Bedis and I walked out of our class at the Sorbonne for the last time. In two days, we would take our final exams.

“Au revoir, evil Madame,” I said to Bedis. “Who will she mock now that the l’Americaine idiote is gone?”

We headed to Le Gymnase café at the corner. I was still clutching my latest dictée, marked with another failing grade.

Bedis had received a nearly perfect score.

“But how do you do it? How on earth do you know these words, Bedis? Épanouissement, ruisseau, bouillonnant…? I’ve never even heard of them.”

“I don’t know those words,” Bedis replied. “I just write them.”

“But if you don’t know the words, how come you get them right?”

“I just sound them out.”

“Huh?”

“You know, with the alphabet.”

“No, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Haven’t you ever learned the French alphabet?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s the same alphabet as in English… A, B, C, D… Of course I know it.”

“Except that it’s French pronunciation and sounds.” She pointed to my paper. “Like here. When you hear the sound ‘O,’ it’s not the letter ‘O,’ but the vowels E-A-U.”

And then, like Helen Keller, I stepped into a new world. There was some absurd logic to this language after all. Suddenly, the possibility of being able to learn it – to speak, read, and write in French—seemed real. I would survive.

For the next two days, I threw myself into the French alphabet. I walked around Paris looking for vowels in every billboard and advertisement. Somehow, it began to make sense that the sound “WHA” could be spelled “OIS,” and that the T of chat and the D of froid were present but stood silently in the background, never to be pronounced. It was like a trick language—and I had just been given the codes.

Soon it was the night before the exam. My time slot was the following afternoon at a testing center near the main Sorbonne office. I was studying in my room when Ronny came to the door. I had been so absorbed in cramming the French alphabet into my head that I’d forgotten to pay the rent. I went to my stash and, in a panic, realized I was short. I had already burned through that month’s allowance.

“Ronny, I promise I’ll get you the rest tomorrow after my exam.”

He made his breathy laugh with a half-smile and nodded. “I see you tomorrow, then.”

Ugh. What was the point of worrying about a French exam when soon I’d be living on the street? I hated to think about money. But I really needed to start earning some.

Since the Christmas party at Jack’s, I’d been contemplating how I might ask him if there was any work available. I knew that my biggest obstacle was speaking French, and in my head, I’d been practicing what I might say to him. I was terrified at the idea, but now it was imperative that I do it. Anyway, what did I have to lose by asking?

I wrote down my strategic phrase and took several deep breaths, then I dialed the number on his business card.

“Hello, Jack?”

It took him a minute to place me, and then he politely asked how I was doing. Finally, I got up the nerve.

“So I was wondering if by chance you have any job openings at your company.”

“Hm, I suppose it’s possible. How is your French?”

It was the question I was waiting for.

“Alors, je pense que je peux vous apprendre quelque chose.” I think I might be able to teach you something.

He laughed. “Okay, well, actually, we are down a person tomorrow. You could cover the phones over lunch break.”

“Great. I’ll do it. Where do I need to go?”

I was immediately ready to blow off my final exam the following day. The possibility of a job seemed much more critical. However, if I didn’t pass the exam, that would be the end of my French classes.

I called Bedis.

“You didn’t at least tell him that you had a test tomorrow?”

“I didn’t want to say no or have him change his mind.”

“After all you studied…it’s a shame. Why don’t you go to the morning test and see if they will let you take it then?”

At 7:45 a.m., I was pleading with the test monitor. In terrible but emotional French.

“S’il vous plaît, s’il vous plaît, c’est pour un job et j’ai besoin l’argent.” Please, please, it’s for a job and I need money.

I took the morning exam. And then I ran to the Metro for the long train ride to a suburb of Paris called Montrouge.

I was expecting a fancy office, something akin to the elegant company apartment overlooking the Seine, but this was a single-story cement building in a sea of 1970s urban sprawl. And it couldn’t have been harder to get to: multiple Metro lines, a long transfer at Châtelet, more trains, and finally a bus.

By 12:30 p.m., I was knocking on a nondescript door. A paper sign Scotch-taped to the window confirmed I was at the right company: Madison Electronics.

“Enfin, elle est là!” I heard the girl shout with irritation as she opened the door.

“Bonjour,” I said, smiling.

“Attends ici.” She turned away. “Jack!”

A group of men in suits walked into the lobby. Jack was in the middle.

“You found it,” he grinned, introducing me to the group as they headed out the door.

“Christine!” Jack bellowed from outside. “Montre-lui ce qu’elle doit faire.” Show her what to do.

Christine pointed to her desk and told me to answer the phone and take a message. She turned to leave.

“Wait! Attends! Qu’est-ce que je dois dire?” Wait! What should I say?

“Madison, bonjour,” she shouted back as she walked out the door.

I was alone. I stood by her desk, afraid to move for fear the phone would ring. But nothing happened. I began to walk slowly down the hallway, peering into the beige, nondescript rooms with metal desks. At the end of the hall were two rooms with scattered boxes and piles of electronics equipment.

Ring-ring-ring.

The phone! Holy shit! I raced to the front desk and grabbed the receiver.

“Bonjour. Err, Madison.”

“Bonjour, Madame. Je vous appelle pour le service après-vente blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…”

“S’il vous plaît, vous pouvez répéter?” Please, can you repeat that? A phrase I knew well.

She started again. “Je cherche le service après-vente blah, blah, blah…”

“Je prends une message.” I take a message. My heart pounded.

She spoke again. “Rappelez Madame Coursières au zéro-quatre-quarante-cinq-soixante-six-soixante-quinze-soixante-seize-soixante-trois…”

My hands trembled. Sweat dripped down my forehead.

“Pouvez-vous répéter?” I whispered.

I tried. I managed to write down the first letter of her name and a few of the digits from her phone number. She hung up.

Ring-ring-ring.

The hell went on for over an hour. Then they returned from lunch.

Jack told Christine to show me around the office, then flew off to Germany.

I quickly learned that I reported to Christine, who wanted someone to boss around and to cover the phones during her two-hour lunches. While the rest of France had no problem turning on the answering machine during lunch hour, the American business acumen in Jack would not allow it. So, despite my complete and total inability to take a decent message, Christine needed me.

“Kathleeeeen!” the sales guys would scream at the erroneous telephone numbers and names. Christine covered it up and attempted to tutor me on counting instead. She also taught me how to use the copy machine and the FAX machine. Having been instructed never to fax a letter without the Madison company logo, Christine was convinced that the logo itself held mystical powers and that the machine would not transmit without it.

I was paid weekly out of her petty cash. At 15 francs per hour, I was less than half the price of a cleaning woman.

I arrived every day just before noon. In the afternoon, I filed papers and made copies. After a couple of weeks, I took some empty boxes and fashioned myself a desk in the paper supply room. In the evenings, I returned home by the many required means of public transportation, but I always exited the Metro at Cité so I could walk across the splendid Pont Neuf—one of the oldest bridges over the Seine. And every day, I was in disbelief that I lived and now worked in Paris.