One More Go-Round...

MY MOTHER WAS RIGHT

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Tais-toi! Ça suffit!
Ever since I could remember, one or the other of these phrases came out of my parents’ mouths.
I knew they were in French. I couldn’t understand them. I didn’t want to understand them. At fifteen, however, I buckled. Two summers later, with my head crammed full of high school French, my parents sent me to Tours.
Tours. It had to be Tours, as that’s where my Hungarian-born mother had gone when she was sixteen, to complete a pre-med program. That was in 1929.
And in 1931, she’d enrolled at the University of Paris School of Medicine, where she met my father. They married in 1940, and my father took her to Cuba in 1941.
In 1972, she couldn’t request that application fast enough.
Landing at Orly one day in late June, I met her cousin and his wife for the very first time. I’d already met his brother in Toronto, where I’d probably come across the largest group of Hungarians I’d ever encountered in my otherwise Cuban-American life. They even had Hungarian restaurants there.
Otherwise, all I knew about Hungarians was that they had a strange language. A language my mother spoke on the phone from time to time in contorted tones, with otherworldly syllables. Even as a child I had deemed it “the language of the moon.”
Be sure to speak only in French with our relatives, my mother admonished me. What else would I be able to speak with them, I wondered.

And whatever you do, don’t mention the war. And don’t mention the little cousin who had died. Don’t worry, mami, I’d told her.
With all these don’ts under my belt, it’s a wonder I could say anything. In my best French, I gave them a hug.
And they said, “Goûte,” as they plied me with platefuls of pâtes, cornichons, and the best bread I’d ever tasted.
I noticed they always spoke French. I couldn’t resist asking them if they ever spoke Hungarian.
Silence.
They drove me to Tours in their Citroën, of which they were rightfully proud. I’d been so sure the little tinker toy they’d used to get around Paris was going to fall apart under our very eyes. Mercifully, it didn’t.
Taking the Citroën out of the garage, though: that was a big deal. More than anything, I was grateful for the legroom.
I settled in at the Cité Universitaire fast enough; became immersed in my course work; and dreaded the daily dictées. But I did fine, and the professor seemed to be pleased with my progress.
Classes were in the morning, which left me with plenty of time for languorous lunches and the opportunity to meet fellow students. Although I spent time with my fair share of Americans, I also made sure I mingled with the locals.
My mother was right, though I wouldn’t have admitted it to her then if my life depended on it.

Bastille Day was around the corner. My cousin and his wife drove down from Paris in their Citroën to pick me up. All I remember is lying, curled up, sleepily watching fireworks from the back seat of their Citroën. They knew by then I didn’t trust the tinker toy.
However, this time I understood more and more. And I wrote them a letter in French, which they proudly shared with my mother. She’s learned so much, they said.
At the end of the class, I wanted to follow my own course. Several people had all but talked me into joining them in Scotland. I called my parents.
Absolutely not, thundered my father. Ana, get over there and see what that girl’s up to. At age fifty-nine, my mother joined me in her Paris.
And she showed me everything. She took me to the oldest restaurant: Le Procope; and the cheapest, Le Bouillon Chartier, where a waiter taught me how to eat an artichoke.
I insisted on Au Pied De Cochon. We warily trudged our way there one evening.
My mother was not pleased.
So, of course I had to balk at going to the Folies Bergère. Much to her dismay, I insisted on wearing my jeans. How about a nice skirt? No.
After all, I was seventeen. I knew it all.
But my mother knew her Paris. And she kept trying. She wasn’t telling me anything I hadn’t heard all my life. Except that, this time, we were living it. Together.
We saw her very best friend before she embarked on a road trip to Spain with my godparents. I’d learned a long time ago that Paris is very popular with Cubans.
And Cubans are very popular with Parisians.

Her best friend’s husband came back early from the road trip. He’d had enough. Lucky for us: we went all around Montmartre and ate some really good food we could all agree on. And he helped me buy a pastel-hued artist’s proof that still hangs in my bedroom.
I returned from that trip to embark on yet another journey: college. I almost placed out of French. Two courses later, though, I switched to my first love: Latin.
My mother was not pleased.
I did not return to Paris until after she passed away. Scatter her ashes in the Luxembourg Gardens—that’s what she’d like, friends of the family assured me.
As I wasn’t completely sure, I arrived at Charles De Gaulle without the ashes.
However, I visited her cousin’s widow and daughter. By then I knew my mother’s family had had to wear the Star of David on their clothing during the war. My father had been my third cousin’s godfather. He knew his prayers in Latin, she said. I was amazed.
I also spent many wonderful hours reminiscing with my mother’s best friend’s widower. He remembered our Montmartre purchase. We made plans to return. Unfortunately, it never happened.
Within ten days, I switched from watching BBC to LCI. I guess I remembered a thing or two.
My mother was right.

Copyright, 2005 by Georgina Marrero 997 words All rights reserved