Free Foreign Tongue by Vanina Marsot

been a ghost, wandering through streets where real people lived. I felt immaterial, disembodied, incapable of making an impression: if I’d walked through mud, I wouldn’t have left prints.
    At home, I ran a bath with water so hot I had to ease into it. A thin line between bathing and braising. The air was steamy, and my toes turned red in the water. I bent down, reached my hands in for balance, and lowered myself into a sitting position. The contrast between hot water and cool air made me want to scratch my skin, and I watched the waterline itch its way up my knees as I straightened them. Tiny bubbles clung to my stomach. I gave them a nudge and they floated away. My breasts floated on the surface like buoys, the nipples puckered and pink. Heat licked off the water, and I felt groggy and still, suspended.
    The phone rang, and I had to duck the stupid and impossible hope that it was Timothy, but it was just Pascal and Florian, back in town and asking me over for dinner.
    I got dressed and walked across the grands boulevards to their little two-floor courtyard house in the garment district, le sentier . A set decorator, Florian had created a jungle of greenery with potted plants around the front door. Inside, Pascal was cutting up a melon when I kissed him hello. The décor had changed since the last time I’d been there, two years ago, the old zebra stripes replaced by sage green suede furniture with brown leather pillows.
    Florian came downstairs as I was wrestling with their ancient sharpei, Butch. Except for the tan, he looked the same: ruddy skin stretched across sharp, raw-boned features, long, thin nose, big ears. We sat down to a dinner of melon de Cavaillon with jambon de parme, followed by pasta primavera and a big green salad, all of it washed down with rosé. Florian, eyes twinkling with an almost malevolent delight, wasted no time in firing the opening salvo in that national sport, the argument.
    “There is no such thing as good American television,” he declared.
    “That’s not true. There are lots of good shows on American TV,” I said, finding myself in the dubious position of defending something I rarely watched.
    “Oui . Alerte à Malibu,” he scoffed, using the French title for Baywatch.
    “Give me a break,” I scoffed back, helping myself to more salad. “That’s like me saying there’s no good French music and backing it up by citing Johnny Hallyday.”
    “Name one good TV program,” he said. Before I could, he added, “It’s all crap, designed to pander to the lowest common denominator and sell useless products to your consumer culture while the masses starve.”
    “What masses? We have poverty, no doubt, but no starving masses,” I protested.
    “Of course you do. As does the rest of the world.”
    “But that’s not what we’re talking about. We’re talking about TV, and there are good shows, you just don’t know about them because they’re not on French TV—”
    “Laisse tomber,” Pascal murmured, urging me to let it go. I ignored him.
    “Like The Office, or Lost, or The Daily Show, ” I continued.
    “Paid for by powerful media conglomerates whose only real interest is making money,” Florian retorted. “What do you have, six media companies? Six?”
    “But that doesn’t mean the shows aren’t good!” I said. “Stop changing the subject!”
    “That is the subject,” he said.
    “No, it isn’t. The subject is whether there’s anything good on TV,” I said.
    “Oh, les Américains,” he sighed. “ Toujours premier degré . So literal.”
    I turned to Pascal. “Aide moi!” I pleaded, but he shook his head and took a drag off his cigarette.
    “He pisses me off!” I exclaimed. Florian smiled, little shark teeth gleaming. “Yes, you,” I said, glaring at him. The French consider a meaty, messy argument good, clean fun for the whole family; moreover, they like to go off on tangents and dart around the issue like it’s a soccer ball to be kicked around a