Free Foreign Tongue by Vanina Marsot Page A

field. Florian dropped a kiss on the top of my head.
    “ Allons, I’ll buy you an ice cream,” he said. “It’s my turn to walk the dog.” I kissed Pascal good night, and Florian, Butch, and I walked down the rue Montorgueil to Amorino, the gelateria, where we stood in a line stretching out onto the sidewalk.
    “Alors, dis-moi. Pascal told me a little bit. Comment vas tu? ” Florian asked.
    “So-so,” I said. “Some days are better than others. Today wasn’t one of them.”
    “It is very important to be faceful,” he said. His English was good, but sometimes he struggled with the “th” sound, especially when he was tired. “You know, I am in love with Pascal, and Pascal is in love with me. It is the most beautiful thing: the man I love loves me.” I bit my lip as he spoke. “And in the gay community, it is much harder to be faceful,” he added, his big, round eyes solemn. “ Alors, this Tom—”
    “Timothy,” I corrected.
    “Bah, Tom, Tim, it’s a name for a pet. A black Labrador. N’est-ce pas, Butch?” He bent and scooped the dog up in his arms. “He was no good,” he concluded. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “It’s the truce,” he protested.
    We got our cones and walked outside. Half a dozen American senior citizens, all wearing flag pins, stood on the sidewalk, comparing flavors. Florian grinned and shouted, “God bless America, and vote Democrat!” He’d started saying it after 9/11 and hadn’t stopped.

9
    Rien ne résiste à l’arrivée de l’inconnu. Un homme qui arrive dans un bar vaut tous les hommes avec qui l’on vit depuis vingt ans. *
    — MARGUERITE DURAS
    T he novelty of la rentrée faded, and by the end of the first week in September, the city shifted into regular speed. Despite the fact that I’d had to transfer more money out of my savings, I continued to live as if I were carefree, on vacation. I woke up late, lounged around, checked e-mail, saw friends, explored the city, and shopped for food, one of my favorite activities.
    On my way to the rue de Buci market street across the river, the smell of charred sweet corn wafted over from a makeshift brazier fitted into a supermarket shopping cart on the corner. I bought my weekly Pariscope at the kiosk, and the elderly man with gold-rimmed glasses who’d never acknowledged my existence beyond returning change smiled and wished me good day.
    Startled, I felt my dry lips stick to my teeth as my voice hiccuped over the polite “Vous aussi.” It was the first time my larynx had formedsounds that day. I had to remember to talk to myself over breakfast in the future; I smiled at the thought of behaving like a crazy person in private in order to prevent the appearance of such in public.
    A hefty butcher in a bloody apron, unloading large pieces of beef from a van, roared, “Vous voyez? C’est beaucoup mieux quand vous souriez!” You see? It’s much better when you smile. He slid mottled, pudgy fingers down his chest, as if he were looking for suspenders to tuck his thumbs into.
    The French have an expression for a surly face: “aimable comme une porte de prison,” as friendly as a prison door. Apparently, it was the face I usually wore, but for some reason, I didn’t have it on today, and people noticed.
    I crossed the river at the Pont Neuf. There was a furniture store on the other side that always made me happy, partly because each of its picture windows exhibited a single chair, angled just so and lit like a Hurrell model, and partly because of its name, Etat de Siège, which means state of siege, but “siège” in French also means seat, armchair. It wasn’t a translatable pun, though I’d toyed with “seat of power.”
    There were lots of people milling about when I got to the market. I stood for a moment, watching the passersby. I’ve always loved French market streets. You can eavesdrop on conversations about recipes, see what fruits and vegetables are in season, and learn about the things