Page 39 of Across Time

I let my head fall back against the seat. Obviously I can’t even do a job I don’t want to do without first having a discussion I don’t want to have. “I didn’t say I was going to drop out. I said he asked and I was thinking about it.”

“You’re missing my point. It’s less about whether or not you do it, though that’s certainly another issue to discuss. It’s about the fact that this man, who in theory cares about you, is asking you to give up the main thing in your life and you don’t blink an eye. If what was best for the woman I loved was for her to stay where she was, the one thing I’d never do is ask her to give it up. And I’d go to her if it was at all possible.”

“Well, he’s got a job in New York so he can’t come to me,” I say, feeling my stomach tense. “Can we please go? I just want to get this over with.”

Henri starts the car. “Times must change dramatically, then,” he says, pulling onto the road. “Because in my day, there are jobs in Philadelphia as well as New York.”

I ignore him, leaning my head against the window. I could argue that the jobs in New York are better…but then again, I’m at a much better school in Philly than I would be in New York. He would probably ask me why the quality of my degree matters less than the quality of Mark’s job. And I guess he’d have a point.

When we get to town, I look around in wonder, remembering the day I arrived at the train station. Henri watches my face. "Is it very different in your time?"

"No...no, but also yes. This is the historic section, and the buildings are pretty much the same, but everything is also different." I point to the butcher shop. "That sells macarons now. It's very bright and pretty, and there are these rainbow-colored boxes in the window."

"An entire store that sells only macarons?" he asks. "Why?"

"A lot of tourists come here," I tell him, but I stop myself before I go further. How would it feel to learn your entire way of life will, in not so many decades, be a novelty? That people will soon laugh over the idea of buying paper at a paperie, of needing a specific shop just to buy cheese? The consolidation of everything won't seem like a good idea to him, it will seem like an uncivilized one. "It's really not so different, though," I conclude.

He looks relieved by that, and continues to drive through town, cutting down several side roads before he arrives at a large, regal home, with a wrought-iron fence and a massive garden off to the side.

"Here we are," he says unhappily.

I search his face. “Is André like your sworn enemy or something?” I ask.

“He’s too inconsequential for me to consider him an enemy.” He gets my crutches and then walks me to the front door, looking more and more unhappy with each second that passes.

He rings the bell and a servant answers, blushing and tipping her head at the sight of him. A reminder of the way women must react to him every time he comes to town.

“Hi,” I say sharply, with what is probably a somewhat menacing smile. “I’m here to read to Madame Perot.”

“Désole,” Henri tells her. “Elle ne parle pas un mot de français.”

I bristle at that, at the snide way he tells her I don’t speak a word of French. Like the meanest guy in high school laughing at the class nerd.

The girl's brow raises. Not a word?

She doesn't even know how to say hello, he replies, glancing at me with such a smirk on his face I’d have to be an idiot not to realize he was mocking me.

He asks her what the plan is for the afternoon and she tells him I'm to read to Grandmere Perot in her room, before I have tea downstairs with Madame and her son.

Henri's teeth grind at that last bit, and he translates for me with a tight jaw, completely failing to mention the way he threw me under the bus about my lack of French. “And they apparently want you to stay for tea,” he concludes.

I refuse to act like I think it’s the trial he does. Especially since he seems to hate André.

What’s the expression? The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

“Oh, tea!” I say brightly. “How fun!” I flash him a wide smile over my shoulder as the door shuts behind me.

The house is magnificent. It reminds me of something you’d see on a historic tour, like Mount Vernon or Monticello, a place where whole rooms are cordoned off and you’re scared you might accidentally touch something and get yelled at. The girl leads me upstairs, over gleaming, newly polished hardwood, and I struggle to follow her on crutches. Then we head down a long hall with high ceilings and more crown molding than I've seen anywhere outside of a museum. Even Mark’s parents’ mansion in Westport would look a little slipshod next to this place.

We enter a room where an extremely old woman lies on a canopy bed, snoring. The maid shrugs at my questioning glance.

“Les livres sont là,” she says, pointing at the books on the nightstand.

I survey the pile. Ivanhoe. God, it was boring enough in English. I can’t imagine trying to read it in French. Beneath it is Middlemarch, also in French. Undoubtedly chock-full of 18th century syntax. My French definitely isn’t up to these books.

Which leaves, beneath it, Baudelaire. A book of poems similar to the one I saw in Henri's room. I open it and begin to translate, painstakingly. The old woman's eyes fly open. She looks irritated to find me there.

“Lisez le-moi, si vous devez,” she says. Read it to me if you must.