Clémence strolled to Avenue Kléber, noting and enjoying the beautiful architectural details on each building façade. She was in no hurry as no one was waiting for her at 14 Avenue Kléber except their dog Miffy, who had been left with a neighbor.
When Clémence had left for her travels two years ago, she also moved out of the apartment that she shared with her then-boyfriend Mathieu in Le Marais. Now that she was back, she would stay at her parents’ place. It was near-perfect timing. The week before, the Damours had left for a travel adventure of their own. They would be living in Tokyo for six months and then Hong Kong, as they oversaw the opening of more Damour patisseries and tea salons in each city.
The original Damour patisserie was in the sixteenth arrondissement of Paris, right in the neighborhood where they lived now, which was why they had moved here from the suburbs to begin with. Her parents were both bakers. Her father was French, and her mother was American. They had met and fallen in love while attending a Parisian culinary school for pastry making, and then they went into business together after a shotgun wedding. Damour was how they made their fortune. What started out as a small neighborhood bakery selling classic French desserts with some American and international influences became a hit with the locals. They expanded to two more locations around Paris.
Damour quickly became a franchise. They now had locations around France, such as in Nice and Cannes. There was one in New York and one in London. Their packaged chocolates, candies, tea, and drink mixes were also sold in gourmet supermarkets around the world. The name “Damour” had become synonymous with gourmet desserts and treats.
Apart from being her parents’ house sitter and dog sitter for the next year, she would also help oversee the shops, particularly their flagship location in the sixteenth, which was a mere two-minute walk from where she lived. Clémence had gone to art school to be a painter, but she had grown up with a thorough knowledge of baking and desserts thanks to her parents. They were hoping that she would inherit the family business one day, along with her siblings, but she wasn’t sure about making it a full-time career yet. She still had hopes of becoming a great painter someday.
When Clémence got to 14 Avenue Kléber, she saw la gardienne sweeping in the courtyard through the huge iron front door. She knew the code to get in, and she pushed the heavy door open. La gardienne was a stout lady in her late fifties, with mop-like white and gray hair and a bulbous nose.
“Ah.” A knowing look began to spread in la gardienne’s eyes, but she was still not smiling. “I didn’t recognize you.”
She gave her another disapproving once-over. It was true that Clémence didn’t look her best, but she didn’t appreciate the blatant rudeness of la gardienne’s critical eye. Clémence couldn’t wait to escape to her home.
La gardienne unlocked the door to her own apartment, which was just beside the front door, and disappeared inside.
She was the caretaker in charge of two buildings. These two buildings connected with another two buildings around a private courtyard. In each of the buildings, one apartment took up the entire floor. There were six floors in each building, plus the top floor that used to be the servants’ quarters.
La gardienne lived on the ground floor, and she was in charge of delivering the mail, cleaning, overseeing who was coming and going, and handling small maintenance tasks around the building. It was in all the residents’ favor to be on her good side.
Clémence didn’t even know la gardienne’s real name. Her parents had always just called her “la gardienne.” She would have to ask them, but in a way, she didn’t want to know. She couldn’t imagine calling her anything other than “la gardienne.”
The woman was moody, gruff, nosy, and a huge gossip. Everybody generally tried to stay out of her way—and her wrath. Clémence’s parents complained to her about their run-ins with la gardienne so often that Clémence felt as if she already knew her well, even though she’d only seen her in passing when she used to come to visit her parents.
It was fun to hear anecdotes about la gardienne when Clémence had been out of the country, but now that she was living at 14 Avenue Kléber, she had to stay out of her hair to avoid getting trapped in conversations. La gardienne’s negativity and complaints about the other residents, as well as general rants about life, could be draining. La gardienne didn’t have a lot in life, aside from her job: no family, no great social life, not even good health—as she walked with a limp—and often complained to Clémence’s mother about back problems.
When la gardienne came back out from her apartment, she held out something in her left hand.
“Here are the keys your parents left for you. This one is for the front door, this one is for the door of your building, and this one is for your apartment.”
She was glad that la gardienne didn’t want to chitchat, as she apparently did with her mother. She seemed to be in a hurry to get back to her sweeping, so Clémence took her cue to go inside her building.
The tiny elevator, barely big enough for two people, took her up to the fifth floor. She unlocked the door and quickly punched in the code to deactivate the security alarm.
She dropped her backpack, and the first thing she did was open the windows to let the air and the light in. The main hallway had two shimmering chandeliers. The apartment was decorated in a hip, bourgeois way—classical paintings and baroque furniture mixed with chic modern furniture and abstract art. In the hall was a painting of a group of pink flamingos, which Clémence had painted at age nineteen and her parents had treasured enough to prominently display.
Even though the place smelled a little musty—nothing a little airing out wouldn’t fix—it felt nice to be in that apartment. Everything was exactly the same. She would have the entire apartment to herself, which would take some getting used to after staying in hostels or sleeping on friends’ couches for the past couple of years. It made her parents’ place seem even bigger and grander than ever.
There was hardly anything to eat in the kitchen. Her parents had been gone for a week already, and their housekeeper wouldn’t come until next Wednesday. It was only Thursday. There was some Camembert cheese, a bottle of pasteurized milk, and some boudin sausages, but no baguette, as it would have been rock hard after a couple of days anyway. In the pantry, she found a box of whole-wheat penne pasta. She boiled water to make pasta with pesto sauce and heated up a thick sausage in a frying pan.
After lunch, her discomfort from long periods of travel still remained. She went into her bathroom inside her classically decorated bedroom and drew a bath.
The chevron wood flooring squeaked as she walked, and she could hear a baby crying from the floor below and footsteps from above. The floors and walls in France were as thin as Band-Aids, but she preferred this now that she was living alone. If something were to happen to her, the neighbors would hear her screams.
Just before she could get into the bathtub, the home phone rang.
“Try not to sleep. Keep awake for as long as possible, and you’ll be back on schedule in no time. Did la gardienne give you trouble about the keys?”
“No, but she’s not exactly enthusiastic to see me.”
Although her mother was American, she’d lived in France for over thirty-three years. Her French was flawless, and she was as sophisticated as any of the mothers of Clémence’s friends.
“She’s a pain in the derrière, but give her a box of macarons from the shop to be in her good graces. She has eyes and ears all over the place, you know.”
“Oh, I’ll be all right,” Clémence said. “She doesn’t scare me.”
“It doesn’t hurt to give her the macarons. She adores the stuff, especially from our store. She’ll be as happy as a clam. Once we gave her a box of thirty-two just before your father’s birthday party, and she gave us no trouble about the guests coming in and out all night.”
“I’ll be sure to do that,” Clémence said. “Are you still in Tokyo?”
“Yes, and they don’t have street names here, can you believe that? It’s a system where they don’t use street names but something to do with blocks and numbers. I don’t get it.”
“Oh, I remember. I got totally lost once, and none of the locals knew how to use my map either.”
“So how do people find where they want to go?” her mother asked.
“They use their phones, or from memory, I guess.”
“Sure. I mean, as soon as I get some rest. What about you?”
“It’s simply mad here, but your father is loving every second. He’s out buying some takeout noodles right now. I don’t know why he doesn’t just call room service. I suppose he wants to feel like a local. What do you recommend we do next?”
“Have you been in their Metro?” Clémence asked. “There are professional people pushers to push you on certain trains during rush hour. Imagine, getting crammed like sardines.”
“It’s not that much different from Paris,” her mother said. “We haven’t taken the Tokyo Metro yet. We take taxis everywhere. Otherwise, we’d get completely lost! Oh, the store opening was incredible. People lined up around the block, and the tea salon was booked for a month in advance.”
“Well, I don’t want to keep you from your bath. Enjoy yourself, and don’t forget Miffy. Magda comes on Wednesdays at two p.m. to clean, and we don’t give her a key, so you’ll have to be home at that time to let her in. You’re going to the patisserie later?”
“Yes, I’ll check in and introduce myself in case any of the staff has forgotten me.”
“How can they? You’re unforgettable. Well, call me if you get in any trouble.”
Clémence soaked in the bath for a good half hour. In no time, the water was gray with soapsuds and her own filth. She had to draw another short bath to feel completely clean.
Even though she was home, she still hadn’t made it official yet. There were friends and relatives scattered around the country whom she would have to reconnect with soon. There was also the staff at the bakery to integrate back into. She was officially the boss, but she wasn’t the type to do the bossing around. There were already two managers for that. She was planning on being a regular in the back kitchen, where she’d whip up new desserts with her team.
Then there was her life to figure out, the direction she should take with her art. She’d done some charcoal sketches here and there during her travels, but she hadn’t painted at all.
And she didn’t even want to get started on her love life, which was nonexistent. There was a handsome Spanish fellow who had traveled with her and her friends for a couple of weeks, but long story short, he left as quickly as he had appeared.
She’d left home at twenty-six, and she was twenty-eight now. She’d grown up after all that she’d seen and done, but there was still a lot of growing up to do.
After soaking for another half an hour, she felt a lot more refreshed. She combed out her black bob and put on skinny jeans, a silk lavender top, and penny loafers, which instantly transformed her into looking the part of a chic young bourgeoise. It was amazing what a good scrubbing and some nice clothes could do for a woman—or anybody for that matter.
Clémence spritzed on her favorite Chanel perfume, and she was on her way. It was almost 4:00 p.m. She would take her mother’s advice about not napping. Plus she couldn’t wait to visit Damour. She was craving a good French macaron, something she’d been deprived of except when her family brought some for her when they visited her on various occasions in different parts of the world. A good chocolate macaron could make her day.
