Bea vs. France (2005)
Bea’s problem with France had started when she found out it had ruled the world for a short time. Ruling the world was sexy, so she sat up straighter and took more notice of it. Next she learned that her favorite actor Andrew Anson lived there. Then her 52-year-old bachelor cousin Jerry vacationed in Europe and brought back a box of caramels he’d bought while laid over at Charles de Gaulle. He gave one to Bea while he sat on her sofa showing her photos of mountains and castles. Bea had never eaten anything brought back directly from Europe. She expected it to taste differently than caramels in America, but she was disappointed. Though it was good, it lacked distinctive identity. She walked over to the trashcan to throw away the crumpled gold wrapper, but then thought better of it and set it aside. Later she stuck it to the wall by her computer with a thumbtack where it gleamed prism-like when the afternoon sun hit it.
The French Happy Meal was another unpleasant surprise. Bea found out about it by accident while surfing the web. The French apparently called McDonald’s “McDo’s,” and in addition to the old familiar hamburger or Mcnugget standbys of the American Happy Meal, children in France had exotic choices - a ham sandwich or star-shaped fish pieces, apricot-peach juice or black currant flavored water.
And there was the fact that the French had sex 130 times a year, more than anyone else in Europe. Or America, for that matter. Of course, they would use birth control most of the time, but occasionally they’d conceive French or half-French children, like Andrew Anson’s kids, who would grow up and one day ask for star shaped fish pieces and black currant water from McDo’s.
Bea knew that France had been there all her life. But after the gold wrapper, the McDo’s Happy Meals, and the French sex, France was a new threat. It was after her, was coming at her from everywhere. Bea told herself to stay on guard.
E-News from the French Government suddenly began arriving in her email unbidden. In the gift shop across the street from Bea’s coffee shop, the owner put up a whimsical three-dimensional map of France - the Eiffel tower protruded from Paris in a rude, phallic way. And France was there in the daily language in words Bea liked, in words she was indifferent to, and in words she hated, such as ointment. France just refused to back down. Each time she encountered it, she smiled a little and nodded as if to say “touché” to her opponent. But what did it want from her? Was it planning a bigger move?
#
Bea asked her friend Joey Mullins about France at the coffee shop one morning.
“Back when I took French in high school I didn’t even notice it had anything to do with France,” she yelled over the sound of the cappuccino maker. “What changed?”
“I can tell you this much - you can avoid Francophiles, but beyond that you’re stuck with France,” Joey said, taking his cappuccino from her. “I mean, there’s gonna be the French Open, the Tour de France, the Cannes film festival, the diet books by the skinny French ladies. And politicians are gonna keep hating French politicians because they’re strange and contentious. And there’s no escaping Casablanca.”
“Not true,” Bea said, wiping up some milk she had spilled. “I only saw it once.”
Joey shrugged. “Why don’t you just save up your tips until you have enough to buy a plane ticket? Meet France head on.”
Bea set a jar on the windowsill of the coffee shop and began stuffing it with dollars and nickels. She settled in to save for a long, long time. And then it came: the magazine announcing Andrew Anson as the Sexiest Man on the Planet. Beside a big photo of Andrew was a declaration written by his French lover Valentina which had originally appeared in French Elle:
“Andrew Anson, My Lover,” wrote Valentina.
All that I dreamed of, wanted, need. Our story is love and friendship united. I have the impression that no one could love the way we love. When we talk about work, it’s not too much and never during a romantic dinner.
Bea read it aloud to Joey in the coffee shop.
“Can you believe that crap?” she said while picking up a particularly puny tip from the couple who had just left. “’When we talk about work it’s not too much and never during a romantic dinner.’ Is that what passes for being clever when you’re gorgeous?”
“Give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it works better in French. Here, add this to your fund,” Joey said, handing her an extra dollar.
#
Bea closed up for the day and took a cup of coffee to the back patio to contemplate her next move. “Andrew Anson, My Lover” was the most disturbing piece of evidence yet – the implications were terrifying. If Valentina was telling the truth, it meant that something had happened in France that passed beyond the realm of common human experience: love and friendship had united; Andrew and Valentina loved in a way that ”no one” else could.
Bea tried to think of reasonable, grounded explanations. Maybe France was a mystical place where people could experience this higher state of loving. But if so, the rest of them were shut out as from well-defended medieval fortifications – France belonged only to the French because they were born there, or to the half-French, or to people who at least had a French last name and the money and celebrity to hook up with a French beauty like Valentina and impregnate her twice.
Maybe Valentina and Andrew were the sort of people who were easily satisfied in a relationship. But judging by the nature of Valentina’s declarations, it sounded more like every heretofore impossible romantic dream had come true. Not just that, but Andrew and Valentina had been together for several years and had a couple of kids by the time she had written this. So her words couldn’t be considered a byproduct of the initial flush of falling in love. It sounded like the real deal, and Valentina was confirming what Bea had always suspected – there was a happily ever after, but it wasn’t for her.
As she sat in the evening calm sipping her coffee, she thought she saw something delicate floating just outside her range of vision. Then she heard the small fluttering noise, and realized it was a hummingbird. She tried not to make any clumsy moves. She knew they had hummingbirds in France – there was a passing reference to them in Madame Bovary. But then she belched, and the hummingbird flitted away. In France, Valentina would never belch and scare away a hummingbird. Bea went back into the shop, took the jar off the windowsill, and threw it in the trash.
Then she saw it: sitting by the sink on top of yesterday’s mail was a new movie magazine announcing in bold letters “World’s Sexiest Man.” But it wasn’t Andrew Anson this time. The star Matt Gillis reclined lazily on the front, hair disheveled and shirt unbuttoned. Just a few days ago Bea had seen an internet poll on the actor with the dreamiest eyes, and Matt had won by a landslide. She looked at the cover photo. Not bad. Flipping through the article, she noticed that Matt was Irish. Ireland had never ruled the world, but it had always been a rebel out there on the fringes. Being a rebel was sexy. Bea fished the jar out of the trash, just in case. You never knew when Ireland might make a move.
