7
A French Encounter
“What’s a tyke, Mama?” my sweet Andrea asked.
I couldn’t remember—if I’d ever known. “Something nice, I’m sure, sweetheart.” But I thought that it was probably something unkind. The English have always considered us either frivolous or dangerous. And Signora Stackpole thought the Mafia must have killed Paolina? What nonsense. The Mafia doesn’t throw people into swimming pools. As for the English—they’ve been sending their pasty-faced sons and horse-faced daughters to Italy to be exposed to culture and to sow their wild—what’s the phrase?—Grasses?—for decades, centuries, and looking down their long noses at us. I used to hate having them on tours. They either ignored me and talked among themselves—“Look, Wycomb, that child has a dirty face.” As if their children never got smudged. Or they wanted to argue with me and pronounced all the historical and place names wrong. Or they said disapproving things about the church and the pope. No one has the right to do that but us Italians.
I liked the Americans much better. They were friendlier, and why wouldn’t they be? Half of Italy immigrated and bred the joy of life into them. Carolyn, for instance, was a pleasant woman, even if I did suspect her of murdering Paolina.
At that moment, I heard her say, “What a beautiful dog,” and when I looked around, a huge black poodle let out a loud woof and launched himself at her. Poor Carolyn landed on her bottom, looking dazed, while the dog licked her face.
My daughter, who loves dogs, cried, “Look at the doggie, Mama. He’s kissing Signora Blue.” Giulia headed their way to claim a “kiss” for herself, but I dragged her back.
“Charles de Gaulle, stop that,” ordered the woman who had circled us in the hall.
“Thank you,” said Carolyn to the French woman as the dog obediently backed off.
While Carolyn searched her little silver purse for a Kleenex to wipe the dog drool from her face, the French woman said in English—her accent wasn’t half as good as mine, “My apologies, Madame. I don’t know what possessed Charles. His manners are usually impeccable.” Then she scolded the dog so sternly in French that he hung his head while swiveling his eyes toward Carolyn.
“I believe our Charles has fallen in love,” said the French husband. “You must forgive his clumsy zeal. He was trying to kiss you, Madame, as the little Italian girl said, but perhaps you do not understand Italian.”
The French couple was very well dressed, I’ll say that for them, but I hadn’t missed that covert insult about language. The French are as disapproving as the English, maybe more so. Poor Carolyn, covered with dog drool, and, God help us, that big lout of a poodle had bruised her cheek. I handed Giulia to Lorenzo, who was watching the scene with amusement, and went to help Carolyn up.
“Adrien, I see you and your wife managed to make it away from Lyon despite the strike,” said my husband.
I realized then that the Frenchies must be part of the conference. Something worse than the Stackpoles to look forward to. But no one could complain that I’d brought the children along, not when the French had their dog with them. Maybe the dog would attack our hostess, the very noble Constanza Ricci-Tassone, and the French would be asked to leave. Was that too much to hope for?
Such were my thoughts while Lorenzo introduced everyone and explained the missing husband and wife, who had been caught up in the French air-traffic controllers’ strike.
Madame Albertine Guillot evidently took amiss my husband’s good-natured teasing about the French propensity to call sudden, inconvenient strikes. She recalled for us the year when a new computer system had been installed in the railroad station in Rome, resulting in twenty percent of the trains failing to run at all, while others were listed for departure and arrival at the wrong times and on the wrong tracks.
“Has a new system of air traffic direction been installed in Paris then?” I asked innocently. “Is that why no one can get here from your capital?” She glared at me.
Professor Adrien Guillot, the French husband, said, “Well, strikes. I remember the labor strike in Rome when so many from all over Italy, wearing their red caps and carrying their red banners, prevented us from visiting the Golden Palace of Nero.”
“Not to mention the marathon runners bearing down on those of us trying to cross streets,” said Madame Guillot.
“Shall I mediate a truce between the French and the Italians?” asked Professor Stackpole, who had been scratching the ears of an ecstatic Charles de Gaulle. Stackpole’s wife had just returned from chasing the bellman into the elevator to give him her uprooted plant, which she wanted him to carry upstairs with the bags and put in a glass of water.
Finally we all set out for the cocktail party, Albertine Guillot and I with our high heels clicking on the tile floors, Carolyn limping slightly in unfashionable, flat-heeled shoes, although her dress was very pretty, especially for the clothing of an American, whose country is not known for its sense of fashion. Still, Americans are much more fashionable than the English. Mrs. Stackpole was still wearing her tweeds and walking shoes. She hadn’t bothered to change, although she may have come all the way from England in that outfit. I’m told that the English only bathe once a week. How dreadful, and wearing such unseasonably heavy clothes. Lorenzo and I take a bath together every night in our large, claw-footed tub. It was a wonder we didn’t have ten children by then instead of just two and eight-ninths.
Giulia managed to reach out and pat the behind of Charles de Gaulle, who growled.
“I must warn you that Charles does not like children,” said Madame Guillot, looking disdainfully over her shoulder.
“How French of him,” I muttered under my breath.
“Try to remember, my love, that we’re all one happy European Union now,” my husband whispered, his lovely blue eyes twinkling. Where did they come from? Perhaps an ancestress had been raped by a soldier in an army of a Holy Roman Emperor from Germany. Fortunately, the rape and its genetic consequences had failed to cast Germanic gloom over my husband’s happy and ardent disposition. I sincerely hoped that the late Paolina had been lucky enough to have lovers of Lorenzo’s temperament before her death.