Mesdames Gegou, Encore
The story of Mesdames Gégou is far from over dear readers. Quite the contrary, our relationship has progressed in the last few months from the occasional phone call to Sunday afternoon teas to drug trafficking. The story, still in its adolescence, follows.
I received a call from Domitienne, the younger Gégou, a few days before Thanksgiving. In fact, I received six calls without message from an unknown number and upon answering the seventh I learned that she mistrusts answering machines. She told me that her and her mother would not be able to make it to the next Fulbright function, a thanksgiving dinner, and wanted to know if I would attend. I replied that I would not be able to either and we began to chat a bit about the cold weather and her mother’s susceptibility to it. At the end of our conversation she promised to call back in a couple of weeks to arrange a meeting.
One week later I noticed four missed calls on my phone without message. The fifth was Domitienne. She extended me an invitation to Sunday evening tea for the following weekend which I readily accepted. An important linguistic mistake occurred in this conversation which took us from the state of acquaintances to friends. Accidentally I slipped into using the familiar version of you, tu, rather than the formal version, vous, which we used up until this point. Realizing my mistake I offered my apology, which she declined, stating that we should certainly use ‘tu’ as we were friends. Thus friendship was established.
Sunday arrived and I made my way to their apartment, an address in the distinguished 17th, a bouquet of tulips in hand. Domitienne opened the door and with a wide smile which bared her yellowed teeth and pointed incisors. Around me the walls were yellowed and dusty with age, as was the tattered curtain she held out of the way of the door, and the paint peeling from the ceiling. Not much wall was exposed in the dim light because they were covered in books, boxes and furniture from some forgotten century. The smile, combined with the disheveled surroundings and her dark sunken eyes took me aback for a moment as my imagination flared with images of meeting an early death at the hands of elderly vampires. My musings passed as quickly as they came and the eagerness in her greeting, startling at first, glowed warm and invitingly. Her mother, Fabienne, shuffled up behind Domitienne and threw her hands up to give me bisous, the traditional kisses on the cheek, and drew me into the apartment.
They led me through the narrow hall made narrower by the high, dark ceilings and precarious towers of antiquity along its sides, into a sitting room. It was a sitting room in name only, as there was very little space to sit. Domitienne left to prepare the tea and coffee and Fabienne and I were left to converse. At first I was a little uncomfortable; the air seemed infused with age and the sense that something was fading. But Fabienne’s bright and continual conversation, her earnest inquiries into my work, my adjustment to Paris, and my life in the US put me at ease. Every now and then she would reach into one of the many piles of memories around her and pull out a magazine or photo or trinket to show me, old but completely relevant to her life.
Domitienne called us to tea and we walked to the dining room, which contained enough floor space to accommodate a large circular table, although only half of it was accessible. We feasted on cake and chocolates as they told me of their troubles in acquiring a new car, the former Fulbright events they had attended, Fabienne’s time in the US, and, of course, about the venerated physicist-uncle who apparently had such an influence on the young Fabienne. Three quarters of the conversation came from Fabienne, I was allowed most of the remaining quarter to respond to her questions, and Domitienne listened, her frequent attempts at entering the discussions halted by her mother who spoke over her. When I later looked up her name to send the women a photo taken of us at the wine and cheese in October, I found that Domitienne means, “the one who has submitted”. Apparently the mother had chosen her daughter’s fate from birth.
In any case, Domitienne did not seem at all defeated by her mother’s disregard for her voice when I apologized for cutting my visit short at two hours to return home for dinner. They accompanied me to the door, halting me as I put on my jacket. Domitienne held up an ancient bottle of Pepto Bismol. “Do you know this medicine?” she asked. I replied that I did and she requested that if I could get any from the states it would be much appreciated. Her mother had frequent stomach troubles. I told them I had a visitor coming at New Year’s and that I was sure he could bring some. Excitedly they thanked me and wished me good night over and over again until I left the building. I promised to talk to them in the new year.
The new year arrived, as did my courier who brought two of the largest bottles of Pepto Bismol I have ever seen. A few weeks later I scheduled another tea with the Mesdames and they asked me if I had the medicine. “Of course”, I reassured them and when I unwrapped the bottles two weeks later their eyes shown with gratitude as they thanked me profusely.
The second tea progressed quite similarly to the first, although this time we diner on a Galette du Roi, a king’s cake, the traditional French dessert of January. Apparently they had already eaten many that month because the table featured a stack of the paper crowns which come with the cakes that was at least 15 crowns high. Also, the photo of the three of us taken at the wine and cheese also graced the mantle which dominated one of the walls. Again, Fabienne directed conversation and I noted, with a touch of sadness, how often she mentioned people and then added the caveat that they had passed away. I also noticed how little I know of the women’s lives. I learned that Fabienne is a musicologist of the medieval period, and Domitienne studies history of some sort, but I know little of the many years they have lived. I would love to ask them about all they have seen and experienced, but Fabienne has yet to leave me an opening where I can ask. I’m determined to find one.
Unfortunately Fabienne was sick so the ladies could not attend the last wine and cheese, but I received a call from Domitienne alerting me ahead of time of their absence and promising another tea not too far in the future. She also cautioned me repeatedly to dress warmly and take care to protect myself from the cold. We also have plans to visit the uncle’s house in the countryside as soon as the weather improves, so hopefully then I can learn a little of their history. Anyways, the story will continue to evolve, so I’ll keep you posted.
I received a call from Domitienne, the younger Gégou, a few days before Thanksgiving. In fact, I received six calls without message from an unknown number and upon answering the seventh I learned that she mistrusts answering machines. She told me that her and her mother would not be able to make it to the next Fulbright function, a thanksgiving dinner, and wanted to know if I would attend. I replied that I would not be able to either and we began to chat a bit about the cold weather and her mother’s susceptibility to it. At the end of our conversation she promised to call back in a couple of weeks to arrange a meeting.
One week later I noticed four missed calls on my phone without message. The fifth was Domitienne. She extended me an invitation to Sunday evening tea for the following weekend which I readily accepted. An important linguistic mistake occurred in this conversation which took us from the state of acquaintances to friends. Accidentally I slipped into using the familiar version of you, tu, rather than the formal version, vous, which we used up until this point. Realizing my mistake I offered my apology, which she declined, stating that we should certainly use ‘tu’ as we were friends. Thus friendship was established.
Sunday arrived and I made my way to their apartment, an address in the distinguished 17th, a bouquet of tulips in hand. Domitienne opened the door and with a wide smile which bared her yellowed teeth and pointed incisors. Around me the walls were yellowed and dusty with age, as was the tattered curtain she held out of the way of the door, and the paint peeling from the ceiling. Not much wall was exposed in the dim light because they were covered in books, boxes and furniture from some forgotten century. The smile, combined with the disheveled surroundings and her dark sunken eyes took me aback for a moment as my imagination flared with images of meeting an early death at the hands of elderly vampires. My musings passed as quickly as they came and the eagerness in her greeting, startling at first, glowed warm and invitingly. Her mother, Fabienne, shuffled up behind Domitienne and threw her hands up to give me bisous, the traditional kisses on the cheek, and drew me into the apartment.
They led me through the narrow hall made narrower by the high, dark ceilings and precarious towers of antiquity along its sides, into a sitting room. It was a sitting room in name only, as there was very little space to sit. Domitienne left to prepare the tea and coffee and Fabienne and I were left to converse. At first I was a little uncomfortable; the air seemed infused with age and the sense that something was fading. But Fabienne’s bright and continual conversation, her earnest inquiries into my work, my adjustment to Paris, and my life in the US put me at ease. Every now and then she would reach into one of the many piles of memories around her and pull out a magazine or photo or trinket to show me, old but completely relevant to her life.
Domitienne called us to tea and we walked to the dining room, which contained enough floor space to accommodate a large circular table, although only half of it was accessible. We feasted on cake and chocolates as they told me of their troubles in acquiring a new car, the former Fulbright events they had attended, Fabienne’s time in the US, and, of course, about the venerated physicist-uncle who apparently had such an influence on the young Fabienne. Three quarters of the conversation came from Fabienne, I was allowed most of the remaining quarter to respond to her questions, and Domitienne listened, her frequent attempts at entering the discussions halted by her mother who spoke over her. When I later looked up her name to send the women a photo taken of us at the wine and cheese in October, I found that Domitienne means, “the one who has submitted”. Apparently the mother had chosen her daughter’s fate from birth.
In any case, Domitienne did not seem at all defeated by her mother’s disregard for her voice when I apologized for cutting my visit short at two hours to return home for dinner. They accompanied me to the door, halting me as I put on my jacket. Domitienne held up an ancient bottle of Pepto Bismol. “Do you know this medicine?” she asked. I replied that I did and she requested that if I could get any from the states it would be much appreciated. Her mother had frequent stomach troubles. I told them I had a visitor coming at New Year’s and that I was sure he could bring some. Excitedly they thanked me and wished me good night over and over again until I left the building. I promised to talk to them in the new year.
The new year arrived, as did my courier who brought two of the largest bottles of Pepto Bismol I have ever seen. A few weeks later I scheduled another tea with the Mesdames and they asked me if I had the medicine. “Of course”, I reassured them and when I unwrapped the bottles two weeks later their eyes shown with gratitude as they thanked me profusely.
The second tea progressed quite similarly to the first, although this time we diner on a Galette du Roi, a king’s cake, the traditional French dessert of January. Apparently they had already eaten many that month because the table featured a stack of the paper crowns which come with the cakes that was at least 15 crowns high. Also, the photo of the three of us taken at the wine and cheese also graced the mantle which dominated one of the walls. Again, Fabienne directed conversation and I noted, with a touch of sadness, how often she mentioned people and then added the caveat that they had passed away. I also noticed how little I know of the women’s lives. I learned that Fabienne is a musicologist of the medieval period, and Domitienne studies history of some sort, but I know little of the many years they have lived. I would love to ask them about all they have seen and experienced, but Fabienne has yet to leave me an opening where I can ask. I’m determined to find one.
Unfortunately Fabienne was sick so the ladies could not attend the last wine and cheese, but I received a call from Domitienne alerting me ahead of time of their absence and promising another tea not too far in the future. She also cautioned me repeatedly to dress warmly and take care to protect myself from the cold. We also have plans to visit the uncle’s house in the countryside as soon as the weather improves, so hopefully then I can learn a little of their history. Anyways, the story will continue to evolve, so I’ll keep you posted.
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