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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Two weeks later, Arnaud set off on his next assignment, back to Vietnam. While he was away, business picked up even more at Teddy's. Paris's fall season was in full swing. My performances had been expanded to a weekend night too, usually Fridays, now my Blue Cactus Friday evening gig was over. I'd begun to weave in a few original songs to my evening repertoire, not that anyone cared. The crowd still clamored for the old standbys, the more sentimental the better. My visions of being the next Laurie Anderson were in constant conflict with the only way I gained recognition at my job – giving in to requests for crowd-pleasing, tearjerker old standards. My performing career featured endless nightly compromise, but I consoled myself that at least I was working in my field, rather than office temping or waiting on tables.
Soon cloudless, warm October days gave way to iron-gray, rainy, cold November ones. The memory of Paris's long, drab winter the year I'd turned twenty returned to me. Paris was nowhere near as cold as New York, but its skies were unrelentingly gray during the winter season, unlike the azure-blue brilliance of certain New York days in early winter. November to March in Paris was like one long month of February in New York.
Almost every day, I walked in Père Lachaise, where Arnaud and I had frequently strolled the month before. I began to notice the regulars who frequented the area: dog-walkers, couples, and lone walkers. All of us seemed shrouded in private thoughts – the cemetery a perfect backdrop for our self-reflection.
Upon entering the main gates late one gloomy, gray Friday morning I spotted a notice affixed to the lamppost next to the entrance. A print of a painting of a sharp-faced, aristocratic looking man announced an artist's opening exhibit at a local gallery the following day, Saturday, November fifteenth. Startled, I realized a month had already passed since Arnaud had left. Even more shocked, I realized I hadn't thought about him very much over the past few days.
I examined the poster more closely. The man's petulant expression was similar to the way Arnaud looked at times. Almost guiltily, I admitted to myself I didn't like that side of him at all. It reminded me of the sharp-featured, beautiful woman in the photo in his country home. I didn't like her either. Suddenly, it made sense to me why he'd spoken of her as his mentor. They were most likely two of a kind – all angles, questions, and sharp edges. For the first time, I gave myself permission to accept how very different Arnaud was from me. I loved learning from him. But I wasn't like him at all. Why was I trying so hard to fit into the image of a woman he might fall in love with?
I continued on my way into the cemetery, where I passed the next hour deep in self-examination. À chacun son goût, to each his own taste, Arnaud had said. On my own, without him around, I was free to explore what my own tastes were.
I picked my way among the monuments and gravestones, mulling over the possibility that my own choices might differ from the man I was involved with. My thoughts were subversive. My mind tingled and raced. I was falling in love with a new person.
