Page 6 of From Paris, with Butter
My landlady, MadameBlanchet, sometimes suffered from insomnia and claimed night air was the only cure for it. In her arms was a thick blanket. I knew that Bijou, Madame Blanchet’s little white dog, would be snuggled inside, having no problems with sleeping himself.
“Bonsoir, Madame. Trouble sleeping again?”
“Hello, Margot. Yes, another night spent awake,” Madame Blanchet said, sounding not a bit bothered. “At least if someone decides to drop a bomb, I’ll see it falling and know my end has come.”
I had long stopped being nonplussed by Madame Blanchet’s dark pronouncements. Instead of trying to convince her that she need not spend her night as an air raid warden, I smiled and bent to scratch the bit of Bijou’s ear that stuck out of the blanket. “Would it help if I made you a cup of tea, Madame?”
“And miss a night like this? No chérie, but it’s kind of you to offer. By the way, my sister has a new research assistant working for her. From Corsica.”
I bit my tongue, knowing where this was going.
Madame Blanchet nodded. “He’squitesmart, my sister said, and has a home overlooking the sea in Corsica. She showed me a photo, and he’s not handsome, but you know how high the prices are for waterfront property these days. Just turn the lights off when you’re with him and make sure you’re facing the sea.” Madame Blanchet stifled a yawn behind an elegant hand. “I’ll invite him over sometime so that you two can meet.”
Ever since I’d moved into this apartment half a decade ago, Madame Blanchet had been setting me up on dates. They were always unequivocally disastrous.
There’d been one who’d shown up drunk, another who’d scooped out his crème brûlée with his hands and shoveled it into his mouth, one who’d asked for our server’s number while still on the date with me, one who’d stalked out of the restaurant when I’d admitted that I liked (actually loved) crappy fast food, and, most recently, a man who had behaved atrociously all during dinner, then announced he was heading to the airport to spend two weeks in Greece. I’d ended up spending half a month watching his parakeet because I didn’t trust that he wouldn’t let the poor thing starve.
I’d gone into each date with high hopes but, eventually, even my hopelessly romantic self had to admit Madame Blanchet was the world’s worst matchmaker.
Since then, I’d made a solemn promise to myself that I’d do whatever it took—fake an illness, sign up for an intensive yoga retreat, make an international move—to avoid any future suitors she suggested. I was still finding parakeet feathers stuck in my clothes.
“I’m quite busy with work these days,” I said, tucking Bijou back into his blanket, “But thank you for thinking of me, Madame.”
I wished Madame Blanchard and Bijou a pleasant evening and was about to head inside when she called me back.
“I forgot to mention, chérie, but you have a new next-door neighbor. He finally got his things up from Provence. I’ll invite you all over for wine and brie so you can get acquainted.”
“Oh, don’t go to too much trouble for my sake,” I said, immediately deciding to decline until I could meet this new neighbor myself (in case this turned into another matchmaking scheme). “And try not to stay up too late, Madame.”
“Of course not, but if I get accosted, make sure they bury me in my yellow silk gown.” Madame Blanchet settled back against the steps.
The 15tharrondissement was one of the better addresses to have in Paris (and one of the best to have in the world, in my opinion). This remained true even though my building had seen better days, and perhaps better centuries.
The stairs squeaked atrociously as I went up them, but it was a comforting sound, the same way the dust-encrusted lamps and faded satin wallpaper lining the stairwell were comforting.
I flicked on the lights of my tiny, worn apartment. In the yellow glow, I saw the landscape paintings I’d hung in brass frames, the row of herbs growing on the windowsill, my pale lavender couch, and the bouquet of dahlias I’d arranged in a glass vase that morning. Pushed against the wall was my little dining table, one chair coated lightly with dust.
It was late, but I wasn’t tired. Going to the fridge, I pulled out the sheet pan on which I’d laid a neatly rolled-out rectangle of dough that morning and set it on the counter. Then I made myself a cup of tea and took it to the deep window seat.
From there, if I leaned in the right direction, I could just make out the Eiffel Tower. Most people wouldn’t like seeing their workplace from their home, but it always made me happy to see the Tower.
I sipped my tea, forehead pressed against the cool window glass, as I waited for the dough to lose its chill. I baked something nearly every day, and this morning I’d woken up and known immediately that I wanted to make baguettes. The stock I always kept in the freezer (for bread-related emergencies, of which there are many in France) was nearly depleted.
Once the dough was ready, I began the familiar pattern of shaping it into oblongs.
As I worked my way through the steps, memories of learning to bake with my mother, my grandmother, and—in a few sepia-tinted memories—my great-grandmother, flowed through my mind. They made my heart thump painfully.
It was late by the time I’d dimpled the top of the baguettes, and the city’s lights shone out against the night. It was one of the rare moments Paris was very nearly silent. The revelers had finally stumbled home, and the early risers—the bakers, the street sweepers, the shopkeepers—were still in their beds, savoring the final hours of sleep before they began a new day.
I loved being awake at these times; it made me feel as though I was the only one awake in the entire city, that Paris flaunted its charms solely for me at this hour.
But there was something…
Barely perceptible sounds emanated from the apartment adjoining mine: the clatter of pans being placed on the counter, the staccato sound of a knife pressing against a chopping board. I slid my baguettes into the oven, then sat at my table.
As I sipped my now tepid tea, a parade of scents permeated my apartment: onions, beef, rosemary.
My new neighbor must be making dinner, although it was a very late one. I wondered what had delayed his meal. Through the wall, I heard the muffled sound of female laughter.
