Searching for Tina Turner (24 page)

“Bonsoir, mesdames,” he sings, and all heads in the crowded restaurant turn with his. “Mesdames et messieurs, je vous presente
mes nouvelles amies de Californie.” He introduces Lena and Cheryl as if they are celebrities.

“Oh, the one on the left looks just like Diana Ross.” An elderly white woman with a distinctive Texas twang points at Cheryl
and asks if they are singers, too. “Would you sing ‘Stop, in the Name of Love’? I love that song.”

Lena and Cheryl roll their eyes at one another. “And
that
is how you can tell
they’re
Americans,” Lena mutters. “We don’t sing—”

“But if you hum a few bars, I’m sure we’ll catch on.” Cheryl finishes.

Philip sings his own rendition, a muddled blend of French and English, before he joins Cheryl and Lena at their table near
the piano. “Tonight you beautiful ladies will have a salad of baby butter lettuce, pork tenderloin sautéed in a reduced red
wine sauce
et bien sûr, fromage
—that’s cheese to the two of you—for dessert.”

“Just what I love—a man who knows his
fromage
!” Cheryl slaps Lena’s arm for emphasis. “And soon you will, too.”

f   f   f

Two hours later, a dark-haired, puffy-eared man enters the restaurant just as the waiter brings a platter of hard and runny
cheeses to the table. The man scans the restaurant briefly and heads for the piano. Philip motions to the man to lean down
and whispers in his ear before they both turn their heads to look at Lena and Cheryl.

“I think that’s your date.” Cheryl tips her head in Philip’s direction.

“Don’t call it a date, don’t call it a date. I’m not ready for a date.” Lena glances toward Philip’s friend. The man is a
parody of an absent-minded professor. His short, very ragged beard is striped with gray, and his glasses slip down his nose
so that, in the short time that Lena has to inspect him before he comes to the table, he keeps adjusting them with both hands.

Philip rises from the piano, the professorial-looking man close behind him, and pulls up another chair to Lena and Cheryl’s
table. He introduces his friend with a flourish as if he were a celebrity, and Lena figures that this, along with his penchant
for vintage clothing, is simply Philip’s style. “Je vous presente mon ami, Jean-Pierre Dusquesne.”

“Enchanté, mesdames.” Jean-Pierre lowers his upper body in a feeble bow. His voice is deep and rich like a bassoon. He scoots
his chair next to Lena, picks up her knife, and helps himself to a slice of cheese. “Philippe”—he uses the French pronunciation—“tells
me that you ladies are here to enjoy the sights of the south of France, and I am available to help if you need me.”

Lena hides her amusement behind one of the crisp linen napkins Philip has placed on the table. Jean-Pierre’s accent is charming
and almost sexy, and, she thinks, if she were to close her eyes this would not be the body or face she would attach to that
voice.

Jean-Pierre grazes Lena’s hand with his, and she gently moves it away. “And how do you know Philip?”

Without looking at one another, Jean-Pierre and Philip crumple in laughter at the same time. They complete each other’s sentences,
like only old friends can do, and tell Lena and Cheryl how they first met when Philip came to Vence thinking that he would
sweep the French off their feet with his restaurant.

Jean-Pierre leans in to Lena so close she can smell the tobacco on his breath. “He thought we French would permit a foreigner
to—
comment dit-on?
… how do you say in English?—come in and take over our specialty?
Non?
”

Philip picks up the story. “Jean-Pierre came to my rescue. He was my first chef and my teacher. He helped me improve my French,
my cooking, and become a part of the community.
Et voila!
” He slaps Jean-Pierre hard on the back. “I couldn’t have done it without him.”

“Do you still cook, Jean-Pierre?” Lena scoots her chair to the left and away from Jean-Pierre.

“Ah, cherie, every Frenchman cooks when inspired.” Jean-Pierre takes Lena’s hand, turns it over and traces the lines of her
palm. “I would cook for you anytime, anywhere.”

Without a thought to politeness or misinterpretation, Lena yanks her hand away from the Frenchman’s and folds her arms across
her chest. “I’m sure you would, but we have a plan and we’re pretty much going to stick to it.” She waits for her friend to
come to her aid, but Cheryl turns to Philip and squeezes his arm, which Lena takes as a sign of her plan.

“
Mais non, cherie
, this is France.” Jean-Pierre licks his lower lip in a way that looks like it would be better suited to a porno film. “And
there is no better way to experience our lovely country than with a French man.”

“Okay! Time to go. It’s a long way back to Nice.” Lena taps her fingers on the table like Bobbie tapped hers against the telephone.
“Philip, thank you so much for the lovely dinner. Can you have the waiter bring the bill?”

“No, no, no. Non. You’re my guests. But must you leave so early? The night, as they say, is still young.”

Cheryl squints at Lena until the tiny knot between her eyebrows is more than a suggestion to her friend; it is an order. “And
there’s the café Philip mentioned.” Her voice is firm, her tone a teacher’s scolding a naughty child. She clinks her glass
against Philip’s and sips until the glass is nearly empty. Their bodies relax into each other’s with every additional sip:
the more they drink, the closer they sit. The more they touch, the more Jean-Pierre’s eyes insist he and Lena should be doing
the same.

“And, though there is not much nightlife, perhaps you can stay the night here in our lovely Vence, eh?” Jean-Pierre’s eyebrows
angle and wrinkle his forehead. “Perhaps I can make a little dessert for you? Dessert,” he says, licking his lips again, “is
my specialty.” He stretches his arm, its direction aimed for Lena’s shoulder.

“I take that to mean that you’re still a chef?” Lena glowers at Jean-Pierre, uninterested in him or in watching Cheryl play
footsy with Philip, the pseudo Frenchman. The last time they went out together, just before Cheryl’s first marriage, Cheryl
decided to spend the night with a football player they’d met in a hotel lounge after a college game, and Lena had to find
her way home because Cheryl drove. Lucky for Cheryl, the player wasn’t a maniac. He ended up being her first husband, and
then he turned into a maniac.

“Your eyes, they are very exotic.” Jean-Pierre leans in closer for a better look at Lena’s light brown eyes and brushes Lena’s
hair away from her ear. “You are like… Tina Turner. You American black women are so beautiful.” As soon as he presses his
hand on Lena’s knee she slaps it away and jumps from her chair. “Thank you, Philip, Jean-Pierre, but I’m outta here.”

Jean-Pierre motions to Philip. The two men leave the table and step into the kitchen. Through the open door, both Cheryl and
Lena watch them; their hands fly through the air, punctuating their rapid French.

“What is the matter with you?” Cheryl pouts. “Look at them. I’m sure they’re talking about you. You’re rude.”

“Good. Maybe he’s getting my message. Give me the car keys.”

“Jean-Pierre is all talk. You have to learn to ignore men like that. The more you resist, the more they pursue.”

“He’s a little talk and a lot of pawing, Cheryl. I want to go back to Nice.” Lena holds her hand out. Cheryl shakes her bag
and the keys to the rental car clink. If they were in the States, Lena would have snatched the keys from Cheryl’s bag and
let her find her own way back.

“What if I ask Philip to tell Jean-Pierre to get lost? We’ll have a nightcap and then head back to Nice. Just do it for me.”

Lena stands by the table, grateful that the restaurant is now empty. The night Randall gave her the yellow diamond flashes
in her head—a different situation, but the plea is the same. While she waits for Cheryl to come to her senses, the voices
of the two men discreetly arguing are still the loudest sound in the room. It is no surprise to either of the women when Jean-Pierre
huffs out of the kitchen and heads straight to the front door without saying goodbye.

“Please, please, please, pay my impetuous friend no mind,” Philip says, returning to the table. His face is half smile, half
know-it-all. “He has another engagement. Let me make it up to you. I invite you,
mes amies,
to my house for a petite nightcap before you head back to Nice.”

“I’d love to see a real French home. Well,” Cheryl says looking at Philip, “an almost-real French home.”

If they were in Oakland, Lena would have fussed at Cheryl and perhaps put distance between the two of them. At home she would
still be married. No, at home and in France she is less than one hundred twenty days from being truly divorced. This anger
comes from a place she has had enough of: fear.

A fake smile freezes on Cheryl’s face while she whispers in Lena’s ear so close that only the two of them know what is being
said. “What is the matter with you? We are not nineteen, and you cannot be mad at me for doing something you think is wrong.
Get it together, Lena. This is the single life. Enjoy.”

She shouldn’t care what Cheryl does or who she does it with. “I know.” Lena stands, arms limp at her sides, eyes blink rapidly
to keep back tears, and considers the question she has not thought of before: is this what being single again is going to
be like? Backward instead of forward when she needs to move ahead. Here, she guesses, her options are the same: to leave or
stay; but she would never forgive herself if something happened to her friend. Fifteen minutes later they arrive at the door
of a small building outside the walled city.

“Permit me to give you a tour of my apartment.” Philip uses French pronunciation:
ah-par-tuh-MAWN
. “Small by U.S. standards, but good-sized for this part of the world.
Non?
” The place is barely half the size of his restaurant; the kitchen is narrow and neat, with nothing on the single stone counter
except a speckled canister, two espresso cups, and a bouquet of yellow daisies. An orderly stack of French, American, and
Spanish cookbooks sits atop the small refrigerator. Philip opens the door to his bedroom. “This, as you can see, is the bedroom.”
He tickles Cheryl, presses his leg into her thigh, his lips to her lips. When he pulls away his lips are tinged with Cheryl’s
red lipstick.

“Make yourself comfortable, Lena.” Cheryl giggles. “I’m going to visit with Philip for a while.”

“Fuck on your own time, please. Like you said, we are
not
teenagers.”

“The French are so much more civilized about this kind of thing.”

Lena cuts her eyes, hoping that her friend will understand that she is serious. “He’s not French.” Isn’t this like being with
Randall? Lena muses as she catches a glimpse of a neatly made bed with a white duvet before Philip closes the door behind
them. Following somebody else’s agenda instead of her own?

Moving through the apartment, Lena peeks into the bathroom. A pitcher on the bathroom counter is heavy with sprigs of dried
lavender. Lavender-scented candles edge the basin. Two thin towels hang over a small heating rack beside the sink and, on
the shelf beneath it, an unmistakable square box of tampons. In the corner, a shelf in the glass-enclosed shower holds two
bottles of shampoo and a shower cap. Tampons, shower cap, the abundance of lavender: Lena figures Philip is cheating on his
wife or a woman who spends a lot of time in this
ah-par-tuh-mawn.
Lena storms back into the kitchen. The thick-planked floors deaden the sound of her shoes. Pulling open cabinets and drawers,
Lena searches until she finds a wide-blade knife that, if Philip turns out to be a madman, can protect her and Cheryl. Philip
does not seem to be crazy, but, Lena knows, men can get crazy when they’re denied a roll in the sack.

“Cheryl? I’m going.” Would Tina ever allow herself to be in such a stupid predicament? “And I suggest you do the same, since
it looks like Phil-leep has a better half who may return at any minute.”

T
he attendant in navy shorts and a snug boat-necked tee opens the umbrella behind Lena, adjusts it so they are protected from
the midday sun, hands them more towels, and sets bottled water and glasses filled with lemon and cucumber slices on the small
table beside her.

“Just like home.” Cheryl drops her tote onto the lounge chair and motions to the people around the pool. “We’re the only blacks
around this pool.”

The hotel pool, shaped like a long kidney bean, is meant more for dipping than swimming laps. Several bare-chested women stand
in the shallow end and drip handfuls of cool water on their shoulders. Sun worshippers recline atop the striped lounge chairs
randomly scattered across the marble deck and lawn circling the pool.

“When you’re black,” Lena reminds her friend in a low voice, “it’s just the way it is.” Lena adjusts her sunglasses. Through
them the pale sapphire sky is clear, and the sunlight is bothersome even with dark lenses. “And, I might add, isn’t that bikini
a bit risqué?”

“There you go again.” Cheryl clasps her hands together like she is about to pray, before plopping onto the striped lounge
chair. “Do I have to beg your forgiveness for acting like a grown woman?”

“I told you last night. Pull that kind of act again… no. Don’t pull that kind of shit again. Period. Dot. End of conversation.”
Lena gathers her hair and tucks it under her broad-rimmed raffia hat. “Trust me. I’m getting good at leaving people.”

With the slightest shake of her head, Cheryl acknowledges Lena’s challenge. “Don’t get crazy. I guess I could say I had too
much to drink, but that’s not really the truth. I’m used to doing what I want, when I want, and I didn’t give you much thought.”
Cheryl leans over to Lena and gently pulls her sunglasses away from her face. Without protesting, Lena sighs and looks at
Cheryl. “I get it. I’m sorry, so let’s not let this ruin our vacation. Now we know the rules.” Cheryl lets the straps of her
bikini fall down her shoulders and slathers sunscreen on her face, neck, and chest. “Just don’t be so damn judgmental… and
for the record, I look good in this bikini.”