The Return of Madame Gateau

in praise of the gardienne

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In Paris I didn't wear sweatpants or leggings around the apartment, because at any moment the doorbell might ring, and no self-respecting Parisienne would answer the door in sweatpants or leggings. I would make myself presentable just to take the garbage the three flights down to the garbage room, lest I run into a neighbor or the gardienne.

my son leaving for school through our Paris courtyard

I loved our gardienne, Madame Gateau, whose name was the French word for cake. I never knew her first name; we did not have that kind of relationship. She was probably in her late fifties or early sixties. She had short brown hair. It is difficult to recall her face. She was slender, quiet, pleasant. She had a way about her of a person who was entirely contained. In this way she was very French. I wanted to be a better person in her presence.

Every morning before the residents of the building began opening their shutters and letting in the light, Madame Gateau would go into the courtyard and tend the flowers. She kept them bright in spring and summer. In winter the shrubs and ferns were trimmed and tidy.

When I was expecting a package, I would ring the doorbell at her office in the building’s entryway and she would appear, package in hand. “Bonjour, madame,” I would say.

“Bonjour,” she would reply, smiling kindly and handing me the package.

We never got much past these simple greetings. I was not confident enough in my French, she was not one to bother with English. And besides, the building housed several Embassy families; she had likely grown accustomed to their restraint. Every three years she would change a nameplate in the entryway, as one Embassy family departed and another arrived.

The brevity and courtesy of our interactions pleased me. I appreciated her presence and the attending routines.

the courtyard by night

One day about three weeks into the first Covid lockdown, Madame Gateau disappeared, replaced by a young man who was friendly and quite talkative but who dispatched his duties less lovingly. He brought energy to the building, whereas Madame Gateau had brought calm. He did not seem bothered by Covid, would happily chat away when I entered or left the building, which unnerved me. He wanted to improve his English, he said. I would stand at a distance as he asked me questions. I don’t remember what we talked about. If I recall correctly (which I may not, as those months run together), this was before we knew about masks.

I inquired about Madame Gateau. He did not know. He normally worked at the building next door and was filling in while she was away.

I began to worry. Where had she gone? Was she okay?

Months passed. One morning I heard the spray of water and went to the window and looked down into the courtyard. There she was: Madame Gateau, watering the flowers as if she had never left. I felt at that moment that things were set right—if not in the world, then at least in our small corner of Paris.

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