Jill Pearlman

They don’t call French villagers malin – wily – for nothing.  We were inching forward in line at the only boulangerie in town, admiring the baguettes leaning like bayonets against the metal rack.  Should we try the pain de compagne, or a slim flute? A little village lady, in a flowered house dress, with crinkly apple cheeks, heard our English — the cat was out of the bag!  — and began chattering.  

What were we doing in this picturesque but mini village, how long would we stay? Baguette, s’il vous plait, I said, then answered her, and as we left the closet sized space, she followed me out, now speaking French and launching into a long story of her dear friend who studied with her at university and lives in Vermont.  Under the extravagant shade of the platanes, passing regulars drinking early on a bar terrace, we talked about my years in France. We walked down to the fruit store where a vendor was arranging pyramids of peaches.  My now best friend advised me on tomatoes, and white nectarines, plums.  

Standing near a fountain, still chattering, I finally smiled and said I had to leave.  She grasped both of my hands and held them in her smooth, peach-like palms.  “I’m praying for your country on November 5^th.”