In the Bois de Boulogne, Paris, 1971
A group of young girls in navy blue coats faces me in the clearing between the trees. I wave a stick in the air like a baton and my classmates begin to sing.
When the whippoorwills call, and evenin’ is nigh
I hurry to my Blue Heaven.
A man in a houndstooth jacket takes a seat on a tree stump behind my classmates. I ignore him and mouth the words to the song.
You’ll see a smilin’ face, a fireplace, a cozy room
A little nest that nestles where the roses bloom
Just Molly and me, and the baby makes three
We’re happy in my Blue Heaven.
The man unzips his fly and takes out his penis. I catch the eye of Sonya, my best friend, then burst out laughing. The other girls quit singing. Sonya turns around and looks at the man. He stares back, waiting for her to sound the alarm and run away, but she just rolls her eyes towards the sky. The other girls turn around and moan, “Oh no, not again…”
A few of my classmates leave the clearing, dragging their feet. Sonya picks up a stick and looks at me. I tap the baton against my hand, she nods, and we walk towards the man. His eyes widen in surprise when we thwack him over and over again across his chest and shoulders, but he does not try to escape.
“Sa-dique…Sa-dique…,” cheer the other girls, egging us on.
The man rocks around on the stump, still limp, with a far-off smile on his face. Anaïs Nin would have had a field day with this group flogging, but our Mademoiselle Sophie arrives on the scene first.
“Girls! What are you doing?”
We drop our sticks and run over to our classmates.
Sophie looks at the man in disgust.
“Get the hell out of here, you wanker!”
The man zips up his fly and ambles off, as if he had just taken a leak in the bushes.
Mademoiselle Sophie hurries over to us. I hope that my uniform will help me blend in with the crowd, but no such luck.
“Rozanne and Sonya, this story is not over,” she warns us, shaking her finger.
She then blows on a whistle and a swarm of boys in navy blue coats run out of the forest and form a line with us to walk back to school.
We had long school days at the École Active Bilingue, but I loved every minute that I was there. The lessons began at 9 a.m. with one-and-a-half hours of English, then one-and-a-half hours of math was taught in French. The highlight of these idyllic days was lunch at noon. At 12 sharp, we would file downstairs into the dining room, where the university students served us a four-course lunch, thanks to a decree issued by the former President De Gaulle. The General believed that all children deserved a balanced, hot meal in order to reach their full potential.
I always made sure to sit at the table of children looked after by Mademoiselle Sophie, a student of Sociologie at the Sorbonne. I was in awe of her kohl-rimmed eyes and curtains of brown hair that swished around the top of her bell bottom jeans. By day, I tried to catch her eye by chirping “Merci, Mademoiselle Sophie” every time she placed an elegant scoop of crudités on my plate for the hors d’oeuvres. By night, I slept halfway down my bed, hoping to wake up as a tall, beautiful teenager like her, with feet that reached the bottom of the sheets.
Mademoiselle Sophie was kind and impartial to us all.
“Bon Appetit, les enfants,” she would reply, then continue her rounds with the carottes râpées, the bettraves and the tomates à la vinaigrette.
After dessert, we would line up in pairs and the university students would accompany us to the Bois de Boulogne for recess. While the boys went off to play James Bond or Military Man, we girls would also enact some fantasy about our future selves. Newspaper reporter Brenda Starr was a favorite of ours, as well as Doris Day. The goal of the school may have been to teach us the French language in one year and prepare us to enter the French school system, but we still hung on to our original culture at recess.
I am not a psychiatrist, so I cannot tell you why so many men expose themselves to children in the Bois de Boulogne. It happened almost daily, so they had little effect on us at all. The Directrice had given us strict instructions to interrupt our games and move whenever one of these characters set up shop in the bushes nearby, and the university students’ main responsibility was to keep them at bay. These young women were vigilant about their task, but the woods were also full of charmers from the École Polytechnique, who enjoyed lighting up their Gauloise cigarettes and making bedroom eyes at them in broad daylight. This is most probably why things got out of hand that day in April when Mademoiselle Sophie had to stop the carnage.
Sonya and I were the naughtiest girls in our class, but our crime that day was not pre-meditated. When the man displayed his wares, I remember thinking, “Doris Day would never have to look at this,” then cracking up in hysterics. Something in Sonya and me just snapped. Did we really have to find a new place to sing and play, just because he let the bird fly free in the wind? Little did we know that he enjoyed the flogging.
The three-hour French lesson in the afternoon goes in one ear and out the other. I wait for the sound of the Directrice’s heels clicking down the corridor, but she never storms the classroom to haul us out for detention.
At the end of the day, I sidle up to Sonya and ask, “Do you think Mademoiselle Sophie will tell?”
“I don’t care, we did the right thing,” she snorts, then snaps up her little blue coat. I watch her race into her mother’s arms at the gate, dreading the arrival of my stepfather.
Sonya grew up to become a successful criminal defense attorney and already had a strong sense of self at the age of ten. I was not so secure, and knew that my parents would never defend their little snowflake if the Directrice called our home that evening.
The phone never rings.
After brushing my teeth, I inch myself halfway down the bed. I still yearn for Mademoiselle Sophie, but am also angry at the power that she has over me.
Sitting with my head down at her lunch table the next day, I hold my breath when she places a creamy mound of céleri rémoulade on my plate for the hors d’oeuvres. I look up at her and whisper, “Merci, Mademoiselle Sophie…”
“Today, I want you to play closer to me. Do you understand?” she asks.
I nod my head, hopeful.
“Yes, I understand.”
“Alors bon appétit,” she replies with a wink.
I take a bite, relieved that I am safe from the authorities.
THE END
The original recipe for céleri rémoulade is made with mayonnaise, making it rich and highly caloric. I have never attempted it until today, as an imaginary Weight Watchers scold has always stopped me. “Is it really worth the points? Do you want to ingest nothing but water for the rest of the day?”
Many recipe writers and chefs have begun to use crème fraîche in the recent years. Sinful as it is, it contains only half the calories as mayonnaise.
Today, I give you an adaptation of Nigel Slater’s recipe for Celeriac and Walnut Remoulade from his excellent book The Kitchen Diaries. The French sometimes add a bit of grated, tart apple to the dish, which gives it a subtle kick. Most recipes advise you to avoid shredding the celeriac with the julienne blades of a food processor, as the result is too uniform and mushy. My husband tried to grate it by hand, but we were also concerned that the shreds were too fine. He therefore cut the second half into fine matchsticks, which gave the salad a varied consistency.
The Ingredients
250 ml crème fraîche
The juice of half a lemon
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
Salt and pepper to taste
1 large celeriac, approx. 500 grams
Any kind of ham, a few slices for each plate
A handful of walnuts
A few slices of apple
The Method
Mix the crème fraiche, lemon juice and mustard together, then stir in a little salt and black pepper.
Peel the celeriac and cut into large chunks. Shred half on the largest holes of a grater, then cut the rest into long, matchstick sized pieces. Add the celeriac to the dressing and stir.
Divide the ham between four plates and add a spoonful of celeriac to the center of each plate.
Sprinkle the chopped walnuts over everything, and add a few slices of apple if desired.
Serves 4