Paris in Love (22 page)

Today I passed an open-faced workshop, in the front of which a man was shaping metal with a saw. Bright orange sparks spun from his saw, flying in a high arc to land on the jeans of the man behind him, on two chairs, and on another workbench. They seemed like bright snow, unthreatening, disappearing on contact.

Today Domitilla got a
“bravissima”
in Italian grammar and Anna got only a
“brava.”
So Anna promptly burst into tears. The poor teacher, who likely had no idea of the various tensions in the room, gave a speech about how wonderful Anna is, which my ungrateful daughter declared to be boring and embarrassing.

We bought a Christmas tree yesterday. In Paris they are sold with trunks whittled to points and jammed into stands made from logs. I approve, as this obviates the annual blasphemy provoked by complicated tree stands. But I also disapprove, because without water, how long will this tree keep its needles? Still, it has very kindly given the living room its elusive smell of the deep forest.

Anna suffered through two years of unrequited love at ages eight and nine, and she’s rather proud to be fancy-free here in Paris. A boy from her class followed us through the turnstile at the Métro today and darted over to ruffle Anna’s hair before running away. “That boy has a crush on you,” I observed, stating the obvious. “Four of them do,” she said with total indifference.

A few days ago, the pen pal Alessandro had when he was just a boy, between 1974 and 1984, sent him an email out of the blue. After much exclaiming, they Facebook “friended” each other, and Andrzej, who’s from Poland, got around to investigating the pictures on Alessandro’s Facebook page. He wrote back today to say that
his wife is an Eloisa James reader
! She’s a Polish banker, and presumably has been reading the Polish translations.

Today Paris is bitterly cold—below freezing. I bundled up and walked to a department store to buy Christmas presents. As I approached the shining windows, I realized that a woman was seated on a doorstep with a simple sign,
J’AI FAIM
or “I’m hungry.” Clutched in her arms was a five- or six-year-old child, his head on his mother’s shoulder. Paris is by turns the most beautiful city in which I’ve lived—and the most heartbreaking.

Anna’s elementary school gave their Christmas concert today, so Alessandro and I trudged through the snow to see it. Last night
Anna revealed that she knew only the first line of every carol in Italian; after that she planned to switch to English. To all appearances, no one noticed. My favorite moment was when the entire school sang, in thick Italian accents, “Last Chreeestmas, I gave you my ’eart …”

It’s snowing again and the roofs opposite my study window have turned white. The sky is precisely the same milky color, so where the black, notched roof ridge meets the sky, it looks like a black railway track stretching across some vast and snowy Russian landscape.

Returning from Christmas shopping yesterday, Alessandro announced, “I bought myself some sweaters, you’ll like them, they’re not all the same.” Parisian men wear thick crimson pullovers and plum-colored boots. I opened the shopping bag to find that Alessandro had bought four sweaters. Three were black. One distinguished itself by being gray with black stripes.

I am in a fit of domestic fervor directly linked to my mother-in-law’s imminent arrival; Marina could take down Bobby Flay without blinking an eye. My goal is to serve only homemade broths—not that she’ll be particularly impressed, since she wouldn’t imagine another option.

I have discovered the French equivalent to a dollar store. I bought a plum-colored colander for seven euros, Christmas ornaments
that look like miniature 1960s “mod” lamps for two euros each, and, for four euros, a fabulous lime green mold for making little cakes. My favorite purchase was Christmas tree lights, each enclosed in an ornate metal ball. Alessandro tells me they are classic, identical to lights from his childhood.

H
aving no particular knowledge of the minutiae of the liturgical calendar, it was pleasant to discover one Sunday in December that there was a special celebration going on for
les enfants;
accordingly, more babies and small children than usual were in attendance. In the chair next to us sat a plump and very happy boy who was just learning to walk. He and Anna had such a good time handing a toy cellphone back and forth that he kept spitting out his pacifier and crowing with joy.