Searching for Tina Turner - By Jacqueline E. Luckett Page 0,71
thrives at night. Tourists meander through the high-end shopping district, restaurants are filled inside and out, and late-evening diners sip dark coffee from small cups, red wine from oversized glasses, and chatter at each other. Filmy smoke drifts everywhere; every man and woman seems to hold a cigarette in his or her hand, elbows on tables, the white stick poised inches from their lips while they appear to ponder the next drag.
“For the life of me I can’t understand why everyone smokes,” Lena says. “I suppose that’s who they are, the French. I mean, look at these women.” Lena sweeps her hands in front of her. They are surrounded by tables full of women with hair turned up into flips or smoothed into pageboys, scarves tied carefully around their shoulders, expensive leather handbags, pedicured toes, flat hips and stomachs under skintight dresses, high heels when the rough edges of the cobblestone streets demand something more practical. “French women pay so much attention to everything else. Strange they don’t care about their health.”
“They’re having fun. We’re having fun. No preaching, no judging, just fun. Especially seeing as you fit right in.” Cheryl cackles.
“Touché!” Lena beams, glad that she sports her not quite so high heels, which make her feel, more than her skin color, that she fits in. She perks her head at the soft background music. Tina sings “What’s Love Got to Do with It” on the overhead speakers.
“There’s your sign,” Cheryl says.
“I love it.” Lena picks up her camera and focuses on Cheryl and the gold and green awning above her. Click. “It means I’m on the right track.”
“So the concert is”—Cheryl counts on her fingers—“eighteen days from now. That means we have time for a little exploring. The light in the south of France is extraordinary. Good for photographs. Lots of artists—Matisse, Chagall, and Picasso—came here to paint. If I visit those museums, I can write off part of our trip. The train goes to Cannes and St. Tropez. And the nightlife in Monte Carlo—”
“Wait.” Lena stretches out the palm of her hand like a stop sign in front of Cheryl’s face. “You’re going too fast for me. Plus, I want to check out Villefranche, where Tina lives. Let’s look at our options, then decide.”
“Expand your horizons. We need… diversion.” Cheryl inclines her head in the direction of a dark-haired man on the opposite side of the café’s terrace. Diversion for Cheryl, Lena recalls, means more than museums, means more than scouring the streets for historical sites, for the perfect cup of coffee or unusual architectural details. “These Frenchmen look very good, Lena. And who knows what French there is to learn from chatting.”
“Men aren’t what this trip is about.”
“I know that, but let me remind you, like that man’s eyes over there, you’re not dead. It does not hurt to look, Lena Harrison. Should I go over there and introduce myself?” Cheryl scoots her chair back and mocks the panic that stiffens Lena’s face. The couple next to them ogles. Their French is cacophony of guttural noises and nasal blends.
“They’ve probably never seen American blacks before, except on TV. They’re probably saying something racist, about ugly Americans or worse—ugly black folks.”
“Don’t think racism, Cheryl, we get enough of that at home. Maybe they’re staring because we’re beautiful; maybe they’re staring because you’re talking so loud.”
“You know the French are very racist,” Cheryl whispers.
“The world is racist, but I’m not going to let it keep me from having a good time.” Lena opens her handbag and pulls out a pen and the little orange notebook filled with things she wants to do, places she wants to see: Matisse and Chagall museums, the early morning markets, a jazz concert in the park atop Cimiez, and a cooking class. On the inside cover she draws a series of horizontal and vertical lines. The lines turn into boxes and she labels them with numbers.
Cheryl reaches over and shuts Lena’s handmade calendar. “All we need to know is that Tina’s concert takes place in eighteen days. We have our tickets. We’ll worry about how to get there when the time comes. Otherwise, no planning.”
Lena grins, glad that Cheryl is with her, despite her flamboyance, despite her disorganization and toss-it-to-the-wind outlook.
Cheryl motions to the waiter. “Gauloises, s’il vous plaît.”
“Since when do you speak French?” Secondhand smoke catches in Lena’s throat.
“Please, everybody knows ‘please.’ Gauloises are cigarettes.”
When the waiter returns, he brings a pack of unidentifiable cigarettes and tells Cheryl that Gauloises are hard