French Fried

I was in tears when Jason slammed the door, indifferent to my concerns and angry that I’d held him up. Why couldn’t he understand that Mercedes’s obvious infatuation, whether or not he returned it, was embarrassing to me? And he just brushed off the idea that terrorists might be after us. What was so unbelievable about that? They always retaliate. Look what had gone on for decades in the Middle East.

Before I could have a good cry, the telephone rang—Albertine calling to ask when Catherine planned to pick me up, so she and Charles de Gaulle could to join us. At least, someone cared what happened to me. I wiped my eyes and invited her to breakfast. That would cost twenty-four euros, which I’d put on the room bill since Jason had left before I could ask for his credit card. What was I supposed to do if we went across the Rhône by bus or had lunch after our trip?

Albertine accepted, so I dressed and went downstairs. We walked around the corner to the breakfast area and the row of tables with large windows looking out on the street. Once we had our food, Albertine mentioned “that young woman who seems to adore your husband.” I mumbled that she was just a graduate student. “Then you should make sure she stays away from him on social occasions. She should have been at the young ones’ table, and you and I with the notable professors.”

“Well, I must think what to do, Carolyn. Perhaps you are naïve about these things, but you should realize that your husband is reaching a dangerous age. He needs to be protected from himself. I watch Adrien closely and have defended him and myself for at least ten years.”

“Tell me, Albertine, why do so many Frenchwomen wear black?” I asked to change the course of an embarrassing subject. Albertine had on a handsome black suit with white trim, not to mention shoes quite unsuited for sightseeing.

“Black is chic,” she replied, “but different Frenchwomen wear it for different reasons. I favor it because I look good in black, which compliments my complexion and hair. Victoire wears black because she wishes to look as thin as possible, although she looks skeletal in any color, while Catherine wears black because she is a widow.”

“Her husband died years ago, so she should have given up mourning clothes by now, but he killed himself. He was much older, and she was wildly in love with him, a student of his before they married. Unfortunately, she failed to notice that he was given to fits of depression. Why would he kill himself when he had her? she thought, so she blamed his death on criticism of his research, but her husband had been falling into melancholy long before that.

“Adrien says it was not so terrible a matter, the paper. All scientists make a mistake or two, which is pointed out in the literature. The offender then writes a courteous letter to the critic, a retraction to the journal, and that’s the end of it. But Catherine wouldn’t be consoled. After his death, she sold their home and bought that apartment. Perhaps she wanted to die, too, but not to kill herself, being a Catholic. Since then she no longer socializes. She spends all her time doing research and driving her poor students to despair. A woman her age should have remarried, or at least taken a lover. Her conduct is unhealthy.”

“But it’s sad, isn’t it?” I said. I’d have to be extra nice to her. No wonder she had seemed standoffish when we first met.

The waitress told us that a lady was waiting for us in the lobby, so we finished our coffee and left to meet Catherine, who seemed quite surprised to see Albertine, or maybe she was surprised to see the dog. “I didn’t know you were coming, Albertine. We will be crowded in my car.”

Oh good! She had a car. I wouldn’t have to use any money for bus fare, and I could always claim that I wasn’t hungry if we went out to lunch. Of course, I’d be sure to mention to Jason tonight that I’d gone hungry. Catherine decided I should sit in front with her so that she could tell me about Villeneuve before we got there.

The ride was quite unusual. For one thing, she took shortcuts through streets that had posts coming up out of the pavement to block cars. At the first one, she clicked a gadget, and the posts retreated into the roadway. “That’s Catherine’s apartment,” said Albertine, pointing to a gate through which I could see banks of squares that were actually apartments with balconies. Then the complex was gone, and we approached another street with posts.

“You’ll have to get out and push or jump on that post, Carolyn,” said our driver. “They’ll all go down when you push down the first.” Reluctantly, I approached a post, but pushing didn’t accomplish anything. I had to climb onto it before it retreated under my weight, and then I more or less fell off. What if I’d hit my head again? After that we left the posted streets and headed for the bridge.

Catherine told me that Villeneuve-les-Avignon, which was on the right bank of the Rhône facing the papal city, had been occupied since the fifth century when the hermit, Saint Casarie, lived there. “In the tenth century a Benedictine monastery was founded on his site and named the Abbey of St. Andre, around which quarrymen and stone-masons formed a small town. Avignon ruled the town across the river until Louis VIII—”

“He’s the one who besieged Avignon for three months because of its heretics and finally starved them into giving up,” I exclaimed. “I hadn’t realized until yesterday that Avignon was one of the places attacked by the crusade against the Albigensian Heresy.”

“Yes,” said Catherine, obviously resenting my interruption. “St. Andre then made a treaty with the king and later with Philippe le Bel, who built the tower at the end of Pont St. Benezet. In the fourteenth century, the bridge ran all the way across the Rhône. Then in the fifteenth century, when the papacy was moved to Avignon, the new town grew bigger with the palaces of rich men and cardinals who wanted to escape the filth and crime of Avignon, brought on by all the people who came to profit from the papal court. The fort and defensive walls were built by the kings of France as a barrier against the power of the church across the river.”

Catherine recited these facts without much interest, which surprised me because it was she who had suggested the trip. She finished by saying that we would drive up Mount Andaon to see Fort St. Andre, and then back down to visit the Church of Notre-Dame, the museum, and the Monastery La Chartreuse.

What a tour it was! We walked at a tremendous pace through the monastery church, around the huge crenellated walls, in and out of a funny old chapel, and up and down rough paths cut through deep grass. I could hardly keep up, but then both women had longer legs than I, although I don’t think Albertine was in any better shape, and she was older and wearing heels. Charles de Gaulle was in seventh heaven. The weather had turned cold, overcast, and windy, but I was perspiring by the time we got to a group of huge, round towers that had once guarded the only entrance to the fort.

“You and the dog can rest,” said Catherine, “but Carolyn would never forgive herself if she missed this view. What could I say? Breathless and tired, I started up after Catherine, who climbed stairs like a mountain goat.

“I’m following,” called Albertine. When I glanced back, Charles de Gaulle seemed the most eager of us all. He strained at his leash. Then I lost sight of them as I puffed upward. By the time we reached the top, I was dizzy, but Catherine took my arm and led me across the open space toward a lower crenellation around the edge of the tower. Looking down made me twice as dizzy.

“Wonderful,” I echoed, wishing her hand was still on my arm. No matter how wonderful the view, I intended to back up before I fell over, and I nearly did. I heard Charles de Gaulle give a deep-throated woof, his toenails scrabbling across the stones, and then a thump and a shriek from Catherine. When I turned, she was on the pavement, the dog standing over her.

I hurried toward Catherine as Albertine came into view. “He got away from me,” she gasped. Catherine tried to give the dog a shove, and he shoved back until his front paws were planted on her midriff. “Charles, what do you think you’re doing?” Albertine called. “Off! Non!” She used the last of her strength to reach us. The dog didn’t move until she arrived and dragged him away. Catherine, meanwhile, shouted, probably curses, into his face.

“I can’t imagine what got into him,” said Albertine. “He’s supposed to be protecting Carolyn, not knocking down members of the faculty. “Shame on you, Charles! Can’t you tell an academic from a terrorist?”

Catherine staggered upright, not appeased in the least. “Look at my outfit! I can’t go to the conference in torn, dusty clothes. Since I’ll have to go home and change, this will be the end of our tour.” And she strode off toward the stairs.

Albertine and I took our time because we weren’t up to anything else. “I don’t like standing on top of towers,” I said. “It’s scary.”