It wasn’t easy for me to talk to my mom. She was a reserved and cool person, someone who didn’t feel comfortable with physical displays of love or discussions about feelings. I was always more needy, and more verbal, than made her comfortable. When I was in my twenties, I would challenge her way of thinking, more out of a compulsion to get her to react to me than to cause a fight. I needed demonstrations of love from her, to hear what she felt, but she couldn’t give me that.
When I met Nikolai, she didn’t offer an opinion about him. When I asked what she thought, she said he seemed “very nice” and left it at that. Maybe she didn’t want to interfere in my choice, or maybe she knew that I was so headstrong that I would do whatever I wanted no matter what she said, which was probably true. But it was more likely that Nikolai was just too alien. With his talk of philosophy and politics, he was exotic to my family. That’s what had attracted me. And so my mom stayed out of it. Now, on this visit to France, she was there, ready to participate in my renewal ceremony. She wanted me to be happy.
Jett met us at Les Hospitaliers. She stood by the table of food in her loose black harem pants and a loose black blouse, camera in hand, ready to take pictures.
“I can’t understand for the life of me why someone would want to get married once, let alone do the whole thing over again,” she said. Then, glancing at Nikolai, “What the hell happened to him?”
I shot a look at my husband. He had been up all night and was exhausted, the bags under his eyes giving him the look of a French bulldog. His hair stood up on end, and he had his black CIA bag, pills inside, thrown over his shoulder.
“He’s not doing much better, eh?” Jett noted, looking him up and down.
“Actually, he is better,” I said, feeling my defenses rise. I was protective of him, especially now, when we were about to start this new phase of our marriage. “He’s just feeling a little nervous about the ceremony.”
“Well, good thing his parents are here,” she said, glancing at Yana and Ivan. “They can take the load off your shoulders for a while.”
I glanced at Nikolai, standing with Yana and Ivan. It was true—their presence was a big help. Nikolai really relaxed only around them. They looked happy to be at the ceremony, happy that Nikolai and I were trying to make our marriage work. Yana and Ivan had cleaned up after Nikolai’s first marriage failed. Nobody wanted to avoid another divorce more than Nikolai’s parents. Except, of course, me.
The priestess, dressed in a long white robe, met us at the back of the room, her face flushed from the heat. She embraced me and then tried to hug Nikolai, who leaned to the side, giving her a quick air hug before stepping out of her reach. He hated to be touched, especially by people he didn’t know. The priestess led us to the far end of the hall, where there was a small pulpit surrounded by rows of metal folding chairs.
“We have about fifteen minutes,” she said, placing a Bible on a lectern. “Should we run through everything once before we begin?”
“We might need to read these over a few times,” I said, giving her the vows. I had waited for Nikolai to give me the vows he’d written for me, but when I didn’t have them earlier that morning, I’d written them myself. So both sets of vows—his and mine—were…well, mine. I’d taken care to make sure his vows to me were loving and tender and hopeful. I’d made sure to promise myself the world.
The priestess stood behind the pulpit welcoming the small gathering of family and friends. The creamy stone, pale and smooth as butter, gave the space a warm glow. Alex and Nico were there, dressed in pretty clothes, their hair combed. My mom and stepfather were there; my brother and his wife were there. Lulu and Lord were there. Jett was there. Friends from New York were there. Nikolai’s parents were there. The people closest to us had come to show their love and support. This was the big day.
The priestess began. “Friends and family have gathered here today from the United States and Bulgaria and England and, of course, France to celebrate the union of Danielle and Nikolai.” She looked around, as if to confirm that everyone was in fact there, and then she went on. “This is a special day. This couple has made a decision to continue on their path together, to strengthen their commitment, before all of you and before God.”
I could feel Nikolai stiffen at my side. He glanced at me: Hadn’t we said no “God” in the ceremony?
The priestess introduced Nikolai’s mother and my mother, who were going to read a Buddhist text together. They walked to the front of the room, near a window. Between them the rows of vines swelled and receded over an undulating hill. As they read, I glanced at Nikolai. He was clenching and unclenching his left hand, making a fist and releasing. I bit my lip, wary. He was covered with sweat, his shirt soaked with it. He was going to faint or, worse, have another panic attack, this one more public and more disastrous than the others
“And now Danielle and Nikolai will repeat their vows.”
Anticipation welled up in my chest. This was it. Our moment. The first day of the rest of our marriage. Suddenly a thick band of afternoon light fell over the room, giving me the feeling that the words we were about to say were blessed by all the universe—God in heaven, the sun in the sky, our families and friends, the grapes in the fields. The priestess led me through my vows, and I repeated them, word for word, looking at Nikolai. I promise to love and honor and cherish.
I tried to make eye contact with Nikolai, so that he knew I was saying those words to him, but he wasn’t looking at me. His gaze was fixed at some point beyond the priestess, a hard, determined look, as if his survival depended upon keeping his eyes trained upon that wall. He was so uncomfortable that I wanted to reach out and wrap my arms around him and comfort him. Maybe this whole remarriage thing was too much for him. Maybe I should have just left everything alone.
The priestess glanced at me, raised an eyebrow, as if to say, I’m just going to keep going as if everything is normal, okay?
On cue I plucked the gold band from the tray and slid it onto Nikolai’s finger. The priestess smiled, turned to Nikolai, and began to lead him through the vows.
“ ‘I, Nikolai,’ ” she said.
Nikolai looked at the wall. He hadn’t heard her.
“ ‘I, Nikolai,’ ” she said again.
Nikolai mumbled something—his name, maybe—his voice so low that I, standing right at his side, couldn’t hear him.
The priestess furrowed her brow. “ ‘Do solemnly swear.’ ”
Nikolai swallowed, hard, and cleared his throat. He wasn’t able to actually say the vow.
“A little louder, please,” the priestess whispered, and Nikolai mumbled something, a few weak sounds, and then she went on to the next line. “ ‘To love and honor this woman.’ ”
Nikolai swallowed. He cleared his throat, then cleared it again. “Umm,” he said, his voice no louder than before. He coughed and took a deep breath and cleared his throat. He mumbled a few words.
She chuckled. “Let’s try again,” she said. “ ‘I, Nikolai, do solemnly swear to love and honor this woman.’ ”
Nikolai stared at her as if she’d asked him to turn water into wine.
The priestess’s pale skin flushed the slightest shade of pink, the same pale, effervescent rose as the sparkling wine waiting for us in the tasting room. She smiled stiffly at Nikolai and, leaning close to him, whispered, “You need to look at her.” She placed her hands on Nikolai’s shoulders and turned him forty-five degrees, toward me.
The priestess was doing the best she could to keep the ceremony going. But I, standing at my husband’s side, felt as if these moments would stretch out forever. He was mumbling. He could hardly speak. He made an incomprehensible jumble of sounds, but those sounds were not vows. I glanced over my shoulder at my mother, who looked utterly confused, as if she were trying to decipher a foreign language. I felt an overwhelming urge to step in front of Nikolai and say his vows for him.
“I…umm, swear to…ummmm…”
Our eyes m
et. They were the same wide-set green eyes of the man with whom I’d fallen in love. They had the same color and the same shape, but they were utterly alien. I understood suddenly that I was looking into the eyes of a stranger. We had, over the course of our years together, become different people. I didn’t know this man anymore. I didn’t want to remarry him. In one glance everything—the delicate castle of cards I’d built, all the fairy tales I’d told myself—collapsed.
The priestess shot an embarrassed glance at me but, seeing my alarm, took pity and decided to draw the whole uncomfortable thing to a conclusion. With a deep sigh, she skipped to the blessing and ended the ceremony.
In the tasting room, everyone took hold of flutes of Boreale and clinked glasses. My mother smiled, and my friends raised their glasses. Jett came to my side and put an arm around my shoulders. “Well, my dear,” she said, sipping her wine, “it seems that you’ve just married yourself.”
Leaving our guests to celebrate, I headed out of the room, past the tables loaded with food and flowers, past the priestess unbuttoning her white robe, past Nikolai and his parents, to the bathroom, where I locked the door. I hadn’t known until the lock clicked that I was on the verge of tears. But as soon as I was safely inside, I slid onto my heels and buried my head in my hands. The tears came all at once, hard and violent. All the tears that I hadn’t cried for eight years, all the sadness I’d tried to wish away, all the disappointment—all of this rushed upon me as I cried over my beautiful, broken dream.
Le Mistral
The woman warrior returns!” Jett called as I stepped through the gate. “Come, have a celebratory drink.”
I’d been in the States for three weeks, promoting my novel. I’d returned to Aubais that afternoon, and after spending a few hours with the kids, I drove to Jett’s place. She lived in a maison de village, a two-story house with windows opening onto a flower-filled courtyard. It was April. Honeysuckle climbed a trellis and daffodils bloomed in clay pots. It was six o’clock, time for an aperitif. Jett sat in a chair by a fountain. She pushed another chair in my direction.
“Miss our local nectar?” Jett asked, pouring me a glass of wine.
“More than you might imagine,” I said, taking a long sip of rosé. I was exhausted. I’d hit nineteen cities in three weeks, had given readings in bookstores, interviews on television and radio. I’d been on so many flights and slept in so many different beds that I hardly knew where I was from one day to the next. We had a babysitter at the house to assist while I was away, but I’d asked Jett to drop by as well, to check in on things.
“I stopped by to make sure the place hadn’t burned down.”
“Well, it might as well have. It’s a disaster,” I said. “Laundry everywhere.”
“Typical man,” Jett said, sipping her wine. “They’re like children. Thank goodness I do not have that headache. Actually, children I wouldn’t mind. Children develop.”
I laughed and drank, happy to be with Jett. She didn’t seem to have any inhibitions. She did whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted to do it. There were times that I wished I could be more like her. Jett had been urging me for many months to take a lover, even offering the use of her house for the purpose. I had never taken her up on the offer. But in New York I’d met a man I will call Jack at a book event, and we spent a night out on the town together. This guy was a big sexy mess, a writer and musician (yes, I have a type) with a mop of curly blond hair, huge blue eyes, and cherubic lips. Although I didn’t actually have sex with Jack, I was unfaithful to my husband in every real sense of the word. I had willingly—joyfully, in fact—picked up a man in New York City.
“About bloody time!” she said when I’d finished telling her about Jack. “I’m only surprised this didn’t happen sooner.”
“Really?” I said, realizing I hadn’t put up such a good front after all. “You thought it would happen?”
“Oh, my dear,” she said, touching my knee. “Nikolai has had this coming for ages. He has a beautiful wife and does nothing at all to take care of her sexually. He doesn’t make an effort.” Jett leaned back in her chair. “I think it’s fantastic, simply wonderful, that you let your hair down on your book tour. Lord knows every male writer who’s been on a book tour has had an affair.”
“Well, I didn’t actually have an affair,” I said, just to clarify.
“Wait, wait. I’m confused: Did you sleep with him?”
“It didn’t actually get that far,” I said. “Although I’m sure it would have if we’d had the chance.”
“Oh, my,” Jett said, looking stricken. “What a disappointment. Well, will you see him again?”
“We’re on different continents,” I said, taking a final sip of my wine. “Not very practical.”
“Being practical,” Jett said, her black eyes meeting mine, “is your biggest flaw.”
“Actually, I think I should just tell Nikolai about what happened,” I said.
“What?” Jett shrieked, nearly spitting out wine. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Nothing else has worked for us,” I said. “Moving here didn’t change things, the renewal ceremony didn’t change things, being financially secure hasn’t changed things. A beautiful house hasn’t changed things. Maybe this will shake things up. He might start to value me a little if he thought he could lose me.”
“Darling, listen,” Jett said, taking my hand. “This is not the kind of thing you should disclose to your husband.” She looked me in the eye. “Believe me, I applaud you. It was high time you did something for yourself. I would even say you should have gone further and that you should try to stay in touch with this fellow. Every Frenchwoman worth her salt has a lover or two. But this idea that you have to be transparent is only going to make things worse. Besides, how do you know he’s not doing the same?”
The village church bells chimed. It was seven o’clock. Time for Alex and Nico to have dinner. Usually the kids called when I was away, but my phone had been silent. I dug in my bag, looking for my phone, but it wasn’t there. I checked my jacket. It wasn’t there either. It was most likely in the car, on the passenger seat, where I sometimes threw it when I climbed in. I stood, grabbed my bag and kissed Jett good-bye before heading out to the car.
—
“WHAT THE FUCK is this?” Nikolai said, pushing my phone in my face.
I’d just walked through the gate, returning from Jett’s place.
“What. The. Fuck. Is. This?” he said again.
After the Red Suitcase Incident, I’d suspected that he snooped around on my phone when he had the chance, just as I suspected he went into my computer. Up until recently I had done nothing that could have raised his suspicions, and yet I felt that he was watching me, sifting through my messages and my browsing history and my phone log and my text messages. I had no hard proof of this, but only the strange feeling that something in the order and arrangement of my privacy had been rearranged whenever I left Nikolai alone at home.
Now that there was something incriminating to find, I had been careful. On my way back to France, I’d cleaned out my phone. I looked through the messages, meticulously deleting anything that could have been damning, especially the messages between me and Jack.
“Are you going to answer me?” he said, shaking the phone at me. “What the fuck is going on?”
“Don’t talk to me like that!” I said, stepping close and lowering my voice to a whisper. “The kids might hear you!”
I beckoned for him to follow me, and we walked to the ancient well. I felt a sudden urge to jump into its wide, deep mouth and disappear.
“I want details,” he said.
“Details?”
“Details. About what happened on your book tour.”
I reached for my phone, but he pulled it away.
“Give me the phone,” I said, stepping closer to him.
“I know everything,” he said, giving me a triumphant look.
“Everything about what?” I replied, making another
grab for my phone. He held it over his head. “There’s nothing to know.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re a liar.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied.
“I am talking about this,” he said, and pulled up a message I’d written to Jack.
I met Nikolai’s trembling, enraged gaze. I said, “What in the hell are you doing snooping through my phone?”
This was not the reaction he had expected. “That isn’t the point.”
“It is exactly the point,” I said. “You were spying on me. What kind of relationship is this anyway? You say I’m a liar, but you’re the one sneaking around. It explains why I’ve never trusted you. You’re a spy!”
Nikolai blinked, blinked again, his skin flushing red. “Don’t try to turn this around on me,” he said.
“This would never have happened if you’d respected my privacy.”
“Who is Jack?”
“Tell me how you got into my phone, and I’ll tell you,” I said.
Nikolai said, “I know your passcode.”
“How?”
“We were both born in 1973,” he said.
“Oh,” I said dumbly. I had not chosen the most cryptic of pass-codes. “But how did you…? There were no messages in my phone.”
“You didn’t think to empty your trash folder,” he sneered.
“You’re right,” I said, getting mad. “I wouldn’t think to empty my trash folder, because I would never expect that my husband was a spy and that I would need to hide every last thing from him!”
“Who is Jack?”
“Why does it matter?”
“It matters, that’s why it matters.”
“I met him in New York,” I said. “And we went out together.”
“Out?”
“And he invited me to a bar, and I went,” I continued. “And drank a little too much. And that’s it.”
“That’s it?” he said, his voice rising in disbelief. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
The Fortress Page 14