The Wedding
It was early May when I returned to my minuscule, empty flat in Paris, and I was overjoyed. I walked endlessly through the Marché aux Puces, an enormous flea market with alleys hiding copper pots, old rugs, dusty jewelry, and clothes from another era. In 1953 times were still hard, and the flea market had great finds. I bought a dresser, two posters of American film stars, and a large vase. The large oak dresser dominated my room, but I couldn’t return it, so I put the vase, full of magnificent tulips, on it. With the posters on the wall and the smell of coffee wafting up from an apartment below, it was home.
Food was a problem. Chambres de bonnes, usually on the top floor of a building, were rooms that were owned by the apartment dwellers below. The maid was supposed to eat in the kitchen of the tenant she worked for. Today, these chambres de bonnes have been transformed into elegant studios. Having no kitchen, I had to eat out three times a day. Breakfast was no problem—café au lait and a tartine (a piece of baguette slathered with butter) was all I needed. I had my lunch at a small bistro, most of the time a prix fixe steak pommes frites and salad. Sometimes I took le plat du jour (daily special), which might be a suprême de volaille en meunière (strips of chicken sautéed in butter) or boudin noir (blood sausages) with steamed potatoes. Dinner was more of a problem. If no one had invited me to dinner, I stopped at a charcuterie (delicatessen) and bought ready-made dishes to eat sitting at my desk. Often it would only be a few slices of ham or headcheese with a vegetable salad. I was happy but lonely—I didn’t have many friends. School was not going to start until the end of September, and I tried to occupy myself by reading all the new novelists that I knew I was going to study in my comparative literature program: Simone de Beauvoir, Marguerite Duras, Robbe-Grillet. I also read Shakespeare and Hemingway, who were all the rage in Paris.
My best friend, Claudine, had gotten married to an Orthodox Jew and was now very religious. She had already given birth to a baby girl, and sometimes we talked on the telephone. One day she asked me over for dinner on a Friday night. I arrived with a large bouquet of flowers, following my grandmother’s constant admonition when I was younger. As soon as I rang the bell, Shimen, her husband, opened the door and said rather gruffly, “Shabbat! We don’t ring the bell … and leave the flowers outside; you don’t carry anything on Shabbat.” I was embarrassed but came in leaving my offering on the landing. Claudine was there, looking quite happy. A head scarf was covering her hair and she wore no makeup. There was another couple standing in the living room and a young man with a black beard. I played with the baby until we were all called to the table, which was covered with a transparent plastic tablecloth. A large silver candlestick had been placed in the center. Shimen prayed as the men bowed their covered heads before we started to eat. The evening was pleasant. Henry, the bearded young man (who had, of course, been invited to meet me), talked about his work as a scientist in an atomic laboratory in Paris where Shimen was his boss. As dinner ended, Claudine started to remove the dishes from the table. I got up to help, and thinking that the plastic tablecloth had to be removed, I lifted the candlestick, stopping in midair as everyone cried out, “Don’t touch … it’s Shabbat!” Again I felt embarrassed and realized that I was ignorant of Jewish religious customs. In my arrogant naïveté I thought, I don’t want to change … I don’t want to become a religious Jew like her. Instead of learning what Judaism was all about, I fiercely held on to my Catholic identity. That night I left Claudine’s house feeling miserable, and thinking that I’d lost a friend forever. The next time I saw her was six years later, when I returned to Paris from New York. I had by then come to terms with being half Jewish and half Catholic, and I managed to rekindle my friendship with Claudine, which is still strong as I write this.
My cousins helped to combat encroaching loneliness during that year. My grandfather had had eight children and each was a parent. After the Egyptian revolution, some had gone to South America, others to Italy, Switzerland, and France. The great majority had chosen Paris because often their children had studied there and also they all spoke French and thought it would be easier to reestablish themselves. My favorite cousins were in Paris, all men except for Nadia, who had been brought up in South America. Nadia was about five years older than I, pretty, vivacious, and artistic. She was a very good painter, but was also interested in moviemaking and was thinking of becoming a producer. In Clément’s eyes, Nadia was unconventional, and she shocked him by going to live with Hank, a young American who was enamored of French life and literature. From the first day we met, Nadia and I became great friends. I admired her and even envied the ease with which she spurned conventions and the older members of the family, whom she quickly alienated. I often escaped to her apartment and complained to her about my life. She said, “Leave … what are you afraid of?” But I was not ready to make a move. A year later, just before I left for Cairo, Nadia and Hank got married and went to Rome. I was sad to see her go, not knowing what an important role this move would play in my life.
Nadia had four half brothers. One, Samuel, was a hairdresser in Paris, whom I saw rarely, and one had stayed in Egypt, where he ran a perfume factory. Robert, the youngest brother, was studying medicine in Paris. Then there was Jean, who had married young. By the time I had moved into my little studio, he was only twenty-four and had already separated from his wife. A poet and writer, he took it upon himself to take care of me. Pierre, another cousin, a terribly pompous doctor, did not participate in our games and weekend outings. Nor did Paul and his wife, Doris, who had two young children and were quite successful. We all met at Clément’s house about once a month. The rest of the time I spent going out with Jean, Robert, Nadia, and Hank. Clément was pleased that I spent weekends in the countryside with them, not suspecting that my two cousins and their friends were in love with me, especially Jean. They all kissed me tenderly and wrote me poems and long letters asking me to marry them. Although I enjoyed all the attention, I still remained the convent girl. I realized later that this was probably what attracted them to me.
In early May I received a letter from Nadia. She and her husband were involved in the presentation of Italian films at the Cannes Film Festival. Nadia had just given birth to a baby girl and needed someone to take care of her. Would I come? I jumped at the idea of spending two weeks in Rome. Clément agreed that it would be a good idea, and a few days later I took the train for Rome. As I entered the compartment that was assigned to me, I found it occupied by an Italian family—a father, a mother, and two small children spread out over all eight seats. I explained that one of the seats was mine, and after much commotion and discussion, the mother motioned me to sit in the seat beside her. Within an hour, she had practically adopted me.
* * *
When I was born, my mother had refused to breast-feed me on the grounds that I was a hungry baby and needed to be fed much too often. So, following the tradition of my Egyptian family, a wet nurse was summoned to the rescue. Maria, my wet nurse, came from the Abruzzi Mountains of Italy. She had had a baby six months earlier, and because she was poor, had decided to answer my mother’s ad. Maria did not speak a word of French, so within a month the entire household picked up enough Italian to communicate with her. My first words were in Italian, and by the time I was five I spoke Italian almost as well as my native French. When we left for Egypt, Maria went back to her family. I had not spoken Italian for more than thirteen years. As soon as the train started to move, Angelica, my new Italian mama, brought down an enormous basket from the rack above our heads. From it she took out a tablecloth, which her husband, Luigi, spread on the folding table near the window. Then out came several plates, a large salami, marinated red peppers, a slab of fresh Parmesan, country bread, and a bottle of red wine. The smell of the salami invaded the compartment; I felt famished and hoped that Angelica would offer me something to eat. I looked the other way while Angelica served her children and husband. Then, turning to me, she offered me some food in broken French. I was ready to refuse politely, but found myself saying, “Si, grazie!” with fervor. Angelica explained that the garlicky salami was from Sardinia, and that she had prepared the peppers herself by cooking them very slowly in balsamic vinegar. I drank several glasses of wine. Halfway through the trip, slightly tipsy, I started to speak Italian as fast as they did. I played games with the children, drank espresso out of a Thermos bottle, and finally, around midnight, fell asleep, my head resting on Angelica’s shoulder. The next morning, an hour before arriving in Rome, Angelica once more brought down the large basket and out came small pastries and a second Thermos bottle full of hot coffee. We exchanged telephone numbers, and Angelica promised that she would call me and invite me to her house for dinner. She never did, but I kept my memory of her alive by passing on her red pepper recipe to my eldest daughter, who has made it one of her signature dishes.
Nadia was waiting for me on the platform, waving her arms wildly when she saw me. She grabbed my arm with one hand and my suitcase with the other and said breathlessly, “Quick, let’s go! We only have three days and I want to introduce you to all my friends before we leave!” While I tried desperately to get a glimpse of the city from the taxi window, Nadia chattered away about her friends, her balia (wet nurse)—who came from Abruzzi, just like Maria—and her new life as a mother. She stopped talking only when we reached her house. Nadia lived in a lovely apartment near the Tiber River. Hank, so undeniably American, albeit charming, spoke bad French and bad Italian, wore a bow tie and khaki pants, and carried his glasses perched on the end of his prominent, ruddy nose. He was the Italian correspondent for the American movie trade magazine Variety and loved living in Rome.
Baby Amy was only six months old and adorable. Lucia, the wet nurse, was not very happy to see me, I soon discovered; she had hoped to find herself alone with Amy and to have her family move in while Nadia was away. With me there that was impossible. That night we sat down to my first full Italian meal. We started with paper-thin slices of prosciutto served with fresh mozzarella. This was followed by an incredible dish of fresh pasta with a pesto sauce and freshly grated Parmesan. Tiny wild strawberries marinated in white wine ended the dinner. I was enthralled by the food and the view of the Tiber from the terrace.
The next day Nadia and I went around town so she could introduce me to her friends. We started with an old journalist. “A powerful woman,” Nadia whispered as we entered her house, “but be careful … she’s an infamous lesbian and loves young girls. If she likes you, she will invite you to her parties but don’t go to her house during the day.” Signora Laeticia, as everyone called her, was a woman in her late fifties—ugly dyed-red hair, thick glasses hiding beady eyes. She was beautifully dressed, with a jeweled cigarette holder at the corner of her very red lips. “Ah … this is your lovely cousin? Well, we’ll have to take care of her, won’t we?” and turning toward me, she added in her slippery voice, “Join us next Saturday, carina. I am having a large dinner party and you can meet all my friends.” When we left the Signora, Nadia was beaming like a mother hen who had just won first prize for her chick. The next few hours were devoted to making the rounds of the young painters on the rise who were Nadia’s friends. The first one was Hugo Attardi, an artist then in his thirties, who is today one of Italy’s most famous sculptors and painters. I liked him immediately and when he invited me to the beach for the following week, I said yes without hesitation. From there we went to see Renato Guttiuso, a Sicilian painter about Nadia’s age, with a ruddy face and a two-day-old beard. I was famished, but Nadia did not seem to want to stop anywhere to eat. Luckily, at Renato’s studio we were offered wine and bruschetta, thick slices of country bread, brushed with olive oil and smothered with chopped tomatoes and basil. I ate and drank wine with such eagerness that Renato laughed. He turned to Nadia and said, “I like the girl. Don’t worry … we will all take care of her.” Our last stop was to the Via Margutta, near the popular Piazza del Populo, to visit Nadia’s best friend, Giuliana, a journalist who had left her husband and lived with another journalist also named Renato. She was on dangerous ground, since in Italy at the time, divorce was not legal and living in sin in the eyes of the church could jeopardize Giuliana’s financial arrangement with her husband. I was drawn to her and her boldness. Her apartment was crowded with books, papers strewn everywhere, contemporary paintings on every wall. Like Nadia’s other friends, Giuliana promised that she would keep an eye on me and have me over. That night, over a buttery risotto with artichokes, Nadia gave me her last instructions. “Don’t go to bed with everyone (as if I—the confirmed good Catholic girl—would), be sure that Amy is happy, don’t let Lucia bully you, and call me once a week.” I promised I would follow her instructions, and the next day, after giving me a tour of the neighborhood, Nadia and Hank left for Cannes.
The first few days were exciting. I walked around Rome, stopped at cafés for espresso, ate panini, small brioche sandwiches filled with prosciutto or cheese for lunch, and went home in the evening to see Amy. Lucia cooked dinner. Every night we ate pasta with a different sauce. My favorite one was a rich, thick ragu Bolognese made with a mixture of veal and beef and fresh tomatoes, topped with freshly grated Parmesan. Lucia always drank two or three beers with dinner. When I asked why, she answered proudly, “But Colette … it is very good for my milk and Amy will sleep well tonight.” I followed suit when I was nursing (just one beer, though) and I’ve advised my daughters to do the same. They were not as willing as I.
Bolognese Sauce
Peel and slice 1 large carrot, turn 1 celery stalk, and peel and slice 1 medium-size onion. Place all the vegetables in a food processor and process until all the vegetables are minced. In a large saucepan heat 2 tablespoons olive oil and add 2 slices of bacon, cut into ½-inch pieces. Sauté until the bacon is crisp. Remove with a slotted spoon and discard. Add the vegetables and sauté over medium heat for about 5 minutes. Add 1½ pounds of chopped meat, half veal and half beef. Sauté for 2 minutes and add ¾ cup chicken stock, ⅔ cup white wine, and 2 tablespoons tomato paste. Mix well and correct the seasoning, adding 1 tablespoon oregano, ⅓ cup chopped basil, and salt and pepper to taste. Lower the heat and simmer for 45 minutes, adding more chicken stock if necessary. Serves 4.
The following Saturday both Hugo and the old journalist called, the former to remind me of his invitation to a day on the beach, the latter with an offer for lunch at her house. Remembering what Nadia had said, I politely declined the lunch invitation and agreed to go to the beach with Hugo and his friends. Hugo had a strong, rich baritone, and all the way to the beach, he sang old Italian love songs. As we lay on the beach I heard him murmur to his friends, “Don’t touch! She’s mine and I alone will look after her.” I was flattered and wary at the same time. Hugo might have been sexy, but he was also married, Nadia had been sure to tell me. His wife lived near Naples for business reasons. Although I wanted, deep down, to have an affair with Hugo, it was unthinkable. That night as we drove back to Rome, we stopped at a small trattoria for a plate of fried calamari, a fennel salad, and lots of red wine. Hugo asked me to come home with him. Afraid to lose him as a friend and admirer, I replied, “Not tonight. I have to be home with Amy.” As I got out of the car, I turned to him, bent down and kissed him lightly on the lips. “See you soon,” I said in a quivering voice, hoping that I didn’t sound too stupid. This scene was repeated for several days. I would bring up Amy’s name, and Hugo, with an ever-deepening sigh, would drive away. At the end of the week Hugo asked if I would sit for him; he wanted to paint my portrait. And so for two weeks every day I sat on a chair, with an open blouse, half my breast showing. Hugo sang while painting or talked about his ambitions as a painter, about politics, and about love. I did not always understand; just listening to his voice seemed all that mattered. Friends dropped by in the late afternoon and I ran back to Amy, feeling guilty for abandoning her. A week later Hugo announced that he was leaving for two weeks and upon his return, he hoped Nadia would be back. I never saw him again.
I had been in Italy for three weeks, and still Nadia and Hank had not returned. Finally, they called. Hank wanted to meet and interview all the producers and actors who had congregated in Cannes. Did I mind? Of course I didn’t mind. Another two weeks in Rome—what could be better?
A few days later Lucia came to me. She had not seen her child for over six months and asked if I would consider taking her back to her village. She could not go without me, as Nadia had made me responsible for Amy. I agreed to go, and on Saturday morning Amy, Lucia, and I took a train to her village. When we got off onto the platform, a band of four musicians started to play. No one else occupied the platform, so I understood that they were playing for us. Out of nowhere a woman of about forty ran up to me, smiling through her tears and saying over and over, “Colette, Colette!” I knew right away this was Maria, my old wet nurse. We embraced, and she introduced me to her son, who was my age, and her two younger daughters. We walked to the village, and to my astonishment, a very long table had been set right in the middle of the piazza. We sat down, the mayor made a toast, and enormous bowls of spaghetti with a rich tomato sauce were placed on the table. We ate, drank, ate again, and talked about the past while Lucia was showing off Amy and embracing her own children. Later, tired but happy, we took the train back to Rome. Suddenly, Lucia bent down, kissed me, and whispered, “Thank you.”
The following week Nadia returned to Rome. I stayed another week but then Clément requested that I return to Paris and prepare myself to enter the Sorbonne. I left for Paris after saying goodbye to all my new friends, not knowing what was in store for me and hoping that one day I would come back. I returned to Rome thirty years later and went looking for Hugo, who was by then famous. I learned that my portrait hung in a museum in San Francisco as the Woman of Tomorrow. I met Hugo at his studio; he was now close to eighty and did not remember who I was.
Red Peppers
Wash and wipe 6 large red sweet peppers. Cut each pepper in half and remove all the seeds and the white membrane. Then cut each half in two. In a large skillet heat ½ cup balsamic vinegar (it is important that you buy the cheaper balsamic vinegar as the aged one would be too strong). Add the peppers and 1 teaspoon coarse salt. Lower the heat, cover, and simmer for 45 minutes, stirring the peppers from time to time until they are tender and caramelized. Remove to a bowl and pour 2 tablespoons hot olive oil over them. When cool, refrigerate. Serve with salad and cold meat or fish. Serves 4.
A letter from Jimmy was on my little table when I returned home. He was graduating from Harvard, was going to be drafted into the army, and had asked to join the Counter Intelligence Corps. He was hoping that by the end of the year he would be able to come and see me. While waiting for the Sorbonne to start, I began to inquire about becoming a flight attendant (only back then, they were called hostesses), thinking that if he could not come to Paris, I would go to New York. It turned out I was too short (and most likely a little too plump), so I had to stay in Paris, study, and wait.
Autumn and winter passed rather uneventfully as I studied and spent weekends in the countryside. In early March, after a weekend with my cousins, I came back to find a message from my mother saying that Jimmy was in Paris looking for me and that she had given him my address. He would come by Sunday night and I should wait for him. I waited and waited. By eleven o’clock there still was no sign of Jimmy. So I undressed and, brokenhearted, went to bed. Half an hour later my buzzer rang and Jimmy was downstairs. I told him to come up, dressed in two minutes flat, and opened the door to see him smiling wearily and as handsome as I remembered him. His shy smile rekindled all my passion for him in seconds. He looked taller than I remembered, and travel worn. He sat on my bed and said in a low voice, “Colette, I hate the army … I am so miserable.” I held his hand, kissed him, and suggested that we go out to a café and talk. We left Avenue Foche and walked toward the Etoile. It was late but the streets were still filled with people. I suggested that we walk down the Champs Elysées and find a restaurant where we could sit and talk. At that time it was lined with boutiques and cafés, not luxury stores and sports car showrooms as it is today. We ended up in a restaurant dear to me to this day, called Le Jour et La Nuit, open all night. We talked for hours, half in French (his was poor), half in English (my English had greatly improved). Instead of being stationed in France, which he had hoped, he had been sent to Munich, Germany. By four o’clock we returned to my studio. He reclined on my bed and I was wondering what I should do—the convent schoolgirl was battling with the Parisian sophisticate—when I looked down and saw that he was fast asleep. I lay down next to him and waited until morning for him to wake up. In my head I was already dreaming of how I would undress, how we’d make love, how he’d caress me. Almost as soon as he opened his eyes, he began to speak. It was a flood. “I love you. I want you to come to Munich and stay with me. I cannot live without you. To make love now is wrong. I have to leave in two hours to go back to Munich. It would be unfair. I will write and prepare everything for you there and you will join me. Promise me!” We kissed and hugged. I was disappointed but I promised I would come. We spent the next few hours walking in Paris just as we had done a few years earlier. We took the métro to Saint-Germain-des-Prés on the Left Bank and sat at the Café Flore. Sartre often held court there, surrounded by hopeful young writers listening attentively to his words. After spending an hour talking about our future, Jimmy, as always, said he was hungry. So we walked behind the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Behind it was a large seafood market. Merchants were selling shrimps, cooked and uncooked, oysters, clams, and all sorts of fish. The street was bustling with housewives shopping for the weekend. I bought Jimmy some cooked crevettes grises, tiny little shrimps that he ate as we walked. The Left Bank was just starting to become the center of avant-garde fashion. Today the street is filled with boutiques of well-established fashion designers. Then, young designers were opening small stores in the Rue de Grenelle and the Rue des Saint-Pères. Later, as we strolled down Rue Jacob, we found old bookstores selling architectural books. Jimmy would have stayed there for hours but I was afraid he would miss his train. 1 took him to the station, kissed him over and over again, and cried without shame when the train left me in the middle of a crowd of commuters.
For the next two weeks I received daily letters. One had a curious drawing of a man cut into small squares, each square representing a day of his life in the army. Some were blackened—days gone by, he explained. Others were just white to represent the weekends “that didn’t count.” The remaining squares were gray, and there seemed to be many of them.
The following month Jimmy announced that he had obtained a week’s leave and asked me to visit him. I went to see my mother and stepfather and announced that I was leaving for Munich. My mother started to cry, only because she was worried about what people would say, but my stepfather gave me his unequivocal blessing. With Clément I had to be more careful since he controlled the purse strings, so I lied. I told him that I had been offered a temporary job at the French Consulate in Munich and that the university had been apprised and would accept my work sent in from abroad. Clément bought it and I was off.
The train ride to Munich was interminable. I daydreamed all the way, trying to imagine what it would be like to be with Jimmy. I was scared … suppose it didn’t work between us? Could my mother and Clément be right? Then I thought of Nadia. She was happy; it had worked for her, so why not for me?
Jimmy was waiting at the train station. Once I was wrapped in his long arms, I knew I had made the right decision. He had reserved a room in a hotel in Schwabing, where university students lived, and reassured me that no one there would ask questions. All I remember about that night was that we made love on what seemed like every surface in the room…. The next morning I woke up and looked at Jimmy sleeping next to me. I bent down and kissed him. I kissed him hard. He was my lover and I loved him more than anything in the world. As he opened his eyes and smiled at me, I felt at once tied to him and free as a bird. Life was great and I wanted to make love again and again. For the next few days we drove through Munich in his small Morgan convertible, made love as often as we found the chance, and drank countless steins of beer in beer halls with Jimmy’s college friend Les, whom I had met in Paris when I was sixteen. We ate sausages with sweet mustard on slices of brown rye bread, potato salad, and herring with onions. Munich still was suffering from the effects of the war, and bombed buildings were slowly being cleared and rebuilt. The city was occupied by the Americans, only Berlin was divided into four zones. The Russians occupied East Germany, and Jimmy explained to me that it was dangerous to cross the border but that sometimes young lonely Americans would slip away with their German girlfriends. After three days Jimmy sheepishly told me that he was running out of money and time—his leave was about to end.
We decided to rent a one-room flat in Schwabing. I wrote to Clément that the job had become permanent, told the truth to my stepfather and mother, and explained that my monthly allowance would pay the rent, and Jimmy’s salary as an enlisted man would take care of the rest. Thus my daily life with Jimmy began.
In some ways it was not easy. At six in the morning Jimmy would leave for his office in the army barracks and not come back until the evening. I spoke not a word of German and couldn’t find a job, not even giving private French lessons. After all, the Germans had lost the war, and learning French was not a priority. In the morning I shopped for food, learning idioms and phrases in German. I didn’t know how to cook and had no cookbooks, but I remembered the trips I took with my stepfather, the restaurants we visited, and the guessing games we played about ingredients. So every day I chose a dish I had liked. I would make a list of the ingredients I thought were in the dish. I remember how I enjoyed choosing a vegetable or a piece of meat. Laden with my purchases, I trotted back to our tiny apartment, looking forward to preparing the dish or at least attempting to. Sometimes it took several attempts until I got it right. (I had nothing else to do.) I made cheese soufflés, roast duck with apples, coq au vin, and crêpes for dessert. Very soon I stopped trying to re-create the dishes I had eaten with my stepfather and started to cook my own recipes. I would walk through the market and see some vegetables I liked, buy them, then look for a chicken or a piece of pork, trying to imagine what the two would taste like together. As time went by I became more adventurous. Some nights I ended up with a disaster and everything went into the garbage and I’d go back to dishes I really knew. Other nights I received a telegram from Jimmy saying simply, “Pas ce soir, Joséphine …” (the famous message Napoléon used to send to Joséphine when he was at war). Jimmy’s code meant that he was in East Germany trying to catch a young American soldier who had crossed illegally. Occasionally, Jimmy went away for several days on maneuvers with his unit. I hated these times because I had no friends in Munich. My German had not improved, and the officers’ wives kept away from me, considering me a prostitute. I explored Munich, went to the movies, and read. Jimmy brought me books from the library. I read all the American classics, even a history of slavery in six volumes. My English improved and weekends were magical, spent exploring the countryside in Jimmy’s Morgan.
Cheese Soufflé
First make a béchamel sauce: In a saucepan heat 1¼ cups milk over low heat to the boiling point. Remove from the heat. In another saucepan melt 2 tablespoons butter. When the butter is hot add 2 tablespoons flour all at once and mix well with a wooden spoon for 3 minutes. Then slowly add the milk, stirring all the while. Add salt and pepper to taste and simmer, stirring, for about 8 minutes. Remove from the heat. Butter an 8-cup soufflé dish. Sprinkle the bottom with 2 tablespoons grated Gruyère. In a bowl mix together 1¼ cups grated Gruyère with freshly ground pepper. Add 6 egg yolks, one by one, and mix well. Correct the seasoning with salt and pepper and a pinch of nutmeg. Add the Gruyère mixture to the béchamel and mix well. In a bowl beat 8 egg whites with a pinch of salt until stiff. Slowly add one-third of the whites to the yolk mixture, mix well, and fold in the remaining whites. Pour into the soufflé dish and bake in a preheated 375-degree oven for 45 minutes. Remove from the oven and serve immediately. Serves 4.
* * *
By November, I had been in Munich for seven months when I realized that Jimmy had only eight months left in the army. We talked about his plans, and he told me that once he had been discharged in the United States, he would come back for me. I wanted none of that! He had left me once already, and I had waited four years to see him again. I was very upset and started to cry Jimmy looked surprised. Didn’t I know he loved me forever? “I want to get married,” I cried. “Now!” He smiled, and pulled out a stack of papers from his briefcase—they were permission forms for an officer’s request to get married. I wrote to Clément and my mother that I was engaged, and in June, on Jimmy’s two-week leave, we drove to Paris so I could introduce him to everyone in my family. We stayed in my mother’s house, since Clément had taken back my little studio. Although my stepfather, Mira, did not speak a word of English and Jimmy’s French was not the best, they managed to communicate and got along well. We talked about the wedding. We had to get married first in Germany (an army rule) and then in Paris, since the French would not recognize the German wedding. I surprised everyone, including Jimmy, by announcing that I wanted a Jewish ceremony. Jimmy, Jewish by blood, had rejected his heritage many years before. I wasn’t sure why I insisted. Perhaps, deep down, I wanted to be accepted by my family. And I wanted to atone for having been a Catholic while Jews were killed in concentration camps. Or was it just that I always did the opposite of what everyone expected of me? Clément said we could be married in a Jewish temple by the Grand Rabbi of Paris, whom he knew. He would pay for it. My stepfather said he would pay for the reception; the date, September 27, was set. My mother said that I needed a dress for the civil ceremony in Munich and a wedding dress for the Paris wedding. The reception was going to be in a private room, at Prunier, a famous fish restaurant on the Avenue Victor Hugo. My mother wanted to go shopping with me; all of a sudden, she was getting very excited by my wedding. I refused her help, and all alone bought a beige suit with a lovely blue hat for Munich. Finding the wedding dress was harder than I thought. Finally, Mira came to my rescue (the date was fast approaching) and sent me to the French designer Maggie Roof. I found a pale blue dress with a matching bolero to cover my shoulders. The dressmaker offered to make the same one in white. I demurred, saying proudly, “I’m not a virgin … blue will be just fine!” She blushed, and I had her promise me not to describe the dress, which would be ready just before the wedding, to anyone in my family. The next day we left for London to meet Jimmy’s English relatives. His mother’s brothers had stayed in London, while she and her sisters had emigrated to the United States. Maury was the one I liked best. He was a Labor member of Parliament. He was very much interested in Egypt and had helped save two young Jewish youths in trouble with the police. He greeted me with open arms and gave us a party in the House of Commons. Neither Jimmy nor I wanted to stay long in England, since we couldn’t sleep together out of wedlock. I had to stay with his mother Anne’s younger brother, a shy man with a silent wife who could not cook, not even breakfast! We tried several times to sneak away but failed and so, to my relief, after a few days Jimmy announced that we had to go back to Munich, where we were both expected to return to work.
Upon our return to Munich, Jimmy learned that the day we got married he would lose his clearance and could no longer be a Counter Intelligence officer but would become an ordinary soldier. Jimmy was upset, but he had only a few months before being discharged. He hoped he would not have to leave Munich, which he liked very much. The civil ceremony took place in a small palace in Munich’s English Gardens, with Les and his wife as our witnesses. Only Jimmy’s sergeant had accepted our invitation; the others still frowned on our relationship. We stood in front of a judge who made us a long speech in German, which none of us understood. Afterward, we all traipsed to Les’s house for a breakfast of German pancakes, caviar, and champagne. Three weeks later we left for Paris.
In Paris we found Anne, Jimmy’s mother, staying with my mother. It was not a fortuitous mix. My mother, elegant as usual, had bought a light brown lace dress for the wedding. She showed it to my mother-in-law, along with her velvet hat with feathers. My mother-in-law admired both the hat and the dress and showed my mother hers. The dress was made of many layers of green tulle, like an exaggerated ballerina’s costume. “No hat?” asked my mother, trying to suppress her dismay I was immediately commanded to take my mother-in-law to my mother’s milliner. We went together, and Anne asked me all the way why on earth she would need a hat. “It’s the custom here,” I explained. “You’ll be the envy of your friends in New York.” We chose a delicate hat with a veil and two feathers that fell gracefully to one side. The fact that she looked lovely did not prepare her for the price. “A hundred dollars for a hat! I’ve never paid that for anything to wear in my life!” I insisted she buy it, and for the next thirty years, she brought up that hat whenever we argued about money, or anything else, for that matter. The next dilemma concerned jewelry. Both my mother and Anne had a large collection, but Jimmy was rather poor at the time and couldn’t afford an engagement ring. He had already designed the wedding band and Anne had it made in England. Because she paid for it and brought it to Paris with her, Anne felt strongly that my mother should give me one of her rings. My mother refused and for the next two days, accusations went flying back and forth until I put my foot down. I insisted that I hated rings in general, and that the only one I would wear was a wedding band. Since that day, Jimmy has given me a wedding band for each important anniversary.
Clément insisted that Jimmy come to his house for a “chat.” I was asked to wait in the living room while they talked over aperitifs in Clément’s private study. Later, Jimmy, who was quite shaken up, told me that Clément had warned him that I was a rich girl with a hole in my pocket. I was to inherit money when I turned twenty-one (a few months later), and Clément insisted that Jimmy “control” me and take care of the money. But a year later, the Egyptian government nationalized everything, blocked my bank account, and took over whatever stocks and property my father had left me. I was left with nearly nothing. When Jimmy wants to tease me about money, he says with a kiss, “I married you on false pretenses. You cheated me of a fortune!”
The day of the wedding, I locked myself in my bedroom and told everyone to leave for the temple. I did not want anyone to see me before I got to the ceremony, except Clément who was going to ride with me and escort me down the aisle. As I came out of my room all dressed up and appeared in front of Clément, a look of horror crossed his face. “Blue? Are you mad? No one in our family gets married in blue! Why are you doing this?” “Don’t I look beautiful? I’m not a virgin and I’ve been married for nearly three weeks, so I could not get married in white.”
We rode to the temple in silence. As we marched down the aisle, I saw Jimmy standing under a huppa, the traditional Jewish canopy under which the bride and the groom stand. As I stood near Jimmy, I whispered, “Look at me! Do I look beautiful? Do you like my dress?” He smiled as he turned toward me and whispered back, “You look great but why on earth are we here? And behave yourself!” The Rabbi made a speech in French, but I wasn’t listening. I was thinking of Cairo, of my grandparents, of the small chapel in the convent. Why in fact was I here? I had made a mistake with my dress, and my uncles and aunts would talk about me later and laugh. All of a sudden, the ceremony was over; we signed the book and were given a marriage certificate. All my relatives and some of my friends were at the reception. My aunts were sitting together gossiping about Jimmy and probably about me too. Wonderful tiny hors d’oeuvres were passed around and champagne was flowing. Taitinger had been a friend of my stepfather, and gift cases of champagne had been sent to the reception as his wedding gift. I had also invited Francis, the young man my grandmother had tried to set me up with. He looked grim and unhappy, so I sailed up to him smiling and offered him a glass of champagne. He took one sip, walked brusquely up to Jimmy, who was standing nearby, threw the rest of the champagne in Jimmy’s face, and left quickly. Everyone gasped and murmured but Jimmy laughed and said to me, “I would have done the same had he taken you away from me.” I laughed, drank more champagne, and felt elated.
My stepfather had reserved a room for us at the Plaza Athénée Hôtel, and when the reception was over we were driven there. As we were about to go to bed the telephone rang. It was Jimmy’s friend; he was downstairs in the bar with all the young people from the wedding. “Come down! It’s too early to go to bed. Come and celebrate with us.” We were up until dawn. Forty years later, I wrote to the Plaza Athénée, asking for the same room we had enjoyed on our wedding night. Not only did we get the same room, we were charged the 1955 price! That night the Plaza invited us to their restaurant. The chef to whom I had written about what I had liked in 1955 organized the menu. We started with baked truffles. As we opened the foil packets and inhaled their aroma, memories of my first truffle with my stepfather flew into my head. I had loved that first truffle so much, and now after the first bite the same wonderful exciting feeling that here I was eating something so special came back to me. This dish was followed by tender filets of sole with almond butter; followed by a small sorbet of pear with eau-devie, then a tender, pink rack of baby lamb, next a salad, and finally, the most wonderful hot chocolate cake topped with the year 1955 made of spun sugar. We drank several bottles of wine. Drunk and happy, we went back to our room and that night, no one woke us up.
Before leaving for Austria on our honeymoon, we had breakfast with Mira and our two mothers. Mira took me to his room and told me that our wedding present from him was a gastronomic tour of France. He would organize it for the following June when Jimmy was out of the army. It would prove one of our most memorable trips together. Everything was arranged according to Mira’s strict criteria. Two stars for lunch and three stars for dinner. Our first stop was Chartres. Once we had explored and marveled at its magnificent cathedral, we made our way to a restaurant in Belleme called Auberge des 3 J. We sat down to eat at one o’clock and left our table at four, having feasted on persillé of foie gras with mushrooms and an exquisite “poularde” stuffed with Camembert. The meal ended with a thin slice oî pain d’épices served with crème fraîche and locally produced honey.
Within a couple of days, I could no longer eat two meals a day, but Jimmy continued to feast with gusto. The last restaurant we visited was Chez Point in Vienne. Mira had a close relationship with Point and had ordered the dishes well in advance. For three hours we savored the most exquisite meal of our lives and drank a huge quantity of wine. By the time we left the restaurant, my husband could barely walk. As we drove away, I quickly realized that he was drunk and that we had to stop at the first inn we saw. After ten minutes of terror on the road, I spied a small billboard advertising a hotel nearby When we arrived (Jimmy stayed in the car, unable to move); the manager claimed that he had no vacancies. Panic crept into my voice as I pleaded with him. I explained that I was on my honeymoon, that my husband was drunk, that I wanted to live, and that I was certain he didn’t want my death on his conscience. The man relented and showed us a room with a huge double bed and a mirror on the ceiling. We collapsed on the bed and fell asleep.
When I woke up during the night needing to find the bathroom, I went to the door and realized that we were locked in. We could not get out of the room! I tried to wake up my husband but failed to do so. I went back to bed thinking the manager was kidnapping us for ransom. I tried not to fall asleep, to stay alert, but when I was awakened by sunlight filtering through the wooden blind, I knew it was morning and that I had slept through the rest of the night. I ran to the door and to my relief I found it unlocked. As we paid for the room, I refrained from asking the manager why he had locked us in. I thought perhaps I had been dreaming. Later when I told my stepfather about the incident, he burst out laughing. “You ended up in the best whorehouse outside of Lyon!” he explained “He saw a young married couple and he did not want you to know what was happening in his ‘hotel.’” He hugged me heartily, still laughing.
Mira had a second gift for me that long-ago day After explaining the grand tour he had planned, he bent down and retrieved a box from under the hotel bed. He opened it and, to my astonishment, it was filled with gold coins. He chose a twenty-dollar gold coin and handed it to me. “You are going to America. I want you to have this,” he said. I kissed him, thinking how good he was to me. Then Jimmy and I hopped into our little magenta sports car and sped off to Vienna and our new life together.