The Sweetness of Forgetting (54)

I smile weakly. “Thank you.”

“I am Henri Levy.”

My heart skips, and I look at Alain. “Levy?”

“A common last name,” Alain explains quickly. “He is no relation to Jacob.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling oddly deflated.

“Shall we sit down?” Henri motions to the chairs. “Your uncle forgets I am ninety-two. He is, how do you say in English? A spring chicken?”

I laugh, and Alain smiles. “Yes, a spring chicken,” Alain says. “I am sure that is just what young Hope sees when she looks at me.”

“Hope, do not listen to these old men,” Simon says. He totters back to his chair. “We are only as old as we feel. And today, I feel like I am thirty-five.”

I smile, and after a moment, Alain offers me a cup of espresso, which I gladly accept. The four of us settle into seats in the living room, and Simon leans forward.

“I know I have said this,” he begins. “But you bring me back in time. Your grandmother was—is—a wonderful woman.”

“He always had a crush on her,” Alain interjects with a grin. “But he was eleven, like me. She was his babysitter.”

Simon shakes his head and shoots Alain a look. “Oh, she had a crush on me too,” he says. “She just did not know it yet.”

Alain laughs. “You are forgetting Jacob Levy.”

Simon rolls his eyes. “My great foe for Rose’s affection.”

Alain looks at me. “Jacob was only Simon’s foe in Simon’s own mind,” he says. “To everyone else, Jacob was Prince Charming, and Simon was a miniature toad with sticks for legs.”

“Hey!” Simon exclaims. “My legs developed very nicely, thank you.” He points to his legs and winks at me.

I laugh again.

“Now,” Henri says after a moment, “perhaps Hope can tell us a little about herself. Not that we are not very interested in the legs of Simon.”

The three men look at me expectantly, and I clear my throat, suddenly nervous to be put on the spot.

“Um, what would you like to know?”

“Alain says you have a daughter?” Henri asks.

I nod. “Yes. Annie. She’s twelve years old.”

Simon smiles at me. “So what else, Hope?” he asks. “What do you do for work?”

“I have a bakery.” I shoot a look at Alain. “My grandmother started it in 1952. It’s all her family recipes, from back here in Paris.”

Alain shakes his head and turns to his friends. “Incredible, isn’t it? That she has kept our family’s tradition alive all these years?”

“It would be more incredible,” says Henri, “if she had brought us some pastries this morning. Since you, Alain, did not bother to get any.”

Alain holds up his hands in mock defeat and Simon tilts his head to the side. “Perhaps Hope can tell us about some of her pastries,” he says. “So that we can imagine eating them.”

I laugh and begin to describe some of my favorites. I tell them about the strudels we make, and the cheesecakes. I tell them about Mamie’s Star Pies, and how they’re virtually identical to the slices of pie I found at the ashkénaze bakery the day before. The men are smiling and nodding enthusiastically, but something changes when I begin listing some of our other specialties: the orange flower-tinged crescent moons, the savory anise and fennel cookies, the sweet pistachio cakes drenched in honey.

Henri and Alain are staring at me in confusion, but Simon looks like he’s just seen a ghost. All the blood has drained from his face.

I half laugh, uneasily. “What?” I ask.

“Those aren’t pastries from any traditional Jewish bakery I’ve ever heard of,” Henri says. “Your grandmother wouldn’t have gotten those from her family.”

I watch as Henri and Simon exchange looks.

“What?” I ask again.

It’s Simon who speaks first. “Hope,” he says softly, all trace of jest gone from his voice. “I think those are Muslim pastries. From North Africa.”

I stare back. “Muslim pastries?” I shake my head. “What?”

Henri and Simon glance at each other again. Alain looks like he understands what they’re talking about now too. He asks something in French, and when Simon replies, Alain murmurs, “It cannot be true. Can it?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, leaning forward. They’re making me nervous. The men ignore me and exchange a few more words in rapid French. Alain checks his watch, nods, and stands up. The other two men stand too.

“Come, Hope,” Alain says. “There is something we must do.”

“What?” I ask, completely baffled. “Do we even have time?”

Alain looks at his watch again, and I check mine too. It’s nearly eight.

“We will find the time,” he says. “This is important. Let us go. Bring your things.”

I grab my duffel bag and follow behind the men as we silently leave the apartment.

“Where are we going?” I demand once we get to the rue de Turenne and Henri puts his arm up to hail a cab.

“To the Grand Mosquée de Paris,” Simon says. “The Grand Mosque.”

I stare at him. “Wait, we’re going to a mosque?”