Ennui, oui

By Rose Landau

Ennui, oui is the story of a decade in Lindsay Carter's life. Starting when she graduates from high school in Paris and opts out of going to college, Lindsay moves around countries and jobs , meeting Mr. Rights and Mr. Right Nows trying to find a country she feels at home at and please her eccentric family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rose Landau
• Release date: Jan 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311346575

Rose Landau

Rose Landau is a writer and attorney in Albany, NY. She holds a JD from the University of Miami School of Law and a BA in French from the University at Albany. Social justice is the focus of her career, writing is her creative outlet, and Paris is her favorite former residence/favorite place in the world, with Munich as a close second.

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Ennui, oui

By Rose Landau

Copyright 2015 Rose Landau

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

My life that is worth telling about started when I met Sofian. It was the end of my first post-bac summer, a week and a half before my nineteenth birthday, and I was sitting along Canal Saint Martin with my high school friends, dangling my feet over the edge, but careful not to dip my toes into the brownish water, lest my foot touch a piece of floating trash. The sun was in my eyes, and Aurelie had overfilled my plastic cup with wine, so now I was sticky with spilt wine and sweat. I wanted badly to yell, What the hell’s wrong with you? How hard is it to pour a cup? and then shove her into the canal, but I just laughed with her. A little drunk there? It’s fine, don’t worry about it.

I suspected this was going to be one of the last times we were all together. Once our daily routines no longer required us see each other, we’d grow apart. Now, I can’t even remember all of my high school friends’ names. Nevertheless, I didn’t want everyone’s last memory of me to be me storming off to wash my sticky hands because Aurelie’s pouring skills were lacking, so I sat and seethed, half-listening to the conversations taking place around me, smiling and nodding whenever someone said, Ça va, Lin?

Emilie engaged me in a brief discussion about my plans for the future. She was going to Paris 3 to study political science and she was surprised that I wasn’t following in my sister’s footsteps and going abroad for university. Actually, I wasn’t going to university at all. The family I babysat for over the summer put in a good word for me at a crèche in the First Arrondissement and also wanted me to continue watching their six month old on Saturday nights for 50€. I thought my parents, with their Ph.D.’s, would be disappointed, but once they assured me that I could always go back to school later, my decision was made.

But Lin, you’re so smart! Emilie, like just about everyone in France, pronounced my name ‘lean’, which prompted my sister to affectionately call me ‘Lean Cuisine’. I rolled my eyes. I was sick of explaining that not everyone who went to college was smart and not everyone who was smart had to go to college. I looked over her shoulder. The group of people sitting around the communal stash of roll-your-own cigarettes and baby bell cheese had grown to include friends of friends, cousins, and co-workers.

Lin! Elodie called out. She was sitting with a circle of men who looked a few years older than us — probably because of their facial hair — and seemed to share the popular opinion among North African immigrants that the only appropriate pant or sleeve length, regardless of the temperature, is long. She waved enthusiastically for me to join her.

She gestured to the man next to her. This is…Sofian, right? and he nodded.

Sofian, Lin.

Despite crankiness induced by the sweat and wine coating my skin, I immediately noticed that Sofian was nice looking and, when he leaned in for Paris’ traditional air-kisses, nice smelling, like Petit Marseillais shower gel.

Lin was born in New York, Elodie told him.

Sofian needs to speak better English if he’s ever going to get a promotion, she said to me, brimming with self-satisfaction at her problem solving skills.

New York? Really? he looked impressed, like being born there was some kind of accomplishment.

New York state, I qualified. I didn’t like to tell people I was born in New York; it was the height of the Bush years and I didn’t want to be associated with America much less NYC and the political folly surrounding 9/11, regardless if the interest generated was out of disdain or awe.

You don’t seem American, Sofian said, peering at me with the expression of someone who was trying to decide if he was being lied to. His comment wasn’t surprising; I’d heard it many times before.

Probably because I’ve lived here since I was four.

That would explain it, he said, smiling at me. I could feel my bad mood started to disintegrate.

I need someone to practice my English with. I am an engineer and I have to call these people in London and I never understood them. It’s super embarrassing. Can I have your number?

Do you have a pen?

I have my phone.

Of course. I had the technological savviness of a ninety year old. I gave him my number, after which and much to my disappointment he left, saying he would call me. I didn’t believe him.

Later that night, after a cooling shower, I felt better. As I lay in bed reading the JANE magazine my sister had sent me from Florida, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Sofian.

Hello Lynn. It was a pleasure meeting you today. Would you like to have coffee with me tomorrow?

That would be Saturday night and I was scheduled to babysit. Supposedly I would be done at nine, but Nathalie and Christophe had a tendency to return late. I would be exhausted, so normally, the only plans I made post-babysitting were to come home and collapse.

I would like to, but I can’t risk being late. I’m babysitting from four until nine tomorrow, and my name is Lin, short for Lindsay, I texted in reply. I added a smiley face to show that I didn’t hold this scheduling conflict against him.

Less than a minute later, he texted back: No problem, Lindsay. Let’s meet tomorrow at 9:30 at the exit of the Argentine Metro?

I thought about mentioning to my parents at breakfast that I was going to come home later than normal after babysitting but decided against it. I was almost nineteen and free to do what I wanted to do, plus I didn’t want my thirteen-year-old brother taunting me about having a boyfriend. Also, I didn’t feel like waking up early enough to join my family for breakfast. The heat and my buzzing thoughts had delayed my falling asleep and I was still tired.

I got to Nathalie and Christophe’s apartment in the Second Arrondissement a few minutes early. I was wearing earrings. Earrings and nail polish were the only ways I knew to dress up. I never figured up how to sign up for the secret hair and makeup course that all French women, my mother and older sister included, somehow took, and I never wore anything to babysit that I wouldn’t want snot wiped on. I didn’t paint my nails because I wanted to hold something back. For all I knew, Sofian was blind to the charm I accidently exuded that was perceptible to a small but enthusiastic percentage of the men I encountered. There was still a possibility that he really just needed to practice his English.

Do you think you’ll be back on time tonight? I said as gently as possible. Because at 9:30 I have this thing…

No problem, Nathalie said before I had to finish my sentence. I hadn’t thought about what I was going to say I had to do at 9:30 if pressed. For some reason the truth seemed like none of their business. They informed me that Nathan had eaten, but if he was still hungry at eight I should give him a bottle. To my pleasant surprise, Nathan kept all of his bodily fluids off my shirt, and Nathalie and Christophe came back at 8:58 with a crisp 50€ bill.

I got to the Argentine stop ten minutes early because I wanted Sofian to have to recognize me because I wanted to take my glasses off. They hurt my nose and made me look nerdier than I thought was honest given how poorly I performed in my last semester of math. By 9:30 Sofian had not arrived. At 9:45, I texted him to see if he was still coming and he called. Through the static I could hear that he was trying to speak English, saying something about getting out of work late followed by the charming apology ‘I hate it when the people wait me!’.

At 10:05 he came running out of the metro. It was obviously a struggle for him, but he insisted on speaking English. He told me knew a good café around the corner. I followed while he walked quickly. He launched into a monologue about work. He, I think he was saying, designed GPS systems. The only empty table in the café was inside in the corner. The night had cooled down just enough to make a hot beverage seem non-ridiculous. Not wanting to spend more than 2€ or stay up all night, I ordered a décafiné. Sofian ordered a milky coffee with whipped cream that made me jealous.

He asked me about myself. I said that other than math I had always been a good student, but I wasn’t ready to start college. This was something everyone had a strong opinion about. It was always either Good for you, you’re so brave! or Don’t waste your brain like that! What are you going to do, babysit for the rest of your life?

From his neutral expression I guessed that he was not understanding what I was saying so I switched to French.

English please, Lindsay. He interrupted me, but with a smile that showed his slightly coffee-stained teeth, so I couldn’t be annoyed. I started involuntarily yawning not long after that, at which point Sofian asked for the check and paid it, shooing away my 2€ coin.

I needed to take Line 14 home. Sofian lived on Line 7, but he said he would go with me until Pyramides. On the metro he showed me the book he was reading during his morning commutes. It was pink and by Marian Keyes. I laughed. He didn’t. Maybe he was a super progressive feminist making a statement about gender expectations, but more likely he didn’t realize how girly his choice of reading material was. I didn’t tell him.

Line 14 was loud and fast. Under those conditions I preferred silence to yelling, especially yelling in English. Silence on the metro isn’t awkward though, but expected, like in a library.

At Pyramides, Sofian air kissed me goodbye. Very, very big pleasure to meet you, Lin.

I smiled to myself for no apparent reason the rest of the way home.

The next week I didn’t hear from Sofian at all. It was a busy week. My grandparents came down from Belgium for my birthday, and the family went out to my favorite Thai restaurant to celebrate. Not expecting that they’d actually come, I invited two remnants of my high school social circle, Celine and Sebastian. They did come, but however much I wanted to tell them about my new crush, I was not about to tell them in front of my whole family. Then, after my grandparents left, I had to go to the crèche for training. I had missed out on a personal crèche experience because at four years of age when my family moved back to France, I was too old. Marie, the head teacher, who was stern but smiley with grey hair and leathery skin, wore me and five other new employees out with lectures about the importance of letting a crying baby have the chance to calm himself down and making sure that the children at least try all the food put on their plate. Already it was Thursday and I found myself worried that my first Friday night as a nineteen year old would be as unexciting as the rest of the week to.

As I was dozing off with a movie running on my laptop Sofian texted me: Beautiful Lindsay will you have coffee with me tomorrow morning at ten?

I texted him back that I would, and we had a date.

This time he was on time and waiting for me as I climbed out of the metro.

Look who’s on time!

He smiled like he was trying not to. You don’t have to be mocking on me.

Want to walk to the Marais to get coffee?

He nodded, and after a few steps he asked, Want to hold my hand?

It’s official, I thought, as I fit my considerably smaller hand into his. He likes me — likes me! This was the first time I held the hand of a boy that I liked. It wasn’t that I was a virgin. When it came to casual sex, I actually had experienced the same initiations of the typical French teenage. But the experiments inspired by sexual curiosity always happened strictly in locked bedrooms of whoever’s house was emptier. These boys — whose images I couldn’t even conjure if I tried today— had nothing in common with me except that we were roughly the same age and of the same level of willingness to grope a casual acquaintance’s genitals. We certainly never wanted to appear as a couple in public.

Sofian and I sat down at a café that I knew. They had once served me hot chocolate in a mug with lipstick prints on it, but the tables were well positioned for people watching. I ordered hot chocolate again, because I was already feeling spazzy without adding coffee to the mix.

Lin, Sofian said, looking at me so directly that I squirmed in my chair. He took my hand and examined it. Such beautiful hands. He cradled my right hand in both of his. I have to say you something.

What do you have to say me? I had already figured out conversing would be much easier if I rolled with his insistence on speaking English.

I think that we should be a couple.

You do? I pretended to be surprised. I’m not sure why.

He let go of my hand. I hope I did not make you…mal à l’aise.

Uncomfortable. No, I’m not uncomfortable, it’s just…

Just what, Lin? I want to know everything you’re thinking.

I don’t see the point of having a boyfriend, if it’s not going to, you know, go anywhere.

He looked at me quizzically, so I continued.

I mean, you’d be my boyfriend until you’re not anymore. We’ll get sick of each other and we’ll break up and both be hurt, but especially me. I got emotionally bruised especially easily. As