Mon amie américaine Read Online Free Page B

I was seven, and it was the first time my parents had let me stay up that late.” You asked me if I would have let my children stay up all night to watch the funeral, and when the answer, “Of course not!” popped out of my mouth, you howled with laughter and called me a “French tight-ass.” You were right: ifit hadn’t been for you, I would have missed that strange moment, suspended in time, that planetary communion.
    Also in Toronto, I can remember an Indian summer a few years later that was especially mild, with a cloudless blue sky. We were having breakfast on a terrace. In the café, a television screen above the bar was playing. It was on mute and tuned to CNN. Suddenly a voice yelled from inside:
Holy shit!
And the sound was turned up full blast. Ten minutes later, you were spelling out that name for me that sounded like
Aladdin
— bin Laden. Your cell phone had lost its signal, as was the case for many devices dependent on a US transmitter, but mine, which used a French number, was still functioning. I was able to reach my office in Paris, and my assistant managed to call your parents at their home and let you speak to them. Thirty minutes later, nothing was working any more. We were cut off from the rest of the world. We felt as if we were in a film in which every image had been slowed down. Reality was distorted. Traffic was moving slowly. Every driver seemed to have succumbed to the same curse: they seemed dazed, their windows open, their radios at top volume. All of themweren’t listening to the same station, but for some strange reason the racket was reassuring. It produced an illusion of everyday normality.
    Like all the New Yorkers, you hurried to rent a car. You left in the afternoon. I remember walking for a long time on sidewalks that were abnormally empty, passing stores that were closed, terraces that were deserted. Everyone was home, with their family. I spent the evening alone in my hotel room, sprawled in front of the television, thinking of my children. You waited in line all night to cross the border.

THIS MORNING CLARA ASKED ME WHY YOU AND I WERE FRIENDS . I told her I couldn’t explain it. But I spent the day asking myself that same question. Why do you, the American, the pragmatist, the businesswoman, the softhearted girl, occupy such a place in my life?
    In no particular order:
    Because you make me laugh, because you move me.
    Because you’re indefatigable.
    Because you always bring me back a souvenir from the countries you go to without me.
    Because you know how to give presents that are unbelievable. I’ll never be without that ivory ball inside a black lacquered box that gives off a vanilla fragrance. I don’t know where you came across it, nor how the idea came to you. You gave it to me “for inspiration,” and for the last fifteenyears I haven’t written a single line without having it next to me.
    Because you never forget a special occasion or a birthday.
    Because you love soul music, like me, and really soft pillows, peonies, hot water bottles, and earrings.
    Because at every film festival we attend together, you find the best Japanese, the best cappuccino, the best bookstore, and because you send updates every year.
    Because you know how to fix my telephone and my computer.
    Because at the bottom of your bag you always have tissues, batteries, candy, Advil, a nail file, a bookmark, and a packet of Tabasco sauce, because you think there’s never enough in a Bloody Mary.
    Because you know how to do card tricks.
    Because you can put on nail polish in the back of a moving car without spilling it.
    Because you have a good sense of direction.
    Because you always read my horoscope when you read yours.
    Because you never wear eye makeup but do put on lipstick, and I do the opposite.
    Because your French is nonexistent, and I love to speak to you in English.
    Because I can tell you everything.

WE’VE NEVER SPENT NEW YEAR’S