—we would have
four full days
to find Orangina and to explore our old haunts.

Madame stopped to check in at the office first, and then walked me to the third floor English class, leaving me at the door.

Sophie’s eyes brightened when she spotted my new coat and shoes. She gave me a thumbs up and a big smile from across the room.

After spending half a day with Madame, I felt like a completely different person. I definitely felt more “confident,” that word she kept repeating, and even less klutzy. Fashion had always seemed like a puzzle that I was too busy to figure out, but Madame had made it seem easy and fun. Both Katani and Madame gave the same advice…true fashion isn’t about wearing the trendiest clothes, but about figuring out who you are and what makes you happy inside…and letting that shine through.

The English teacher, Madame de Robein, welcomed me to her class and gestured to an empty seat.

“Hello, Charlotte,” Philippe said as I sat down at the empty desk next to him. The French students used to love practicing their English on me.

I smiled. “
Bonjour
, Philippe.
Ça va?
How are you?” Although we hadn’t kept in touch during the past months, Philippe and I had been pretty good friends when I lived in Paris. It was good to see him again. He was definitely cute, though in my opinion, not as cute as Nick Montoya back home. Nevertheless, I knew Maeve would approve.

“We will have a conversation in English,” Madame de Robein announced. “Although Charlotte speaks French very well, I want you to ask questions in English and Charlotte to
answer in English. This is a wonderful opportunity for you to practice your English-speaking skills. Charlotte, would you mind coming to the front of the room so the class can see you?”

I looked at Sophie. She shrugged. I had no idea I was going to be part of today’s lesson…I was glad the class would only last about an hour. It made me nervous to be the center of attention. But I was flattered that Madame de Robein thought my French was good.

“Do you live in New York City?” a tall girl in the front row asked.

“No, I live near Boston, in Massachusetts.”

“Have you ever been to New York?”

“Yes.”

“Have you met Beyoncé?”

“No.”

And so it went…about forty-five minutes of somewhat silly, but not too embarrassing questions. The only time I didn’t know what to answer was when a girl asked a rude question about our president. I just glared.

“Charlotte has brought a treat for the class, Madame,” Sophie spoke up. “May we serve it now?”

I was so wrapped up in answering all those questions, I’d almost forgotten about my special treat. I brought my messenger bag up to Madame’s desk, unzipped it, and pulled out the ski jacket on top. Once free from the tight space of my bag, it puffed out, expanding as if it were alive. The right sleeve flopped across the desk, pushing a small tin toward the edge of the desk. I reached for the
tin, but it plunged over the edge, hit the floor with a loud
twang
, bounced once, and rolled noisily down the center aisle. Sophie jumped to her feet and scrambled after it as the class giggled. Thankfully, the tin of pushpins didn’t pop open…that would have been chaos.

I put the ski jacket on Madame’s swivel chair and pulled a jar of peanut butter and a box of crackers from my messenger bag.

“Is anyone allergic to
cacahouètes
…peanuts?” I asked. I knew that peanut allergies could be really serious. No one raised their hand, so I spread a glob of peanut butter on each cracker and Sophie passed them out on paper napkins.

I explained how popular peanut butter was in the United States…. It was almost unheard of in France.

A girl named Céleste made a face and held her nose. She murmured something in French to her best friend, Chantal. Céleste and Chantal were never nice to me when I was in their class. I called them the
Chuchoteurs
—the Whisperers. They were the French version of the Queens of Mean, Anna and Joline, the star mean girls at Abigail Adams. I have decided that the language of mean kids is universal—they whisper private jokes, point, and laugh really loudly at everything. They try to make everyone else feel left out, and most of the time, they succeed.

Madame pointedly cleared her throat. “Céleste, this is English class. If you have anything to say, you must say it in English.”

Two bright pink patches appeared on Céleste’s cheeks, and she bit her lip.

“Don’t mind her,” Philippe whispered to me, his eyes holding mine for a brief second. “Céleste never has anything nice to say about anyone or anything.”

I smiled gratefully at Philippe.

“Uglgh! Ischtuck to the top of my moughf!” a boy named Pierre struggled to speak through the peanut butter gooeyness.

“Don’t be disgusting, Pierre, close your mouth when you chew,” Chantal said haughtily.

Madame de Robein shot both students a warning look.

In the end, it seemed as if my peanut butter-and-cracker idea was an overall hit. Philippe and a girl named Aimée asked for seconds, so I made them little peanut butter and cracker sandwiches.

“Okay,
mes amis
, time to pack up your things and go,” announced Madame de Robein just before the hour was up. “
Merci beaucoup
, Charlotte, for all that you’ve shared. It was so nice to see you again.”

“Thanks for having me,” I said. “It’s good to be back.”

TIME IS LIKE A RIVER

I
smelled the Seine before I saw it—an exotic blend of freshness and fishiness at once exhilarating and foul. Sophie and I walked from school toward the water to begin our search for Orangina. I rushed forward to the end of the street to catch a glimpse of the river I once called home. On this overcast, windless day, the river lay like a ribbon of silver threading its way under bridges and curving through the oldest part of Paris.

My breath caught in my chest when I saw our old houseboat. I wanted to run down the quay and jump aboard…but I knew it was not my home anymore. I wondered with a pang if Orangina, wherever he was, felt the same way.

Most people instantly picture the Eiffel Tower when
they think of Paris. I think of the Seine. A little motorboat slowly putted by, and I could imagine how the houseboat would rock as the wake set it moving. The tin chandelier over the kitchen table would still be swinging five minutes after the boat was out of earshot. I could hear our neighbor Monsieur Duprée shouting in French about those “
stupides bateaux
”—stupid boats.

When we moved in to the houseboat, it was fully equipped with pots, pans, and china. I loved the country feel to the place—it was very rustic and lived-in and felt almost like camping in the middle of one of the most beautiful cities in the world. The kitchen stove usually needed to be coaxed to work…the kitchen in Sophie’s apartment was a modern marvel in comparison.

And then there was the mud—oh, the mud! There was always mud after the water rose and receded. No matter how often Dad and I wiped our feet, one of us always managed to track mud through the entire houseboat.

Parisian life revolves around the Seine and I love every bit of it: couples walking hand-in-hand along the cobblestone quay in the early evening, the rowing club passing by in the morning, even the bellowing squawk of the herons. There was always barge traffic from the sightseeing boats. Once I awoke to a tapping at my window and was surprised to look out and be face to face with a swan.

To me, the Seine was the essence of Paris. Orangina felt as connected to the river as I did. He loved watching birds flit from branch to branch on the trees that hung low
over the water. And his favorite thing to do was prowl the banks for hours on end.

“Most people instantly picture the Eiffel Tower when they think of Paris. I think of the Seine.”
~ pg. 84

“You see the quay right here under this bridge?” Sophie motioned, pointing. “This is where I saw Orangina, I promise. It was definitely him; there is no doubt in my mind. He turned when I called his name. For a moment I thought he would come to me, but I took only one tiny step forward and he scampered away. In a flash, he was gone. Just like that.”

I couldn’t help laughing at Sophie. Her hands were going a mile a minute, making little cat scampering motions. I looked at the place she had pointed to and suddenly felt a wave of disappointment. From the moment Sophie e-mailed me, I imagined coming to Paris and finding Orangina exactly where Sophie had spotted him. I’d expected him to jump in my arms.

“Charlotte, you look tired.”

“I’m just worried, Sophie. I know it’s kind of silly, but I wanted so much to find him right here waiting for us. Where should we look next?”

“Come, I know the way to revive your spirits,” Sophie said with a smile.

I followed her across Pont Louis-Philippe down rue St-Louis-en-l’Ile. As I walked, I breathed in the moist smell of the river air. Overhead, I could see a “V” of geese in the gray sky above La Cathédrale de Notre Dame.

Through the bare branches of the trees, I could see every detail on the old buildings. Ile St-Louis was like a step back in time. I always felt that once I crossed the bridge, I’d
slipped back to another century—maybe the 1600s or 1700s. I almost expected to see a horse-drawn carriage clopping down the street. Instead, a moped sped past me and brought me abruptly back to the twenty-first century.

“I am sure you have been dreaming of this place, Charlotte,” Sophie remarked. “I don’t know how you survived this long without it.”

Sophie didn’t seem to notice the beautiful scene before her as she chattered and walked with a purpose. I knew just where she was headed. There it was just a block away: the green-and-white-striped canopy of Berthillon, the most famous—and yummiest!—ice cream parlor in the city.

In the summer, the line stretches down the street and around the corner. Even on this overcast day, there was still a line for the best sorbet and ice cream on the European continent. They have the most exotic flavors, ones I haven’t yet found in Boston: blood-orange, prune, fig, and armaganac. I didn’t have to look at the list. I knew exactly what I wanted…chocolate hazelnut.
C’est délicieux!

In Paris, like in most cities, there are lines for everything, but the French wait as elegantly as they do everything else. They don’t whine or complain if the lines are excruciatingly long…they just accept it as a part of life and enjoy the moment of peace.

While Sophie and I waited, my messenger bag started to feel really heavy. I took it off and held it to my side, accidentally brushing against a passerby. “
Excusez moi
,” I said more than once, unable to stay out of the way in the growing crowd of people.

“There it was just a block away—the green-and-white-striped canopy of Berthillon, the most famous—and yummiest!—ice cream parlor in the city.”
~ pg. 87

I filled Sophie in on my shopping expedition with her mother. “She was so generous, Sophie…I don’t know how to thank her. I absolutely love my new coat, it’s wicked nice!”

Sophie burst out laughing. “Wicked nice?” she mocked me gently. “That is your new American way of speaking, no?”

I blushed slightly and laughed. “I think I picked it up from Avery. It must be a Boston thing, though, because Isabel, who’s from Detroit, always laughs when Avery says ‘wicked’ too.”

“You teach me so much, Charlotte! I am sure
Maman
enjoyed her time with you this morning. She loves to shop. She’s always bringing home new things for me to try on. She has a good eye for color…that purple coat is perfect on you,” Sophie added, touching the sleeve.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the dark shape of a man in a blue-and-white striped raincoat and hat. He was waiting at the back of the line. I did a double take. Had I seen this man before? I couldn’t see his whole face because he had turned in the other direction, but something about the shape of his shoulders, his size, seemed familiar. Of course, on a day like today, there were hundreds of older Parisian men wearing raincoats and hats. But there was something about the way he reached up and smoothed his mustache. The movement was so familiar. It couldn’t be…or could it? Could it be Mr. Peckham? What were the odds that I would run into him again in a city of
seven million? I put my bag on the ground for a second and craned my neck to try to get a better view, but the man seemed to have vanished into thin air. I turned back to Sophie and slung my bag over my shoulder one more time.

“There was a man back there that looked just like Mr. Peckham…you know, the older man I told you about from the plane? He’s gone now though…one second he was there, and the next second he wasn’t,” I explained to Sophie, getting some euros out of my wallet as we inched closer to the front of the line.

“He must not love ice cream as much as we do,” Sophie said.

It was getting chilly as the evening approached, so Sophie and I chose to sit inside by the window and people-watch as we ate our ice cream. All over the city, hundreds of Parisians were doing the same. Half the fun of being in Paris is to observe passers-by. The French love cafés and strolling arm in arm. They chatter furiously, using their hands as punctuation marks. Everyone looks like they just stepped out of a movie. It’s almost like watching one, but better.

We slowly savored our ice cream…my chocolate hazelnut and Sophie’s fig. When I had scraped the last mouthful out of the paper cup, I reached for my messenger bag and found…nothing.

“Sophie! My bag…it’s gone!” I scrambled out of my seat, looking in all different directions.

Sophie jumped up as well. “Are you sure you brought it with you? Perhaps you left it at school. We can walk right back there and look for it.”

“No. Yes. I mean no, I didn’t leave it at school. I’m sure I brought it here with me. I remember I had it in line…I kept hitting people with it by mistake. Then when we sat down, I put it right here next to me. Near the door.”

Sophie glanced around. “Perhaps someone accidentally picked it up. Let’s go out to the sidewalk right away and look at the people nearby.”

I looked out at the mixture of tourists and locals walking around and felt overwhelmed. There were a million different directions that someone carrying the bag could have gone. “I don’t know, Soph…How could someone have thought the bag was theirs? It has that patch that Katani sewed on for me. No one else has the same bag. It’s a Kgirl original…my favorite bag of all time. It’s irreplaceable!” I could feel tears starting to well up.

“What was in it?” Sophie asked, sitting back down at the table.

“Everything,” I said, checking to make sure my notebook and pen were still in my back pocket. “My ski jacket, my running shoes…um, the rest of the jar of peanut butter…the disposable camera that Katani gave me. I even took all these pictures for her this morning. My wallet. Thank goodness I left Chelsea’s digital camera at home. And I took out the Picasso coloring book before we left this morning, too. Oh no! My passport was in there! How can I get back into the U.S. without my passport?”

“Try not to panic, Charlotte. I’m sure that people lose their passports all the time. We can ask my father what to do. Come, Charlotte. Let’s leave your name and our telephone number with the people working at the counter. Perhaps whoever picked the bag up will bring it back.”