The Boyfriends
I was sixteen and didn’t have a boyfriend. Claudine and Nicole didn’t have one either. I was baffled. Claudine, after all, was pretty—curly golden hair, voluptuous body, even features—and Nicole, sharp-featured and skinny, was extremely charming and worldlier than I. Her brother was an agent for famous movie stars, and she’d tell us about parties he gave for his clients where she met highly ambitious teens who wanted to break into show business. When I look now at pictures of us at that age, I realize that we were actually frumpy, badly dressed, and not à la mode. I never read fashion magazines; worse, I neglected the newspapers and had little awareness of what was happening in the world around me. Like every Parisian youth, I loved popular singers like Charles Trenet, Georges Brassens, and Juliette Greco. I read Prevert’s poetry and could recite his poem Liberté with tears in my eyes. I read romantic novels and dreamed of meeting a young man who would rescue me from my abusive grandmother. But that winter nothing happened. Boys from the nearby school that my brother attended sometimes came and stood on the other side of the street ogling the girls as they filed out of the front gate. They whistled, and sometimes a girl crossed over to talk to them. My friend Judith knew one of the boys, Charles, a tall seventeen-year-old with a very short haircut just like the American actors he had seen in the movies. He was in the grade above us, and Judith reported that he was very sophisticated, had read André Gide, and could explain Gide’s philosophy to her, although it went right over her head. She joined him after school and they walked together to the métro. Sometimes he even rode with her until she reached home. She whispered to us how much she liked him, but she couldn’t go out with him officially, nor could he come to her house. Her family insisted that she receive only Jewish suitors. I often wondered what I would do if I had a boyfriend. Would my grandmother let me go out with him if he was not Jewish? I knew my brother had a girlfriend; I had caught him calling her from home but I never mentioned anything to my grandmother. We both knew not to involve her, and after that day my brother was nicer to me. Despite our fondness for each other, Claudine and I never talked about our problems, so I never knew if she was upset by our lack of boyfriends. We never talked about sex either. I had not left the convent in Cairo long enough to forget what the nuns used to say to us nearly every day: “Don’t flirt with boys; stay pure until you are engaged and know that you are getting married. Virginity is the most precious gift of all.” Precious gift? For whom? At night, when I was aching with loneliness or felt the need to be hugged or kissed as in the novels I read, I ended up in the kitchen, barefoot in my nightgown, eating thick slices of saucisson sec with a piece of baguette. If I had been older I would have drowned the salami with a glass of wine, but as in every French household, you drank wine only at meals. Instead, I washed my midnight snack down with buttermilk. Once in a while my grandmother caught me and berated me with her shrill voice. “You are going to get fat! You should not eat again late at night. Go to bed!” She never invited me to chat with her.
Before leaving the convent to come to France, I had sometimes heard the older girls in the dormitory talk about masturbation. I did not quite know what they meant, but I had heard them discussing caressing themselves at night. I was afraid to ask or even to talk about it. What if it was a sin? What would happen to me? And what about my virginity? Would I lose it? I tried once to ask one of the older girls but she blushed and answered that I was too young. None of us, I was sure, dared ask the nuns, and now, in Paris, I had no one to talk to.
One day, Paulette, a flighty girl with whom we were acquainted, announced that over the weekend she had met a young man, and that she had gone dancing with him with her parents’ permission. He kissed her on the lips and did much more. Much more? We all wanted to know, but proud as a peacock, Paulette moved away and left us in the dark, our imaginations on fire. What had happened? Did she go to bed with him? We looked at her for signs, but she seemed no different than she had the week before. For the next few days, I tried to catch her alone to ask her questions, but she would just smile and walk away I was frustrated. I looked through the bookshelves in my grandfather’s library, read and reread Colette’s stories, but found nothing that would help.
In March we all had to have a physical checkup. A doctor was to come to the school and perfunctorily check our heartbeat, blood pressure, and teeth. If he felt anything was amiss, a note would be sent to our parents and then we had to be thoroughly examined by our own doctor. I hated my gym class, held Thursday afternoons, and instead wanted to walk on the Left Bank and explore Paris. Claudine had special dispensation and could miss gym; I yearned to go home with her too. I told Judith, Claudine, and Nicole how miserable I was about having to go to gym class. Judith had a brilliant idea. “When the doctor comes and it is your turn, don’t take the elevator. Run up the stairs very fast and chew on blotting paper. It will raise your body temperature and the doctor will think you have heart disease.” It worked! My grandmother got a letter from the school stating that I might have something wrong with my heart, and until I was checked out by my own physician I could not take gym class. I was elated. For the next two weeks, until my grandmother made an appointment with our doctor, I was free to be with Claudine and roam the streets of Paris.
Our doctor was a man in his late thirties, and as we sat down in his office, my grandmother explained that I had lived in Egypt, that I had been in Paris only one year, and that the school doctor who had examined me thought I had something wrong with my heart. The doctor stared at me and I stared back, mentally imploring him to find something wrong with me. He then took me to his examining room and listened carefully to my heart while my grandmother looked on. Again I stared directly at the doctor, right into his eyes. I remembered my Egyptian grandmother saying that all Palacci women were witches and if I wanted something badly enough I could send a message with my eyes. The doctor cocked his head in confusion, turned to my grandmother, and said in a low voice, “Elle a des yeux de boudoir; ils sont superbes mais elle a aussi un soufle au coeur, donc pas de gymnastique!” (“She has bedroom eyes. They are superb, but she also has a heart murmur, so no gym classes!”) I felt elated but then he added that I had to be on a diet and not eat any fat. What about butter, cream, cheese, and all the things I loved? “On a diet,” he repeated, “for at least two months.” For years after that I never knew if I had a soufle au coeur, and I don’t know if he felt he had given me what I wanted, but I had to pay the price. Once outside, my grandmother said in an angry voice, “You are impossible! What did you do to him? Did you say or make a sign for him to say such a thing about your eyes?” I denied doing anything but thought of my Egyptian grandmother. Yes, she was right; maybe, after all, I was a witch! I often told my own children that I was a witch and that I could foresee the future in a coffee cup. I would read the dregs of a cup of Turkish coffee and tell them what I thought would happen to them or answer their questions by reading their fates in the cards. Sometimes I was right. It seems my daughter Marianne has inherited my witchcraft … or at least my talent for guessing correctly; she has confessed to reading Turkish coffee grounds for her friends.
Back home that night, as I undressed I stood naked in front of the mirror. I looked at my body. My breasts were large but firm and I had a very small waist and round hips. I thought I looked like the picture of my grandmother when she was young. I was born in the wrong century, one hundred years too late. Perhaps if I had been born in the nineteenth century, I would have been considered a beauty. I looked at my eyes again and saw nothing. What did he mean by des yeux de boudoir? I slowly caressed my breasts and thought if only there was some man who would do this to me. I felt warmth all over my body and, closing my eyes, I imagined him kissing me. Suddenly I was brought back to earth by a knock on the door. My brother was saying that my grandmother was not feeling well and would I make her something hot to drink? Quickly I put on a dressing gown and went into the kitchen to make her some hot tea. Once she had sipped her tea and gone to sleep, I went into my room and tried to recapture the feeling I had had while looking at myself in the mirror. The magic had gone and I was simply hungry. My grandmother had made me eat salad and cold ham that evening, while she and my brother regaled themselves on soft scrambled eggs with heavy cream and truffle juice served with boiled new potatoes, a dish I loved. As I opened the gardemanger, I found the remains of stuffed artichokes that had been served the night before. The stuffing was delicious: a mixture of chopped mushrooms and black olives in a light vinaigrette. They were as good cold as they were hot and I devoured two of them. I felt better. The next day, with a note from the doctor and one from my grandmother, I was excused from gym for the remaining months of school.
One day in early May my brother came to me and asked if I would like to join his friends and him in a play they were going to produce for their school. The play, Gide’s Oedipus Rex, was going to be performed in the local theater. They need a woman to play the role of Oedipus’ mother and they had found no one. I was astonished. My brother asking me to join him? I eagerly accepted and was told that the following Saturday I would go with him to rehearsal. Meanwhile could I start learning my lines?
That Saturday I went with my brother to his school to meet the cast. There were many boys standing around. My brother explained that they were the chorus and then took me to meet the three other important characters of the play. Gérard, a boy of about eighteen, was Oedipus. He was shorter than my brother, with intense brown eyes and a mop of unruly brown hair. He was wearing baggy corduroy pants and a black turtleneck sweater. “Hi, what’s your name? You’re Eddy’s girlfriend?” “Of course not!” I countered, indignant. “I am his sister, and my name is Colette.” Suddenly, all the other boys standing next to Gérard burst out laughing. “We saw him with you so often that we thought you were his girl. He never told us he had a sister.” I blushed, angry with my brother for not telling them in advance that I was his sister. Was he ashamed of me? As I was about to turn toward him, a tall blond boy with deep blue eyes came forward and, extending his hand, said kindly, “My name is Georges. Welcome aboard. I play Creon, Oedipus’ uncle and your brother. I am very happy that you agreed to be one of us.”
All week long I waited for Saturday and the rehearsal. My brother was the director and in charge of the production. I soon realized that I was not a very good actress and I worried a lot that they would be tired of telling me all the time to be “natural.” I tried hard and learned my lines expertly, but what excited me the most was what took place after the rehearsals. Georges, Gérard, my brother, and I would end up in a café. The three of them discussed politics, theater, books, and sometimes girls. Neither Georges nor Gérard seemed to have a girlfriend, or at least I never saw them with girls. As I listened, I made mental notes of the books and authors they talked about and bought them that same day. I became a voracious reader. I didn’t always understand what I read but I tried to keep up with the three of them. Politics became my favorite subject. Gérard leaned to the left, Georges to the center, and my brother was the conservative one. They argued about General MacArthur, the atomic bomb, the validity of a war in Korea. I listened carefully. A year later, when I was in the twelfth grade and General MacArthur threatened to drop an atomic bomb on Korea, I, along with all my school friends, marched on the American Embassy in protest. It was the first time that I involved myself in a political demonstration and I felt very proud. Later there would be other marches, but this one was the direct result of sitting in a café for hours, listening to three young men arguing politics, two of whom I had fallen in love with.
We’d all go out to dine in cheap bistros. I always tried not to eat too much in front of these wonderful boys, realizing quickly that food and wine were not important to them. They ate and drank without tasting what they were eating or drinking. I usually chose the same thing: frites and a sandwich au jambon. Sometimes I took a plat du jour, especially if it was a blanquette de veau, a veal stew with lemon and cream. I loved that dish, and even today I make it whenever I feel nostalgic. The rehearsals took three months of blissful Saturdays. Even after three months I wasn’t better than in the first few days of rehearsals. The day of the performance, my jitters were overshadowed by a feeling of doom. What would I do on Saturdays? Would I see them again? I wanted to perform well that night; maybe if they produced another play, they would ask me again. I was dressed in a long, narrow black dress, my hair done up in long curls falling over my forehead and tied in the back with golden cords. For the first time in my life I had makeup on; Georges’s mother had painted me with lipstick, rouge, and dark mascara on my eyelashes. I looked at myself in the mirror of the ladies’ room. My eyes were copper-colored edged in green, and the dress and high heels made me look ten years older. As I left the ladies’ room, Georges and Gérard, who were standing outside, looked at me and together said, “merde!” I must have blushed because they both became quite embarrassed and left me without another word. What was wrong? Was I not beautiful? I am sure, I thought, it is the makeup. I wanted to cry I followed them backstage, hoping still that they would say something about how I looked. But they were busy rehearsing their lines and I did the same.
Blanquette de Veau
Ask the butcher to cut a breast of veal into 1½-inch pieces—about 3 pounds. In a saucepan heat 1 tablespoon olive oil with 1 tablespoon butter. Add the veal and brown on all sides. Add 1 onion, stuck with 1 clove and 1 bay leaf and sprinkle the veal with 1 tablespoon sage. Cover with 2½ cups chicken bouillon. Bring to a boil, lower the heat, and simmer, covered, for 1 hour. Add salt and pepper to taste, 2 carrots, scraped and thinly sliced, and ½ pound mushrooms, quartered. Cook for another 15 minutes, or until the carrots are done. In a bowl beat 2 egg yolks with ½ cup heavy cream and the juice of 1 lemon. While stirring, add 2 tablespoons of the hot broth from the veal. Pour the egg/lemon mixture into the veal stew. Keep it hot but do not cook or boil. Serve the veal with the sauce and steamed couscous or boiled potatoes. Serves 4 to 6.
The theater was filled with students, parents, and teachers. My grandmother had told me that she wasn’t coming because she had accepted a dinner invitation for that night. I was hurt and at the same time relieved, since I’d be able to attend the cast party after the play. My brother was in the wings, nervously pacing. This was his production, and the way he looked at me, I knew I had to be good. Toward the end of the play, when Jocasta, Oedipus’ mother and wife, realizes what has happened to her and her family, I, too, realized that this was the end for me. There would be no more Saturdays to rehearse, no more discussions in the café; life would be as it had been before the play. I must have expressed my sorrow as I recited the lines. As the curtain fell down, the audience roared with delight, and Georges and Gérard hugged me; even my brother smiled at me. I had not disappointed them. At the cast party, Georges, Gérard, and my brother were surrounded while I was ignored or thought I was. I left early without saying goodbye to anyone. That night in bed, I cried myself to sleep. How or when would I see both boys again? I was just Eddy’s sister and for them, I was the girl who had solved their problem. I had played the role of the queen, had played it well, and that was that.
The next day in school, my friends gathered around me, plying me with questions. What was it like? Did people like the play? Did I meet anyone interesting at the party? What was going to happen next? Was I going to be an actress? I exaggerated somewhat about my success. No, I did not want to be an actress. I wanted to be a scientist. No, there was no boyfriend waiting for me, I told them with bitterness. Disappointed by my answers, my companions dropped the subject and we all went to the café next door where I ordered two croissants and a large café au lait to drown my sorrow.
That Saturday, Claudine and I walked down the Boulevard Saint-Germain, stopping at the church. While Claudine was dutifully admiring the architecture, I lit a candle to the Virgin Mary, praying that Georges and Gérard would call or at least would want to put on another play “Why are you lighting a candle?” asked Claudine suspiciously, standing behind me. I had to think quickly By now Claudine knew that my family was Jewish but I never talked about myself being Catholic. “Superstition,” I said as I pushed her to the door. This was not the time to tell her my story.
We continued our walk along the boulevard, admiring the new boutiques and entering the bookstores where, like everyone else, we flipped through the new books, reading a page or two. Saint-Germain was then the center of the avant-garde, and the streets were packed with students, foreigners, and politicians. We walked to Café Flore where Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir sat for hours arguing. The café was packed with girls dressed in black, drinking strong coffee, while the boys in turtleneck sweaters smoked acrid Gitanes. I felt dowdy in my navy dress and flat shoes and bare legs. I was so unfashionable! Later, I walked behind the Church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés to the open food and seafood market and passed mounds of oysters, clams, shrimps, small artichokes with their stems still on, and white asparagus, my favorite. I stood there wishing I could buy everything. I imagined myself having a small apartment, shopping for food, and cooking a sumptuous dinner for Georges and Gérard. Just before heading home, I bought some crevettes grises (tiny, pale cooked shrimps) that I munched on in the métro.
A week later, as I was leaving school, I saw Gérard and Georges waving to me from across the street to come and join them. My heart beating, my knees trembling, I crossed, wanting to look indifferent but only managing to smile foolishly as I approached them. “Come to the café with us … we want to talk to you!” My prayers were answered! They were going to ask me to join them for another play! I felt light as a bird, and as I crossed the street, I reviewed in my mind what I was going to say when both boys asked me to help them. Georges asked me if I wanted to have something to eat. I said no, just coffee, although I was starving and would have liked a chien-chaud (a hot dog in a baguette), a recent discovery that I craved every afternoon. There was a moment of silence while we waited for our coffee. I looked at Georges—really looked at him—for the first time. He was tall, thin, with blondish hair, earnest blue eyes, and a long French nose. He wore blue pants, an elegant white shirt, and a navy blue sweater wrapped around his shoulders. My gaze went to Gérard and I smiled inadvertently. As usual Gérard’s clothes were in disarray His brown sweater had holes at the elbows, his curly brown hair was too long, and his eyeglasses gave his face an owlish look. They were broken and held together with tape. He was shorter than Georges but just as thin. I felt comfortable with him and liked his sense of humor. The silence continued, and both of them were looking down at their coffee. After a while I coughed, looked up, and said, “Well, how are you both? I missed the rehearsals … it was a good play,” and waited. Suddenly Georges started to talk: “Colette … this is hard to say … but we …” and he stopped, blushing deeply. “We are both in love with you. We don’t know whom you … you … like best. We’ve been fighting and have decided that you have to … to … choose.” I looked at both incredulously Georges was red as a beet and Gérard was looking down at his shoes. Choose? But how? Which one? This was ridiculous! “I don’t know … I love you both … I miss you both. How must I choose?” I stuttered, frightened by their earnestness. What sort of change would this bring? “You can kiss each one in turn and then decide,” Gérard said with a smile. I looked down at my empty cup of coffee, wondering what the correct answer was. I had never kissed a boy before, nor did I know how. Georges then said in a whisper, “Come! Let’s go next door inside the apartment building and kiss.” I got up and followed him like a stupid puppy. We entered the courtyard of the building next door, and he embraced me awkwardly and kissed me with a closed, dry-lipped mouth. He’s too tall, I thought, and his lips are chapped. I wanted to tell him to try again but was afraid. We went out on the street again and Gérard was waiting outside the building. Now it was his turn. I suddenly felt like laughing. If only my grandmother could see me now, I thought, she would have a real heart attack! Gérard bent down toward me, tilted my head up with his hand under my chin, and looked into my eyes. “You have such beautiful eyes and I do love you.” This was unexpected and I felt as if a wave were hitting me in the chest. I wanted to be in his arms; I wanted to be kissed right away I held on to him, lifted my head toward him, and kissed him. As we went out, I looked at Georges and felt sorry for him. “It’s him,” I said, pointing to Gérard. “I’m so sorry I really like you, but I love him.” Georges walked away, his head bent, shuffling his feet. Years later, after I had gotten married, I met Georges again in Paris. He was still handsome and so very proper. We laughed together, recalling our foiled kisses in the doorway.
From then on Gérard met me outside the school gate and walked me home. Sometimes we stopped at a café and sat for an hour. I listened while Gérard talked about his dream of becoming a poet. I hid the poems he wrote to me under my mattress. At night I’d take them out and read them again and again, as well as his many letters in which he revealed his carnal desires for me. Very soon I had a bundle of letters under the mattress, and I was afraid that my grandmother would find them.
On Saturdays he took me to listen to black jazz singers who were a hit in Paris. He gave me books to read, records to listen to, and he taught me to read the newspaper every day. “You have to know what is going on in the world, Colette. … You have to take a stand and for that you must be informed.” It is at that time that I became hooked on politics. We read Le Monde “to be in the know,” Gérard would say; and l’Humanité, a communist rag. “I am not a communist,” Gérard would explain, “but you have to defend the poor and the working class.” Sometimes he took me out to lunch. “I found a great place for frites, you want some?” and we trotted to a special little hole in the wall and devoured a plate of frites with salt and boudin blanc (white veal sausages). After lunch, we walked hand in hand, and suddenly he would stop in the middle of the street, hug me, and kiss me deeply. I was in heaven.
One day Gérard announced that his parents were going away for the weekend and would I come to his apartment for lunch? I told my grandmother that I was going to Claudine’s house to work with her, told Claudine that I wanted to be with Gérard, and that if my grandmother called, we were both out. Gérard lived on the Left Bank in an old apartment house. Both his parents were university professors. The apartment—long, narrow, and dark—was filled with books, old furniture, paintings on the walls, so very different from ours. Gérard’s room was small with posters on the wall, books on the floor, and papers scattered all over his desk. “I am writing a novel,” Gérard said. “I will let you read a chapter.” There was a studio bed in one corner. Gérard hugged me, then kissed me, and pushed me gently toward the bed. I lay down stiffly, not moving, my legs tightly closed together. Gérard started to undo my blouse. I was petrified. In my mind I saw Mère de Rousiers looking at me, and I could hear her voice saying, Don’t, Colette … you must not … it is a sin. The image was so strong that I jumped up and said in a trembling voice, “I can’t … not now … I must go home. I love you but…” I bolted out of the room, put on my jacket, and ran to the métro. As I sat down, I thought how ridiculous I was, that I was surely going to lose him. I hated myself, my life, everything. When I got home I was relieved to see that my grandmother was out. I ran to the telephone and called Gérard. “I am sorry … I was scared … please forgive me. Next week I will be there … I promise.” Gérard calmed me and said not to worry, that he understood. He was going away for ten days but when he returned, he would meet me at school, and meanwhile he would write to me.
Gérard kept his word. A few days later a letter came for me. I had asked the concierge to just hand me my mail and not give it to my grandmother. The letter spoke of kissing me, of stroking my breasts, of making love and how wonderful it would all be. I read and reread the letter before putting it with the others under my mattress. A few days later, when I came home from school, my grandmother called me into her room. As I entered, I saw my letters in her hand. “How dare you! You are like a whore! Having a lover at sixteen! I forbid you to see him again. I will call your uncle Clément and tell him about this! Go to your room.” I was crushed. What was I going to do? I wanted to call Gérard but I did not know where he was. I wanted to talk to someone but to whom? The next day, as I left the school, I saw my uncle Clement’s car. “Get in, I have to talk to you.” Once in the car, he spoke about our family’s name, reputation, how young I was, that I had time to have a boyfriend, that for now I had to abide by my grandmother’s wishes. “I hate her,” I said. “Why do I have to live with her?” “You are too young to live alone; you have to protect your name.” I looked at him and said in a nasty voice, “And you, you live with your mistress! You don’t protect your name.” As soon as I said that, I was sorry. Clément had always been very kind to me. “I am sorry I said that. I was just angry. I will only see him on weekends outside. I won’t go to his house, I promise.” Clément drove me home and handed me some money. “Buy yourself something nice; you will feel better afterward.” I wanted to return the money, but I could not hurt his feelings again. He did not understand what I felt but he meant well. For him, as for all his generation and class, money was always the solution.
A few days later when I tried to call Gérard I was told he was still away. For several weeks afterward, I kept on calling, not understanding what had happened. Where was he? I finally broke down and asked my brother. He told me that my grandmother had called his parents and had asked them to be sure that Gérard never came close to me. I cried and screamed at my grandmother who looked at me with scorn. “You’re like your mother; nothing good will ever come your way” I never saw him again. Years later I learned that he became a professor like his parents.
One day in July while we were having lunch, the telephone rang. Eddy went to answer and came back, telling my grandmother, “There is a young man on the phone. He speaks English and says that he is the son of Anne Rossant. He wants to talk to you.” My grandmother picked up the phone and spoke in English. She sounded excited. When she came back to the table, she said, “It was the son of an old friend of ours from America. He is coming to lunch tomorrow with his friends. Colette, I told him that you will show him Paris.” The next day my grandmother decided to make a quiche Lorraine followed by a tomato salad and raspberries with crème fraîche for dessert. I was sent shopping, told to buy cheeses and bread, and to make the tomato salad. By noon everyone was impatient to see this young American and his friends. Finally the doorbell rang. I opened the door and was faced with a very tall young man, with graygreen eyes, thin, and very handsome. “I am Jimmy. You must be Colette. This is my friend Les.” I shook hands and thought, My English is terrible. How do I speak to him? We sat down to lunch and Jimmy spoke about his mother, told us his father was dead and that his brother was working in England. They were on their way to Italy and Denmark, maybe Greece, but wanted to visit Paris first. “This food is great. I’ve never had such a wonderful tomato salad. Who made it?” I said I did and he smiled at me and said again and again, “Great salad … great salad.” Now he jokes that he married me because of the tomato salad. For the next week we were inseparable. I showed him Paris, took him and Les to the opera, where we were thrown out because we laughed so much, visited the Left Bank and every church and important building that he had heard of. Gérard was forgotten. Again I was in love, this time with a tall American. I followed him everywhere, sat by his side while he sketched, admiring his drawings. “I want to be an architect and build cities as great as these,” he said to me. “I am going to architectural school when I go back.” I did not want him to leave but never said anything to him. The day before he left to continue his trip, he had lunch again at our house. Again I made a tomato salad to serve with my grandmother’s boeuf en gelée (beef in aspic). Jimmy was sitting in front of me, playing with my foot. I lost my shoe and suddenly I heard my grandmother say, “Colette, remove the plates and bring in the ice cream.” I was embarrassed, as I could not find my shoe, which had ended up under Jimmy’s chair. I dropped my napkin, bent down, and Jimmy pushed the shoe toward me. We were safe. Just as he was leaving, my grandmother invited him to Hendaye on the Atlantic Coast, where we were going to spend a month. Jimmy thanked her, took the address, but said probably not as he wanted to see Denmark. He kissed me goodbye on the cheek and said that he hoped to see me on his way back. I was sad to see him go and felt alone and miserable. I did not know if he liked me or not but I knew that I loved him.
Tomato Salad
Place 4 large tomatoes in a bowl, cover with boiling water, and allow the tomatoes to soak for 5 minutes. Drain and refresh under cold running water. In a large salad bowl mix together ½ teaspoon salt, freshly ground black pepper, 1 teaspoon lemon juice, 2 tablespoons olive oil, 1 garlic clove, minced, and 2 shallots, minced. Add 10 fresh tarragon leaves. Mix well. Peel the tomatoes (the skin should easily slide away). Thinly slice the tomatoes, add to the lemony dressing, toss, and serve. Serves 4.
In the next few weeks we got several postcards from Jimmy addressed to the family. Nothing special for me. He was having a great time, he wrote, and hoped to see us in September. In early August, we left for Hendaye, a small town not too far from Biarritz where my grandparents spent many vacations in their house before the war. Hendaye had a beautiful beach, and the small hotel where we stayed was more like a pension. The food was great, especially the fish and the seafood. My favorite was a bouillabaisse with sardines—a rich fish broth simmered with fennel and served with sardines and toast covered with a spicy aioli. After a long morning swim, I devoured mounds of deep-fried tiny fish or rich rillettes spread on country bread served with a green salad. But my favorite dish was mussels cooked with ham and lots of garlic. At night we had fish with a red vinegar sauce or fresh tuna with green olives and roast potatoes. I stuffed myself with strawberries and peaches and somewhat forgot for a while Jimmy and my loneliness.
One day, after we had been in Hendaye for two weeks or so, we received a telegram from Jimmy. He had decided to join us in Hendaye for a week. I was in heaven. I went to the station to pick him up. “You are so brown” are the first words Jimmy said to me. “I am glad I came here.” As we drove back to the hotel, Jimmy told me how beautiful Italy had been but he had had enough traveling for a while and wanted to swim and look around. For the next two days, we swam, lunched, swam again, dined, always in the company of my grandmother and brother. I was getting quite desperate. On the fourth day Jimmy announced that he had caught a cold and was staying in bed. I was dispatched to bring him some chicken consommé. I quietly knocked at the door of his room, came in, and found him asleep. I put the soup on the table near his bed and looked at him sleeping. He was so handsome. I bent down and kissed him lightly He grabbed my hand and kissed it. We both laughed. I sat on his bed and we talked. How to get rid of my brother, my grandmother, and be together, we asked each other. I had a brilliant idea: my grandmother was very vain and liked to flirt with men. An elderly gentleman staying at the hotel had befriended her. I said to Jimmy that I would go and talk to him and ask him to help us. I found him in the salon of the hotel and told him how I needed to be alone with Jimmy and how my grandmother never left us alone. He smiled and said he loved young lovers and he would take care of her. For the next few days he took my grandmother away on rides, visiting churches, and mainly flirting with her, which made her very happy To get rid of my brother, Jimmy told him he wanted to sketch the small churches in the countryside, and that I would help him carry his watercolors. My brother, who preferred the beach and swimming, never came along. I followed Jimmy everywhere, watching him sketch the local fishermen, village scenes, and me. We talked about school, my mother, what I wanted to do after graduating from high school. Two days before Jimmy had to leave for Paris, we asked our old gentleman conspirator if we could go with him to Biarritz for the day. As we drove away with him, I suggested to Jimmy that we get off at La Négresse, a small village outside Biarritz, and wait there for him to pick us up. There was a lovely river with a small restaurant and we could easily spend time there. Mr. Arnold dropped us at La Negresse near a bridge over the small river. We walked to the edge and sat under a tree. Jimmy said nothing for a while, then turned to me and said, “Will you marry me?” I was silent for just a moment. “Of course I will marry you,” I said, grinning wildly “I love you!” We sat there in each other’s arms for a while, then went across to the inn. I warned him, “Don’t say anything to my grandmother! Wait until you are back in Paris and my mother will be there. We will tell her then.” After lunch we went across the bridge to be picked up. Jimmy sat down on a stone and drew the hardware store on the other side of the little square, with its cowbells hanging on the doorway and lots of pots and pans and barrels on the floor. Today, the drawing is hanging in my bedroom.
Friture
When my children were young we used to fish with a long, large net for tiny fish called whitebait or smelt. These tiny fish do not need to be cleaned, just patted dry with paper towels and dipped in a batter and fried. I served them inside a napkin with dunks. We ate them as if they were potato chips. The children loved them. This recipe is for 1 pound of bait. Place 1½ cups flour in a bowl or use rice flour for a lighter batter. Add 1 teaspoon salt, a pinch of pepper, 1 tablespoon melted butter, and 2 well-beaten eggs. Mix well and slowly add ¾ cup beer, stirring constantly. Refrigerate for 3 hours. Heat 4 cups vegetable oil. When the oil is hot, dip each bait into the batter and allow the excess to drip off. Fry several at a time until golden brown. Remove with a slotted spoon to a double layer of paper towels and keep the fish warm in a 275-degree oven while frying the remaining fish. Serve sprinkled with coarse salt. Serves 4.
That night Jimmy invited me to dinner at the local casino. I dressed up and we both went while my grandmother was taken to the theater by her new gentleman friend. The dinner was great, and for the only time in my life I don’t remember what we ordered. When the bill came, Jimmy found that he did not have enough money, and I had none. Next door was a gambling room. I said to Jimmy, “Give me the money. I am always lucky at roulette. I will win!” He gave me all he had and followed me into the gambling room. I placed every last sou on numbers 5 and 13 and waited, my heart beating madly. The tiny ball stopped on the number 5! “I won, I won!” I cried in my excitement, forgetting that one does not scream upon winning in a casino. Someone tapped my shoulder. “Excuse me, miss. How old are you?” “Sixteen,” I answered foolishly. “I am sorry. You cannot gamble! We will return the money you just bet.” I was crushed and I explained in tears to the manager that we did not have enough money to pay the bill for our dinner and we were celebrating our engagement. He gave us back the money, paid the bill, and sent us back to our table with a bottle of champagne. What a wonderful evening!
The next day Jimmy left, promising to be back in Paris at the end of the month. A week later we returned to Paris. On September 15, Jimmy appeared in Paris and stayed with us. He would pick me up at school and we walked for hours together, planning the future. I called my mother and asked her to come and meet Jimmy.
As we all sat down in the living room, I proudly announced that Jimmy had proposed and that we were going to get married. Utter silence preceded an explosion. My grandmother said, “Never!” My mother said, “That’s stupid! You are only sixteen, he has no profession, and he can’t support you.” My grandmother turned to Jimmy and continued her tirade. “How dare you! Under my roof! What would your mother say!” I was sobbing at this point, exaggerating the noise of my weeping and blowing my nose loudly. My mother suddenly said, in a loud, calm, imperious voice, “I have the solution. Colette, stop crying immediately! You must finish your baccalaureate, Jimmy must graduate from Harvard, and only then can he return. If you both feel the same as you do now, you can get married.” Jimmy and I looked at each other and smiled. “Three years is nothing,” I said. “I can wait.”
This is the only time in my life that my mother took charge of me. For the next few days, we walked in Paris hand in hand. Jimmy promised to write very often and come back soon. The day he left I hugged and kissed him. “Don’t forget me,” I whispered. “I love you.” For the next few months, letters came from America. First every week, then once a month, then a year later they stopped. I often prayed that he would not forget me. I talked about him with Claudine and sometimes my mother and my stepfather. They both would shake their heads and my stepfather would say, “Don’t think about him too much. Go out with friends, have fun, and maybe he will come back.” They both hoped that I would forget but I did not.