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Not on the Wings of Words

It was after seven PM. Books Inc, a bookstore in the island town of Alameda in the San Francisco Bay, had twenty avid readers who waited forBook Talk to begin. Most came to enjoy the warmth of fellow book lovers.Some were chatting about their trips to France. A few were my friends andlike me, unabashed Francophiles. We would show up for any talk aboutFrance just to be transported on the wings of words to the land of romance.Marc Greenfield, the author, was arranging a pile of his books: I WillNever Be French No Matter What I Do . I sidled to a card table and collectedthree cubes of cheese, a small cut of rye bread, and a glass of sauterne. Imoved to the back row near the door.As I was nibbling my cheese, a woman sat down two seats over. Young,perhaps thirty, she had the gaunt face of a homeless person. She wore abeige knit sweater and a black wool skirt down to her ankles. At her feet, awhite and black sheep dog seemed to smile at her. A nice touch to bring herdog, I thought. Like France, where dogs are welcome in bookstores andbistros. The woman leaned toward me. She whispered, “Her name is Chloé.”At the mention of her name, the dog wagged her tail and wiggled herbackside. She seemed to say, ‘What is the will of my mistress?’I looked at the woman and said, “Clo-ee.”

“Chlo-ay,” the woman corrected me. Then, with on the edge of herchair and with desperation in her voice, “Do you speak French?” Chloéturned her head to look at me.I failed once to sound French, so I summoned my best, “Mais oui.” Thedog stared at me and pulling on her leash headed toward me. I leaned backin my chair and nibbled my cheese and bread. I wondered if they feed dogsin French bookstores.Chloé turned toward her mistress, as if to say, ‘What next, Mistress.?’ The woman leaned toward me. “Can you make Chloé sit down?” Thedog turned to me.I was back in my freshman French class. I looked into Chloe’s eyes.“

Attends,”

I said firmly. She stood still, waiting with her mouth open. Hereyes gleamed, as though she wanted me to throw a ball for her to chase. Shewaited and dipped her head a bit as though to say,’ Go on.’Go on to what? Was I supposed to romp around the bookstore withher? Throw a ball I did not have? Should I interrupt my repast? I laid mynapkin on the seat beside me along with my bread, cheese and wine andsaid “

Assieds-toi

.” Chloé sat down.“Look how she obeys you. How wonderful,” the woman said. Shepointed a finger at me. “You know, Chloé worked in a French computerfactory and she understands you.” The woman fumbled into a dirty beigeshopping bag. “I must call my friend in Montparnasse.” She dropped her

leash and took out her cell phone. I watched her untrimmed and uncleannails click the keys. Where this was going? I hoped she would not ask me tospeak to someone in French. They would talk too fast for me to understand.Hurrah, she talked slowly so I could translate. I cocked one ear.«

Allô

, Jean? Ah, ton engine…Beurk

! «

‘Hello Jean? Oh, your machine ! G

rumble.’ Tears welled up in her eyes.«

Écoutez cet homme qui a parlé avec Chloé exactement comme tu,toujours

, » she said.

‘

Listen to this man who spoke to Chloé exactly like youalways did.’ I frowned. The woman was going to have me talk to this man.«

Chloé est très heureuse avec moi

. » she said.

‘

Chloe is veryhappy with me.

’ T

he woman

sighed deeply then

handed her phone tome. “Please, say what you told Chloé.”I forgot what I had said. What did she want of me? Did she expect meto re-connect her to a faraway love? Play the proxy sweetheart and make Jean jealous?

Mais non

, I thought. I looked down. Surely Chloé had oncebeen a link in their love. Aha. Like Chloé, I would be the link. I summonedmy best freshman French.“

Allô

Je suis un ami ici

Alameda, en Californie

.” ‘Hello, I am a friendin Alameda.’