I arrived at rue de Babylone on a Monday evening to find the small entrance crowded with Nadenne, Laurent and Mme Durebex. Laurent had been brought home by Mme Laplanche. Her high pretty laugh trickled down from the landing as she talked on the telephone. Mme Durebex had Laurent’s exercise book open at his French dictation. Nought out of ten.
– SER-PEN-TIN! We’ve been doing that word for a week, Laurent! What is wrong with you? AR-BRE! How do you spell that, Laurent? How do you spell that? Nadenne, GO and wash the leeks as I’ve shown you. Mon dieu, Laurent, c’est une honte une honte une HONTE! Tu n’as pas honte, Laurent? Hein?
Nadenne trudged upstairs. He turned on the landing and flashed his teeth at me. Laurent joined in our smile over his mother’s shoulder, which quivered in the struggle with her son’s shoelaces. She pulled off the shoes then turned to face me. My ears ringing, feeling sick at the smell of her breath, I adopted a po-face as Mme Durebex descended to remedial French for me.
– Listen, Shona, he has to know these words by heart. Only the words for the dictation. Do you understand? Nadenne!
Up the stairs she went, Une honte une honte une veritable honte! Laurent and I went to work in his bedroom. From this day on my job increased to French and maths tutor as well. I kept just one step ahead.
Laurent sprawled on the ink-dotted bed and spelt the words from the dictation through a pair of paper scissors. From his mouth, between the blades opening and closing, came the letters of each word in perfect formation. The front door opened and we lapsed into a fearful silence.
I wished Laurent in his chair, sitting up straight, looking at me with humble devotion. I willed the paper scissors back into the pencil case. I sought in vain the reason Laurent had spelt every word in the dictation with unerring imperfection.
M. Durebex stuck his head in the door and smiled at me.
– Bonsoir.
Taken aback, I returned the greeting.
He stood there nodding, as though he were pleased with me. Then he put his head further around the doorframe to see Laurent on the bed, legs splayed in the yellow track pants, sucking the scissors.
– He works like that, does he? M. Durebex chuckled.
When the evening’s lesson was over Mme Durebex called me upstairs. The tone of her voice made me think I was in trouble. The deadline for my decision about the Alps had passed over a week ago.
I could hear Mme Laplanche giggling in the lounge.
– Victor, I demand you give me a Scotch.
– Ah non. That’s no drink for a lady.
– I don’t give a damn. I need it. And not too much ice.
Before she had a chance to say anything, I told Mme Durebex I would come to the Alps. I confessed my visa needed to be renewed, and I was only eligible for three-month tourist visas.
– There might be problems, I said nervously.
– Ça va, she nodded, one eye on the vegetables Nadenne was chopping, finger to the corner of her mouth.
It should have been obvious to me by now that the Durebex preferred their staff to be illegal. What Mme Durebex had really called me up for was to tell me the Laplanches were looking for another jeune fille.
– Clau-dine! she trilled.
Mme Laplanche came into the kitchen. She rattled her drink and cooed at me.
– I want someone like you, Shona chérie. Do you know of anyone?
I stood there twisting my hands.
– Someone from your country, she prompted, qui parle bien l’anglais.
– I suppose I could put an ad up at the Australian embassy.
Mme Laplanche and Mme Durebex frowned at one another.
– Australian? Is that good for English?
– Well, I’m Australian.
Mme Laplanche’s face went blank and she took a sip of her Scotch. Mme Durebex picked up the phone on the landing. She dialled a number and waited for some time before she spoke.
– Mimi, écoute, tu sais ma jeune fille? She has some problems with her visa. Usually she goes home to her family in Ireland every three months, but we need her with us in the Alps this Christmas. No, we don’t pay her – she doesn’t actually work for us – we just give her food and board. Donc, tu vois le problème? Alors chérie, I wondered if you could do us a little favour …
She repeated the story several times, each time adding a more improbable embellishment. I flushed for her, seeing a flicker of laughter cross Mme Laplanche’s face, and for myself, anticipating my interview with Mimi at the Embassade de Genève.
Mme Durebex came back into the kitchen beaming.
– Voilà.
She took a large gulp from Mme Laplanche’s drink.
– Mireille!
– Oh arrête! Ça y est, Shona. Now, I want an eight in Laurent’s dictation tomorrow, at the very least, okay? I’m counting on you, Shona.
Laurent was a sweet and happy child when I picked him up from school the next day. He bumped into a man going down into the métro and apologised. He told me he’d gotten nine in his dictation. This pleased me: just as I thought, Laurent was a smart boy, and I was teaching him well.
But he wanted to tell his mother he got nought again.
– So don’t tell her I get a neuf.
– Why do you want to deceive your mother like that, Laurent?
– Pour une farce, he grinned.
We got into the métro.
– It’s mean, Laurent.
Laurent extracted a glob from his nose and raised his hand so I could inspect it before he smeared it on the doorhandle. A businesswoman glared at me. Laurent narrowed his eyes at his reflection in the door. The bright platform of our station drew across his face.
– I like to do it, he said.
– Do you really like it when your mother screams at you?
– Euh … no. No, I don’t like.
– You say, I don’t like it. She’ll scream at me too, and I don’t like it, that’s for sure.
– What does it mean, scream?