Free Foreign Tongue by Vanina Marsot Page B

people eat. At the poissonnerie, I’d learned that the orange sac attached to a scallop, le corail, is considered a delicacy. The secret to a velvety spinach velouté is to purée one whole ripe pear into it, a bourgeoise in a Burberry and an Hermès scarf told her friend at the vegetable stand.
    I stopped in front of the traiteur, gazing at eggs in clear jelly like resin paperweights, various salads, quiches with golden brown pâte brisée crusts, and glazed tarts paved with mosaics of sliced fruit. A woman behind the counter moved a tourte provençale aside to give the place d’honneur to a whole poached salmon, covered in translucent cucumber scales. A black olive eye glistened at the head.
    Across the street, a tourist shop sold polyester print scarves of the Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower key chains, and reproduction street signs. There were also baskets filled with seashells, iridescent with mother-of-pearl or shiny with a genital pink. I picked up a spiky conch and held it to my ear. A brown stream of cold liquid raced down my forearm to the elbow. I gave a yelp and thrust the shell back. I mopped my arm with a tissue, but it had a shockingly foul and persistent odor, the smell of rotting seaweed, or rotting sea creature. In my bag, I found an old Air France towelette and scrubbed my arm, but I could still smell the stink beneath the artificial lemon scent.
    I dumped the towelette in the trash and walked into a patisserie. An idea of dinner took the shape of a couple of chocolate éclairs, but then I saw the almond croissants, fourré à la frangipane et au chocolat . They were limp with filling, as if exhausted by their own excess, and decorated with piped chocolate and a dusting of powdered sugar. I stared, rapt, until the person behind me coughed.
    “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur,” I said, stepping aside to let a beige trench coat go by.
    “Ah, Monsieur Laveau! J’ai votre tarte aux pommes ici,” said the woman behind the counter. I looked up: it was the same Monsieur Laveau. I ducked my head, debating whether to say hello or bolt. He walked past me, dangling a medium-size cake box by its ribbon, and I blurted out his name.
    “Monsieur Laveau?” I asked.
    “Oui?” He looked at me blankly. I felt a flush of anger. Was I invisible? Was there no way to make an impression on this man?
    “Je ne sais pas si vous vous souvenez de moi, mais je vous ai fait une traduction il y quelque temps?” As I reminded him of who I was, I started out okay, but then I made my statement a question, a nervous, adolescent tic. He studied me for a moment, then exclaimed:
    “Ah, mais c’est vous! Mademoiselle, on vous cherchait! Vous n’avez pas laissé vos coordonnées, ni votre nom sur le dossier! Nous étions convaincusqu’on ne vous trouvera jamais!” It’s you! We were looking for you, but you didn’t leave your name or phone number. We thought we’d never find you.
    I didn’t know who the “we” was, and his answer threw me. I knew I’d included my name and number on the manuscript, and I rushed to say so. “Mais, monsieur, je suis certaine que j’ai—”
    “Venez, j’ai un autre chapitre pour vous, j’aurais besoin de la traduction la semaine prochaine, assez rapidement si possible,” he interrupted. “Trois cents euros par chapitre, ça vous va?” he asked, taking my elbow and wheeling me around, presumably to the bookstore. Now I was even more convinced he’d mixed me up with someone else—I distinctly remembered him originally quoting two hundred euros per chapter, but I wasn’t going to argue with more money.
    “Vous avez bien deux minutes?” he asked, looking at his watch.
    “Oui, mais, peut-être vous faites confusion avec quelqu’un d’autre?” Maybe you’re confusing me with someone else?
    “Mais non, mais non, mais non,” he muttered, pulling me across the boulevard Saint-Germain. His nose twitched, and he let go of my elbow. I wondered if my arm still smelled of decaying sea creature. We