An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [60]
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
not-so-great britain
THE WAITRESS REMOVES OUR CUPS and plates then sets the table for the next customers. Papa and Tatie lean back in their chairs so they’re not in her way but they don’t pick up on her cues that it’s time for us to leave. We can’t leave because we can’t agree where to go. Shopping is out of the question. We can’t travel by metro because Tatie is worried about pickpockets. She won’t allow me to hold onto her bag. It’s hidden under her coat in her lap. Museums are not possible because Papa insists he doesn’t want to visit any place where there might be crowds of Brits.
“What’s so great about them?” he says. “You don’t hear us pretending to be Great France or the Germans, Great Germany.”
“Where do you want to go?” I ask. “Please tell me.”
“If they were satisfied with simply Britain, I could have tolerated them,” he says. “I could have tolerated Philip. But no. They’re the Great British. They eat fried potatoes wrapped in a newspaper. As a citizen of Great France, I prefer to read my newspapers, not eat out of them.”
Tatie’s ex-husband, Philip, is to Tatie what the sciatic nerve problem is to Henry. The mere mention of his name makes her wince. She married him to spite Papa. That’s my theory. He was from not-so-great Britain and they turned out to be a not-so-great match. She refused to speak English with Philip in the same way she refused to speak English with me. When he’d come home late, Tatie would complain. One day, he didn’t come home at all. For two weeks after that, Tatie slept on the couch in the front room waiting for him. I’d wake to go to the bathroom, hear her crying and think it had something to do with me. I’d sit with her and hold her hand to make up for the times I’d told her, “You’re not my mother!”
“If you can’t agree on a place to go, we’ll have to stay here,” I tell them. “That means we’ll need to order something.”
Tatie shakes her head. “I’m not the one who’s disagreeing. It’s your Papa.”
“That’s because you want to go shopping,” he says.
“Not in Paris, I don’t want to go shopping,” Tatie says. “There are too many pickpockets. Besides, we’re going shopping at the market tomorrow.”
“You do want to go shopping. You don’t want to go shopping. Make up your mind.”
I call the waitress to the table and order more coffee. She turns to Papa. “And for your wife, Monsieur?”
Papa: If she was my wife, I would have divorced her long ago.
Tatie: I never would have married you in the first place so you couldn’t have divorced me.
The waitress is unfazed by the conversation. She leaves. They continue to ricochet off each other.
Tatie: We’re growing old, Carl.
Papa: I’m not as old as you.
Tatie: Ten minutes makes little difference in a lifetime.
Papa: It made a difference to me. With you born and me still in the womb, I had the place to myself.
Tatie: The pleasure was all mine.
I change the conversation to the only topic they’ll agree on: the state of the country. Papa complains about how, if France adopts a common European currency, it will be the end of the nation. Tatie says they won’t be able to afford to keep the house. Papa launches into a tirade about how voters should have elected Le Penn. Tatie says they might have to get rid of the car if gas prices go up. I leave them together to map out the future of life in France while I pay the bill.
We leave the Bistro then visit the information counter in the station. The attendant suggests an afternoon tour on a double-decker bus with hop-on-and-off visits throughout Paris. Tatie is fine with the idea but Papa insists it’s out of the question. He doesn’t want to drive around Paris with a bunch of Great Brits. I reassure him. “I’ll find us seats in an area of the bus without them.”
We leave the train station, buy the tickets