Without Reservations_ The Travels of an Independent Woman - Alice Steinbach [10]
“Aye, it’s nature’s own free moisturizer,” she would tell me on those Saturday-morning forays into the garden. If I closed my eyes now, I could still see it: a stocky, plain-looking woman in her sixties and a curious, plain-looking child of eight, both dressed in bathrobes and slippers, kneeling in the misty light of dawn and with cupped hands splashing dewdrops onto their faces. Afterward, I would fall back into the warmth of my bed, to doze and dream of the scones I smelled baking in the kitchen.
So strong was the image of that woman and child—one dead now for over thirty years, the other grown—that when I peeled off the stiff green mask, I half expected to see my grandmother’s face emerge.
Perhaps tonight I will dream of my grandmother, dream we are back in that garden, together again, I thought, climbing into bed.
But I didn’t. Instead I fell into a deep sleep. When I awakened the next morning, the Paris sun had entered my room, falling in slanted golden rays across the floor. I walked to the window and inhaled the golden air. The breeze carried with it the sound of children’s voices from a nearby playground; happy, laughing voices that called to one another in high, excited shrieks of irrepressible energy. The language of pleasure, I thought, is the same everywhere.
The sounds floated into my room, swirling around the dark armoire and the red velvet loveseat before drifting out the window into the skies of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. As I listened to the high, childish voices, I imagined them moving like laughing birds along the narrow street outside; I imagined them turning right at the rue de Beaune, a tiny street that ended at the Seine; I imagined them landing on the water, wings tucked back, playfully joining the river’s glorious rush through all of Paris, sending small cries of contagious joy throughout the city.
A gentle tapping on the door reminded me I had left a request for breakfast in my room. “Bonjour, madame,” said a cheerful young woman carrying a large tray with white china plates and silver pots. She placed it on the table, just between the two open windows. “Bon appétit.”
I sat down and studied the tray’s contents. Carefully laid out on a white linen cloth were fresh orange juice, croissants and brioche, strawberry jam, cheese, and a tall silver pot of coffee, accompanied by a smaller server filled with hot milk. I thought of my usual breakfast at home—coffee and a slice of whole-wheat toast dabbed with peanut butter, served from the top of my television set. Usually I ate this repast while making phone calls and watching Katie Couric on the Today show. In my former life, the one that existed until yesterday, it was my habit always to do at least two things at once; three, if possible.
But there would be no hurried phone calls or Katie Couric-watching this morning. Leisurely, I draped the linen napkin on my lap and took a sip of orange juice. Into my large china coffee cup I poured a combination of the strong black coffee and hot milk. I added two small cubes of brown sugar from the sugar bowl and stirred the mixture with a small silver spoon.
This is heaven, I thought, sipping the coffee.
I picked up a croissant, broke it open, and covered it in a painterly way with strokes of red jam. Then, just before taking the first bite, I raised the croissant and, in a celebratory mood, issued a toast to myself: Welcome to Paris, madame S. And bon appétit!
2
WOMAN IN THE HAT
Dear Alice,
At breakfast today in a café near the rue du Bac, I saw Colette. She was drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette, her wild, curly hair and knowing eyes enveloped in smoke. I almost said hello, but then remembered Colette