Mlle. Gabrielle de la Burg

            by Ethan Poole

 

            You moved into my apartment the winter of the year before abortion became legal in France; that should fix it in the past time for you, dear Mlle. de la Burg. Before today I had not seen, nor truth be told, thought of you since you so suddenly left fifteen years ago. I am, however, quite certain it is you in this month’s Vogue magazine, posing in an advertisement for a rather tacky YSL perfume. I recognized you almost immediately after I saw you. Despite the change in color, your hair looked quite the same. Some problems are never fixed.

            The weather the day you arrived had been particularly cold for a Parisian morning, but if I recall, by the afternoon, the temperature had risen slightly over freezing. Paris however had not noticed this change and as such remained huddled inside near the warmth of the fireplaces. I remember the day quite clearly because that was the day that my son, Nicolas, first told me of his engagement to his girlfriend of the time, Marie.

            You knocked twice before I got up from my sewing table to answer the door. When I did, you entered very quietly almost as if you had not meant to arrive here at my apartment. You stood in the foyer and moved your head purposelessly around, but taking time to gaze at everything in the room.

            You had with you only one small leather suitcase and wore provincial white dress with a flower pattern the came down just above the knees. The dress might almost have been called quaint, but it fell so poorly over your body that I could only imagine it was held up by safety pins.  You clutched absently to a green handbag, which at best could only pretend to be chic. Your fair blond hair came down as far as your jaw and ended with the faintest of curls, matching your ice blue eyes perfectly. Most notable of all though, was a deep blue silk scarf draped elegantly over your shoulders. On it was printed a sophisticated white violin on top of a black circle. Compared to the other items you had, the scarf seemed quite out of place rather like if Coco Chanel at La plaine Saint-Denis.

            You commented softly how clean everything seemed. Back then I prided myself on my housekeeping, a skill which went rather unappreciated by my at times rather boorish family. My son, Nicolas, seemed always to do his best to dirty whatever I cleaned and my overly pessimistic late husband, Emile, always commented that a clean house made the rooms too bright which he claimed ruined one’s vision. I, however, could not imagine them any other way.

            When I asked why you had come, you gave a start and then a small, artificial smile. You rummaged around in your handbag took out a poorly folded piece of paper and said you were here about a room for rent. I had put the ad in the paper only a day ago and had not truly expected such a quick response. The room in question had belonged to my late husband, Emile, who used it as a study of sorts. In his life, he had worked as the owner of a bistro which had once been hailed as “the finest in Paris” (a claim which he always said would simply bring raised expectation from his “cheap clientele”) After his death, however I had grown rather lonely and admittedly, I was renting the room more for companionship than any sort of financial gain.

             

            You insisted to me that your name was Gabriele de la Burg and that you were a model from Nancy. Your appearance fit the role, but your accent placed you further east than you claimed. You described yourself as “in between jobs” though you always boasted you had at least one offer lined up here in Paris. As I remember you had said you had been educated at l’École nationale des beaux arts de Nancy. Oddly, you always carried your diploma with you in your handbag in case, as you put it you ever sat next to a talent agent on a bus.

            I accepted this information as truth and gave you my price: 550 francs (breakfast included). Nicolas had helped me determine the correct price as I have always had trouble with money ever since the late General Charles de Gaulle had decided to remove two zeros. You commented that the price was expensive but strangely, you accepted. I picked up your bags and showed you to the room. I was surprised how light the suitcase was, almost as if there was nothing in it. When I commented on this you indignantly replied you were small and wore small sizes. I placed the suitcase on the third shelf of the closet in your bedroom and began to show you around.

             

            The first morning you were here you complained bitterly of the accommodations. You claimed the mattress was not soft enough and the pillows were two hard. You were annoyed at the howling of the dogs in the neighboring flat and complained they kept you up at night. The dogs were a recent addition to the building and were owned by my neighbor, a snob of a woman who besides the dogs lived only with a man who some said was her son. If so, she had him at age of ten. None of us were fond of the dogs and many of us were less fond of the woman.

            You left every morning at 11:25 a.m, clutching the imitation handbag and wrapped in your silk scarf, to “find work” as you always put it. You never returned until 5:00 that evening. I always knew you were approaching by the squeak made by the doorknob turning in entry and the quiet patter of your shoes on the hardwood floor. I never asked whether you had any success and you never mentioned it. 

            A month later, Marie went to Nice to visit her mother and Nicolas asked to live here for a few weeks. I was initially reluctant to let him stay as I thought three was too large a number to live in my small apartment. I found it ironic that once I had found a tenant, albeit a foreigner with poor taste to live here, my only son needed a place to sleep. However he quickly won me over and moved in the next day.

            Due to the lack of space, he was forced to sleep on the couch in the living room; a sacrifice he was willing to make in exchange for the company we provided. It was during this time that you ceased being able to afford the monthly rent of 550 francs. You pleaded furiously with me to stay. I was amenable and the next morning lowered the sum to 250 francs with your agreement to move onto the couch as Nicolas moved into your former room. After three weeks of Nicolas’ visit, Marie wrote to inform him that she would be staying with her mother, who had recently suffered a fall, for another month. He did not say it, but I knew Nicolas was beginning to grow tired of her prolonged absence.

            Your relationship with my son was cordial, but reserved. I could tell each of you were fascinated by the other the first time you introduced yourself to him. You had just come home, downcast, at your normal 5:00 and were walking to your room when you saw the two of us sitting on the couch. Almost mechanically your morose face moved into a smile and your posture straightened. You walked coquettishly up to him and extended your hand in an overly charming manner. Nicolas responded with a cursory nod but, out of bemusement, did not take your hand. At first you seemed confused at his reaction but regained your composure quickly and went to your room gliding your small but pronounced hips side to side.

            His distant fascination with you began after that. I would assume he was attracted by your exotic behavior and attitude, something I had found detracting and never much cared for.  Your formal relationship with Nicolas never developed any further beyond his occasional inquiry to your day and you remained overly clandestine towards him, a sheer testament to what the lack of a proper upbringing begets. Strangely enough he seemed content to observe you from a distance and the two of you never made much of an effort to talk. He was however sympathetic to your financial woes than I was and he often shared things like money, or on some occasions, your bed.

            As I already said, it did not take me long to forget you after your sudden departure. I do remember quite clearly however the last time I saw you. It was the evening of May 15th, 1984. Nicolas and Marie had come over to visit with Fiona and Sophie, their two daughters. We were sitting in the living room watching a television movie on Antenne 2 when a commercial for dish soap came on. At first, I didn’t recognize you as the woman laboring over a pile of dirty dishes, but once you turned around to show us the bottle of soap, I knew it was you. Your hair had been dyed a dark brown and was cut shorter than before, but your icy blue eyes gave you away.

            The commercial began with you standing in front of a sink piled high with dirty dishes. A voice came over extolling the grease removing qualities of the product. You never turned around until the last moment when the camera zoomed closer and you gave that same artificial smile you had given me when we first met. You held up the bottle of soap, tossed your hair and then winked before the commercial ended.

            All in all, it was a brief experience; the commercial only lasted less than a minute. Nicolas sat in silence, much quieter than usual staring blankly at the television. He grew paler as the movie came back on and then after a minute or two got up and left the room, leaving a confused Marie sitting with her daughters. I had not been so deeply affected, but I confess, it was comforting to know you were well.

            To this day I still have not told anyone. I remember exactly how I first found out. You had come to me saying you had an “important interview” in a week and wanted to know if you could barrow one of my old dresses. I agreed and made the appropriate measurement to fit you. When I reach up and touched your stomach you recoiled clutching your arms around the violated area. You stared at me with your icy eyes, filled with fear, like a small child who has just be scolded. I looked out the window at the neighboring building. I never voiced the question running through my mind at the moment, but when I turned around I could tell from your face that the answer was yes. You began to sob and miserably requested I not tell anyone and then devolved into a pool of soft, silent tears.

            Later that night I came to you and gave you the information you so desperately needed. I knew of a doctor and had arranged a meeting between the two of at a nearby cafe. You were frightened but I assured you no one would find out. I gave you the address on a small piece of folded paper and one hundred francs. You left silently half an hour later dressed in the same dress you had arrived in, with the same scarf, which I somehow don’t think you ever saw again, draped over your shoulders. You did not say whether you would be back, but I know that would be the last I saw of you.

 

 

 

 

 

Dearest Mlle de la Burg,

            I am writing to congratulate you on your recent appearance in the June edition on Vogue magazine. I am also writing to inform you that you left your suitcase at my apartment when you hastily departed fifteen years ago. I have not touched it, nor have I looked at the contents. It remains exactly where you left it, on the third shelf in study closet. There is no need to knock, as I believe you still have a key and the locks have not been changed.          I am regularly out on Tuesdays but, please, you are free to pick it up at any time, if for what ever reason you so desire.