Free French Leave by Anna Gavalda

you all, you look grand! What a hat! And what a slip of a girl this one is! You’re so thin, don’t they feed you in Paris? Have a seat. Have something to eat, children. Eat whatever you want. There’s plenty. Just ask Gérard to get you something to drink. Gérard! Come over here, lad!”
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    Vincent could not extricate himself from her hugs and kisses; I stood there comparing. What a difference between this woman, a complete stranger, and the polite disdain of my great aunts just a few hours ago. I could not believe my eyes.
    â€œMaybe we should go and congratulate the bride, don’t you think?”
    â€œGo right ahead,” said the huge lady, “and see if you can’t find Gérard on the way . . . Unless he’s already under the table, oh, that wouldn’t look too good now.”
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    â€œWhat’s the present?” I asked Simon.
    He didn’t know.
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    We kissed the bride, one after the other.
    The groom was as red as a lobster. He was looking skeptically at the gift his bride had just unwrapped: a superb cheese plate, carefully chosen by Carine. It was an oval thing with handles made of vine stock and vine leaves sculpted in the Plexiglas.
    I don’t think he was particularly impressed.
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    We sat down at the end of a table, and two old guys who were already pretty far gone welcomed us with open arms.
    â€œGé-rard! Gé-rard! Gé-rard! Hey, kids! Go get some food for our friends. Gérard! Where the hell did he get to?”
    Gérard arrived with his bag-in-box and the party began.
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    After mixed veg in mayonnaise on a scallop shell, grilled lamb with French fries à la mayonnaise, goat cheese, and three slices of wedding cake, everyone moved back to make room for Guy Macroux and his orchestre de charme.
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    We felt blessed. Ears and eyes open wide. On our right was the bride, opening the dance with her dad, to an air by Strauss on the squeeze box, and to our left were the old guys, noisily crossing swords over the new one-way sign in front of the Pidoune bakery.
    It was all so picturesque.
    No. I can put it better than that, and less condescendingly: it was a moment to savor.
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    Guy Macroux had something of Dario Moreno about him.
    Little dyed mustache, a flamboyant jacket, expensive bling, and a velvety voice.
    With the first bars of the accordion, everyone flocked to the dance floor.
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    â€œPdum pdum pdum, just a little chachacha
    Ah!
    Pdum pdum pdum, step to the mambo
    Oh!”
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    â€œC’mon, all together now!”
    La la la la . . . la la la la . . .
    â€œI can’t hear you!”
    LA LA LA LA . . . LA LA LA LA . . .
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    â€œAnd in the back, there! Our grannies! Sing along, girls!”
    Opidibi poi poi!
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    Lola and I went wild, and I had to roll up my skirt to keep the rhythm.
    The boys, as usual, weren’t dancing. Vincent was chatting up a young lady with a milky décolleté, and Simon was listening to some old timer’s mildewed memories.
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    Then we had, Gar-ter! Gar-ter! Gar-ter! where things got a little steamed up and there was a lot of joking about big sausages. The young bride was wheelbarrowed onto a ping-pong table and . . . jeez, well, it’s not really worth going into. Or maybe it’s just me, maybe I’m too squeamish.
    I went outside. I was beginning to miss Paris.
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    Lola came to join me for “ze moonlight cigarette.”
    This guy followed her out, his matted body hair gleaming with sweat. He just had to ask her to dance again.
    He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, viscose pants, white socks with a tennis stripe, and woven loafers.
    Irresistibly charming.
    And, and, and—I almost forgot: one of those black leather photographer’s vests! Three pockets on the left and two on the right. And a penknife in his belt. And a cell phone in a case. And an earring. And dark glasses. And a chain attached to his wallet. All that was missing was the