The Upside of Down (11 page)

In fact, my first French doctor turns out to be Italian with French as his second language. He speaks no English but retains some sympathy for non-francophones like me. When, at one painful point in our appointment, we are unable to communicate he picks up the phone and rings his wife who speaks English. He explains the situation to her then passes the phone to me for her translation.

Eventually, I emerge from the
rendez vous
clutching four prescriptions to treat a simple ear infection. Over time I will come to be wary of the heavy-handed prescription writing which is common in France but on this day I would just about have accepted a script for arsenic. After stopping at the corner pharmacy, Aidan and I head back to the hotel to celebrate our first French medical triumph.

***

We are staying in an elegant boutique hotel just around the corner from Darryl's work. Breakfast is served daily in the ground floor cafe. The room is nearly full most mornings when we arrive, yet so silent we can hear the spoons clanging in our neighbours'
cafés crèmes
. It's stereotypically Parisian with the dainty tables, sophisticated artwork and dignified guests speaking in hushed conversations.

Then there's Aidan. I look over at him, his stubby legs dangling off the crushed red velvet bench. He is making a valiant effort to do the right thing—after our daily badgering on the long trip down the four flights of stairs in the elevatorless building: ‘No getting up from the table', ‘Sit still while you're eating', ‘Remember to speak quietly'.

After such a short time in the country we already feel the heavy weight of French expectations on our young child. Predictably, he tips over his orange juice about every other day, scatters his jam and croissant across the crisp, white tablecloth and chit chats noisily throughout our hurried breakfast sessions.

We need to find a place to live. Urgently.

Darryl takes some time off work and the three of us see a mixed bag of apartments. I love the one on the tenth floor with a fantastic view over Paris, but on the day of our visit the sky hangs dirty grey with pollution and we can't bear a daily visual reminder of the air Aidan will be breathing. The building around the corner might have worked except the lift can barely fit our small family, much less any groceries or strollers. (This is an improvement over a particularly tiny elevator at the OECD in which neither Darryl nor I can stand up straight.) Darryl is tempted by a palatial place complete with a grand piano and skyline views. But pragmatism wins out over the romantic appeal, as it's perched atop a quirky winding lane, miles from his work.

Finally we agree on a spacious and bright apartment overlooking the Seine. The river coils its way through the city before venturing into the countryside. The Seine passes between this small suburb, Suresnes (pronounced sir-enn), and the enormous Bois de Boulogne. The Bois, literally translated as a wood, is one of Paris' two main parks. The other, the Bois de Vincennes, hugs the city on its eastern edge. Possibly Suresnes is an acknowledgment that Darryl and I are only faux-urbanites who quickly burned out in London with the black soot in our lungs and rubbish on our doorstep. We want to survive longer in Paris. And we know we need it to be good for Aidan. We're hoping wider footpaths, more breathable air, a parking spot and even a proper elevator will help us cope with urban life.

We arrive in Suresnes on moving day with only the luggage we have brought on the plane. The contents of our house in New Zealand will be arriving in two months, assuming our container doesn't tumble off the boat somewhere off the coast of Gambia. I am plagued by a concern over the movers' suggestion that we take our most prized possessions with us on the plane. We didn't do it. I try not to dwell on the photo albums and favourite books I may never see again.

Ours is an unfurnished apartment which I mistakenly translate to mean ‘no furniture'. In fact, it means ‘you're lucky to have the walls'. The kitchen is the worst: the only identifying feature of the room is the scrawny freestanding sink against one wall. Apart from that it is completely bare with no cupboards, benchtops, stove, or refrigerator. We make a list then head out to purchase supplies and organise delivery of appliances.

It's getting dark by the time we return so Darryl rummages through our bags for light bulbs. He locates one and heads off to begin the installation. A few moments later I hear him muttering in the lounge.

‘What's up?'

‘There are no light fittings. Only wires hanging from the ceiling.'

It's true. The only exception is in the small shower room where the ageing light is plastered to the wall and obviously wasn't worth the previous tenant's effort to remove. Either that or he simply forgot it when he pried everything free and stuffed the goods in his bag, Grinch-like. By now the apartment is so dark we have to grope our way back to the kitchen, which is starting to look a bit more like a kitchen since our newly purchased refrigerator has arrived to keep the sink company.

Darryl's busy berating himself. ‘How could I have forgotten flashlights or candles? How stupid …'

‘It doesn't matter. Dinner's just a cold pasta salad and bread. We can manage in the dark.'

I'm foraging through the food bags trying to identify items by shape and size when Aidan solves our problem, throwing open the door of our brand new appliance. About to grumble at him for mucking around, I suddenly realise what he has done. Five minutes later the three of us are seated happily on the floor, dining on our first meal while bathed in both the cool air and the light of our new refrigerator.

After dinner, Aidan falls asleep on the floor of his room while we are assembling his new bed. Unfortunately, the scene in our darkened bedroom is more depressing—our bed will not be delivered for a week. We start off on hands and knees, testing the floor.

‘I think we should sleep on top of the duvet with just sheets over us,' Darryl suggests.

‘No way,' I'm a notoriously cold sleeper. ‘I'll be miserable.'

Darryl knocks on the floor through the thin carpet. ‘It's concrete. We're going to be miserable no matter what we do.' Eventually I agree. However, at two o'clock in the morning the duvet plan is deemed a failure. Darryl jumps up.

‘Of course, why didn't I think of this before? What do homeless people sleep on?' He disappears into the blackness of the apartment. I am beginning to wonder where he is going to find a park bench at this time of night when I hear a scraping noise in the hall.

‘Cardboard boxes,' he yells triumphantly. Personally I find it a rather disappointing solution. We rip apart the washing machine and refrigerator boxes and lay them under our crisp new sheets. Exhausted, I flop down on the new bed, though cardboard doesn't respond terribly well to flopping. It is a hard, bitter sleep, but we get through the night. And, thankfully, when we awake on the second day, there is light.

***

After my encounter with the GP and its linguistic challenges, both Darryl and I become even more dedicated to improving our French. We're not just motivated by the daily language difficulties of trying to ask for the softest baguette at the bakery and buy the right quantity of shrimp at the fishmonger; these are annoying and embarrassing, but largely insignificant. However, asking the pertinent questions about Aidan's health and medications—and understanding the answers—is so important that we know we must improve. Immediately.

So, we use every spare moment to work on it. I study grammar while Aidan naps. Darryl and I compile endless vocabulary lists. Although not enthusiastic watchers, we buy our first TV specifically to learn French more quickly. It's a ridiculously small set; sitting on our couch across the large living room is like trying to follow
La Traviata
from the back row. Nearly all imported TV shows (mostly American) are dubbed rather than using subtitles because the French government regulates the amount of non-French language broadcasting. The lack of English is alienating for non-French speakers, but a great tool for learning.

Shortly after arriving home from work one night Darryl rushes into the kitchen obviously excited. ‘Guess what I bought today?'

‘Roses?' I ask, hopefully. Despite Raewyn being a florist, my husband has never discovered the joy of flowers—or the benefit they might offer to our marriage.

‘Uh, maybe next time. But I found this great series of novels for kids in French. They're based on stories about six adolescents and their dog; they solve mysteries. I think they're perfect for us.'

Following the King of Romance's suggestion, we begin to read
Les Six Compagnons
out loud to one another in bed most nights. Seriously, we do. I had other hopes for our Parisian nightlife, but quickly agree to this practice as our language improvement is surprisingly rapid. We try out new phrases at our local
patisserie
, the post office and the hardware shop. After a short time we're proficient at asking questions like ‘Do you carry those little thingamajigs for mounting shelves?'

However, from the start Darryl and I develop different approaches. He is a whiz at grammar but reticent to veer from the narrow path. He earns respect, though only gets brief conversations. I, on the other hand, destroy perfectly decent sentences and mangle my pronunciation but have long chats with the locals and find myself on a first-name basis with people I meet at the park.

And, to our surprise, Aidan turns out to be a distinct advantage for language-learning. French people are not accustomed to speaking to strangers, unlike Americans who will discuss their marital difficulties and Uncle Norm's haemorrhoids while in a line at the shops. But, like a dog, a child is a great icebreaker, opening the door to many opportunities to use our French.

After a month of focused study, we're ready.

From the day we arrived I knew that we would need to organise Aidan's care at the specialist hospital, but I didn't want to turn up at our first appointment there speaking no French. Unfortunately, our doctor in Wellington didn't have medical contacts in Paris (‘It's not like you're moving to Auckland' he had said when I looked surprised), so we have just the name of a hospital. When I can reasonably delay no longer I pick up the phone and make the call. Amazingly, it takes only one attempt including about fourteen ‘pardons?' and one ‘slower, please' before I have a doctor's name, location and an appointment for the following week.

I call Darryl at work. ‘I got the appointment at the hospital. It's next Wednesday at eleven o'clock.'

‘That's great, Sue. Well done … But, uh, I don't think I can go. I have so much work already and I have taken a lot of time off for house-hunting and admin stuff.'

This isn't what I want to hear. ‘Look, I understand you're under a lot of pressure, but this is a pretty stressful thing to do alone. And it's important.' In New Zealand, with the hospital close by and a midday appointment not usually an issue, we have shared the responsibility for Aidan's care. I'm not ready to be handed full custody.

He continues, rummaging around for some understanding from me. ‘You know the first appointment might take a really long time and involve lots of waiting around. I'll try to come after this, once I have settled into work more.'

I'm grumpy about the decision, the kind of grumpy that hangs around the house all week, mumbling hurtful remarks while forcefully cramming dishes into the dishwasher and snapping angrily when a sock is left out of place. I accept the decision but punish him for it. It's classic passive-aggressive behaviour.

When Wednesday arrives, our new Canadian babysitter Ursula accompanies Aidan and me to the appointment. Her French is six months ahead of mine which feels like having Proust along with me. In reality, she's probably at about a five-year-old language level. We decide to take public transport: one tram, two trains and a reasonably long walk in the December rain. It's a poor beginning to our day.

The hospital is a microcosm of the efficient but rather cool French society we see around us. White coats come and go hurriedly, without words or smiles, focused and capable, not eager to be distracted by patients' needs or concerns. Junior doctors, nurses and assistants enter our consulting room without introducing themselves or explaining what they need from Aidan or me.

Finally, an hour or so after arriving, an imposing older man sweeps into the room. A complete hush falls across the gathered staff. He is one of the most senior doctors—a Professor—at this facility, the premier children's hospital in France. Thankfully, the deity is also a kind and polite man.

‘
Bonjour, Madame Biggar, enchanté
,' he says while shaking my hand.

‘Here is a letter from Aidan's doctor in New Zealand,' I say in well-rehearsed French.

‘Okay, I will read it now before we begin.'

The only medical history we have is a succinct two-page letter from our respiratory physician in Wellington, providing a limited overview of Aidan's medical record. The Professor is forced to clear away stacks of paper from the desk to make room for the letter. Surrounded by six junior doctors, he is perched like Jabba the Hutt behind the desk. Unfortunately, the letter is in English, a language which few sixty-year-old Frenchmen excel at reading. I hope he gathers the gist of the medical history.

The appointment is, well, clinical.

‘I will examine
Aye-don
now.' Exam.

‘Next, I will explain how we treat cystic fibrosis in France.' Explanation.

‘I will give you a list of prescriptions to fill.' List given.

I can see that there are changes in store. For one thing, the French medical system is not a democracy. The Professor makes an attempt to cross the Great Divide to me, but the junior doctors are apoplectic when I pull out a notebook with a page of questions for him, like quizzing the Pope on the catechism.