Searching For Tina Turner Part 12

At the end of an empty, narrow street that seems to have been ignored by scattered tourists, the sound of sizzling meat and the nutty scent of b.u.t.ter just turning brown beckons them: a tiny restaurant, Chez Philippe.

"This is it!" Cheryl shouts. "This is the restaurant in the guide."

A menu in French and English is taped on the open door. Lena takes pictures while Cheryl scours the two pages. A smiling man with a menu in each hand rushes to the door.

"Bonjour, mesdames. Lunch for two or four?"

Cheryl holds up two fingers. "But, how did you know we speak English?"

"I'd like to tell you it's your shoes or clothes, cherie, because they are tres chic. tres chic." The man looks into Cheryl's eyes. "But I heard you talking. And women as beautiful as you are hard to ignore."

"Your English is perfect." Cheryl returns his straightforward look.

"I'm from Upstate New York. I'm Philip-Philippe." He exaggerates the French p.r.o.nunciation-Phil-leep-and c.o.c.ks his head at a table for two in the corner of the nearly full restaurant. "This is my restaurant."

"California." Cheryl extends her hand. "The land of suns.h.i.+ne and loose women."

Lena slaps Cheryl's arm lightly. "I'm Lena. She's Cheryl."

In between seating new diners and busing dishes, Philip- host, sometime chef and sommelier-returns to their table to chat with the two women as if they are long-lost friends.

"I hardly ever have a chance to talk to anyone from California. We get a lot of people from New York and the East Coast, but not as many from the West Coast." He sips wine from the gla.s.s he leaves on their table. Philip is beefy. His clothes are loose and fas.h.i.+onable in a 1920s movie kind of way that makes him attractive though his face is not. His dark brown hair and blue eyes follow Cheryl's while he summarizes his story: he has lived in Vence for almost ten years, and he used to run the restaurant for profit, but since 9/11 there have been fewer American tourists; although business is getting better because he's had some publicity. Now he runs the restaurant for fun and earns his living as an English language teacher at a nearby elementary school.

"He is so so s.e.xy." Cheryl nudges Lena as Philip guides a couple to a small table near a piano pushed against the back wall. "I love the way he looks right at my mouth when he talks to me." s.e.xy." Cheryl nudges Lena as Philip guides a couple to a small table near a piano pushed against the back wall. "I love the way he looks right at my mouth when he talks to me."

Lena rolls her eyes in a way that has now become habit and reminds her of Camille and even Kendrick whenever they disapproved of something she did or said.

"Join in the fun." Cheryl pulls out a gold compact and checks her lipstick. Cheryl only wears red lipstick, preferring to draw attention to her heart-shaped lips; her skin is smooth save for a noticeable scar above her right eye-a leftover from chicken pox; her cheeks bear the slightest tinge of her natural blush that flares when she's angry or excited.

Cheryl motions to Philip. Leaning into his side, she points to her lunch selection and smiles. "Are you open for dinner, too?"

Philip shoos away the only waiter in the restaurant. "If you like our food, you must come back for dinner. I sing and play the piano, and there's a wonderful cafe around the corner that stays open very late."

Lena shrugs and picks at her sweater and pants. "I'm not sure about the roads at night. And... we're not really dressed for dinner."

"But you both look fabulous, and my house specialty is on the menu tonight- a pork that will melt in your mouth," Philip says, grinning at Cheryl. "You think about it, and let me know."

Cheryl winks. "Perhaps you can invite a friend in honor of our first time in Vence."

"Mais oui!" Philip holds his chin between his thumb and forefinger and closes his eyes as if those actions will help with his answer. "I think I can arrange something."

A very blond and rather hunched-over man in the corner snaps at Philip. "Garcon," the man calls out, confusing the soft French C C with the hard American with the hard American K K. Philip turns toward the women and makes a face behind his stack of menus. "Duty calls."

"He's being friendly," Cheryl says as Philip walks away. "Besides, if the white boy wants to treat us, what have we got to lose?"

"Nnnnnnn..." Lena's tongue rests against the roof of her mouth so that the N N for "no" buzzes in her nose. She shrugs again and tugs at her hair. Open up. Drink coffee here. "Why not?" for "no" buzzes in her nose. She shrugs again and tugs at her hair. Open up. Drink coffee here. "Why not?"

"That's my girl. Remember, we're here to have fun."

"As long as your fun fun doesn't interfere with my plan." doesn't interfere with my plan."

"This is is the plan." the plan."

The Matisse museum in Vence is a short trek from the center of the old city. Lena and Cheryl take the orange trolley across a small bridge to the building where Matisse completed the colorful stained gla.s.s windows for the Chapelle du Rosaire and the Dominican sisters of Vence. As the trolley approaches the front of the whitewashed chapel, the last of a queue of men and women load into two large vans topped with bicycle racks and luggage. Once they're all inside, a hand sticks out and pulls the van door shut, then the van pulls away from the curb.

"I swear those people are black." Cheryl waves at the van frantically. "It would be great to make a connection and really have the chance to party."

"Just 'cause they're black doesn't mean they want to party. Or include us. Or, that they're American. This isn't Oakland." Two days in the south of France and, except for Cheryl and the backs of a couple of tall brothers Lena thought she spotted turning a corner in Vence, these are the only people of color she's seen. Or thinks she's seen.

"You never know."

The inside of the tiny chapel is stark white and simple: Matisse's stained gla.s.s windows and angled, wooden pews.

"Matisse worked on these windows from around 1948 to 1952. He wanted to convey an easing of the spirit. These windows represent the tree of life." A priest clothed in a white, floor-length ca.s.sock holds a finger to his lips as Cheryl describes Matisse's work. Late afternoon light s.h.i.+nes through the windows and casts yellow, aquamarine blue, and bottle green rays onto the floor.

"You know so much!"

"Art is, after all, what I do." Cheryl points out a lesser sketch of the windows as they walk through the hall to the small gift counter. "He's my favorite. I love all of his work. There's more in Nice. That museum's larger."

The hallway walls are lined with draft sketches of different portions of the windows: a flower here, a winding vine there, repeated from one frame to the next to show the artist's thought process and practice.

"I wonder if Philip likes art." Cheryl dismisses the thought with a wave of her hand. "Oh, who cares. We'll have a good time tonight."

Lena concentrates on Matisse's sketches. "It says here that Matisse was searching for one-dimensional movement in this series. What does that mean?"

"You understand exactly what it means, Lena. Don't change the subject, and stop frowning." Cheryl shakes a finger at Lena. "You act like I'm forcing you to pose naked in the town square. You're rusty at the dating game, so just follow my lead."

"If I do that I'll be in bed with a stranger before the night is over."

"And, the problem with that is?" Cheryl pinches Lena's cheek lightly and grins. Postcards line the small gla.s.s-topped counter. Lena selects postcards for Lulu, Bobbie, Camille, Kendrick, and Candace, and steps out onto the terrace of the chapel. Camille would love the art and history here; Kendrick would love the winding roads. From the terrace, old Vence is like a postcard: spires and turrets peak above slanted slate roofs clearly outlined against the darkening sky. Lena points her camera at the city and the valley below; she hopes that she has captured the setting sun's rose-tinted cast, hopes that her tingling stomach will calm down or, better yet, that Philip has changed his mind and never wants to see the two of them again.

The restaurant is crowded. Votive candles are everywhere: on the tables, in the windowsills, and on the beam that rests a foot below the low ceiling. Candlelight intensifies the ebony wood. Each table is covered with a soft beige tablecloth and napkins folded into triangle points.

Philip's face brightens when Cheryl and Lena walk through the door. He sits very erect at a small upright piano in the middle of the room where tables were arranged during lunch. The wide lapels of his old-fas.h.i.+oned tuxedo s.h.i.+ne in the candlelight. He croons a lazy French song, somewhere between ballad and jazz, in a raspy alto.

"Bonsoir, mesdames," he sings, and all heads in the crowded restaurant turn with his. "Mesdames et messieurs, je vous presente mes nouvelles amies de Californie." He introduces Lena and Cheryl as if they are celebrities.

"Oh, the one on the left looks just like Diana Ross." An elderly white woman with a distinctive Texas tw.a.n.g points at Cheryl and asks if they are singers, too. "Would you sing 'Stop, in the Name of Love'? I love that song."

Lena and Cheryl roll their eyes at one another. "And that that is how you can tell is how you can tell they're they're Americans," Lena mutters. "We don't sing-" Americans," Lena mutters. "We don't sing-"

"But if you hum a few bars, I'm sure we'll catch on." Cheryl finishes.

Philip sings his own rendition, a muddled blend of French and English, before he joins Cheryl and Lena at their table near the piano. "Tonight you beautiful ladies will have a salad of baby b.u.t.ter lettuce, pork tenderloin sauteed in a reduced red wine sauce et bien sur, fromage et bien sur, fromage-that's cheese to the two of you-for dessert."

"Just what I love-a man who knows his fromage fromage!" Cheryl slaps Lena's arm for emphasis. "And soon you will, too."

Two hours later, a dark-haired, puffy-eared man enters the restaurant just as the waiter brings a platter of hard and runny cheeses to the table. The man scans the restaurant briefly and heads for the piano. Philip motions to the man to lean down and whispers in his ear before they both turn their heads to look at Lena and Cheryl.

"I think that's your date." Cheryl tips her head in Philip's direction.

"Don't call it a date, don't call it a date. I'm not ready for a date." Lena glances toward Philip's friend. The man is a parody of an absent-minded professor. His short, very ragged beard is striped with gray, and his gla.s.ses slip down his nose so that, in the short time that Lena has to inspect him before he comes to the table, he keeps adjusting them with both hands.

Philip rises from the piano, the professorial-looking man close behind him, and pulls up another chair to Lena and Cheryl's table. He introduces his friend with a flourish as if he were a celebrity, and Lena figures that this, along with his penchant for vintage clothing, is simply Philip's style. "Je vous presente mon ami, Jean-Pierre Dusquesne."

"Enchante, mesdames." Jean-Pierre lowers his upper body in a feeble bow. His voice is deep and rich like a ba.s.soon. He scoots his chair next to Lena, picks up her knife, and helps himself to a slice of cheese. "Philippe"-he uses the French p.r.o.nunciation-"tells me that you ladies are here to enjoy the sights of the south of France, and I am available to help if you need me."

Lena hides her amus.e.m.e.nt behind one of the crisp linen napkins Philip has placed on the table. Jean-Pierre's accent is charming and almost s.e.xy, and, she thinks, if she were to close her eyes this would not be the body or face she would attach to that voice.

Jean-Pierre grazes Lena's hand with his, and she gently moves it away. "And how do you know Philip?"

Without looking at one another, Jean-Pierre and Philip crumple in laughter at the same time. They complete each other's sentences, like only old friends can do, and tell Lena and Cheryl how they first met when Philip came to Vence thinking that he would sweep the French off their feet with his restaurant.

Jean-Pierre leans in to Lena so close she can smell the tobacco on his breath. "He thought we French would permit a foreigner to-comment dit-on?... how do you say in English?-come in and take over our specialty? Non? Non?"

Philip picks up the story. "Jean-Pierre came to my rescue. He was my first chef and my teacher. He helped me improve my French, my cooking, and become a part of the community. Et voila! Et voila!" He slaps Jean-Pierre hard on the back. "I couldn't have done it without him."

"Do you still cook, Jean-Pierre?" Lena scoots her chair to the left and away from Jean-Pierre.

"Ah, cherie, every Frenchman cooks when inspired." Jean-Pierre takes Lena's hand, turns it over and traces the lines of her palm. "I would cook for you anytime, anywhere."

Without a thought to politeness or misinterpretation, Lena yanks her hand away from the Frenchman's and folds her arms across her chest. "I'm sure you would, but we have a plan and we're pretty much going to stick to it." She waits for her friend to come to her aid, but Cheryl turns to Philip and squeezes his arm, which Lena takes as a sign of her plan.

"Mais non, cherie, this is France." Jean-Pierre licks his lower lip in a way that looks like it would be better suited to a p.o.r.no film. "And there is no better way to experience our lovely country than with a French man."

"Okay! Time to go. It's a long way back to Nice." Lena taps her fingers on the table like Bobbie tapped hers against the telephone. "Philip, thank you so much for the lovely dinner. Can you have the waiter bring the bill?"

"No, no, no. Non. You're my guests. But must you leave so early? The night, as they say, is still young."

Cheryl squints at Lena until the tiny knot between her eyebrows is more than a suggestion to her friend; it is an order. "And there's the cafe Philip mentioned." Her voice is firm, her tone a teacher's scolding a naughty child. She clinks her gla.s.s against Philip's and sips until the gla.s.s is nearly empty. Their bodies relax into each other's with every additional sip: the more they drink, the closer they sit. The more they touch, the more Jean-Pierre's eyes insist he and Lena should be doing the same.

"And, though there is not much nightlife, perhaps you can stay the night here in our lovely Vence, eh?" Jean-Pierre's eyebrows angle and wrinkle his forehead. "Perhaps I can make a little dessert for you? Dessert," he says, licking his lips again, "is my specialty." He stretches his arm, its direction aimed for Lena's shoulder.

"I take that to mean that you're still a chef?" Lena glowers at Jean-Pierre, uninterested in him or in watching Cheryl play footsy with Philip, the pseudo Frenchman. The last time they went out together, just before Cheryl's first marriage, Cheryl decided to spend the night with a football player they'd met in a hotel lounge after a college game, and Lena had to find her way home because Cheryl drove. Lucky for Cheryl, the player wasn't a maniac. He ended up being her first husband, and then he turned into a maniac.

"Your eyes, they are very exotic." Jean-Pierre leans in closer for a better look at Lena's light brown eyes and brushes Lena's hair away from her ear. "You are like... Tina Turner. You American black women are so beautiful." As soon as he presses his hand on Lena's knee she slaps it away and jumps from her chair. "Thank you, Philip, Jean-Pierre, but I'm outta here."

Jean-Pierre motions to Philip. The two men leave the table and step into the kitchen. Through the open door, both Cheryl and Lena watch them; their hands fly through the air, punctuating their rapid French.

"What is the matter with you?" Cheryl pouts. "Look at them. I'm sure they're talking about you. You're rude."

"Good. Maybe he's getting my message. Give me the car keys."

"Jean-Pierre is all talk. You have to learn to ignore men like that. The more you resist, the more they pursue."

"He's a little talk and a lot of pawing, Cheryl. I want to go back to Nice." Lena holds her hand out. Cheryl shakes her bag and the keys to the rental car clink. If they were in the States, Lena would have s.n.a.t.c.hed the keys from Cheryl's bag and let her find her own way back.

"What if I ask Philip to tell Jean-Pierre to get lost? We'll have a nightcap and then head back to Nice. Just do it for me."

Lena stands by the table, grateful that the restaurant is now empty. The night Randall gave her the yellow diamond flashes in her head-a different situation, but the plea is the same. While she waits for Cheryl to come to her senses, the voices of the two men discreetly arguing are still the loudest sound in the room. It is no surprise to either of the women when Jean-Pierre huffs out of the kitchen and heads straight to the front door without saying goodbye.

"Please, please, please, pay my impetuous friend no mind," Philip says, returning to the table. His face is half smile, half know-it-all. "He has another engagement. Let me make it up to you. I invite you, mes amies, mes amies, to my house for a pet.i.te nightcap before you head back to Nice." to my house for a pet.i.te nightcap before you head back to Nice."

"I'd love to see a real French home. Well," Cheryl says looking at Philip, "an almost-real French home."

If they were in Oakland, Lena would have fussed at Cheryl and perhaps put distance between the two of them. At home she would still be married. No, at home and in France she is less than one hundred twenty days from being truly divorced. This anger comes from a place she has had enough of: fear.

A fake smile freezes on Cheryl's face while she whispers in Lena's ear so close that only the two of them know what is being said. "What is the matter with you? We are not nineteen, and you cannot be mad at me for doing something you think is wrong. Get it together, Lena. This is the single life. Enjoy."

She shouldn't care what Cheryl does or who she does it with. "I know." Lena stands, arms limp at her sides, eyes blink rapidly to keep back tears, and considers the question she has not thought of before: is this what being single again is going to be like? Backward instead of forward when she needs to move ahead. Here, she guesses, her options are the same: to leave or stay; but she would never forgive herself if something happened to her friend. Fifteen minutes later they arrive at the door of a small building outside the walled city.

"Permit me to give you a tour of my apartment." Philip uses French p.r.o.nunciation: ah-par-tuh-MAWN ah-par-tuh-MAWN. "Small by U.S. standards, but good-sized for this part of the world. Non? Non?" The place is barely half the size of his restaurant; the kitchen is narrow and neat, with nothing on the single stone counter except a speckled canister, two espresso cups, and a bouquet of yellow daisies. An orderly stack of French, American, and Spanish cookbooks sits atop the small refrigerator. Philip opens the door to his bedroom. "This, as you can see, is the bedroom." He tickles Cheryl, presses his leg into her thigh, his lips to her lips. When he pulls away his lips are tinged with Cheryl's red lipstick.

"Make yourself comfortable, Lena." Cheryl giggles. "I'm going to visit with Philip for a while."

"f.u.c.k on your own time, please. Like you said, we are not not teenagers." teenagers."

"The French are so much more civilized about this kind of thing."

Lena cuts her eyes, hoping that her friend will understand that she is serious. "He's not French." Isn't this like being with Randall? Lena muses as she catches a glimpse of a neatly made bed with a white duvet before Philip closes the door behind them. Following somebody else's agenda instead of her own?

Moving through the apartment, Lena peeks into the bathroom. A pitcher on the bathroom counter is heavy with sprigs of dried lavender. Lavender-scented candles edge the basin. Two thin towels hang over a small heating rack beside the sink and, on the shelf beneath it, an unmistakable square box of tampons. In the corner, a shelf in the gla.s.s-enclosed shower holds two bottles of shampoo and a shower cap. Tampons, shower cap, the abundance of lavender: Lena figures Philip is cheating on his wife or a woman who spends a lot of time in this ah-par-tuh-mawn. ah-par-tuh-mawn. Lena storms back into the kitchen. The thick-planked floors deaden the sound of her shoes. Pulling open cabinets and drawers, Lena searches until she finds a wide-blade knife that, if Philip turns out to be a madman, can protect her and Cheryl. Philip does not seem to be crazy, but, Lena knows, men can get crazy when they're denied a roll in the sack. Lena storms back into the kitchen. The thick-planked floors deaden the sound of her shoes. Pulling open cabinets and drawers, Lena searches until she finds a wide-blade knife that, if Philip turns out to be a madman, can protect her and Cheryl. Philip does not seem to be crazy, but, Lena knows, men can get crazy when they're denied a roll in the sack.

"Cheryl? I'm going." Would Tina ever allow herself to be in such a stupid predicament? "And I suggest you do the same, since it looks like Phil-leep has a better half who may return at any minute."

Chapter 24.

The attendant in navy shorts and a snug boat-necked tee opens the umbrella behind Lena, adjusts it so they are protected from the midday sun, hands them more towels, and sets bottled water and gla.s.ses filled with lemon and cuc.u.mber slices on the small table beside her.

"Just like home." Cheryl drops her tote onto the lounge chair and motions to the people around the pool. "We're the only blacks around this pool."

The hotel pool, shaped like a long kidney bean, is meant more for dipping than swimming laps. Several bare-chested women stand in the shallow end and drip handfuls of cool water on their shoulders. Sun wors.h.i.+ppers recline atop the striped lounge chairs randomly scattered across the marble deck and lawn circling the pool.

"When you're black," Lena reminds her friend in a low voice, "it's just the way it is." Lena adjusts her sungla.s.ses. Through them the pale sapphire sky is clear, and the sunlight is bothersome even with dark lenses. "And, I might add, isn't that bikini a bit risque?"

"There you go again." Cheryl clasps her hands together like she is about to pray, before plopping onto the striped lounge chair. "Do I have to beg your forgiveness for acting like a grown woman?"