French Exit

  “I would like a martini,” said Malcolm.

  “Frances?” said Mme Reynard.

  Frances nodded, and Mme Reynard left to prepare the drinks. Frances turned to Malcolm. “What the fuck is going on here?” she asked, and Malcolm shrugged. He sat and waited for his drink while Frances moved around the dining room to assess the furnishings and artworks, hopeful these would be lacking in some way. Mme Reynard had passable taste, however, and Frances, seeing no exploitable weakness, sat beside Malcolm at the dinner table. Mme Reynard returned with the martinis on a tray. The three of them drank and Malcolm and Mme Reynard made approving noises but Frances only stared. When Mme Reynard said, “I’m so happy you came,” Frances didn’t respond. The silence felt hostile; Mme Reynard thought to combat it with biographical information. “I married a Frenchman in my twenties,” she explained. “There was nothing keeping me in the States, so when he wanted to return to Paris, I went along with it. He died this summer, and afterward I realized our friends were actually his friends, and that not only did I not like them, but they didn’t like me, either. Haven’t seen a single one of them since the funeral. I don’t miss them particularly, but I miss the noise they made. That’s why I invited you over, because I’m lonely.”

  Frances felt burdened, even revolted by the admission. “How’d your husband die?” she asked.

  “He choked to death.”

  “That’s a new one.”

  “It was a very ugly thing.”

  Frances scoffed and sipped her martini. Mme Reynard was watching her. “Please don’t be cruel to me,” she said. “It was difficult to get up the nerve to invite you over.”

  Frances said, “I suppose I don’t see why we’re here, is all.”

  “Just that I was curious to meet you. Of course, I know who you are. I grew up in New York City, and we’re the same age, about. We all thought you were so wonderful, my friends and I.”

  “I see.”

  “So wonderful. And so, I hoped we could become friends.”

  “I appreciate that. But the fact is that I have no need of friends in my life at the moment.”

  “Everyone needs friends,” Mme Reynard said.

  “No, that’s actually not true.”

  “Well,” said Mme Reynard. “I’m sorry to hear that that’s the way you feel. But you’re here now, and I’ve made a cassoulet, and I vote we make the best of it. What do you think? Malcolm? Shall we make the best of it?”

  Malcolm said, “Yes.”

  “Fine,” said Mme Reynard. “Will you have another martini before the wine?”

  “Yes, please,” said Malcolm.

  Mme Reynard went away again. Malcolm told Frances, “You’re being a dick.”

  “Isn’t it awful?” Frances gripped her hands into fists. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

  When Mme Reynard came back, Frances thanked her for the drink. She was sitting upright, her features were softer, and she became inquisitive.

  “So, Mme Reynard, what do you do every day?”

  “Oh, what a terrible question,” Mme Reynard said. “Since my husband died I’ve become something of the tourist. Museums, opera, ballet.”

  “Didn’t he like to do those types of things?”

  “No, and neither did I, and neither do I, but I don’t know how else to pass the time.” She pointed at Frances. “Do you know, he died in that very chair.”

  Frances suddenly became aware of the chair’s dimensions. It was an exciting thing to know and she was happy she’d been told about it.

  “What did he choke on?” she asked.

  “Ah, lamb.”

  “And have you eaten lamb since?”

  “No. But, you know, I never liked lamb much in the first place.”

  “I don’t either. The gamy meats somehow summon the fact of the animal’s existence, which puts me in mind of its death.”

  “I’ve never thought of it before.”

  “Whereas a steak is simply a steak.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “May I ask if you prepared the lamb?”

  “No, it was our cook.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Yes.”

  “It would have been all the worse if you’d made it.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  The women relaxed into their drinks. Mme Reynard asked, “And you? I understand you’ve only just arrived. What have you been keeping yourself busy with? How are you?”

  “I’m all right, thank you.”

  “What did you do today?”

  “Nothing whatsoever. Yesterday I had the telephone line revitalized.”

  “Had it gone dead on you?”

  “Yes, so I had it revitalized, and then I had a second line put in.”

  “Oh? What for?”

  “Malcolm and I like to speak from our beds.”

  “Isn’t that nice?”

  “I suppose it is. Though I fear it may be sad. Or perhaps it’s simply strange? But you should have seen the man who came to do the work of it. He was very put out by the fact of the second line.”

  “Was he?”

  “He claimed it frivolous. When I protested he said I would have to call his superior. When I asked how I might do that without a phone he told me it wasn’t his problem to solve. I pointed out that it absolutely was his problem to solve, though he didn’t seem to understand what I meant in the moment. He was not, I don’t think, the smartest telephone installer in Paris, France.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “He finally did put in the one line, and I had him wait while I called his superior to make my case for the second. The superior asked why I should want such a thing and I told him that at a certain point each night, before sleep comes, I find myself feeling d’humeur orageuse.”

  Mme Reynard made a searching face. “You feel rainy?” she asked.

  “Stormy. Then I told him that when I felt d’humeur orageuse, it was good for me to hear Malcolm’s voice, that it comforted me. And the man, who had not been hugely friendly up to this point, suddenly softened, and he said he understood what I meant, and asked that I should put the telephone installer back on the line. The telephone installer received his reprimand and he did eventually put in the second line, but he was outraged by the loss of face and behaved with the most unsightly petulance. I tried to bring him a cup of tea but he wouldn’t take it. And you should have seen the paperwork he made me fill out for him, it was thick as a dictionary.”

  “The French love their red tape, don’t they?”

  “They’d eat it on a plate if they could.”

  “They would, they really would.”

  Malcolm was bored by the conversation and excused himself to search for something to steal. Finding nothing, he moved to the kitchen to replenish his vodka. He located the bottle in the freezer; just beside this was a hefty, flesh-colored, frost-coated dildo. He stared at it a moment, then poured himself a vodka and returned to the dining room. Soon Mme Reynard excused herself to use the bathroom; in a controlled voice, Malcolm told Frances, “Go look in the freezer.”

  “Why?”

  “Go look.”

  She did go look, returning in forty-five seconds with a faraway expression on her face. “I’ve never understood them,” she said.

  “What’s to understand?”

  “Is it something one uses alone or with someone there to help?”

  “Either or.”

  She tapped her chin. “But why would you want it cold?”

  “That’s the mystery.”

  Frances shivered and took herself up in her arms. Mme Reynard entered the room on deliberate footsteps. The vodka had snuck up on her and she was struggling to maintain her composure. “I think I’m a little bit crocked,” she said. “Malcolm, would you mind serving the cassoulet?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’m sure I’ll scald myself if I try it. It’s all ready for you in the kitchen.”

  Malcolm exited. Mme Reynard had a long drink of her
martini. “It becomes like water, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s better than water,” said Frances.

  Mme Reynard was amused by the statement. She felt very gay, because the catastrophic evening had repaired itself. She swirled her finger in her glass and stuck it in her mouth and asked, “Is it true that you’ve lost everything?”

  “Yes,” said Frances.

  “And what have you got in the way of plans, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I’ve only just made plans last week but I don’t think I should speak of them. Fresh plans—you know.”

  “You want to give them time to firm up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mustn’t take them out of the oven too soon.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I understand completely. You know, I don’t think there’s anything better for morale than fresh plans.”

  “Yes, I agree. I’ve felt so much better since I made them.”

  “Isn’t that nice? Oh, but I wish you’d give me a hint.”

  “I’m sorry; I mustn’t.”

  “I’m sure it will all come off stylishly, knowing you.” She stared. “I need to make some plans myself, actually. Perhaps I’ll simply copy yours, whenever they come to light.”

  “You could do worse.”

  “I’m certain I could do far worse.” Mme Reynard became still, then brightened. “May I share a recollection I have of you?”

  “All right.”

  Mme Reynard said, “It must have been twenty years ago, in the months after your husband’s death. I was eating with a group at Le Cirque, and a man at my table had had dealings with your husband and was not at all enamored of him. He’d actually been speaking poorly of him when you came in. You looked so smart, I couldn’t help but stare. We were all staring. As you passed the table, the man stopped you and said, ‘Mrs. Price, I knew your husband well. And it’s all I can do not to dance on his grave.’ Do you remember it?”

  “I don’t, no. What did I say to him?”

  “That’s the thing. You didn’t say a word. You drank his drink.”

  Frances nodded. She remembered now, distantly.

  “Straight Scotch,” said Mme Reynard, “and you drank it down in a gulp and then stared at him with a look of absolute indifference. You were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen and the poor fool didn’t know what to do with himself.”

  The women both were smiling. Frances said, “I’m sorry I was rude before. My life has fallen completely to pieces and I’m upset about it.”

  “I know just what you mean.”

  “Yes, perhaps you do, after all. Oh, look, here comes Malcolm with our dinner.”

  “Sustenance!” Mme Reynard cried.

  17.

  Malcolm’s bedroom window looked out over a small public park. The park was unremarkable: it featured the usual number of benches, a jungle gym, a goodly amount of trees, and a border of shrubs, these favored as shelter by a rotating cast of placeless immigrants who had settled on the park as their base of operations. It was unseasonably warm for December and the park was bustling; Malcolm discovered the area could be watched in the same way a television was watched. Themes emerged, moral lessons, dramas, occasional comedies, reliable oddities. Malcolm had always been a satisfied silent observer; now he devoted a good portion of his waking moments to doing just this.

  In the early mornings there came the professionals, smartly outfitted men and women cutting across the park with stern expressions on their faces. By nine o’clock the immigrants were up and mingling; by ten they had evacuated the park to roam the streets of Paris, that their human needs might be met for another day. After eleven, the park would be filled with children and their nannies, mostly African women who sat in clusters to laugh and tease and argue with one another, while the children were left to scrabble about the jungle gym. By one o’clock the nannies and children would be replaced by clerks, secretaries, and shopkeepers eating their lunches, reading books, smoking cigarettes. This group was particularly nonsocial; they were taking this time just for themselves, treasuring their solitude, their tobacco, the pull of a well-told story. In the early afternoon the nannies and children would return, the children ever more shrill and wild, the nannies calmer, the accrual of the day’s fatigue rendering them duller and less joyful. The late afternoons saw all those who had crossed the park in the morning recrossing in the opposite directions. As the day wound down and the sky grew darker, the immigrants began to trickle back. At night, the park was theirs.

  Days ticked by, and Malcolm saw that these routines, this schedule, had very little variation; but within its strict narrative there grew smaller stories.

  Late one afternoon Malcolm watched a young woman in a black business suit enter the park and sit alone on a bench. Soon a businessman of the same age arrived and sat beside her. After a brief discussion they began kissing and petting with a passion Malcolm found indecorous, even for Paris—at a certain point the man’s hand was fully inside the woman’s blouse, for example. This went on for thirty or so minutes, at which point they stood, said their goodbyes, and left the park from separate exit points. This same event was reenacted the next day, and the next, and on like this so that their arrival and behaviors became a known piece of Malcolm’s vista. The rigidity of their timetable, and the fact of their arriving and leaving separately, led Malcolm to understand this couple was involved in an extramarital affair.

  One day they arrived at the appointed hour and sat upon the appointed bench, but now their affections were replaced by a long and seemingly unhappy discussion. The man made searching, wretched gestures with his hands; the woman began to weep. The man left, the woman remained, a cigarette smoldering in her hand but never raised to her mouth. The next day she came and sat alone on the bench. The day after this, the man came alone. The day after this the bench was empty.

  Malcolm found this scenario interesting at the start but ultimately dreary in its familiarity. He preferred to follow the activity of the immigrants, which was more diverse, and so harder to define and understand.

  They were all men, dark haired and olive skinned, and when Malcolm passed them in the park they spoke a language unfamiliar to him. They drank jug wine and rolled their own cigarettes and on colder nights made small, scattered fires, which lent the park a festive air; but by midnight the police would come and stomp the fires out, the embers swimming up through the dark in banking zigzags. The immigrants would be shooed away but once the police left they would return, and in the smaller hours it seemed that anything might happen.

  Sometimes Malcolm saw them fighting one another, but other times the men could be seen slow-dancing to music on radios, or to the thrumming of an acoustic guitar. In his adult life, Malcolm had rarely thought of what it would be like to have male friendships; and he never pined for any. But to witness this camaraderie gave him the pang of an outlying jealousy, which embarrassed him, and which he pushed away.

  He awoke at nine o’clock in the morning, as was usual for him. He rose from his bed and stood at his window. The immigrants were in various states of greeting the day, but no sign yet of the nannies and their shrieking charges. Five pigeons perched in a huddle on the branch of a sycamore at the edge of the park. Malcolm was only half watching them, but now he noticed four of the pigeons were stepping away from the fifth. They walked in a shuffling, sideways bunch while the fifth stood in place, hunkered down and shivering. After a moment it wavered and became still; then, tilting forward, it fell from the branch and plummeted beak-first through the air, thirty feet or more, crashing directly onto the belly of a sleeping immigrant. The man jumped to his feet; clutching his stomach, he studied the dead bird with the purest confusion. What dread omen was this? What woeful news was the natural world sharing with him? He looked around, desirous for a witness, someone to explain the occurrence, but there was no one, and the man snatched up his blanket and hurried from the park, the bird lying stiffly in the grass.

  At this moment,
the phone rang. Malcolm put the receiver to his ear and asked, “What’s the opposite of a miracle?”

  Frances sat upright in her bed. “How many letters?”

  18.

  Over coffee they realized it was Christmas Eve, and so they separated to buy each other presents. Malcolm bought Frances a case of her preferred French wine; he also brought home a small potted Christmas tree and a single string of lights. He decorated the tree and set it on the table in the breakfast nook; he opened one of the bottles and waited for Frances to return. When she entered the apartment she was pushing a bicycle with a bow on its handlebars. She had pushed it all the way up the stairwell and was panting heavily. “Come and get it away from me, Christ, I’m dying.”

  It was early evening. They drank through a first, then a second bottle of wine, and Frances became fixated on Malcolm’s lack of enthusiasm for the bicycle. Malcolm hadn’t ridden a bicycle in twenty years and it was true that at first glance he was indifferent to possess it. Frances was adamant that he should ride it that night but Malcolm didn’t want to go outside. Finally, and thanks in part to the wine, they decided he could and should ride the bicycle in the apartment. They moved the furniture to clear a path and after two false starts he was off.

  His circuit consisted of a loop in his bedroom, then down the hall and through the living room to Frances’s room, another loop, and back again. The activity at the beginning required his total focus; but after a while he became more comfortable and sure of his route, and so could relax. Minutes passed with Malcolm pedaling along his path. Frances had climbed into her bed, which had been pushed to the center of her room, and Malcolm rode around her in slow circles.

  “It’s a smooth rider.”

  “Ding the bell.”

  He dinged the bell and went away down the hall, then returned to loop his mother. Frances was quiet. Small Frank was sitting at the foot of her bed and she was smiling at him.

  “What?” Malcolm asked.

  “Oh,” said Frances. “I was thinking about a sailboat he bought me.”

  “He bought you a sailboat?”