French Lessons

“Arrete,” Riley says.

“Your French is very good, madame.”

“It’s the only damn word you learn here in the playgrounds. Arrete, Antoine. Arrete, Marie-Helene. Arrete. Arrete.”

“You are spending time in the wrong playground,” Philippe says. “Follow me.”

He leads them into a passageway with windowed sides that show displays of ancient art-sculptures and relics, half-excavated buildings. Riley glances to each side as they hurry by. She still has not visited the Louvre. In fact, in a year of living in Paris, she has missed most of the tourist spots. That’s not where you go with two babies in Paris. These are adult playgrounds; again the day feels foreign and thrilling to her.

They enter the courtyard of the Louvre, and even though Riley has walked through here once, with Victor on a Sunday morning, both babies in strollers, she remembers only their argument about an office party that didn’t allow spouses.

“Why not?” she had asked.

“The French keep their private lives and public lives separate,” Vic told her.

“Why?” she asked. She felt like Cole-why-why-why?

“Maybe the wife shouldn’t meet the pretty assistant,” Vic said.

“Whose wife? Whose pretty assistant?”

“Theoretically.”

“That’s absurd. That’s crazy,” Riley insisted. “That’s so-so blind.”

“Blind is good,” Vic said.

“You think everything they do is good,” Riley argued.

“Sometimes we have to see the world through different glasses,” Vic explained calmly, as if talking to a two- and-a-half-year-old.

Riley has found a new pair of glasses.

Now she’s awed by the daring of I. M. Pei’s modern glass pyramid in the center of these lovely, ancient buildings. She looks around, eyes wide open. She hears a storm of language-French, English, Spanish, German, Arabic-and turns her head in each direction. Everyone comes from a different country, everyone speaks a different language, everyone gathers to look at this. History. Art. Grace.

“There is a cafe here,” Philippe tells her, leading them to one side of the courtyard.

“Do we have time before the filming?”

“I think so,” Philippe says. “We will sit for a moment and I will buy you a drink.”

They enter the arcade of the Louvre. Cafe Marly fills the vaulted space with lush red decor, gold and teal tones. It’s stunning and glamorous and it’s crowded with well-dressed people. No babies here, no wild two-year-olds, no breast-leaking moms. Riley looks at Philippe with a worried expression.

“We will not stay for very long,” Philippe says.

“Maman,” Cole says, pointing to the group of children playing with a ball in front of the fountain.

“Go ahead,” Riley says. “I’ll watch you from the cafe.”

Cole dashes off, his arms turning into airplane wings.

Philippe and Riley are seated at a small table with a perfect view of the courtyard and the pyramid. Riley keeps Gabi in her Snugli and pats the baby’s head as if to reassure her that Maman can have a glass of wine with her French lover at this fabulous cafe in the center of grand Paris.

“This pain au chocolat comes from the best patisserie in all of Paris,” Riley says, digging into her backpack and producing a somewhat squished bag.

“J’aime pas,” Philippe tells her.

“What?”

“I can’t eat chocolate.”

“That’s impossible.”

He makes that peculiar French face-raised eyebrows, puffed lips-that seems to mean all things: Who cares? What do you know? I think you’re grand.

Riley takes a bite of her pastry. It is perfect but so is every other pain au chocolat she eats.

“I wanted to look at you,” Philippe says. He’s looking at her, all right. Did she forget to get dressed when she ran out the door? Is there not a baby perched right there on her mountainous chest?

“So who’s the actress?” she asks.

“Dana Hurley. She is making a movie with the great director Pascale Duclaux.”

“Dana Hurley’s the real deal,” Riley says. “I’d love to see her.”

Philippe is staring at her, his mouth slightly parted.

“Where are they filming?” Riley asks, glancing in the courtyard at Cole, who swings his leg out to kick the ball, misses completely, and falls back on his butt with a hoot of laughter.

“On the Pont des Arts. Soon. We will have a glass of wine first.”

“I thought you drink beer.”

He looks confused. “Oh, the apartment. I am sorry. I did not know-”

“Wine is good,” she says quickly. “Let’s have wine.”

They order two glasses. Riley looks around. The cafe is crowded, of course, and all the tables seem to be filled with couples. One young couple has locked lips and, for a bewildering moment, Riley thinks the woman looks like a very young version of herself; the guy could be Vic before he grew up and became The Victor. Did we ever paw each other in public? she thinks. Never.

She remembers one time she kissed Vic in front of his parents the first weekend she met them in Ohio.

“My parents aren’t really comfortable with that kind of thing,” he had whispered, taking her hand so as not to upset her. They were sitting on the couch, mid-Super Bowl party.

“What kind of thing?” she whispered back.

“Sex.”

“That was a kiss. You want sex, I’ll show you sex.”

“Later,” he promised. He asked his father to turn up the volume on the TV so they could all hear the football announcers instead of his crazy girlfriend.

Philippe leans toward her across the table.

“Ce soir,” he murmurs.

“Ce soir I’m making macaroni and cheese.”

“Feed me,” he whispers.

“Five’s a crowd at the dinner table,” she says, though there will only be three of them, of course. She points at the baby-as if Gabi could possibly understand this conversation-but Philippe either ignores her or she’s not using the international symbol for “Shut the hell up.” She remembers her father often saying “Not in front of the children,” which meant to her: Pay attention! Parental drama ahead!

“I want to see you again,” Philippe says.

Riley spreads her arms wide-lookee here. But what’s here is a baby girl staring back at him. Girls are so damned intuitive-maybe she knows what’s going on. Who needs words when a guy has sex written all over his face?

“Let’s talk about your life,” Riley says, patting Gabi’s head. She spends so much time patting the baby’s head that she’s surprised the kid has any hair at all. Maybe that’s why the stuff whirls around her head like it’s hula dancing.

“Bof,” Philippe says.

“Okay. Translate that. I’ve been here a year and every damn person I meet says bof in every conversation. Bof. Bof. Bof. What’s up with the bof?”

“There is no translation,” Philippe says.

“What kind of tutor are you?”

“The best kind,” he says, smiling his Satan smile. The shirt is definitely not cool. It is shiny-smarmy, not shiny- hip. I’m learning, Riley thinks. I may not know words, but I know my shirts.