Just One Day(68)

Then I remember Willem. The Nutella. Falling in love versus being in love. How did he say it? Stain in French? Sash? Tache?
“Allyson,” she says. “Pourquoi veux-tu apprendre le fran?ais?”
“Je veux apprendre le fran?ais,” I begin, mimicking what I’ve just heard everyone else say. I’ve got that part down. “Parce que . . .” I stop to think. “Le tache,” I say finally.
It’s such a weird thing to say, if that’s what I’ve said. A stain. It doesn’t make any sense. But Madame Lambert gives a stern nod and writes la tache on the board. Then she writes task. I wonder if I remembered the word wrong. She looks at me, at my confusion. And then she writes another word on the board. La tache: stain.
I nod my head. Yes, that’s it. She doesn’t write down an opposite. There is no opposite of stain.
When we’re all done, Madame smiles and claps. “C’est courageux d’aller dans l’inconnu,” she says, writing it down on the board. She has us write it down and deconstruct it with a dictionary. Courageux we get is courageous. Dans is into. L'inconnu is the unknown. D’aller. It takes us twenty minutes, but we finally get it: It’s courageous to go into territory unknown. When we figure this out, the class is as proud as Madame.
Still, I spend the first week of class living in a state of half terror of being called on—because everyone gets called on a lot; there are only six of us, and Madame is a big fan of class participation. Whenever we get shy, she reminds us, “C’est courageux d’aller dans l’inconnu.” Eventually, I just sort of get over myself. I blunder every time I speak, and I know I’m butchering the grammar, and my pronunciation is awful, but then we’re all in the same boat. The more I do it, the less self-conscious I get and the easier it is to just try.
“I feel like a damn fool, but it might just be working,” Carol says one afternoon after class.
She and I and a few of the other students have started getting together for coffee or lunch after class to practice, to recover from Madame Lambert’s verbal barrages, and to deconstruct what she really means when she goes “pff” and blows air through her lips. There’s a whole language in her pffs.
“I think I had a dream in French,” Carol says. “I was telling my ex terrible things in perfect French.” She grins at the memory.
“I don’t know if I’m that advanced, but I’m definitely getting the hang of it,” I reply. “Or maybe I’m just getting the hang of feeling like an idiot.”
“Un idiot,” Carol says it in French. “Half the time, you add a French accent and it works. But getting over feeling like un idiot might just be half the battle.”
I imagine myself, alone in Paris. There are so many battles I’m going to have to fight, traveling alone, facing Céline, speaking French—all of it is so daunting, some days I can’t believe I’m actually even attempting it. But I think Carol might be right about this, and the more I flub and get over it in class, somehow, the better prepared I feel for the trip. Not just the French. All of it. C’est courageux d’aller dans l’inconnu.
_ _ _
At the restaurant, Babs blabs to the entire staff that I’m saving to go to Paris to meet my lover, and I’m learning French because he speaks no English, so now Gillian and Nathaniel have taken it upon themselves to tutor me. Babs is doing her part by adding a bunch of French items to the specials menu, including macarons, which apparently take hours to make, but when I eat them—oh, my God, I get what all the fuss is about. Pale pink, hard outside, but spongy and light and delicate inside, with a raspberry deliciousness filling.
In between classes, hanging with my fellow students, and being at work, I’m spending a fair amount of time, if not speaking French, then thinking about it. When Gillian buses plates into the kitchen, she’ll drill me on verbs. “Eat,” she’ll call out. “Je mange, tu manges, il mange, nous man- geons, vous mangez, ils mangent,” I’ll call back. Nathaniel, who doesn’t actually speak French but used to have a French girlfriend, teaches me how to swear. Specifically, how to fight with your girlfriend.
T’es toujours aussi salope? Are you always such a bitch?
T’as tes règles ou quoi? Are you on the rag or what?
And ferme ta gueule! Which he claims means: Shut your piehole!
“They can’t say ‘shut your piehole’ in France,” I say.
“Well, maybe it’s not a direct translation, but it’s pretty damn close,” he replies.
“But it’s so crass. The French are tasteful.”
“Dude, those people sainted Jerry Lewis. They’re human just like you and me.” He pauses, then grins. “Except for the women. They’re superhuman.”
I think of Céline and get a bad feeling in my stomach.
Another one of the waiters loans me his Rosetta Stone CDs, and I start practicing with those too. After a few weeks, I start to notice that my French is improving, that when Madame Lambert calls on me to describe what I’m eating for lunch, I can handle it. I start to speak in phrases, then sentences, sentences I don’t have to map out beforehand like I do with Mandarin. Somehow, it’s happening. I’m doing it.
_ _ _
One morning, toward the end of the month, I come downstairs to find Mom at the kitchen table. In front of her is the catalog from the community college and her checkbook. I say good morning and go the fridge for some orange juice. Mom just watches me. I’m about to take my juice out to the back patio, which is sort of what we’ve done if Dad’s not home as a buffer—if she’s in one room, I go into another—when she tells me to sit down.