Ava Fodor, a slightly plump, frizzy-haired nineteen-year-old American au pair in Paris struggles with being less than perfect. Jean-Michel is Ava's fussy, exacting first French boyfriend whose provincialism drives her up the wall yet who educates he...
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The month of May was gorgeous. I responded with a speedy yes to the Yale admissions office. My very uncertain future suddenly had turned into something concrete and bright. I shared news of my Yale acceptance with Elizabeth, but she'd been more impressed that I lost two pounds since the last time we met.
The weeks flew by flush with planning and anticipation. My diet was working, albeit slowly. I was becoming addicted to fromage maigre, much as I'd previously been addicted to the pain chocolats, pain aux raisins, creamy Bretons, and other delicacies in the pastry shop windows. The nutritional label on the side of the fromage maigre containers thrilled me. High protein content combined with almost no fat to make it an ideal diet food. I'd grown up with chops, steak, and roast beef as cornerstones of my diet. I'd also been slim until I hit age seventeen and somehow slid into a pastries and sugar addiction. My final semester of high school in Maine, I took a job at Dunkin' Donuts. My size six donut girl uniform no longer fit by April of my senior year. Around Easter time, the owner of the franchise diplomatically said nothing as he handed me a brand new uniform, size ten. I was straining it at the seams by the time I quit in June, graduating from high school and exiting the state of Maine to return to Connecticut, and civilization as I knew it, as fast as I could.
At the tiller of my own sailboat for several years, I'd steered it into irons. Now was the time to get out of them. I knew where I was headed, New Haven, Connecticut, first week of September, 1978. I just needed to be ready to arrive there.
On a Sunday evening in late May, Jean-Michel went downstairs for a few final dinner supplies and came back with a small white package stamped Gaillard Patisserie on the wrapping paper.
"Un cadeau, Minouche," he said, handing it to me. I eyed it suspiciously. Was there ever going to be an end to his habit of presenting me with fattening presents? I had foregone further thoughts of flying to the moon with him when we made love, since it was clear circling around somewhere in space before coming back to Earth was as far as Jean-Michel thought I should be going.
My own behavior toward him was highly conciliatory, now that the end of my stay in France loomed in sight. Could I not receive a little consideration on his part when I told him I was dieting and pastries were not on the plan? How many times had I mentioned that I was trying to lose a few pounds?
Obviously, he didn't care. With a tender smile on his face, he instructed me to unwrap the surprise. I sullenly did.
It was a marzipan petit cochon. I didn't even like marzipan. And it was in the shape of a little pink pig. Is that what he thought of me? His plump little American pink pig girlfriend? The blood rushed to my head as I stood up.
"I don't want it," I said, handing it back to him.
"But Minouche, I got it for you," he cajoled, thrusting the pig back into my hand. "Isn't it cute? It's cute, like you," he continued, pleading with me.
"Thanks. I'll eat it later," I said, furious. I'd dump it in the trash on my way home the next day.
"No, Minouche. Eat it now. I want to see you enjoy it," he insisted.
