Free Lessons in French by Hilary Reyl Page A

interesting is the way the power of chance plays such a strong role in Christ’s destiny. He doesn’t have our modern egotistical notion of self-determination. He follows a path.”
    Happenstance and fate, I was learning, were among Clarence’s favorite themes. He expressed annoyance at the common assumption that we do everything for a reason, however conscious, that we are actually capable of guiding ourselves through life and therefore have most of the responsibility for our situations.
    He thought that way too much power was attributed these days to psychology. As he experienced more and more of life—he was in his fifties now—he felt a growing respect for the random as well as for Greek tragedy. So much, indeed most, of what happens is beyond our control, he argued. And it is both self-aggrandizing and self-flagellating to maintain otherwise.
    I agreed with him and gave an example straight from the mouth of my cousin Jacques: “Madame Bovary was such a victim of circumstance. She only committed adultery because of the limits of her situation. How can you blame her?”
    “Precisely!” There was a happy camaraderie in his voice, the professor letting the student in.
    “Of course,” he continued, “I’m not advocating passivity, per se. That would be preposterous. No, not passivity, but there is a wisdom to acknowledging fate, and the modern world is losing sight of it, don’t you agree? Claudia, you’re awfully quiet.”
    “You know what I think,” she sighed with mock mystery. “Or at least you should.”
    I told them I had never had a couscous before, that it hadn’t been in Solange’s repertoire and that it was delicious.
    “I’ll teach you how to make it,” said Claudia.
    The phone rang. Clarence picked up, grinned, then frowned. “No, my dear, I didn’t have the pleasure of seeing Olivier off for good, but his things are gone and he’s left the keys, thank God. I believe he’s in a hotel for a couple of days before he flies to New York, but I’m not privy to his schedule, nor do I wish to be.” His frown deepened as he listened. I could hear the higher tones of Portia’s voice. “No, Portia. I have no idea what he said. Would you like to speak to Katie? She handled it, I believe. Or else Madame Fidelio dealt with him. As I say, I wasn’t here.” He rolled his eyes in Claudia’s and my direction. The notes trickling from the receiver grew shriller. “Listen, Portia, I love and admire you and I have to tell you that boy is an idiot and you are better off without him.”
    Had Olivier done it already? Had he told Portia goodbye over the phone?
    Clarence grimaced. “I tell you I don’t know. Here, I’ll pass you to Katie.”
    I braced myself but was saved by Portia’s shriek of “Don’t you dare!” sailing out into the kitchen.
    I understood her. Why would she want to share her heartbreak and humiliation with a total stranger?
    When Clarence hung up, he clucked, shook his head, sat down to his couscous. “Portia says,” he chuckled sadly, “that she senses Olivier pulling away.” He popped a chickpea into his mouth. “Rubbish, I say. Rubbish, Portia.”
    “Don’t you think you should be sympathetic to your daughter if she is in pain?” asked Claudia.
    “Yeah,” I echoed lamely.
    “I suppose I should try,” he answered. “But it’s hard when I know the pain will seem absurd in a matter of weeks.”
    Sighing, Claudia reached for his hand, which he whipped away with a significant glance at me. A tiny suspicion peaked, but I let it flow away.
    “Is everyone excited to see Lydia?” I asked cheerfully, realizing as I spoke that I was testing the waters to see whether or not Claudia would stick around when Lydia finally arrived day after tomorrow.
    “You’re going to be rather busy, my dear Katie,” quipped Clarence. “Lydia can be a bloody slave driver when she’s working. You ought to rest up tomorrow night.”
    I reddened. I had other plans.
    “I will clean up all