The metro zipped through the tunnel, hardly taking the two minutes Dan had allowed to travel between each stop. He practised his French listening skills as the train’s movement joggled him between two ferocious buxom women who were shouting at each other.
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“Qu’est-ce que tu regard, putain?”
“Ta gueule.”
“Non, ta gueule.”
Dan sighed with satisfaction. Everything sounded so much more dramatic in French. Somehow the women’s argument was imbued with a passion and interest that you wouldn’t get from the equivalent scene on the tube in London: two middle aged women telling each other to shut their mouths.
An accordion player and his son hopped on at Bastille, wheeling an amp that was attached to shopping trolley wheels with gaffa tape, a plastic cup stuck on for donations. Always the same tunes. Dan considered the potential market for a metro compilation album back home in the UK. It was probably small. He dug out a euro to drop in the cup as the boy shuffled around, then he watched them lug the trolley off at St Ambroise. The music started again in the adjacent carriage.
Dan let his thoughts wander to the rendezvous he had arranged.
“Friendly French woman seeks language exchange with charming young English man.”
Surely that was code for a date.
They pulled in to a white-tiled station, walls latticed with green trelliswork. “Parmentier,” read the name. Dan twisted the metal handle and let the door spring open, stepping off as the train slowed down, allowing the momentum to propel him forward onto the platform. He breathed deeply and shrugged his shoulders to try to shake off the tension as he walked past a small plinth. He stopped for a moment to read the poster by its side, proudly announcing the statue of Monsieur Antoine-Augustin Parmentier, infamous champion of the potato in France. The metal figure held a potato in one hand and gazed at Dan with a serious expression. Photographs of potatoes lined the walls as Dan headed for the stairs to the SORTIE.
Up the steps, he could smell the metro and feel its warmth. He passed through the barrier which sprang open as he walked over the plastic mat in front of it. Past the ticket office and up more steps, into the air. He could see blue sky above him as he was delivered onto the street, surrounded suddenly by the beeping of cars and the shouting of pedestrians.
Blinking in the bright light he turned to face the art nouveau metro sign. Behind the green lettering he saw he was at a cross roads: three intersecting main roads and one side street sneaking off. A bar on the corner marked the beginning of the avenue he was looking for. A surly-looking barman with a hairband was clearing tables out the front. Dan walked past, noting the fire station opposite. Next was a ladies’ clothes shop. And then, a solid old pine door tucked away, the number 94 written in tiles above. Dan flicked open his Plan de Paris and typed the number he had scrawled in the back into the entry system keypad to the right of the entrance. 38A49C. The door clicked. Dan pushed it open.
In the gloom of the hallway he sniffed at his armpits. The smell of Lynx lingered. Dan started as a man wearing a bohemian neck scarf surprised him by coming into the hall. Dan lingered awkwardly as the man checked his mailbox, locking it with a tiny silver key and pressing the button to the side of the door to exit from the building. Dan was left alone. The stairway to the right, the woman had said on the phone. At least he thought she’d said that; the connection had been distorted and she had insisted on speaking only French. He walked past an open door to a room of dustbins and flaky paint walls, turned the corner and began to climb the polished steps up to the third floor. Finally confronting the red door, Dan wiped his clammy palms on his jeans. He ran a hand over his hair to smooth it down, and cleared his throat.
Dan pressed the door bell and heard the tinny sound echo inside the apartment. He felt his heart beating fast. What would she be like? Tall he hoped. But not too tall. And totally French.
A shuffling sound came from behind the door and then a long pause. The door creaked open a slice to reveal an eye.
“Oui?”
“Er…. Hello,” Dan began in hesitating French.
“I’m Dan, I called before, er, I’m here for Michelle, I came about the advert.”
The door creaked open fully to reveal a short woman dressed in a tight fitting pale blue house dress, stretched over her ample breasts and stomach. Her grey hair was tightly curled and the skin around her eyes wrinkled and bagged like that of a rhinoceros.
“Come in.”
Dan coughed, and followed the woman in, silent.
“Juice? Tea?” she asked. A tray sat on a lace tablecloth, two glasses and two cartons of juice laid out.
“Er, yes, why not?” Dan edged into the room.
“Sit down.”
Dan perched on a chair and looked around uncomfortably. Was this Michelle’s mother? Grandmother? Michelle must be in another room, maybe brushing her luxurious hair, or patting powder on her perfect face.
“Er, you are… Madame Amiot? he ventured.
“Yes.”
“ And Michelle? She’s here?”
“Yes, she’s here,” Madame Amiot set about opening the juice cartons with a tiny pair of silver scissors.
“Er…” said Dan again, confused.
“Can I help with those?” he asked, as Madame Amiot’s silver scissors snipped dangerously close to her fingertips.
“Ah yes, thank you. You are a kind young man. This is why I placed the advert, you see.”
“Why you placed the advert,” repeated Dan, slowly, a slightly odd feeling taking over his stomach.
“You know I have never been the same, never, not since I had my fall.”
“Your fall…”
“My fall, yes. Those stairs you know, those stairs. They polish them so hard, every Tuesday. I was coming down the stairs to go and visit Madame Bogumil and her dog and what should happen but I slipped on those stairs and fell. I landed here, on the base of my spine…”
Madame Amiot had risen from her seat and turned to face away from him, suddenly whipping up her blouse and tugging down her skirt to reveal a large pair of moon-shaped buttocks, so pale they almost glowed in the soft light of the room. A scar ran from her lower back to the very bottom of her bottom.
“You see, you see?”
“Er… yes, I see”.
Dan saw.
Madame Amiot took a while to readjust her clothing before sitting back down.
“So… you decided to put an ad for a language exchange because you felt miserable about your back?” Dan offered.
“What? What’s that?” Madame Amiot asked brightly, seizing one of the tumblers of juice.
“I like this juice. It’s so sweet.”
“Um, the advert, for the language exchange. You want to learn English?”
She looked blank. Dan rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out the crumpled page, ripped from a free paper.
“Friendly French woman seeks language exchange with charming young English man. Call Michelle Amiot, 01.04.65.27.09. ”
The woman let her hands flit over the tablecloth until they reached a pair of plastic spectacles. She put them on, with some show, and cleared her throat as she read.
“Ah but no! These free papers, you can’t trust them to do anything. There has been a mix-up.” Madame Amiot glared about the room.
“But you are Michelle Amiot? Madame Amiot I mean?”
“Yes! But this isn’t the advert I placed…”
Madame Amiot picked up a small black notebook and opened it to a page marked by a photograph of herself and a small baby on her knee.
“My great-great-granddaughter Marie. You see? So sweet, so lovely.”
Dan smiled despite himself. This woman was mad as a bag of cats.
“There,” she pointed to a spidery sentence of block capitals.
“Reliable person needed to help with errands, especially shopping.”
Her hand shook as she pointed and Dan noticed how thin her skin was. Her veins were easily visible and every here and there vivid purple blood blots bloomed underneath.
“Ah”, said Dan, smiling with relief. “A mistake then. I think we might have conflicting expectations.”
Madame Amiot looked dejected.
“I am sorry Dan. You have come here hoping to be able to speak English with a new friend.”
“Well, no, no. Actually I was hoping to speak French. It’s hard here to get a lot of practise. Most people I meet want to speak English, so…”, he trailed off.
Madame Amiot’s birdlike eyes had brightened a little.
“Would you like some Tarte Tatin? I have some Tarte Tatin.”
“Sure, I’ll have some Tarte”. Dan smiled at this woman who was so eager for company.
Mme Amiot brought two white china plates through from the kitchen with enormous slices of glistening apple tart.
“Look”, started Dan, unsure of whether he would come to regret this.
“Maybe I could help you. I mean, I could come every now and then to do your shopping. And you could speak with me in French and tell me when I get things wrong. What do you think?”
“Ah, but you will want to be spending your time with other young people, not with me. I am 84 you know. 84. Would you really do that?” Madame Amiot’s eyes searched his.
“It could be nice,” Dan shrugged, finishing the last of his juice.
“Let me get you some more.” Mme Amiot was out in the kitchen again before Dan could nod or disagree.
Two hours later Dan stood outside the red door again. Shaking his head and laughing he loped down the stairs, taking extra care not to slip. Still laughing, he crossed the dark hallway and pressed the button to release the heavy wooden door.
Madame Amiot sighed as she shut the door of her apartment. The cream paint was peeling on the inside of the door frame. She would have to get the concierge to come and look. She rubbed at her back with one hand and hoiked up her tights with the other as she wandered through into the tiny dining room. Two plates, two glasses and the crumpled advert sat on the lace tablecloth. She walked past the table to the French window, unfastening the clasp of her skirt with a sigh, and allowing it to fall to the floor, leaving her standing in her silky underskirt. She stepped out onto her balcony, where climbing plants shielded her largely from view. The underskirt caught in the breeze as passers-by went on with their days below.
“Aaaah, my roses…” she sighed as she surveyed her window boxes.
Down below, the car horns beeped insistently as the cars queued up along the avenue. Madame Amiot peered down as Dan came out from the apartment block and let the door click shut behind him. She smiled at his retreating back then let her gaze drift across the road to two young firemen stood outside the fire station talking idly. Their dark blue uniforms cut a fine silhouette against the red brick of the station behind them. Mme Amiot watched from above as one ran in, leaving the other outside, absent-mindedly adjusting himself. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned up to the floors above. She reached for the silver binoculars which she kept in the window box, holding them up to her eyes with one hand, leaning on the balcony for support with the other. She trained the lenses on first one window, then another. A dry chuckle escaped her as she alighted on a bedroom’s solitary occupant. A lone fireman, dressed only in a T-shirt, was sat on his bed. Madame Amiot followed the rhythmic movement of the young fireman’s arm as it increased in fervour, then paused, then beat time again. A breath of pleasure escaped her lips as the young man across the street shuddered his delight.
Her binoculars glinted in the sunlight.