Paris and My French Family
We arrived in Paris in the late afternoon, and from the taxi window, the city seemed dark and forbidding. My grandparents had lived all their lives in the 17th arrondissement, and as we approached their house I could see the Arc de Triomphe garishly illuminated against the twilight. My grandmother explained that in 1945 she had watched a column of American soldiers march down the Avenue de la Grande Armée, her own street! “The most beautiful sight ever,” my grandmother mused. “General Eisenhower was at the head of the army, and a military plane actually swooped down and through the Arc de Triomphe to the Champs Elysées.” The wide avenue, bordered by handsome chestnut trees, did not impress me. I found the identical façades of the houses shabby and dull. The houses in Cairo, in Garden City where we lived, had lovely gardens and flowers everywhere. My grandparents had moved several blocks farther away from the arch, and I tried hard to remember their old apartment where I had learned to roller-skate down the long corridor that led to the kitchen where Georgette, cook and confidante, reigned. She must be old now, I thought.
The taxi stopped in front of a large green door with brass knobs. My grandmother rang the bell, and the door popped open with a clicking noise onto a large passageway leading to an inner courtyard. The taxi driver dropped our luggage in the hallway and left. I stood in the middle of the hallway and looked around. On my left was the concierge’s loge or apartment and on the right, glass doors leading to a majestic stairway and an elevator. “Don’t stand there like a statue,” my grandmother grumbled. “Pick up a suitcase and follow me.” The elevator was narrow with a cast-iron outer gate and two glass doors etched with an intricate floral pattern. (A year later I swung myself on the door and the elevator went down, crushing my back. I screamed and the concierge came to rescue me. I was badly bruised and had a broken rib but nothing more. Now, whenever I am in a small elevator with my grandchildren, my eyes are glued to the door with panic.) The apartment was on the third floor. It had two entrances, one on the left and one on the right of the staircase. My brother opened the door before we had a chance to knock and I stood at the threshold, staring and immobile. Eight years is a very long time in the life of a fifteen-year-old. From a cherubic baby brother, he had grown into a tall, thin, mournful adolescent, dressed in ugly brown trousers and a light cotton sweater. He looked to my young eyes ungainly and badly dressed. Of course, I too had changed, and Eddy stared equally hard at me, his eyes moving very fast. Years later I learned that Eddy had an eye problem that my daughter Juliette would inherit. As my grandmother gently asked Eddy to help his mother with the luggage, a tall, thin woman, wearing a flowered dress and a large white apron encircling her narrow body, embraced me, squeezing me hard around the chest. “You look lovely … so lovely. I missed you so much … look at me! I would have recognized you anywhere … same curls … same lovely eyes …” My grandmother interrupted this litany to ask Georgette to help my brother and mother, who were downstairs with all the heavy bags. Reluctantly Georgette let go of me and ran downstairs while my grandmother pushed me inside the flat. I was tired and overwhelmed by everything and everybody. I let my grandmother lead me to a room. “This is your room for now … then we will see.” I sat on the bed, bewildered, lonely, wondering how my mother greeted my brother. Did they talk while waiting for Georgette to come and help? Did they embrace? Was he shy? I looked around. The room was small and spare; a massive armoire with carved doors overpowered and darkened the space. The walls were covered with yellow-and-blue-striped wallpaper decorated with small flowers. Above the bed was a large painting of the Place du Tertre, in a heavy, carved gilded frame. The desk stood opposite the bed, and from the ceiling hung a bronze chandelier with candle-shaped bulbs that gave off a weak light. I walked to the window overlooking the gray, silent courtyard. I walked back to the bed and sat down, heavyhearted. I missed my own bedroom in Cairo, with its picture window overlooking the mango tree that my grandfather had planted when I was born. There everything was cheerful, light, filled with rich color; here everything seemed heavy, dark, and somber.
I left the room to explore the apartment, which was typical of those belonging to upper-middle-class Parisian families. Overlooking the avenue was a large bedroom, a living room, and a dining room. The back of the house had two smaller rooms and a bathroom. One was the room given to me; the other was my brother’s bedroom, which had once been my grandfather’s study. I envied Eddy. It was a wood-paneled room with a glassenclosed library reaching to the ceiling and containing all of my grandfather’s books, lots of classic novels, some of my brother’s schoolbooks, and a twenty-volume encyclopedia entitled Je Sais Tout. (I spent many teatime hours browsing through them, admiring the intricate etchings. My favorite one was of the famous chef Carême, the eighteenth-century French chef, standing next to a pièce monté prepared for some king. (I always thought that one day I would try to reproduce that particular masterpiece—three layers of three different cakes, each with intricate designs, the top looking more like a Greek temple than a pastry I never got past baking a simple tart.) In one corner was a heavy mahogany desk and next to it an enormous dark red armchair, which soon became my haven, and in which I curled up and got lost in novels like Claudine àl’Ecole by my namesake, Colette, Cousine Bette, and Le Rouge et Le Noir. (I got blasted by my grandmother for reading and loving Colette’s novels; she would say in a very moral tone, “Immoral … Pas pour une jeune fille de bonne famille.”) Against the wall was a narrow bed with leather cushions and a fur blanket. Dark walls and a dim chandelier like mine gave the room a cavelike atmosphere.
Between my room and my brother’s was the bathroom. In contrast to every other room in the house, it was spacious, airy, and whitewashed, with two sinks, a deep tub, and an awkwardly positioned hot-water heater. The toilet (water closet) was built into the long corridor leading to the kitchen. My grandmother’s bedroom had a private entrance and was more elegant and comfortable than, any other room. I coveted the Tiffany lamps that adorned her side tables and the tortoiseshell comb atop her dressing table. But the kitchen, Georgette’s queendom, was by far my favorite.
I was drawn to it right away, just as I had sought solace in the kitchen of my Cairo childhood. I missed the aroma of the ful medamas (braised brown fava beans) warming on our cook Ahmet’s stove, and the licks of chocolate mousse that he’d give me off the spoon. I had felt secure and protected in that Arab kitchen, with its spicy smell and Ahmet’s attentions. As I entered this new kitchen, I first noticed Georgette, who was standing over a large skillet stirring what smelled like garlic, parsley, and rich butter. I remembered her vaguely as rather plump, but she had grown older and was now very slender under her white butcher’s apron, with wavy black hair and huge brown eyes. I approached her shyly, not knowing how to begin a conversation. She smiled at me. “Come, Colette, come near. Let me look at you again.” Her wide red lips seemed to take over the bottom part of her face as she grinned. She did not look like a cook. She was beautiful.
The kitchen was a large, brightly lit room with a four-burner stove and a white enameled table covered with the ubiquitous floral waxed tablecloth. (I hated that cloth; it seemed to be perpetually wet and slightly sticky to the touch. I refused to eat on it and would lift it up and eat directly on the enamel table, to my grandmother’s chagrin.) An enormous refrigerator dominated the room. My grandmother was very proud of this refrigerator, which she bought in America before the war. Georgette told me that she was the first among her friends to have a refrigerator. Georgette, however, preferred her garde-manger, a little cabinet built into the wall beneath the window and open to the outside, with a screen to protect the contents from insects and rain. Georgette hid her treasures there: a pâté made by her sister-in-law, creamy butter from the country, vegetables, yesterday’s consommé. “So much better than her refrigerator,” Georgette would whisper to me as my grandmother admonished her for not storing everything in her proud possession. Georgette’s gleaming copper pots and pans hung from the ceiling, and she polished them religiously. I inherited those pots, and although I don’t use them, I polish them myself so that they shine on my kitchen wall, reminding me of Georgette’s warm pride and warm heart.
I often caught Georgette talking to the other maids in the building, her head hanging out of the large kitchen window, gossiping about the concierge or the tenant on the fourth floor, a single man with lots of friends. Bets were made when they caught him with a new woman. Was she or wasn’t she the one who would catch him? By the time I left home, the man was still unmarried!
The design of our building was the same as for all the buildings on the avenue. In the nineteenth century, Baron Haussemann, Napoléon III’s city planner, enlarged the avenue, and for the first time developers built apartment houses whose plans were virtually identical. Facing the avenue were the large, expensive apartments. Behind them was a courtyard, and at the back of it, another building with no elevators and smaller apartments. These were meant for the working class and artisans. In a few days I learned who lived on what floor, how much money they were making, and, more often than not, I learned of their personal problems that were endlessly shared by the other tenants, the concierge and, naturally, Georgette.
“Are you hungry? Can you wait till dinner or would you like something now?” I was famished but what would I ask Georgette for? In Cairo, Ahmet would have heated up a sanbusak, a little pastry baked with cheese, or slathered a pita bread with babaghanou. I looked at her again silently, trying to remember what she was like when I was six years old and loved her so much. I remembered going to the market with her. She would urge me to smell the fresh herbs by crushing them between her fingers, saying, “Sniff, Colette; this is fresh rosemary for tonight’s chicken.” And I would put my nose in her fingers and inhale the lovely fresh aroma of the rosemary. This is what I smelled now. “You have rosemary in that dish; what are you cooking?” “A chicken fricassee with rosemary … try the sauce,” she said, handing me a wooden spoon filled with a light aromatic jus. So delicious. While the chicken was simmering, she sat down next to me with a bowl full of tiny onions and started to peel them. “You add the onions after the chicken is golden brown,” she explained. “You still like to cook? You want to help me, peel the potatoes. I will cook them with the chicken.” I sat down in front of a bowl of small potatoes, washed and ready to peel. I had never peeled anything before, so Georgette picked up a small paring knife and showed me what to do. As she handed me the knife, she smiled. I felt useful and appreciated and went to work. From time to time Georgette turned around to admonish me. “Not so much skin! And remove the little black spots with the point of your knife!”
Chicken Fricassee
Have the butcher cut 2 small chickens about 2 pounds each into 2-inch pieces. You can also use just chicken legs and thighs. In a casserole melt 2 tablespoons butter and 1 tablespoon olive oil. When the butter is hot add 3 garlic cloves and sauté for 3 minutes. Dust the chicken pieces with flour and add to the casserole. Sauté the chicken until all the pieces are golden brown. Then add 10 small onions and sauté for 5 minutes. Add 1 rosemary sprig and 3 parsley sprigs, tied with a string, and salt and pepper to taste. Add 12 small potatoes and 2½ cups chicken bouillon. Bring to a boil, lower the heat to simmer, cover, and cook for 45 minutes. Remove the rosemary and parsley. Transfer the chicken and the potatoes to a platter. In a bowl beat 2 eggs and slowly add some of the chicken juice, mixing well. Add the eggs to the casserole juices. Heat for 2 minutes but do not boil. Correct the seasoning with salt and pepper. Pour the sauce over the chicken, garnish with chopped parsley, and serve. Serves 6.
I worked in silence, looking at Georgette from time to time. She sautéed the small pieces of chicken in the aromatic oil, then added the onions. Suddenly I heard a loud swish. She was pouring some bouillon into the skillet. I wanted to tell her about Ahmet and the kitchen in Cairo but I felt I had first to reestablish my relationship with her. Suddenly my grandmother appeared in the kitchen. “There you are,” she said. “I knew I’d find you here. Come with me and let’s unpack your things. You’ll help her later.” She had never liked to see me in the kitchen when I was little, complaining that I smelled like a kitchen helper. Today, it seemed I could be there without being scolded.
I eagerly followed her to my room. But my mother reappeared and said that she would help me unpack my things. I was sorry to see my grandmother leave; I wanted to be with her. More than anything I wanted her to talk to me. When she left the room we started to unpack. At the bottom of my suitcase was the missal that Mère Catherine of the Convent of the Sacred Heart had given me when I left Cairo. “I didn’t want her to see it,” my mother said with annoyance. “Where shall we hide it?” She looked tired and nervous, and I felt sorry for her. But why did we have to lie? Would my grandmother really be so angry? She seemed quite nice if a bit stern. Was my mother afraid of my brother? I wondered where he was. I had barely seen him. Was he pleased to see his mother after so many years? Or did he resent her for having left him behind? “Are you dreaming?” My mother’s harsh voice interrupted the questions swimming in my head. “Help me, I say. Where shall we hide it?” I looked around the room; there were no shelves, no bookcase, only the armoire where my mother was hanging my clothes. If we hid it in the armoire, my grandmother would find it. Where then? Angry with my mother, I said in a rough tone, “Under the mattress. In the middle of it; she won’t see it.” My mother looked embarrassed but quickly hid the missal under the mattress. I heard my grandmother’s voice calling us to supper. My mother took my hand and squeezed it as if she wanted to let me know she was sorry, and we left the room. She put her arm around my shoulders, something she had never done before. I walked slowly with her toward the dining room, afraid that she would remove her arm. I could feel the warmth of her body near mine. As we approached the dining room, I felt her body stiffen. She dropped her arm and walked quickly in, leaving me behind. I followed her, still angry and a bit afraid. Why, I wondered, is she so scared?
Above the long table in the dining room hung a magnificent crystal chandelier with a multitude of small, candle-shaped lights. Each arm of the chandelier had long pieces of crystal dangling from it, and the breeze coming in through the French windows made them dance with shards of delicate color infusing the crystal. I stared at it with delight as I sat by my grandmother’s side for the evening meal. My brother was on her other side, and I could not see him well. Although my mother asked him countless questions, he spoke very little, answering a yes or a maybe or just a nod of the head. The dinner was delicious. We started with a green soup served with small croutons infused with garlic. “Un bouillon d’herbes” (an herb soup), my grandmother said. “The markets are not yet full, and butter, eggs, and cream are rationed. Also, oil and cigarettes.” Turning to my mother she asked, “You don’t smoke, do you?” As my mother shook her head my grandmother added, “Good, so there is not a problem if we exchange them for something else.” I liked the soup and said so in a loud voice. I wanted to get my grandmother’s attention and I succeeded. My grandmother explained that the soup had no butter but was made with a strong chicken stock. Only children, she explained, got butter, eggs, and milk every week; grown-ups only once a month. “We have to register Colette tomorrow so we can get some stamps for her rations. She is a J-3 and that will help the family.” A J-3, I learned later, was a child between the ages of ten and eighteen and was entitled to special food stamps. I felt rather important just then and settled happily into the main course, the chicken fricassee with the small potatoes I had peeled. Each piece was lightly napped with a creamy sauce. The dish was succulent. My pleasure was short-lived as my grandmother pushed in front of me a purée of something green. I took one bite and grimaced. I hated spinach and the dish was no better than the one we were obliged to eat at the convent. “I don’t want it,” I said, pushing the dish away. “I hate spinach.” My grandmother frowned and said something that I would hear time and time again. “Eat it! Here, we went through the war and often had nothing to eat. You must eat what is on your plate. You are spoiled.” I sat staring sullenly at my grandmother, then at my mother, who said nothing. I did not want to insist and ate the spinach, closing my eyes in disgust.
We had brought with us a crate of oranges from Cairo and the large sweet lemons that I liked so much. As Georgette placed a bowl of oranges in the middle of the table, I reached to pick one for myself. Suddenly my grandmother hit my hand. “Don’t do that!” What had I done that was so wrong? “There are very few oranges in Paris. Here you don’t eat one by yourself. You share!” I remembered, almost shamefully now, eating oranges in Cairo. My grandfather would roll the orange on the table, pushing it down with the palm of his hand until it felt soft. He’d make a hole at the top and hand it to me. I would bring the orange to my mouth and squeeze. The juice exploded in my mouth, and the seeds stayed in the orange. I loved the cool sweet orange juice. We ate two or three at a sitting. No more! My grandmother peeled the orange and handed me a few segments, then passed some to my mother and brother. Well, I thought, I will get used to that too.
Later that evening I went to the bathroom to run my bath. In Cairo we had showers, but this bathroom had none. I lit the hot water heater and turned the faucet. The water was filling the bath slowly so I went into my brother’s room. He was sitting at his desk, and as I entered he lifted up his head and said grimly, “Knock at the door next time.” “What are you doing?” I asked, as I gazed at his pale adolescent face. He looked up at me. His eyes seemed to move quite fast, from one corner to the next. I wanted to ask why but I didn’t dare. His eyes were clouded with bitterness. “What do you want?” he asked. “Nothing, just to talk.” “I can’t talk now; I have a test tomorrow, so leave the room. I have to work.” I left the room, intending to look for my mother or Georgette, when I heard my grandmother’s voice calling my name from the bathroom. Oh God, I thought. I left the water running. Maybe it has overflowed. What a disaster. As I entered the bathroom, my grandmother was standing near the bathtub, which was only half full. I let out a sigh of relief. “Never, you hear, never fill the bathtub! Gas is expensive! Only fill it just to there,” she said as she pointed to the bottom of the bathtub. How can I wash myself in so little water, I thought, but said nothing to her as she left the bathroom. What a day! Everything I was doing was wrong. I hated Paris and I wanted to go back to Egypt!
In the next few days I learned that I was not supposed to take a bath every day. Twice a week was enough. “It is bad for your skin,” my grandmother said. “Use the bidet to wash yourself.” I thought everyone in my family smelled to high heaven. In the five years I stayed with her I could never get used to the idea of not bathing every day.
The next morning, I woke up thinking I was in Cairo and quickly realized that I was in Paris. I looked out of the window at the courtyard and saw the concierge talking loudly to a woman on the third floor of the next building. They were arguing about the lady’s cat, which had torn a garbage bag and made a mess in the courtyard. “It’s your damn cat,” cried the concierge. “No, I tell you. It’s not him. Poucet is nice … he was here with me the whole evening.” I ran to the kitchen to ask Georgette what was really happening down there. Eddy was sitting at the table having breakfast, a woman’s silk stocking thrust down around his head. I burst out laughing. “What’s that for?” I asked. “You look like a clown.” My brother got up, said, “You stupid girl!” and rushed out of the room. Georgette told me to sit down. She put a bowl filled with steaming café au lait in front of me and next to it, a long piece of baguette spread with butter and jam. “Eat and I will tell you why you should not laugh at Eddy.” The bread was fresh, crunchy and tasty, the raspberry jam rich, and the coffee smoothed with chicory. “Eddy had a hard time here during the war … and you know he missed you and your mother. Do you know that his hair is so curly that it stands up after he washes it? He has to put this net on his head to flatten it; if not they will make fun of him.” I understood, and thought about my cousins in Cairo, who all had tight curls. I missed them desperately, but I promised not to laugh at Eddy anymore.
The cries of the concierge below intensified. We both ran to the window. “It is the dressmaker on the third floor,” explained Georgette. “Every morning the concierge screams at her about her cat. Pauvre Mlle Poucet, it is not her fault. I don’t think it is her cat. I think it is someone’s in the building.” As the fight continued, I left the kitchen and went to Eddy’s room. I knocked on the door as I had been told. I poked my head through, said “I’m sorry,” and waited. Eddy looked at me, smiled, and said, “When I come back from school, I’ll take you for a walk.” Peace was in the air, and happily I went looking for my grandmother.
The next few days were very busy. The first morning I followed my grandmother to the town hall so I could register and get my J-3 stamps. We went food shopping down the street behind the house, an excursion repeated every morning. Lunch was the main meal of the day, and the aroma of Georgette’s cooking would drift through the house. My brother came back for lunch but my mother was often not there. “Where is Line?” my grandmother would inquire of Georgette. My mother was out visiting her old friends, having lunch with them or shopping. She quickly took on her old ways, absenting herself from the household and her children’s lives. Food offered me solace. Meals were simple and perfectly executed, each on a particular day. Sunday lunch was a roast leg of lamb stuffed with garlic, cooked medium-rare with a crust of coarse salt mixed with tarragon, a potato purée, and haricots verts. Dessert was bought at the pâtisserie down the block. Monday was my favorite lunch—cold thin slices of lamb served with a salad of lentils, followed by cheese and fresh fruit. Spring brought fraises des bois, wild strawberries no bigger than a nipple, bathed in crème fraîche. Tuesday was chicken day, and every week Georgette made a different chicken dish. The two that I remember still are Georgette’s chicken fricassee and a tender poached chicken. Wednesday was the only day that pained me. It was horse day. We were served chopped horsemeat—bloody, sickly sweet, and rather mushy. I battled long and hard for the right to enjoy one of Georgette’s omelettes as a substitute. Thursday was stew day.
Roast Leg of Lamb
With the point of a knife remove the thin white membrane of a 6-pound leg of lamb. Peel 3 garlic cloves and insert slivers of garlic all over the lamb. Melt 3 tablespoons of butter. In a bowl mix together 1 ½ cups coarse salt with 3 tablespoons chopped tarragon and add 1 teaspoon freshly ground pepper and the butter. Mix well and spread the mixture on the leg of lamb. Place the leg in a roasting pan. Add 1 ½ cups of water mixed with 1 tablespoon soy sauce. Bake in a preheated 325-degree oven about 15 minutes a pound for medium-rare. Remove from the oven and allow the lamb to rest before carving it. Brush away the salt, carve the lamb, and place on a serving platter. Garnish with chopped tarragon. Degrease the pan juice. Add ½ cup hot water, bring to a boil, and correct the seasoning with salt and pepper if needed. Pour ¼ cup juice over the lamb and serve the remainder in a sauceboat. Serves 6 to 8.
Lentil Salad
To make this salad it is better to use French or Italian small lentils, available in most health food or gourmet stores. Wash 2 cups French or Italian lentils and place them in a saucepan with 4 cups chicken bouillon. Bring to a boil, lower the heat, and cook until the lentils are tender but not overcooked, about 30 minutes. Drain and place in a salad bowl. In a small bowl mix together 1 garlic clove, minced, 1 tablespoon lemon juice, 2 tablespoons olive oil, and salt and pepper to taste. Mix well and pour over the lentils. Toss and set aside until ready to serve. The lentils should be room temperature. Serves 6.
Steamed Leeks
Cut off about 2 inches from the green part of 12 leeks. Trim the tops and wash the leeks under cold running water. Drain. Place the leeks in a large skillet with 1 cup water and ½ teaspoon salt. Bring to a boil, lower the heat, and simmer for 20 minutes, or until the leeks feel tender when pierced with a fork. Serves 6.
The only one I liked was the lamb stew made with lots of small vegetables. I disliked the queue de boeuf (oxtail stew), but Georgette served it with steamed leeks, which I adored. Friday was fish day: baked monkfish once in a while, a fish stew, or broiled fresh herrings. On Saturdays, if we were invited to lunch somewhere, Georgette made a potée, a mixture of boiled meats and vegetables served with ailoli, a very garlicky mayonnaise, so that on Monday we could have cold meats with mustard. Dinner was most often a simple soup, followed by a few slices of French ham with a green salad, cheese, and fruit.
As soon as I grew more confident about my surroundings, my grandmother started to send me shopping in the neighborhood. Avenue de la Grande Armée was one of the large boulevards that started at the Arc de Triomphe. It was lined with tall chestnut trees, and there were three métro stops—Etoile at the beginning of the avenue, Argentine in the middle, and Porte Maillot at the end. My stop was Argentine, two hundred feet from the entrance of our house. The whole avenue was lined with identical apartment houses, with very few stores except for flower shops, two bakeries, and several cafés. My favorite one was near the Etoile, and I often met my friends there, as I was afraid to bring them to the house. The shopping was on the side streets. Every day as I got out of the métro, I picked up the newspaper from the kiosque near my stop and then went to the bakery, Boulangerie Vaudois, and bought a baguette for dinner. Sometimes when I came home early I bought a small quiche and ate it before I went upstairs. My grandmother did not approve of eating between meals but I could not resist the smell of warm quiche. Between numbers 30 and 22 of Avenue de la Grande Armée was the American PX, where servicemen and their wives went shopping. My grandmother had befriended several of them because she spoke English well and also because right after the war the French were very thankful to the Americans for having helped to liberate Paris. At least once or twice a week an American was invited to dinner. As food was rationed, they often helped my grandmother by bringing coffee or butter or steaks to the house.
Rue des Acacias was our shopping street. There was the crémerie, where I went first to buy milk. After the war, you brought your metal pail to the crémerie and Mme Blanchette filled it up with milk using a large ladle. Butter, sold by the pound, was cut with a metal string from a motte, a hill of luscious, yellow creamy butter. I was always astounded that Mme Blanchette could cut exactly a pound if this is what you wanted. The butcher and the produce stores were next on my trip; first came the butcher. Meat was displayed in the window, laid out in an organized mosaic of reds and whites and yellows. The butcher’s wife was a friend of my grandmother, who called ahead to order the meat for dinner. As I approached the end of the street I closed my eyes while passing the horse butcher. The store had a large gilded horse head outside above the large display window. I hated the store and hated horsemeat. If my grandmother asked me to buy some, I often came home empty-handed, feigning forgetfulness. The street ended at Place des Ternes. At the corner was Les Grands Magasins Réunis, a dowdy department store built in the early 1900s, and my grandmother’s favorite shop. There she bought her amazing hats topped with birds or flowers and frumpy old-fashioned dresses (“everyday dresses,” she called them). Unfortunately she bought my dresses there also, so I went around feeling-out-of-fashion and unattractive. No argument would dissuade her. For the first year, the 17th arrondissement, my neighborhood, became my only world. When I returned after my wedding several years later, I was astonished at how nothing had changed.
My mother disappeared more and more often as the days went by. It was my grandmother who registered me at the Ecole de Jeunes Filles de Neuilly a private school across from my brother’s high school. I would have to be tutored all summer long, as my schooling at the Convent of the Sacred Heart had left me way behind most of the students my age.
A month after we arrived, my grandmother announced that we would all go to the sea. She chose Biarritz, but, it was my mother who rented and paid for the house. I would be tutored in the morning and my afternoons would be free to go to the beach and have fun. I thought my life was looking up.