The Reeducation of Cherry Truong (27 page)

Madame Bourdain spared no expense in decorating and catering for her biggest party of the season, her Christmas trees and nativity scenes growing more elaborate every year. This year, the Bourdains displayed their decorative masterpiece outdoors. Guests walked past and marveled at the life-size crèche in the pruned-back rose gardens.

“What is that supposed to be?” Grandpère asked, as the family stared up at the monstrous concrete statues draped in gold and silver twinkle lights.

“It's the birth of Jesus Christ,” Cam said. “I mean, a re-creation.”

“It's a spectacle,” Aunt Trinh said, looking both horrified and fascinated.

“It's not that bad,” Uncle Yen said.

“They only get more ridiculous,” Cam's mother said. “Remember the actors they hired to play the wandering wise men last year? They had too much wine and started heckling the guests.”

“Maybe next year Madame Bourdain will rent an orphan to play baby Jesus,” Xuan said, smiling innocently at Cam's chilly glare.

After Mass, Cam and Michel had separated to find their families in the tangled church crowd, agreeing to meet after dinner. Cam's mother regarded her suspiciously after hearing her story about sitting up with the choir during mass. Now, she looked at everything and everyone at the party with annoyance.

Yet, Cam continued to smile, cooing with Aunt Trinh over the lush mistletoe draping the front doorway and the massive silver fir Christmas tree in the candlelit ivy-and-berry-trimmed atrium. Stationed by the front door, Monsieur Bourdain, wearing a fluffy red-and-white Santa hat, rang a jingle bell, and reminded the children to drop their shoes by the fireplace. Cam's mother would not ruin this evening for her. At the end of the night, hopefully even she would be happy for her.

In the spirit of a community feast, the Bourdains invited guests to bring treats for the dessert table. When Madame posted the sign-up sheet on the church community bulletin board in early November, Michel suggested Cam bake one of the requested yule logs.

“It's my father's favorite,” he said. “He's always complaining that the
bûches de Noël
we buy are so sloppy. He'd like your attention to detail.”

While the family searched for their table in the dining room, Cam walked through the parlor, where the caterers continued adding to the buffet. Stopping at the dessert table, Cam opened the basket and felt relieved to find that her yule log hadn't been damaged in its travels. She lifted the cake and placed it on one of the last empty silver platters. Surrounded by poorly crafted tarts, imprecise petite fours, and lumpy sugar cakes in the shape of baby Jesus, Cam's
bûche de Noël
brilliantly stood out as an artistic achievement.

Although it was time to walk away from her creation, Cam lingered at the table, adjusting the yule log's placement, watching as other parishioners deposited their desserts and left for the dining room. She wasn't sure what she expected. Of course, the Bourdains had to greet and entertain their guests, but how were Michel's parents supposed to know that this was her
bûche de Noël
, and not one of the other careless yule logs that littered the table?

When Cam had started culinary school, she and her mother had battled over kitchen space and ingredients, with her mother always winning because she made food the family could actually eat. Her father tried to sample Cam's projects out of politeness, but no one in her family had much of a sweet tooth. Cam began spending more and more time at Michel's apartment, only two blocks from her school, where she had an entire kitchen to herself. She explained to her parents that she'd found practice space at the school's kitchens. Michel tasted and approved of all of her baking projects, perhaps a little too much.

“Is Petit Michel gaining weight?” Grandmère asked in Vietnamese, as Cam took a seat between her and Grandpère.

“No,” Cam quickly said, then hesitated. “I don't think so.”

“Look at him,” Grandmère said, brazenly pointing to where the Bourdains sat, at a small bistro table in the midst of several long banquet tables surrounding it like a star. Michel stood next to his father, lifting a flute of champagne to his mouth. They had their suit jackets off, the elder merrily wearing his Santa hat and the son in a green elf stocking cap. “His belly hangs over his belt just like his father's. If he's not careful, we won't be able to tell the two Michels apart!”

Cam's mother hooted at this, while Aunt Trinh managed a faint smile. Her eyes occasionally surveyed the crowded dining room, always drifting toward the exit. Cam's mother and Grandmère had made sure Aunt Trinh sat between them, so she wouldn't have to speak to any strangers.

On the other side of the table, Xuan and his father read over the blessing Uncle Yen planned to read. Every year, the Bourdains asked a close friend to propose the Christmas blessing, which usually consisted of thanking the family for their generosity and kindness over the years. Cam felt confident her uncle's blessing would be no different. Uncle Yen's law firm still considered Monsieur Bourdain's publishing house its biggest client.

Grandpère placed his hand on Cam's. He already looked exhausted, his eyes avoiding the sparkly votives on the table. “Aren't you supposed to be sitting at the children's table in the other room?”

“No, Grandpère,” she said. “We're big enough that Xuan and I can sit with the adults now.”

“Oh?” He looked delighted. “You two are growing up so fast.”

After the initial welcome from Monsieur Bourdain, he called for Uncle Yen to give his blessing.

“Make sure to speak up, dear Yen,” Monsieur Bourdain reminded him, with a wagging finger. “Your voice is so soft, and we want everyone to hear you.”

Xuan rolled his eyes, but only Cam noticed. Everyone else still had their hands obediently folded in prayer, eyes expectantly watching Yen Truong. She could tell that her uncle, unaccustomed to public speaking, was nervous, unconsciously folding and refolding the sheet of paper in front of him, adjusting his reading glasses on his nose.

“The Bourdains have always been giving people, and I experienced this firsthand when they helped save my family. While I was still a law student, our beloved Vietnam was conquered by the Communists. When my wife, son, parents, and my brother's family managed to escape to Malaysia, the Bourdains, through much hard work and personal expense, sponsored their immigration to France. Their generosity still amazes me. They have certainly become part of the Truong family. We thank God for their existence and their continuing work for the Lord. Bless their family's good health. May God bless this meal they have provided for all of us.”

The dining room filled with soft murmurs of agreement. While the string quartet in the center of the room began its first piece, the catering staff filed in to offer the first course: lobster bisque and iced oysters with lemon wedges.

“It was a beautiful toast,” Xuan assured his father as the room filled with polite slurping and the string quartet's version of “Silent Night.”

“Yes,” Cam's mother said, after taking the smallest sip of the bisque off her spoon. “I didn't realize they saved our lives. Thank you for reminding everyone.”

“Ngoan,” Cam's father said, sighing.

“We all know they're not your favorite people,” Uncle Yen said. “But we are in their house, and we are eating their food. You can be discreet for one night.”

“How am I being indiscreet?”

“They did sponsor us,” Aunt Trinh said, looking confused. “Yen was only telling the truth.”

“Ngoan realizes this,” Cam's father said. “She didn't mean any harm, Yen.”

“You don't need to defend me,” Cam's mother said.

“What have they done to you?” Uncle Yen whispered furiously, leaning forward, nearly spitting in his soup. “They are godparents to our children—”

“That wasn't really our choice—”

“Who sponsored their catechism classes? Who bought Cam her communion dress? They have only been kind to us.”

“Are you convinced of that?” she asked.

Cam tucked the linen napkin under Grandpère's chin, thankful that he paid no attention to the argument, listening instead to the quartet playing nearby.

“Did you ever see the water puppet show in Hanoi?” he asked her.

Cam shook her head before tasting the bisque: creamy, good temperature, too much pepper.

“One day, I'll take you to see it. You, Xuan, and Lum would enjoy it so much. Where is Lum?”

“He's in America,” Cam said, “with his parents and his sister.”

“When did he go there?”

“Years ago, Grandpère.” Tilting her neck, she watched Michel silently eat with his parents. They'd finished their bisque and now focused on the oysters.

They'd agreed to meet in his bedroom when the seated dinner ended and guests mingled around the house enjoying flutes of champagne, mugs of cider, and cheese platters. The children rushed to the family room, gathering around the indoor Christmas tree to find candies and chocolates from Père Noel in their shoes. The Truongs meandered throughout the house, Cam's mother and Aunt Trinh watching the children in the family room, while the men and Grandmère walked outside to the courtyard to gawk again at the life-size crèche.

Cam stood on the staircase, watching Michel and his mother talk to a couple in the corner of the parlor. She caught his eye several times, and he discreetly nodded in her direction. When it looked like the conversation was at last ending, Cam slowly wandered up the stairs. No one paid attention to her.

Resting her elbow on the door handle, she gently pushed, and sneaked inside the bedroom. Still holding a drink with one hand, Cam reached around for the light switch. As the room filled with the soft glow of a tableside lamp, her eyes scanned the four walls. Since their relationship began, Cam had only spent time in Michel's apartment, which maintained the tastefully detached aesthetic of his mother. It reminded Cam of a hotel. She'd assumed Michel was too busy studying to change anything around, so she'd occasionally bring a bouquet of flowers for the dining room table or intentionally leave a puddle of clothes in the bedroom. But even this bedroom lacked any personal touches, and easily could have been mistaken for one of the Bourdains' immaculately prepared guest rooms. Her only recognition of Michel was his overnight bag sitting next to a mahogany chest of drawers.

The door opened and Cam turned around. Michel pulled off his elf cap, placed it on the table next to the lamp, and slipped his arms around her waist.

“Merry Christmas, Cammie,” he said, touching his nose with hers.

She kissed him briefly before pulling away. “Are they coming up?”

“Father is still playing Père Noel,” he said. “I'll go down in a few minutes and tell them we have good news to share.” His arms around her tightened, momentarily lifting her off the floor. “You still feel tiny.”

“Then we talk to my parents,” Cam reminded him. “Remember? You have to formally ask my father and Grandpère, even if he gets confused. It's tradition.”

“I remember.” He smiled and kissed her again.

His breath smelled of brandy. “Don't drink any more,” she said. “I don't want us to forget anything tonight.”

“It's sweet that you worry. It's beautiful.” His blond hair felt silky between her fingers. He was combing his hair forward lately, worried that he'd inherited his father's hairline. Once or twice he had expressed the desire to shave all his hair off, but Cam had discouraged it.

He wanted to lie down for a little bit, to rest before fetching his parents. The bed felt so soft and warm. Not as springy as her bed at home, the bed she'd known since they moved to France. The mattress enveloped their bodies like fresh, silky marzipan. After so many hours on her feet, Cam sighed contentedly, listening to the music and chattering through the floor.

“We can't fall asleep,” Cam said, struggling through a yawn.

“We won't,” he said.

A few minutes passed. She could feel his breath on her neck, moist and steady. “I'm scared,” she said.

He didn't answer initially and she feared he'd dozed off. “You don't have to be scared. Everybody loves a wedding,” he said.

She wasn't sure what time it was when Michel got up. After putting a throw blanket around her, he said he was going to get his parents. He kissed her on the forehead, promising to return in a few minutes.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she listened, listened, listened for his knock. Although she wanted to get up before then, rearrange her hair, make herself as presentable and perfect as her yule log (which had better still be there when they returned downstairs to celebrate), the plumpness of the pillows and the caress of the blanket were too inviting.

Cammie Bourdain. Camille Bourdain. Camille wasn't her given name, but it could change on the marriage certificate; simply an extension of four letters, her fulfilled identity. It sounded better to her than Cam Bourdain. She never really liked her name, which pronounced in a certain way meant orange, an alternative her mother enjoyed because she had an orange tree behind her childhood home in Vietnam. Cam promised herself that her child would bear a name she could be proud of, one chosen with the care and affection of both parents.

The knock on the door was loud and continuous. Cam pulled herself up, realizing she had no idea how much time had passed. She couldn't find a clock on the cerulean walls or mahogany wood furniture. Smoothing her hair and straightening the sleep rumples from her dress, she walked to the door and, after vigorously shaking her head, opened it.

Cam's mother glared at her. She had her synthetic fur jacket on. “What are you doing? This isn't a guest room.”

“Really?” She fought the urge to slam the door. Michel and his parents would be there any moment.