The Margot Affair by Sanae Lemoine

Author:Sanae Lemoine [Lemoine, Sanaë]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2020-06-16T00:00:00+00:00

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The following Monday, Brigitte greeted me with a clafoutis. It was five thirty and I had come directly from the lycée. Anouk had begun nightly rehearsals for her next play, so there was no need to mention my whereabouts. Brigitte opened the door and kissed me on both cheeks. The scent of butter and stewed fruit wafted through the apartment, and I complimented her, inquiring after the origin of this intoxicating smell. She smiled, seeming pleased with herself, and led me to the kitchen.

The clafoutis sat on the table, the plate hot from the oven. Caramelized slices of pear hid beneath the custard, and the top was sprinkled with shards of toasted almonds. She scooped a portion into a bowl and placed it in front of me. Steam clouded the underside of my spoon. She started speaking almost immediately, as if we had known each other for years.

The other day she had thought of me. She was cleaning her living room and came across a book she’d read many years ago, Bonjour Tristesse. Did I know it?

Yes, Françoise Sagan. It was a classic, but I hadn’t read it.

The book was a sensation when it came out, Brigitte explained. Sagan was only eighteen. Of course, it wasn’t a perfect book, not quite a masterpiece, but it had a daring intensity. Sagan described exactly what it was like to be that age. She couldn’t have written it at a later age. Her story was authentic, there was nothing artificial about it.

Brigitte paused to take a breath. She served herself a bowl of clafoutis.

It was one of the first books I read when I got to Paris. I was just a year older than you.

Sagan made an impression on you, I said.

She nodded. The narrator, Cécile, has just finished her last year of high school. She’s seventeen and has failed the Bac. She’s been living with her father for two years. The novel takes place during the summer, as they vacation on the Mediterranean.

Cécile’s life was so different from my own, Brigitte continued. It was a life of privilege, drinking, hours spent in the sun, but at the time of reading the novel, I felt I could relate to her story. Maybe it was the way she wrote about cruelty, youth, and the passage of time. Like her, I thought I understood grown-ups and their games—I looked at them from above—and yet I was often disappointed. Once their games had played out, I inevitably found myself discarded, not having anticipated how my actions could have unpredictable consequences.

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