Jeanne turned toward me, eyes alight with flames and nostrils flaring.
“Is that your baby?” she asked.
“Yes, it is my baby,” I said as my heart filled with pride.
For a second it was not about flaunting our connection, the tentacles I now had into Jeanne’s life and home. Béa is a beautiful, precious child and not a pawn. Her paternity is of exactly no concern to me. As such I contemplated whether I should not have come over. Marguérite says I’ve been reckless lately, forgetful, unthinking. I’d dismissed her comments, as always, but now I had to wonder.
“I should have guessed,” Jeanne said. “That is some baby, sans doute.”
“You’re correct. She is ‘some baby.’ The most beautiful baby in all of Paris.”
“I saw you walk up with Léon Blum.” A wide, wicked smile broke out across Jeanne’s face. “It’s a shame your child has inherited his features. Those dark eyes, the nose, the general dirtiness that bespeaks a Jewish lineage.”
My mouth fell open. I did not know which insult hurt worst.
“This baby is beautiful,” I said again. “And she is not M. Blum’s. Though a woman could certainly fare worse!”
“Of course she is Blum’s. Why, just look at her! She has ‘Jew’ written all over her face. You can always tell a Jew by its face!”
I didn’t pause. I didn’t think. Instead I reached out and shoved Jeanne Hugo Daudet Charcot into the Madagascar pit, a muddy, man-made swamp where Negroes sat naked, chained to trees and gnawing on prey.
Bedlam erupted. Jeanne screamed and called for the police. Ten more people fell into the pit while trying to pull her out. I sprinted in the opposite direction.
After grabbing Léon’s hand, I hurried him and my daughter down the sidewalk and out of L’Exposition, Blum pontificating about the lack of humanity as we went. It was not until we were fully outside the gates that he realized there was no one left to hear.
As I caught my breath on the sidewalk, Béa peered up at me, squinting, smiling slightly at the fun and speedy ride. Léon was squinting, too, but from confusion.
“Madame de Florian,” he said. “Why all the commotion? The fast getaway?”
“I pushed Jeanne Hugo into the ‘Human Zoo.’”
Léon laughed.
“Well,” he said. “That seems a good place for her. But may I ask why?”
“I hate the woman. I truly hate her. She ruined my life before it began.”
I paused, sizing him up. If anyone might understand my plight it would be Léon Blum. Boldini had heard the story. He didn’t believe me. I told Le Comte, and he thought it was a joke. Marguérite knew and never expressed an opinion one way or another. And the nuns knew. Of course they knew. They were the ones who told me in the first place.
“Victor Hugo was my father,” I said.
He chuckled. Of all things, Léon chuckled.
“Do you find this amusing?” I asked and poked at his foot with my parasol. “Because it is the truth.”
“Forgive me, Madame de Florian, but I thought you were orphaned and raised in a convent?”
“Yes, orphaned, like Jeanne Hugo. The only difference was that Victor Hugo could only take one of us in. He chose her.”
I told him the story. I told him about the serving wench, my mother, who worked at Hugo’s estate on Guernsey. She was beautiful, with dark brown hair and even darker eyes. The moment Victor Hugo saw her step into the sunlight he fell instantly in love. It took almost a year for him to work up the courage to speak with her. He was so very good with words on paper, but those relayed face-to-face were another affair entirely.
Overtaken by his love for her, Victor finally wrangled the gumption to engage her in conversation. It was some trivial matter: a question about the weather or the price of butter. My mother found him endearing and a relationship was born. Though he was rumored to have a long-term mistress, the truth was Hugo had not smiled since his wife, Adèle, died, but now he smiled only for my mother. They were friends for a long, long time, several years in fact, before they consummated their romance in the usual fashion. It was so spectacular a moment that my mother had known instantly she was with child.
Despite the improper nature of the situation, both were happy at the news. They planned to marry once Victor had certain proprieties worked out. He was in a rather sad position following his wife’s untimely death. His beloved daughter—another Adèle—was relegated to an insane asylum. Both sons had recently died, and as a result his grandchildren were now living with him. It would not look very well for France’s favorite son to celebrate a marriage amidst all this. Plus there was the matter of the grandchildren. They needed time to adjust to the situation.
While Victor went to Paris to right these family constraints, my mother and her new baby remained behind. Unfortunately the longer Victor stayed in Paris, the more complex his situation, and the greater delay in his return to the island on which he was once exiled. Not the least of these complexities was his granddaughter Jeanne, then a most difficult and petulant toddler.
Soon my mother, Victor’s love, fell ill with tuberculosis. At Hugo’s behest the estate brought in every doctor available on the island. Alas, this was not Paris, and the medical community was therefore substandard. My mother passed away, leaving me alone with the other servants.
Hugo planned to fetch me from Guernsey and raise me as his own in Paris. Yet Jeanne forever got in his way, this granddaughter who was already two armfuls of trouble and then some. Before long Victor had a stroke. Destroyed by destiny, he had one burden too many, and, being the illegitimate child, I was the easiest to cast off. Not to mention that I served as a constant reminder of my mother, whom he missed to the point of pain.
To Paris I eventually went. But instead of taking me to the Hugo estate, Victor deposited me at the convent in which his mother had once sought solace. He did this even though he’d spoken out publicly against the Catholic Church. I suppose when you’re desperate you go back to what your mother first taught you. I wish I had that luxury.
Victor Hugo left me with the nuns and the nuns with enough money to care for me. He promised to return when I was older, when he had the situation with his granddaughter ameliorated. Jeanne was a treacherous young soul, an utter brat, who, when told of my existence, ran away from home and refused to come back until he promised she would never have to lay eyes on my face. Victor promised, but he thought it was temporary. He would get her to come around eventually.
Alas, he never had the chance. Hugo died but a handful of years later.
“And that,” I said, my cheeks flushed, voice stuck in my throat, “Is the story of my origins.”
“Well, that is an amazing tale.” Blum removed a silk square from his pocket and wiped his brow. “I always knew you were something special, Marthe, and now I know why.”
“Oh, Léon!” I cried, so grateful was I to have someone who didn’t laugh at the notion. “Thank you for your words!”
I flung myself at him and fell into his arms. He petted and kissed my hair.
“There, there,” he said over and over again. “There, there.”
When I finally glanced up, Léon took my hand and gently brushed his lips against my knuckles.
“Hugo would be so proud of you,” he said. “You’ve come so far. You are a beautiful person, your face and soul.”
“Oh, Léon, thank you! That means so much.”
Suddenly I felt something look at me from across the way, the sting of someone else’s gaze on my face. I glanced up to see Jeanne, muddied yet still smug, standing a few meters behind Léon. She’d watched the entire scene. What she heard or didn’t hear, I could not ascertain. All I knew was that she was smiling slyly, the corners of her mouth curled up like the devil’s horns.
Chapitre LXV
Sandra Potter’s memorial service was lovely, but only inasmuch as these things were supposed to be exactly that: lovely, tepid, unobtrusive. It included the usual funeral trappings like flowers
, weeping, and much talk of Jesus calling his lambs home.
The day was drizzly. A fine mist settled across a city that was usually “so goddamn sunny.” April went through the motions, muddling through the service and all the things she was supposed to do and say. At some point she delivered a eulogy without once looking up from her notes.
After it was over, April stood outside the church with her father and brother, making nice with the nurses and doctors who came to pay their respects. She mumbled robotic platitudes as people scooted through the receiving line. Smiling tightly and hugging strangers or people she’d only met once, April thought of Marthe. At least April knew her mother. She knew her father. She had thousands of minutes with them, minutes to hold on to until long after both were gone.
Jeanne Hugo. What a jerk.
April felt a little guilty. Of all the now-deceased women she might possibly think of on that day, Marthe and Jeanne were not the most logical. But ruminating on the Exposition Universelle kept April from contemplating other things. Namely, what might be in the silvery-white casket at the front of the church. With the “Human Zoo” in mind, April didn’t have to think about mothers. She didn’t have to think about daughters. She did not have to consider why reading about Béa’s birth reached inside her, grabbing at new depths of pain.
Most important, April did not have to ask why her husband was the one mourner who failed to show. They were done, it seemed, the ifs all gone. April had been so angry for so long she did not expect it to hurt like that.
The line seemed to last forever, a never-ending trickle of well-wishers offering only the flimsiest condolences. April grew increasingly annoyed as each successive person told her what a nice patient her mother was, how sweet and docile. Well, of course she was docile! Sandy Potter’s disease turned her mind from adult to infant. She spent her final days in a bed, being fed by someone else, causing no problems, an altogether sweet and pliant being not unlike Marthe’s own Béa.
As the last of the mourners petered out, the haze started to lift from the sky. Brian checked his watch. Even he was weary. Time was short but the afternoon was long. The surf grew choppy as the tide continued to rise. He would not have much time to make something out of that day.
“So, what next?” April said when the line died once and for all. “Dad doesn’t want to go to the cemetery. Tell me what we should do now.”
“Hell if I know,” Brian said. “I guess we go to the luncheon. We all need to eat something.”
“I can’t imagine being hungry ever again.”
April pulled her cardigan tighter, goose bumps spilling over her skin. The casket was now on her periphery. Skinny, sweaty men loaded it into a hearse.
“The ceremony was nice and everything,” April said. “But it all feels so empty and useless. You know what I mean?”
“April—”
“Okay, maybe that sounds a little heartless. I guess I’m the one who feels empty and useless.”
“Hey, April—”
“It’s like … what are we supposed do to now? I don’t mean the luncheon. Mom’s illness has been the background, the white noise in our lives for the last twenty years. Where do we go from here?”
Brian frowned and clapped a hand on her shoulder.
“I don’t think we’re quite done,” he said and then pointed behind her. “We’ve got a few more guests.”
April turned, ready with her now-perfected sad smile. Oh, hello, doctor, thank you for taking care of my mother sometime during the spring of 2003.
But behind her April did not see yet another medical professional coaxed into being there by his boss. She saw Troy Edward Vogt III, live and in the flesh, flanked by his daughters. She almost didn’t believe it was him and had to look to Brian for confirmation. Her brother nodded, then smiled in a way that said, I’ve always believed in Troy. I’ve always believed in the two of you. Brian was like that. He always saw the best.
Mouth open, April stayed rooted in place. Brian pushed at her back. She wobbled forward. He continued to push until April found herself pressed into Troy’s chest, greasy face marring his two-thousand-dollar suit.
“Chloe and Chelsea,” April sniffled as she broke free. The girls. She’d start there. It was somehow less difficult than addressing their dad. “Thank you so much for coming. I know you both had to travel far to get here.”
Troy kept one hand on the edge of her sweater, holding loosely.
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Chelsea said, as always speaking for both sisters. Chloe was only partway paying attention and instead watching Brian, as young women were apt to do. “We love you, April.”
As Chelsea hugged her, April felt a thump against her side. When she realized the cause she smiled.
“I recognize the purse,” she said. “Looks great on you.”
“Everyone is superjealous! I’ve worn it every day since it arrived!” Chelsea beamed, then frowned. “I guess I shouldn’t be talking about purses at a funeral.”
“Duh,” Chloe said, her complete and total offering to the conversation. Nonetheless April hugged her, too.
“Thanks for coming, guys,” she said. “It means a lot to have you here.”
“Hey, bro, what’s up?” Brian said. April saw nothing but Troy’s strong hand clutching Brian’s. “Glad you could make it.”
“I’m so sorry, Brian. This is a rough, rough deal.”
April listened to the sound of man-hugs behind her, the echo of backslapping.
“Thanks, Troy.” Brian stepped back into view and shot April a look she could not interpret. “So, hey, I’m going to see where Allie and Dad ran off to. Chelsea and Chloe, want to come with me?”
The girls nodded in unison, one reluctantly, one with a little more oomph.
“All right,” Brian said. “Troy. April. We’ll catch up with you guys later. See you at the restaurant.”
April stood still, listening to the chipmunk chatter of Chloe and Chelsea grow faint, one accusing the other of scuffing her “favorite shoes.” She closed her eyes and focused on breathing. In and out. In and out. It was simple as that.
“Do you plan to make eye contact?” Troy asked sometime around breath number ten. “Or are you going to keep your back turned on me? I can wait it out. I’ll wait forever.”
It sounded like a challenge, but then April thought of her mom. She thought of her dad and all the sand that fell so quickly through his fingers. Sure, April could refuse to move. But what exactly would that get her?
With eyes squeezed shut, April took in a gigantic gulp of air, pivoted on her heel, and turned to face her husband.
Chapitre LXVI
“Come on,” Troy said. “Let’s walk.”
“Um, what?”
April expected a little more tenderness, at least a condolence or two.
“Move. Now.”
Without checking to see if she followed, Troy started off down the sidewalk, west, toward the Hotel del Coronado, its red cone roofs looming above the nearby buildings. If Coronado was anything, it was that hotel. The Hotel Del was the landmark, the favorite child, its personality so big it was hard for the rest of the island to shine.
“Coming?” Troy called over his shoulder.
April looked at the church. She looked at her husband’s back. She looked at the church again, and then, as if her feet were acting of their own accord, she scrambled after her husband.
“So how was the flight?” she asked, stepping in line with him.
“Peachy,” he grumbled, quickening his pace. When they reached the street, Troy punched the crosswalk button. April waited for him to grab her hand. He did not.
“Why are you acting so testy when you’re the one who—”
“Yes, cheated on you. I know. I couldn’t forget if I tried.”
April stopped on the corner. The green man appeared across the street, blinking, encouraging them on. A group of tourists passed, trying not to look but ears perked by the brewing argument. That right there was an adulter
er. An adulterer in a suit when everyone else wore flip-flops. Typical.
“Troy!” she yelped “Stop! Don’t walk away from me!”
He was already halfway across the street.
April was running after him now, breaking into a near-sprint as her heels clicked on the asphalt. When she reached Troy’s side he was standing at the edge of the beach watching the dreary gray surf lap at the sand. April thought of her brother then. The waves were small, angry, unsurfable. Brian would achieve no solace that day.
“Why are you being so short with me?” April asked. “You’re the one who flew out. I didn’t ask you to come. I didn’t even think you would.”
“Once again the faith you have in me is inspiring. You didn’t think I’d come to the funeral? I’d hope, whatever the circumstances, if roles were reversed, you’d come to my mother’s funeral.”
“Sure. Yes. Of course,” April said, vaguely confused. It never dawned on her that Troy’s mother, the lizard queen of Westchester County, could die. She was a cockroach. She survived seven husbands and the nuclear winterizing of her soul. “But you said you’d try to come, so naturally I—”
“I need to hear it from you, April,” Troy said as he slid out of his Gucci loafers and dropped them a few feet from a homeless guy. “I need you to tell me we’re getting divorced.”
“I didn’t realize we decided anything. But if that’s what you want, I’m not sure why you’re asking me to say it.”
“It’s not what I want!” he said, shouting up at the sky. “It is so not what I want.”
“I feel like you’re trying to make me the bad guy.”
Troy laughed, hard and sharp.
“No, I think I have that role all locked up,” he said. “What am I supposed to think? I told you to make a choice. Move past what happened or don’t. And since I haven’t heard from you in—what? A couple of weeks?”
“It hasn’t been that long.”
A Paris Apartment Page 32