On Wednesday morning at half past seven, the four of them met at the boulangerie one last time. Madame Benali had been waiting for them. She had four small bags lined up on the counter.
— Pour la chance. Pour la dernière fois cette année.
There were croissants. There were also, in each bag, two small almond biscuits — the kind she did not normally sell, the kind she made at home for her son and her grandchildren and now for them.
— Madame, vous êtes trop gentille.
— Je suis exactement assez gentille. Allez, mes enfants.
She did not hug them. She nodded. She watched them walk down the rue des Cinq-Diamants together, four people in a row, towards the metro.
The morning of the final examination passed the way these mornings pass. Listening section: clear voices, careful questions, answers Wei was mostly sure of. Reading section: a longer text this time, but with words she now knew. A form. A short article.
At eleven thirty, the morning section ended. The four of them met in the corridor, the way they had for the first exam, four weeks ago. They were tired. They were less afraid.
— Comment ça va ?
— Ça va. Vraiment.
— Mateo ?
— Triomphe.
— Triomphe ?
— Triomphe garanti, cette fois.
Amara smiled. She did not believe him. But she liked the confidence.
In the afternoon, the writing section, then the speaking. Wei wrote her email. She wrote about her semester in Paris, in eighty-six words, to a friend who did not exist. She described where she had lived, who she had lived with, what she had eaten on Sunday mornings. She described a boulangerie.
Then the speaking. She drew her topic. The topic said:
Décrivez vos projets pour les vacances.
She used the futur proche. She said: tomorrow, I am going to fly to Singapore. I am going to see my parents. I am going to eat the food I have not eaten for two months. I am going to sleep for three days. And then, in September, I am going to come back to Paris. I am going to register for the next French course. I am going to find Madame Benali. I am going to say bonjour.
The instructor wrote something on her paper. She looked up.
— Tu reviens, alors ?
— Oui, Madame.
— Très bien.
Wei walked out of the room. The corridor was full of students saying goodbye to each other, exchanging numbers, taking photographs. Amara was waiting for her. So was Yuki. So was Mateo, who was — for once — quiet.
— On va à la boulangerie ?
— On y va.
They walked back to the rue des Cinq-Diamants the long way, through small streets they had come to know. It was four in the afternoon. The June light was soft and yellow. None of them was in a hurry.
At the boulangerie, Madame Benali was waiting. Of course she was. She made them coffee — not the bad coffee from the espresso machine she sometimes made tourists, but the proper coffee from the small Italian pot she kept in the back. They sat at the wooden table in the arrière-boutique.
Yuki was flying to Tokyo the next morning. Mateo had an audition in Brussels on Monday. Amara had been offered a job at a small restaurant in Montmartre, and would be staying. Wei was flying home to Singapore on Saturday.
They did not say much. They did not need to.
After half an hour, Madame Benali stood up. She refilled Wei's cup. She put her hand, briefly, on Wei's shoulder.
— Wei. Quand tu reviens, je serai là.
— Merci, Madame.
— Je t'en prie, Wei. À bientôt.
Wei walked up the four flights of stairs to her apartment for the last time. She started packing slowly. The light through the window was the same light that had been there on the first morning, eight weeks ago. The same and not the same.
On her desk, there was a notebook. The first page said: Je m'appelle Wei. The last page, written that morning, said: J'habite au-dessus d'une boulangerie, dans le treizième arrondissement de Paris, avec trois amis. On est arrivés tous les quatre le même jour. C'est une coïncidence. Mais c'est aussi une famille.
She closed the notebook. She put it carefully into her suitcase.
She would be back.
FIN
Quatre à Paris
Lundi 11 mai – mercredi 17 juin