"Ruth Reichl - Tender at the Bone V1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reichl Ruth)

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For as long as she lived my mother asked, at least once a year, "Aren't you glad you speak French?" She kept asking, over and over, hoping that I would finally give her the reply she wanted. "Total immersion is the only way to learn a language," she'd say self-righteously. Perhaps, but each time she said it the smell of onions and Javel flooded my nostrils. The pay phone at College Marie de France was right by the kitchen, and I stood there every night, huddled against the wall, begging my parents to let me come home.

"It's only five months," I told myself the first night as I crouched in a stall of the big yellow bathroom with its naked lightbulbs, crying and berating myself for being so miserable. "I can stand anything for five months."

By the next morning I was sure I was wrong. Numbly I shrugged on my new white blouse and navy jumper and followed the girls through the long corridors, down the stairs, past the ornate lobby, and into the dining room in the basement. It was windowless, with long, oilcloth-covered picnic tables and it smelled, day and night, like boiled beef.

The girls stood behind their bowls of cafщ au lait, waiting for Mademoiselle Petit, the housemother, to sit down. Then they bowed their heads, crossed themselves, and sang a song that began, "Benny say noo, senior." I stared down into the cafщ au lait. "Mange!" commanded Mademoiselle. I tapped my fingers against the side of the bowl and said under my breath, "Cheerio! Have a nice day." And then I started crying again. The girls around me
looked away, embarrassed, After breakfast the boarders went to the assembly hail to join the day students and sing the "Marseillaise" and the Canadian national anthem. Then they recited the school pledge. "je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grace," they intoned together; it was months before I thought to translate the words and more months before I realized that I had been faithfully repeating the Hail Mary every morning.
When assembly was over Janine, who seemed to have appointed herself my guardian, grabbed my sleeve and pulled me along a hall. Accustomed to the raucous freedom of an American high school I was shocked by the silence. The girls watched their feet as they walked to their lessons and bobbed their heads in a silent curtsey each time a teacher passed. Janine led me into a severely orderly classroom and pushed me into a desk next to hers. The room smelled of steam heat, wet wool, and perspiration. The color scheme was entirely monochromatic, with none of the cheerful maps, plants, and drawings my school had. It reminded me of something from the nineteenth century.
J anine tried to tell me something, but of course it was incomprehensible. Looking at my watch, I realized that at this very minute a week ago, on a far-away planet, my best friend Jeanie and I had been walking into homeroom; the horrible, embarrassing lump of tears appeared in my throat and I stared down, hoping no one would notice. Suddenly the room went eerily silent.
"Jattends," said an icy voice. Janine tugged desperately at my sleeve. I looked up and realized that all the other girl were on their feet. I leapt up. A small woman stood at the front of the class fixing me with a look of hostile disapproval. She was as colorless as the classroom. Dressed in a black skirt and drab cardigan, she wore no makeup and even her short straight hair seemed to have no particular color. She leveled her pointer directly at me and unleashed a stream of angry words. Janine said something, clearly in my defense, and the pointer went down. The hostile stare did not.
Madame Cartet looked me up and down, shook her head slightly, and said, "Bien, Asseyez-vous" The girls sat down at the same time, as if they were a single organism. I was a beat behind.
Class went on and on. Lunch, more class, study hall, dinner. Nothing made any sense to me. I was on Mars, where no sound, no smell, no emotion was familiar, Even my own thoughts had become alien, and I despised the whining mass of misery I seemed to be. I spent most of my time writing in my diary, chiding myself for being so unhappy, waiting until it was time to call home. "Let me come back," I pleaded. I knew Dad wanted me back but my mother always answered, And the answer was always the same: no. Then it was Friday and all the other girls left for the weekend, The silence was a relief.
"Ne quitte pas l'щcole," said Mademoiselle Petit. I shrugged my shoulders; I didn't understand "чa, alors!" said Mademoiselle, pushing me down the stairs to the entranceway and Pointing to the big wooden door. "Ne quitte pas," she repeated slowly, as if talking to a deaf person. She went to the door, threw herself across it, arms stretched wide, and shook her head vigorously. I got the point.
It had not occurred to me that there was life outside Mars, but she had given me an idea. "What are they going to do, throw me out?" I said to myself the next day as I opened the door of the silent, empty building. I peered outside. "Make me spend the weekend in school?"
I strolled down Queen Mary Road, ignoring the cold and following strangers for the sheer pleasure of listening to what they were saying. When I saw a movie theater with a sign in English I went in. I would have happily watched any movie in a language I could understand, but I was in luck, The feature was All Hands on Deck and for as long as the movie played its vapid happiness pulled me along. Then the lights went on and all around me people made plans for the rest of the day. I felt self-conscious, embarrassed for
myself: everybody else seemed to have somewhere to go, something to do, and someone to do it with.
I tried to pretend that being alone was just a temporary matter, that I was really on my way to meet a friend. With as much swagger as I could muster I went into the small deli next door. The smell of dill and pepper and garlic came rushing at me, comforting and familiar. I sat at the counter, watching the cook pull steaming chunks of glistening pink meat out of watery vats. I wondered what it was.
"Smoked meat?" asked the cook. He was speaking English! I nodded.
"Fat or lean?" he asked.
"Fat?" I said.
"Fat's better," he agreed, leaning over to impale a piece of meat on his fork. He set it on the wooden counter and began to carve, letting the rosy slices fall away from his knife in ribbons. He scooped them onto a piece of rye bread, slapped a mustardslathered slice on top, and handed the sandwich across the counter. The sweet, salty pile of meat was the best thing I had ever eaten. I had another, chewing slowly to make it last. And a third. "For a little girl, you do put it away," said the counterman admiringly.
There was a bakery next door, and I went in and bought two dozen French pastries to tide me over the weekend. I spent all of Sunday in bed, reading Gone With the Wind, eating pastries and feeling sorry for myself. Gorged on sugar and fat and the joy of English, I slowly came back to earth. Then my roommates returned, and life on Mars started all over again.
"I realize," I wrote in my diary, "that I am like the Puerto Ricans who come into our classes in New York. Except we are not nearly as nice. These kids are really sweet, they all help me in my work and don't mind when I goof up on my French, which is almost al
ways. Franчoise, who sits in the desk next to mine, is trying to help me with spelling. But I don't think I'll ever get it."

Madame Cartet certainly didn't think I would get it. She acted as if I were a slow and wayward stranger who had been foisted upon her, and when she announced exam scores she always seemed disgusted. "Zero, une fois de plus pour Mademoiselle Reichi," she would say pityingly, as if any person of normal intelligence would have learned to speak French, much less spell it, by now.
A few of the girls took their cues from her. The worst was the banker's daughter, Beatrice, the richest girl in school. Her father was said to be very close to General de Gaulle. She had never actually spoken to me, but she had discovered my secret cache of candy, cake, and novels and tortured me by moving it. I knew she was the culprit because she brazenly ate an щclair in my presence, daring me to do something. I shrugged. I suspected that she stole my mail too, but I felt helpless. The odd thing is that if she hadn't been so mean to me I would have admired her. She was constantly collecting "mauvaises notes" for whispering in class, for not being prepared, once for daring to talk back when Madame Cartet spoke of Australian savages.
"They are not savages!" said Beatrice. "I've been there." A thrill ran through the class. French girls never offered their own opinions, they simply parroted those of their teachers. And certainly no French girl ever contradicted an adult, which must have been why Madame Cartet seemed more puzzled than angry.
"The Aboriginals are not Christian," she said firmly, "we will not discuss this any further. Zero for conduct, and this will cost you a Saturday in school."
My heart sank; I had come to like my lonely pastrami weekends and I did not want Beatrice skulking about. But she seemed unconcerned; she tossed her frizzy blonde mane and said darkly, "Nous verrons!" Beatrice ALWAYS went home on weekends.
By Friday I had forgotten Madame Cartet's threat and after the school emptied out I was startled to hear someone crying downstairs. I followed the sound and found Beatrice facedown on her bed. "Va t'en!" she said fiercely. I turned and raced back to the third floor.
I slammed the door behind me, took The World of Suzie Wong out of the laundry bag in which I had hidden it, and unearthed some cream puffs from beneath the bed. They were a week old, but I didn't mind. I was groping for the last one when Beatrice came in. "Give me that!" she said grabbing the pastry. Her frizzy blonde hair was wild, her eyes red, her pleated blue uniform crumpled. She stuffed the cream puff into her mouth and ate it in a gulp.
"Did your mother send you these?" I shook my head.
"Where are they from?" she insisted.
"A pastry shop down the road," I said.
"Take me," she commanded.
"Now?" I asked. "It's almost dark. They'll be furious if we leave at night."
Beatrice shrugged. "What are they doing to do about it?" she asked. "Call our parents? The Petit will be too scared to let them know she's lost us. She'll just wring her hands and look pitiful. Let's go!"
It was the longest conversation I had ever had in French and I would have taken Beatrice anywhere just to keep her talking. The streetlights came on as we walked down the snowy boulevard, and I told Beatrice about smoked meat sandwiches and the English movie theater. "We'll go tomorrow," she said confidently. I didn't argue.
"I'm so glad you have someone to play with," said Mademoiselle Petit at breakfast the next morning.
"She sounds like we're going to run outside and jump rope," whispered Beatrice. "How much money do you have?"
I was too grateful for her company to ask why we were spending my money, but it was enough to eat all day. We started at the deli. I translated, "She's never had smoked meat before," I confided to my friend behind the counter.
"Never?" he asked, horrified. His knife flashed as he piled the meat on extra thick. Beatrice shook her head. "Nevaire," she said in a thick French accent.
"Does she eat as much as you do?" he asked. She did.