Summers
As I turned seventeen, I felt more sure of myself and started to take hold of my life. Since my mother was back now, my grandmother retreated to a more passive role. She still had her fake heart attacks whenever I went out or wanted to have friends in the house, but I ignored them. Another factor in my new independence was the fact that I passed the first part of my baccalaureate, le bachot, as the French call it, that spring. The bachot is the last exam taken before entering the university and is given over a two-year period. The second half of the exam concentrates on a specific strand of study or discipline, and students must choose which one they wish to pursue.
I was elated because I passed the exam with honors, just like my brother. After all I am not that stupid, I thought to myself. I had fallen in love with biology and had decided to take sciences expérimentales, which included literature and languages. Mentally I had planned it all: I would certainly apply to the Pasteur Institute, become a bacteriologist, and naturally win the Nobel Prize for my discoveries! I was proud, free, and for a very short period, independent.
Summer vacation in France is usually a family affair and mine was not different. This particular summer, however, I was determined to choose when and where I would go. Visiting Italy had been a long-term dream, and I often talked to Claudine about going with her to Rome and Venice. We planned out our trip and were about to tell her mother and my grandmother, when my grandmother announced a conseil de famille (family meeting). This felt ominous. Each time something important was to be decided, a conseil de famille took place during which my grandmother announced her intentions, my uncle Clément listened in silence, nodding in agreement, and I … well, I had nothing to say. If I disagreed or objected, my grandmother told me in no uncertain terms to do what I was told and to shut up.
Clément arrived at our house that Saturday morning, and I was astonished to hear him thank my grandmother for receiving him. I had been wrong after all; she did not call for the conseil de famille. He did! Well, I thought, this should be interesting, I wonder what he wants from her? As they chitchatted for a few minutes, my mind was racing; could he, by any wild chance, help me to get away from this household?
Clément’s voice interrupted my reverie, and I listened in shock to what he was saying, bluntly, firmly, in his strangely feminine voice. “She is seventeen, Rose … I think she should come with me and Germaine to Cannes this summer. She should get married soon and there we can introduce her to some young men of good family …” I stopped listening. Get married? Didn’t he understand that I wanted to finish my studies? That I wanted to marry Jimmy? (I had just gotten a letter from Jimmy telling me how much he was enjoying Harvard.) And going to Cannes with them! Oh my God … there goes Italy. At least I won’t be with her.
My grandmother looked annoyed but said nothing for a moment. “When will you go?” she finally asked with a frown. “The last two weeks in July and the whole month of August. She will need clothes,” Clément added, handing my grandmother a check. “They should be elegant but understated.” Later I overheard her complain to one of her friends that she was not going on vacation in August with us after all. I understood then that my grandmother lived on the money we paid her every month. Vacation was paid for her if and when she took us with her. My grandmother had very little money of her own. My grandfather, who had been a very wealthy businessman, had placed his money in a secret account in Switzerland. But I had heard rumors that my grandfather had refused to give his wife the number of his account. After the war she had sold most of her jewelry to live but she owned the apartment on Avenue de la Grande Armée and she had made an arrangement with Clément. She would take care of both of us in exchange for a monthly stipend. She often forgot that we were paying her and sometimes complained of how much money we were costing her, with a special emphasis on what I was costing her.
For the next few weeks we ran from store to store buying bathing suits (one-piece), summer dresses, sandals, and one long evening dress for une soirée, my grandmother said. Needless to say, she failed to buy me anything elegant, except for my evening gown. At this point I was getting used to the idea of Cannes. When Claudine heard that our jaunt to Italy was called off, she smiled, hiding her disappointment. “I know you’ll have a wonderful time. Just don’t flirt too much. Before you leave, Colette, how about spending a few days with me in the country?”
Clément and Germaine left two weeks later for Cannes. Clément let me know that he expected me August first. “Sois sage entre temps” (Be good meanwhile), he warned me. At Claudine’s invitation I went with her to her country house in Monford l’Amaury, about one hour from Paris. It was quite a fashionable little town where artists and writers had summerhouses. There was one two-star restaurant, an old church, the post office, the town hall, and a café where the youth of the town would gather. Claudine’s house was slightly outside the village. I loved that house. It was a two-story, seventeenth-century French country estate with a very high stone wall surrounding it and a large garden in the back. The living room was my favorite space. Its tall French windows opened onto the garden, and in the morning the sun filtered through the high persiennes (shutters) and formed patterns on the old-fashioned Victorian furniture. Every day, buried in a deep, faded pink armchair just wide enough for one person, sat Claudine’s tragic mother reading a book. A tiny, thin woman with gray-white hair pulled back into a chignon, she always had a faraway look and a wan smile. She hardly ever conversed but always had a kind word for me. She got up from her chair for lunch and afterward took a walk around the garden. She sank into the armchair again until dinnertime; in the evening, after urging us to go out, she retired to her room for the night. She and I talked about the garden, for which she felt a great attachment. Her husband had designed it and had planted it with espalier peach and pear trees against the walls, rose bushes in the center. At the back end of the garden was a vegetable patch planted with young lettuces, tomatoes, string beans, and artichokes. I had never seen an artichoke plant before, and during these two weeks, I went every day to see if there were any growing. On the last day I saw a tiny one and picked it. Claudine was appalled, explaining that I shouldn’t touch them that young and that Alice, the cook, would be upset with me. Panicking, I gobbled it up raw. The artichoke tasted bitter but I didn’t want to upset Alice at any cost. I loved being in the kitchen watching her cook. She had been with Claudine’s family for decades and was devoted to them. Seeing that Claudine and I were best friends, she also took me in. Although Alice was dour and seldom smiled, she made me feel at home. The kitchen was rustic: in order to wash dishes, she had to heat the water in a wood-burning stove. I was fascinated by this stove. I carefully watched Alice’s thin, sinewy arms lift the steel disks on top of the range to add more wood. The flames jumped up at her, but she always managed to avoid being singed. Then there was the table—a long, thick marble slab on which Alice would make her famous tarts. I have since developed an automatic response to compare the tart I am eating to her perfect ones from long ago. Shimmering raspberries, like garnets in the summer sun, sitting on delicate crème anglaise and a barely sweetened, tender crust. Never since have I tasted such fruity splendor in a dessert.
Alice’s Raspberry Tart
Make the pâte brisée: In a bowl place ½ cup chilled butter and 3 tablespoons vegetable shortening. Add 2 cups flour, ½ teaspoon salt, and 2 tablespoons sugar and work the flour and the butter together. Slowly add 5 tablespoons cold water and mix well until it forms an elastic dough. Wrap in foil and refrigerate for 2 hours or more. Butter a 9-inch pie pan. On a floured board roll the dough about one-eighth of an inch thick. Line the pie pan with the dough, pressing the edges with a fork. Fill the pie pan with dry beans. Bake the dough in a preheated 325-degree oven for 30 minutes. Remove from the oven, remove the beans, and allow to cool at room temperature. Meanwhile make the crème anglaise. In the top of a double boiler placed over simmering water mix together ½ cup heavy cream, 5 beaten egg yolks, ⅔ cup sugar, and a pinch of salt. Stir constantly until the cream thickens. Remove from the heat and cool. Add 1 tablespoon good cognac (optional). Spread the cream on the bottom of the cooked pie. Hull 2 cups ripe raspberries and sprinkle the fruit with 2 tablespoons very fine sugar and 1 tablespoon lime juice. Toss and set aside for 10 minutes. Arrange the raspberries in concentric circles on top of the cream. In a small saucepan heat ½ cup seedless raspberry jelly until it is liquefied. With a pastry brush, brush the raspberry jelly on the raspberries. Cool at room temperature and serve. Serves 6.
The cupboards were bursting with jars of jams and preserves, Alice called us to the kitchen, where she had been brewing her confiture aux quatre fruits. “Taste it,” she barked. “Do you think it’s sweet enough?” We scooped up some of the just-cooled jam—made with strawberries, raspberries, and red and black currants—from the marble and licked every finger. “It’s perfect!” we shouted in unison. No smile was proffered, but her small black eyes softened.
On the weekend, friends of the family came for lunch. Alice often made a roast leg of lamb she called le gigot qui pleure (the leg of lamb that cries) because the fat from the meat would fall onto the small potatoes—soft and golden and redolent of garlic—that surrounded it. On Sunday it was always a jambon persillé, a ham stuffed with parsley and garlic in a light jelly. She served it with home-grown braised leeks and tomato salad. My favorite of her dishes was poussin à l’estragon, a far cry from my grandmother’s tough chicken. The tiny birds were stuffed with fresh tarragon, butter, and soft bread, and roasted until their skin was crisp and the meat moist and tender.
Le Gigot Qui Pleure
This dish is usually made in the spring or summer with young lamb. In a food processor, mince 3 garlic cloves with 2 tablespoons fresh rosemary, 4 tablespoons butter, and salt and pepper With a knife remove the paper outer covering of a 4- to 5-pound leg of lamb. Peel 3 more garlic cloves and insert sliver of garlic all over the meat. Rub the meat with the mixture of butter, garlic, and rosemary. The lamb should be covered all over with the butter. Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Grease a large roasting pan with olive oil and place the meat on a rack in the roasting pan. Peel 32 small white potatoes and place them around the meat inside the roasting pan. Bake for 5 minutes, lower the heat to 325 degrees, and bake 15 minutes per pound for rare and 20 minutes per pound for pink. Stir the potatoes from time to time so that they brown on all sides. When the meat is done, remove to a platter with the potatoes. Pour all the liquid from the pan into a glass jar and remove half the fat. Pour the liquid back into the pan and add 1 cup chicken stock, salt and pepper to taste, and 1 tablespoon fresh tarragon. Carve the meat and pour some of the sauce over it. Serves 6 to 8.
In the evenings, Claudine and I walked to the village, sat in a café, and talked about pur future. Claudine wanted to meet religious Jews and had befriended a young couple with children. “I want you to meet them,” she said. “You’ll see what being Jewish really means.” By then I had told Claudine about my convent days and how difficult it was to live as both a Catholic and a Jew. I really did not know how to give an answer to that request. I had, in the past year, become very much aware of what had happened during the war: the concentration camps, the death of six million Jews, the attitude of some of the French, and especially the stories that went around about the Catholic church and the Pope. I was torn between my Jewish I knew nothing about but heard every day from my grandmother, who kept on saying, “You are a Jew, whether you like it or not”—and my profound faith in Catholicism. When thing were too difficult I closed my eyes and transported myself to the small chapel in Cairo in the Convent of the Sacred Heart, where I had spent such wonderful years. The chapel was small, with a large reproduction of Botticelli’s Madonna. She looked so peaceful and kind. Young brides would come after their wedding and drop their bouquets of flowers on the altar. Very often as a child I went and prayed there. Today, at seventeen, I could with no problem, go to church on Sunday but I didn’t. I was no longer a Catholic nor was I a Jew. Who I was had not been discovered yet. There was no one, kind enough around me to understand what I felt. Jewish holidays were the worst for me. My grandmother, who had not practiced her religion in years, and prided herself on not looking like a Jew, suddenly became religious as soon as she found out about Mother and me. She did not talk to me about it, but there was this silence whenever a religious holiday came to pass. Sometimes I followed her to a temple but I could never feel that this is where I belonged.
Poussin à l’Estragon (Baby Chicken with Tarragon)
Poussins are very young chickens. They are available in most gourmet stores that sell poultry. To make this dish the way Alice made it, the poussins have to be prepared two days in advance. Rinse and pat dry 4 poussins. Fill the cavities with paper towels and place them, uncovered, in the refrigerator for two days. This step will allow the skin breast to dry and keep the moisture in the chicken when cooking. Mix 8 tablespoons softened butter with 4 tablespoons tarragon and salt and freshly ground pepper. Slip the butter mixture under the breast’s skin. Rub the exterior of the poussins with butter. Place inside the cavity 1 tablespoon cream cheese and 1 to 2 tablespoons chopped fresh tarragon. Sprinkle the poussins with coarse salt and place them on a rack in a roasting pan. Add ½ cup chicken broth to the pan and bake the poussins in a preheated 350-degree oven for 45 minutes, or until they are golden brown. Remove the poussins to a serving platter and garnish with watercress or cilantro. Degrease the pan juices, adding more broth if necessary. Serve the juice along with the poussins and mashed potatoes. Serves 4.
I looked at Claudine who was waiting for an answer from me. I promised her that when I came back from Cannes I would go and visit her friends. I never did.
We also talked about our last year in high school and shared our imagined futures. Despite the fact that Jimmy had written to me only a few times, I was sure, I told Claudine, that he’d come back and marry me. I left the human warmth of Monford for a very different warmth in Cannes, one that emanated not from my hosts but only from the sun.
During the war Cannes had been a haven for many people, Jews and non-Jews alike, trying to escape the German invasion and to live under Pétain’s “free” France (which was hardly free at all). Clément and other members of my family had escaped to Cannes. They all had Egyptian passports and were never touched by the French militia or the German Gestapo. After the war, by the time I joined Clément in Cannes, the city had regained its splendor and had become the center of the new cinema. The Carlton Palace was an enormous white hotel, built in the early 1920s on the croisette (boardwalk). It was separated from the road by a magnificent garden filled with exotic plants and palm trees. I arrived early in the morning and went in search of Clément and Germaine. I was told that Clément took his breakfast on the terrace of his room and would be down around eleven. Germaine never rose before noon. Meanwhile I had to fend for myself. My room was small with a balcony overlooking the back garden. Netting surrounded the bed, and the boy who brought up my luggage told me that Cannes had lots of mosquitoes. “You must be sure to sleep under the net,” he said, standing at the door, waiting. What was he waiting for? Then I understood. God, I thought, I don’t know how much to give him! Why didn’t Clément meet me? I looked in my bag for change and handed him a five-franc coin. He glanced at it with vague disgust and left abruptly. I was wrong! I gave him too little. Well, I don’t care. I never wanted to be here in the first place!
I went for a walk on the croisette. Young women in small bikinis were walking up and down, looking beautiful; older women with young men were doing the same. On the beach under umbrellas, women were sunning themselves, bare-chested. I could never do that, I thought, never. By eleven o’clock I was starving, having had no breakfast. I walked down some backstreets and found a tiny pastry shop with an Italian name selling croissants, small sandwiches filled with ham, pastries, and coffee. I sat down and asked for a strong cup of coffee. What was placed in front of me was a small cup topped with what seemed to be a white foamy cloud of milk. I gulped it down and was surprised by its aromatic, slightly bitter taste. “What is it?” I asked the young waitress. “Espresso machiato,” she answered with a smile. “It’s Italian.” At that moment I knew for certain that I was hooked for life on machiatos. I ordered the small sandwich that she called panino, a light, slightly sweet brioche-type roll filled with prosciutto. I ate two of them with gusto and was about to order a third one when I heard my grandmother’s voice in my head saying, “You are too fat!” I paid and left the café, pleased with myself that I had resisted the temptation. Every morning for the next few weeks, I avoided the hotel’s stuffy salle à manger and went to Luigi’s for my breakfast, an excursion away from my family that became the highlight of my day.
At noon I met Clément and Germaine in the lobby. Germaine was a tall, top-heavy woman with beautiful legs. Her face was greasy with streaks of cream, and I dreaded kissing her in the morning but she insisted, and I walked away with the taste of face cream on my lips. On the first morning she wore a lovely navy blue halter top over a sweeping white shirt and an immense hat that covered her gray hair. She hated the sun and hardly ever took off her oversize sunglasses. The three of us crossed the croisette toward the beach club, where Clément had rented a cabana for the summer. The club also had a restaurant, and usually by two o’clock we were sitting there surrounded by their friends, mostly Parisians. Once in a while one of them brought along a son, and he was seated near me. It was impossible to talk, being surrounded by older people, dulled from their leisure and excess. I wasn’t interested anyway, and I’d excuse myself as the dessert came. I’d go for walks on the boardwalk or take the bus to Nice, which I loved. I was expected back by dinner, usually a formal affair at an elegant restaurant. I ordered langoustines with fresh basil or pigeonneau, a small squab, wrapped in lettuce leaves. Even if I liked the food, I couldn’t bear sitting in restaurants, utterly bored.
One night Clément told me to put on my evening dress since we were going to dinner at La Palme d’Or, a two-star restaurant. He had once again invited some Parisian friends and their son. I liked the idea of dressing up but not of meeting yet another prospective suitor who probably hated the idea as much as I. Just before leaving my room, I looked at myself in the mirror and liked what I saw. The pale green dress made my brown skin glow and showed how small my waist was. I had put some makeup on and darkened my eyelashes. I looked Egyptian, and my eyes seemed to be filled with light. Feeling charmed, I went downstairs to meet them. Germaine gave me a look of approval and Clément took my arms, saying, “What a lovely young girl! You will charm them all tonight.” As we entered the restaurant in the lobby of the Hôtel Martinez, I spotted a tall young man with dark hair swept away from his face and an exceptionally long, aquiline nose. I was introduced to Francis Levi and his parents, and I was seated next to him. He was rather sullen during dinner and spoke little. I managed to learn that he had been accepted at the Polytechnique, the prestigious French school of social sciences, and had a great future in front of him—or at least this is what his parents proclaimed. After dinner, I was astonished when Francis asked me out for the next day. I acquiesced only because I had nothing else to do and because Clément gave me one of his looks. Francis intrigued me. He lacked charm and was not adept at conversation, but he was willing to be ordered about. Over the next few days, I made him drive me to Nice and Monte Carlo, take me to lunch, and take me to avant-garde movies, which he disliked. After a week he announced that he had to leave Cannes and go back to Paris. I was sorry to see him go. I did not like him much, but he offered me an escape and seemed to enjoy simply following me around. For the next two years Francis called me from time to time, to take me out to dinner in expensive restaurants, and to the Opera Ball every year. One summer, a dozen years later, I spotted his parents in the Jardin de Luxembourg in Paris. My children were watching an open-air puppet show I approached them with a smile and reminded them of who I was; I was astonished by his mother’s anger in response. “You ruined my son’s life,” she screamed. “He loved you and you pushed him away He went to Africa and married a black woman. I hate you!” He loved me? He had never said a word to me, never showed me any affection, but I felt guilty just the same remembering all the places I had made him take me.
After Francis’s departure, I was stifled yet again by the boring routine of my summer vacation. I wrote to my stepfather to ask him if I could come and spend the rest of August in Chatelguyon, where he was staying. He acquiesced, and Clément and Germaine were pleased to see me go. Trying to marry me off had backfired, and there were no more young men around who seemed to like me.
Chatelguyon had been well known for its waters, which, it was said, would cure most stomach ailments and arthritis. During the war the town had fallen on bad times and had deteriorated. After the war my stepfather and his partners bought several of the hotels dirt cheap, and Mira started a campaign to make Chatelguyon a center of haute cuisine. Every one of his hotels boasted a two-star chef, and by the time I joined them, the town had recovered some of its past luster. The town also had a small casino, and every afternoon, with twenty-five francs in my pocket, I bet at the roulette table. Because I was not yet twenty-one, my stepfather had made an arrangement with the casino to let me bet in the afternoon. I discovered that I loved gambling—the rush it gave me. I also liked the olives and slices of saucisson sec they served at the end of the gambling session. Often in the evening Mira took my mother and me to Clermont-Ferrand, a large town about twenty kilometers from Chatelguyon, to explore the local restaurants. I still remember some of the dishes I ate, perhaps because they were unusual: rooster sausage cooked in red wine, pigeon stuffed with pork, and my favorites, pig cheek and snout in a velvety sauce, and braised pears in cognac. Mira and I compared notes and discussed the complexities of preparation, balance, and composition. I began to enjoy myself and even got along with my mother, for the first and only time in my life. She was busy taking the waters, talking with her friends about all her ailments, and being as motherly as she possibly could to me. Sometimes I couldn’t stand her complaints and made fun of them, certain that she was exaggerating the pains in her legs or back. Today I feel sorry about my callousness, and angry with myself for not being more concerned about her health while she was alive. I too have arthritis in my legs, and some days I really feel the pain and think of her.
I returned to Paris and my usual routine, but now my grandmother and I were no longer on speaking terms. I still had to ask permission to go out, and at least once a month, she developed a crise cardiaque just as I left to be with friends. The doctor would arrive, examine her briefly, and proclaim that all she needed was a bit of rest. (She certainly was all right, and she lived without major illness until the age of 92!) The year was uneventful. School was challenging, but I wanted to succeed so I worked very hard and in July passed my bachot. High school was over and I could go to the Pasteur Institute in the fall.
But what about the summer? There was no way I was going anywhere with my grandmother or Clément or my mother. One day I saw an advertisement asking for a French teacher for a school in England. The headmaster was coming to Paris to interview prospective teachers. I recognized an opportunity and wrote a letter asking for an interview. An answer arrived a few days later, setting an appointment for the second week in July. I was excited at the prospect of having a job. But I had one problem. The ad had mentioned that the job required teachers to be at least twenty years old. I had just turned eighteen and looked about fifteen. My hair was in braids, I wore no makeup, and I was short! For the interview I simply had to look older. Claudine was no help; she looked like me, so I turned to the sophisticated and worldly Nicole, who introduced me to a model whom her brother represented. Martine thought it would be fun to transform me into a Parisian sophisticate. She lent me clothes (which I managed to squeeze into) and high-heeled shoes, and she took me to her hairdresser for a more fashionable hairdo. On the day of the interview, she applied my makeup. By the time she had finished, I looked twenty-five, serious, and very sophisticated. It was no surprise to me that I got the job, which was to teach French to young boys whose parents were out of the country. I was to leave for Brighton at the end of the month for a one-month stay. The pay was decent and the headmaster was supposed to be quite genial. Now I had to tell my grandmother and my uncle what I had decided to do. My grandmother said nothing when I made my announcement. She was going to New York to see her family and did not seem to care. Clement’s reaction took me by surprise. He was angry with me. He said how terrible it was to work for a school at my age; what would people say? That we had lost our money? I would never get married, he moaned bitterly. This was terrible. But I refused to give in and responded that I was going to work in August and nothing would make me change my mind.
On August first I took the train to Calais and from Calais the boat to Dover and then another train to Brighton. The headmaster was waiting for me at the station. Upon seeing me he looked crestfallen and said in an angry voice, “This won’t do … no, this won’t do!” I was confused. “You look too young,” he explained, shaking his head. “These boys are sixteen, seventeen years old. You were supposed to be housed in their dormitory building, but I can’t let it happen. You’ll have to stay with us.” I suddenly realized that I hadn’t looked the same when we first met. I apologized and said that I would buy shoes with heels and use makeup. I admitted that I was only eighteen and insisted that I could teach well. Everything, I promised him, would be fine.
The headmaster’s wife wasn’t too pleased to see me. I was given a small room on the top floor of their house. That night at dinner I realized that for the next few weeks I had to forget about eating. Mrs. Charington could not cook. Her roast beef was brown through and through, her vegetables overcooked, and her desserts heavy. But the next morning, I found breakfast to be a revelation. I was served broiled kippers—salty, smoky, and slathered with butter—thick slabs of toasted bread, and very strong English tea. Breakfast became my only sensuous pleasure. I loved the steamed haddock, the fresh, soft-boiled eggs, and the hearty porridge. Luckily, I ate my fill in the morning; lunch and dinner simply offered me the challenge of hiding the fact that I did not eat them. In four weeks I lost fifteen pounds! I was sure that when I went back to Paris no one would recognize me, and my grandmother could no longer call me fat. I quickly gained the reputation of being a difficult Frenchwoman. Mr. Charington was sorry that he had hired me.
The morning after my arrival, following her husband’s command, Mrs. Charington took me shopping. We bought high-heeled shoes, dark red lipstick, rouge, and combs to put my long hair up. Once made up and dressed to kill, I was sent to teach the young boys French. Over the next four weeks I found out that I loved teaching, that I was good at it. I felt like an actress performing on a stage, and my audience was not only enjoying themselves, but also learning French. The boys asked me questions about France, girls, French kisses, food, and how to say “I love you” in French. They wrote me poems that they used to slip in with their homework, and gave me small gifts. I loved it. Evenings, of course, were less pleasurable since I couldn’t go out without facing the headmaster’s wrath. But I was happy—I had proved to myself that I could work and earn a living.
Back in Paris in September, I registered at the Pasteur Institute to start what I believed would be a successful career in bacteriology. I was assigned to a Russian doctor who was studying rare blood diseases. My role in the beginning was to draw blood every morning from three goats and in the afternoon to work in the national French hospital for the poor. Little did I know that this setup would bring about a final break with my grandmother and change my life forever.