Amandine Mère et Fille
They say people come to New York City from the rest of the country and all over the world seeking freedom and fortune. The first time I came to visit a relative in the city was twenty years ago and I have returned every year from the quiet of my scholarly existence in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
While I prefer the rustle of leaves on campus to the roar of a large city, I am drawn to the human stage of New York City as a rapt observer of those seekers of freedom and fortune.
Every spring, I rent a room at a private club downtown for two weeks and prior to every Christmas, I spend two weeks at a friend’s apartment in the Village while he visits his mother in the South of France.
This year, the month before Christmas, I befriended two ordinary women with an extraordinary story. Amandine mère and Amandine fille are my friend’s next-door neighboors in the brownstone I have temporarily called home for the last four years.
In the past, I must have come and gone at exactly different times from Amandine fille, who works to support her elderly mother, because we never met until this holiday season. By chance, ten days ago, I stood locking my door with my back to the landing when I heard the door of the next-door apartment open quietly. I turned around, ready to descend the staircase, when my eyes met those of a woman in her forties. Dark blue, those eyes matched her elegant coat with a large brown velvet collar. Politely, I stopped to greet her and introduce myself. “How do you do. I’m Oliver James and I’m your neighbor for two weeks.” “Oh? My name’s Amandine Dubois. How do you do.” She poked her head back in to say, “Je reviens, Maman,” before pulling the door firmly shut and turning the key. For some reason, I just waited on the top stair until she turned around. “So, you are French?” I asked. “Yes, we are,” she replied with reserve. Boldly, I continued, “Have you lived here long?” “We’ve lived in this building for fifteen years.” “Oh, well, you see I’ve been staying in my friend’s apartment every Christmas for four years,” I said, “and I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you before.” “It must be because I used to leave early for work and come home late,” she replied. “This year, my mother’s been ill so I’ve taken a new position with flexible hours.” With feeling, I gushed, “I’m sorry to hear your mother’s taken ill.” We had been standing at the foot of the stairs for a few minutes and Amandine extended her hand toward me. “Well, it was nice meeting you. Goodbye.”
That night, I was home when I heard Amandine arrive next door and say, “Me voilà, Maman.” It was another two days until, just as we had before, Amandine and I found ourselves on the landing at the same time again. I smiled at her and she smiled back. “Bonjour, Madame. Comment allez-vous?” “Je vais bien, merci. Vous parlez donc français?” “Oui, j’ai habité à Paris il y a longtemps.” “Mais je vous en prie,” she said as an afterthought, “appelez-moi Amandine.” “Entendu.” I gestured toward the staircase, “Après vous.” As I followed her down the stairs, I asked, “How is your mother?” Arriving on the ground floor, she stood and furrowed her brow. “I’m coming home early today. I’m worried about her.” “If there’s anything I can do,” I offered, “please let me know.” “Oh, that won’t be necessary but thank you.” And, with that, we parted.
Three days later, I heard an ambulance in the street and some commotion on my floor. Knowing it must be Amandine’s mother, I quietly opened my door ajar and looked out on the landing. Seeing that the paramedics were carrying the old woman down the stairs and that the daughter stood on the threshold of her apartment with her coat on, I opened my door wider and took a few steps. “Amandine, que s’est-il passé?” I asked with palpable concern. She looked at me with sad eyes and explained, “My mother’s had a heart attack. They’re taking her to the hospital and I’m going with her.” “Let me go with you,” I said impulsively. “Or rather I’ll meet you there. Which hospital is it?”
And so in the middle of the night, I hailed a cab and rode to a hospital to be with two women I barely knew. Something compelled me to be there. Was it sympathy for the daughter? An inexplicable attraction? Amandine was not my type of woman and I was not interested in a long-distance relationship. Besides, I may never be in love with a woman other than my late wife. I am not generally given to impulsive behavior but this was New York and the city has a strange effect on me, sometimes, driving me to follow my urges.
I arrived at the hospital and asked for Madame Dubois. I had forgotten that they would question if I was a relative or close friend of the family before giving me any information, and when they did, I did not know what to say at first. “Oh, that’s alright. I’ll be in the waiting room but can someone let the daughter of the patient know I’m here?” After about a quarter of an hour, Amandine arrived in the waiting room and came straight toward me with her hands outstretched. She took my hand in hers and said, “Monsieur, thank you so much for coming. It’s very kind of you.” “Olivier, s’il vous plaît, Amandine. Comment va votre mère?” I inquired with concern. “She’s in the intensive care unit and they will let me know when she’s out of danger.” “Let me bring you a cup of coffee or something else to drink.” “Thank you,” Amandine said with a brave smile, “coffee would be good.”
When I returned bearing coffee, Amandine was deep in thought. Side by side, we sat in silence in the waiting room for half an hour. Amandine seemed to appreciate the silence and I did not want to disturb her. Finally, she turned to me, “I shouldn’t keep you here. You’ve been so kind as to come here, I’m really grateful. But you should go home now.” “Oh, I’d like to stay if you don’t mind. I’d like to make sure you’re okay.”
At two o’clock in the morning, a doctor appeared, looking for Amandine. He explained to the distraught daughter that her mother had slipped into a coma and would need to stay at the hospital. “You might as well go home and rest,” he assured her. “There’s nothing you can accomplish by staying here tonight. I promise we’ll take good care of your mother and notify you immediately if there’s any change in her condition.” “Can I see her, doctor?” she asked with tears in her eyes. I waited while the doctor led Amandine to see her mother again before she would agree to leave.
Early the next morning, I knocked on Amandine’s apartment door. “Come in,” she said as she opened the door. “I’ve just spoken to the doctor on call in the intensive care unit and I’m about to go back. I’m afraid her condition hasn’t changed but I just want to be nearby.” I made her promise she would call me when she was ready to eat lunch, so I could bring her something to eat or take her to the hospital cafeteria.
When we met for lunch in a small bistro two blocks from the hospital, Amandine told me the story of how she and her mother came to live in New York.
“Maman became pregnant with me when she was twenty-five. She had been with my father for two years and was accustomed to his womanizing. The day I was born in the hospital, however, she was shocked to learn from a nurse, who was also a friend, that he was seen in an intimate position with a woman in my mother’s own car that she had bought with her savings. When my father found out that I was born a girl, he seemed to lose what little interest he had in his progeny and he continued to disappear for days at a time, only returning to ask my mother for money. He threatened to kidnap me when she first tried to refuse and so she continued to support him while he bedded other women. One day, she had enough and told him never to come back.
‘What?’ he said, ‘You are telling me what to do?’ And with that, he slapped her hard across the face. This was not the first time he hit her but it was the last. She said nothing, checked the teeth in her mouth to make sure none had broken, and prepared dinner. In the night, once she heard him snore she wore her favorite clothes, threw her papers, best jewelry, and some undergarments in a bag, and slung my diaper bag on her shoulder. She picked me up asleep in my crib and stuck a rubber nipple in my mouth. I was three months old. Always a quiet baby, I did not betray my mother in my innocence. I gazed at her, trusting and silent, and even as she rushed out of the house pressing me against her chest, my mother kissed my brow. So she told me later.
My mother’s parents were modest commerçants and she was their only daughter. Leaving them in the care of her older brother and his wife, she bade them farewell and, against their protestations, took a train with me to Paris in the early morning. From Paris we took another train to Le Havre where we boarded a ship bound for New York. From New York we took a bus to Connecticut where my mother had a pen friend, a young woman her age who had spent a summer with her family in Provence where I was born. My mother had called her friend from New York and we had been invited to stay until my mother found some work.
So we settled quite by chance on Hartford, Connecticut, to make a new home where I grew up until I was five. That year, a Frenchman sent by my father found us and came by our modest apartment one night. He was accompanied by a local South American who spoke English with a heavy accent. The two men demanded fifty thousand dollars from my mother and assured her they would return within three days. I do not remember the visit by these men, as I was only five, but I have a clear memory of the night that followed because my mother took me into her bed, which she only did when I was sick, and I was quite well. She told me to bring all my favorite bears as we were going to have a party. She made some hot cocoa, sat me up against the pillows, and talked to me and the bears. ‘I have some good news to tell you all today,’ she began, ‘and although it means we have to leave our home, we will go on an adventure to the best city in the world. The city’s name is New York and it has, in this season, many Christmas lights. The good news is that there is more work for me in New York and so I can make more money to send you,’ and she turned to me, ‘my dearest daughter, to the best school money can buy.’ My mother did not want me to worry about our sudden departure from Hartford and she kept her promise.
As soon as we arrived in New York, my mother called on friends of her old pen friend, the Orwells, who were looking for a nanny. She introduced us with a new last name, that of Dubois, and told me our name change was part of our big adventure. The Orwells provided room and board for the two of us, and were happy to include me in the family as their children’s playmate because I spoke perfect English and French. With pluck, my mother ignored the two men who had threatened her in Hartford and with good fortune, we never heard from them or from my father again.
For five years, until I was ten, we lived with the Orwells on the Upper East Side. Then, having put enough money aside and met an investor, my mother opened a small café in the Village. She made her own pastries in the back kitchen, waking up at four thirty every day to start the ovens. The crust of the pastries was lined with pâte d’amande, which made them delicious, and my mother named her café Chez Amandine. Her real name was Armande but from then on, she was called Amandine. We lived in a rent-controlled studio above the café and slept in twin beds on either side of the room.
When I turned eighteen and graduated from high school, I told my mother I would not go to college yet but wanted to help her at the café. I also told her I wished to change my name from Béatrice, the blessed one, to Amandine, just like her. There was no one I admired as much as my mother, who had told me the whole truth about our real adventures when I turned twelve. A woman with a mind of steel, she stood up to my father and his goons, and provided safety and joy to me, her only child, at all times. She taught me from an early age to care for my health, budget my money, and value learning. Perhaps what I admire the most in my mother is that she has taught me how to live well by her own example. I have always known the importance of laughter and humor, and how to appreciate fine food and clothing although we could not always afford much of either. At eighteen, I felt like a woman and quite different from many of the girls who graduated with me and went on to college, some of whom remained loyal friends who never fail to write me at Christmas.
Fifteen years ago, when I was thirty-five, we moved to this apartment which is bigger than our studio on Charles Street and five years ago, we closed our café when the rent became unaffordable. Since, I have worked as a nanny until this year, when my mother took ill. I could no longer go early in the morning and return late at night, and leave her all alone all day, you see.” Amandine fell silent. The waitress had cleared our plates and brought the dessert menu. With a little gesture of the hand, I indicated we needed a few minutes.
We looked at our menus and decided to order coffee. “Amandine,” I said once we’d placed our order, “what a beautiful story. I feel privileged that you’ve chosen to share it with me. What made you decide I was worthy of that?” “Well,” she said slowly, “it’s just that although this is such a difficult time for my mother and me, I thought you looked quite alone and I wanted to cheer you up a bit by telling you our story. Did it work?”
“This is quite extraordinary!” I exclaimed. “My daughter who’s twenty-one has just left for Florence in Italy, well, she left last September, I mean, and it’s the first year we will be apart for Christmas. Her mother, you see, died when my daughter was fifteen and so we’ve been quite close—a bit like you and your mother.”
Amandine mère never regained consciousness and a second heart failure left her in a permanent vegetative state. I extended my stay by two weeks and made myself as useful as I could to my neighbors. In her will, drawn years ago, Amandine mère had instructed her daughter to discontinue the life-support system if she was ever to fall into a catatonic state. When Amandine fille told me this, one evening at dinner, her eyes filled with tears.
That night, I went to bed with great sadness and I thought for a long time about the peculiar love that bound those two women together. How, I wondered, would Amandine fille make her way in life at fifty without the mother who had been her closest and kindest friend? Never for one day had they been apart since the daughter was born. I am not sure I have ever heard before such a tale of motherly and daughterly love. “They’ve had a hard life,” I mused, “especially the mother.” Filled with compassion, sorrow, and love for my own daughter and late wife, I felt hot tears on my cheeks and a tight knot in my throat. Like a baby, I wept. At last, a thought gently swept over me like a breath of fresh air. “They are so fortunate to have known a love like this for fifty years,” I thought, “and I will write about it so that love never dies.” And like a baby, I slept.
(Written at Christmas 2009)
