Mira's Diary

by Marissa Moss

  Then he started babbling about how fond Degas was of me, how he appreciated my wit (wit?), my keen eye, my delightful Americanisms. Nothing as charming as “turkey buzzard,” but close.

  “In fact, he was amazed when I told him you’re Jewish,” Claude said, totally ruining the romantic mood.

  “Why would you tell him that? Who cares whether I’m Jewish or not?”

  “He does, of course! Monsieur Degas is a brilliant artist, a kind gentleman, but that hardly makes him a friend of the Jews. He’s quite opinionated about it really, though he laughs and says some of his best friends are Jewish. Like me. And now you.”

  Instead of being kissed, I was stuck in a ridiculous conversation. “I don’t want to be a token Jewish friend,” I snapped. But I liked Degas. He seemed so modern in so much of his thinking—like having faith in electricity, respecting women artists, valuing people like laundresses who did hard drudgery and painting their pictures. Yet he was old-fashioned enough to share that most ancient of prejudices, anti-Semitism. I didn’t know how to make all those things fit in the same person.

  I thought of Mary Cassatt and how much she admired Degas. And Claude, who was Jewish himself, worshipped him. Did that mean I could still like him? I wasn’t sure what I felt anymore.

  I hurried across the bridge facing Notre Dame. The square in front of the cathedral was full of people out for a stroll, and I bet I could find somebody there who wouldn’t ask if I was Jewish. Maybe even somebody who’d want to kiss me. That would show Claude.

  “Mira! I am desolate. I did not mean to do bad to you!”

  I could hear him behind me, but I wasn’t looking back and I wasn’t waiting for him either. I needed to be alone to sort out what I was feeling. Maybe I wanted him to follow me, but I wasn’t sure even of that.

  I threaded my way through clusters of skirts and trousers, until a pair of stout gray legs under a round belly caught my eye. Something about the man’s rolling gait was familiar. It was the walrus-moustache man, the one I’d seen with Mom! Maybe this was what Mom meant by paying attention.

  He was walking toward the cathedral, and he kept looking nervously over his shoulder as if he expected to see someone. Mom, maybe? I ducked behind a woman in a wide yellow skirt, then behind the cart of a man selling paper cones of nuts. The Walrus Man zigzagged across the square before darting into one of the side doors.

  I followed him inside, being careful that he couldn’t see me. That’s when I noticed I wasn’t the only one following him. A beautiful woman with thick dark hair pinned up under a black velvet hat, flashing violet eyes, and stunningly chiseled features was carefully staying several paces behind Mr. Walrus, ducking behind columns the same way I’d hidden in the square. Maybe she was the person he’d been looking for. She certainly looked like someone a man would want to find, though she clearly didn’t want to be seen.

  I followed her following him. It would have been funny except it was all so dead serious. When Mr. Walrus slipped into a side chapel, the woman sat in a pew in the last row. I slid behind a column, spying on both of them.

  Mr. Walrus looked around. The woman pulled her shawl over her bowed head and murmured as if she was praying. Her act must have convinced Mr. Walrus because he turned to the side altar and slipped something under the flowers there. Then he reached out and touched the statue of Mary over the altar.

  There wasn’t a bolt of light or a clap of thunder. Just a buzz of static, wavy air, and then where he’d been, there was nothing.

  I thought the woman would freak, but she didn’t. She scowled, her perfect face blackening with a scary flash of anger. Before she could do anything, I dashed in front of her and snatched what Mr. Walrus had hidden on the altar. Like what I’d found under Degas’s dancer, it was a narrow slip of paper. I gripped it tight in my sweaty hand and turned to go.

  “Not so fast!” the woman hissed in English. “Give it to me, or I’ll break your arm.” She grabbed my wrist and twisted it behind my back, hard. “You have no idea what you’re doing. If you did, you’d give me that paper.”

  I tried to bite her, scratch her with my free arm. “Let me go!” I yelled as loud as I could.

  “You fool!” the woman whispered, wrenching my arm so hard I thought it would break.

  “Help!” I screamed. “A thief! Stop the thief!”

  “Arrêt!” yelled a man, running toward us.

  “They’ll think you’re the thief, in your dingy dress, you idiot!” she spat. “Because you are! You’re the thief!” With a final twist, the woman threw me onto the hard stone floor and forced open my fingers, snatching the note. “Go home!” she commanded. “You don’t belong here. It’s wrong, completely wrong!” She rushed off, leaving me panting on the ground.

  “Are you all right, miss?” a monk asked in French, helping me up. Another man offered me his handkerchief, and a woman ran to fetch some water. They were all so kind, but I wasn’t fine, not at all. I’d let that witch have the note. I unclasped my fingers, licking my palm where the nails had dug in so deeply I’d drawn blood. There was still a scrap of paper there, a corner of the note. All I could see was “Serena, you need…”

  The note was to Mom.

  The bad news was that the woman had the note. The good news was that Mom would be coming here to pick it up. I’d get to talk to her at last.

  So I thanked my rescuers, drank the water, wiped the tears from my face, and sat back down in the chapel. Just like I’d seen the beautiful but nasty woman do, I pulled my shawl over my head like I was a little old lady praying. And waited.

  I sat so long that the chill from the stones around me seeped into my bones. Now I was shivering from the cold as well as fear, and Mom still hadn’t come. She would never come. Stupid me, to think I could save her from anything. I wrapped my shawl tighter around my shoulders and got up to leave.

  And that was when Mom walked in.

  “Mom!” I gasped, the shawl dropping to the floor.

  This is the part when a normal mother would run to her daughter, hug her, and tell her everything would be okay. Instead Mom looked panicked, terrified really. She shook her head sadly and ran out the heavy front door.

  I rushed after her, but sure enough, she’d disappeared again in the darkening crowds of people rushing home to dinner. Was this because of the rule about family members not time-traveling together? That still didn’t make sense to me. Or did she know what had happened with the Walrus man, that the beautiful but scary woman had her note? Was Mom in trouble?

  I wanted to be mad at her, but instead I was scared. And confused. How was paying attention going to answer all the questions I had?

  I still hadn’t kissed Claude. Or I should say, he hadn’t kissed me. I still hadn’t found Mom. I still didn’t know what job I was supposed to do or why Mom was so scared.

  What I had done was gotten to know Mary Cassatt and Degas a lot better. Yesterday when I was at Degas’s with Mary, a painter named Renoir came by with some sketches he wanted to show his friends. He was a small man with quick, bird-like motions and round dark eyes. I thought since his art was soft and sweet, he would be too, but he was nervous and fidgety, laughing in sharp barks, talking so fast I could barely understand him, even when he spoke English.

  “I am thinking of traveling to Algeria, Degas. You should come with me. Think of the colors we’d see.”

  “Algeria?” asked Mary. “Why Algeria?”

  “I bet I can guess,” said Degas. “You want to paint the same kind of brilliant watercolors Delacroix did.”

  Renoir yipped a short laugh. “Exactly! I fear painting in Paris is turning my colors to sugar. It’s all too sweet here. I need the glaring southern light, the dark-skinned Algerian beauties instead of all these creamy pale French women.”

  “In your hands, it’ll all turn to pastry,” Degas said. “You can’t he
lp yourself.”

  “Mary, you come with me then, since Edgar will not.”

  “I’m tempted,” Mary said. “But since my sister isn’t well, I don’t want to go far.”

  “What is wrong with your sister?” I asked, then immediately felt I’d been rude. “I mean, if you don’t mind saying.”

  “No, no, it’s kind of you to ask. She has a weak constitution and always seems to be sick with something. Nothing serious, though, I’m sure.”

  “You must make sure she stays warm,” said Degas, leaning forward to take Mary’s hand. “The Paris chill can creep into your bones. Perhaps you should take her to sunny Algeria with Renoir.”

  “Yes!” crowed Renoir. “That will make us all happy—me, you, and your dear sister.”

  “I wish I could go!” I blurted out. Why did I keep saying things I regretted?

  “You are welcome too, of course,” said Renoir. He hadn’t paid much attention to me before but now he beamed at me. “Perhaps I could paint you. You have a dark, olive skin, almost Algerian. You would make a splendid model!”

  I could feel my checks turn hot and red. Posing for an artist, even a famous one like Renoir, sounded totally embarrassing. Besides, I wanted to do the drawing, not be drawn.

  “Don’t tease her like that, Renoir,” Mary chided. “You’re tormenting the poor child. Come, Mira, I think it’s time for us to go. And not to Algeria.”

  Besides Renoir, I’ve met ballet dancers, café singers, and one of Degas’s closest friends, Ludovic Halévy. Who is Jewish! That meant Degas didn’t think of me as a token Jewish friend, and he couldn’t be that anti-Semitic. Degas had known Halévy since they went to school together, and he ate dinner with the whole family once or twice a week.

  He doted on their children and stayed at their country homes, and Halévy’s wife developed his photographs. (Degas is really into the new art of photography. I couldn’t help thinking how much Dad would love to meet him.) Degas had many friends, but nobody was as close to him as the Halévys. Mom’s note had said to keep an eye out for intolerance so I was relieved that I didn’t have to think of Degas as prejudiced against Jews anymore. I could just enjoy him as a friend.

  Today we went to the races. Degas sketched the horses; Claude sketched the crowds; and I sketched it all—horses, people, Degas, and Claude. Mary Cassatt loaned me a parasol and dress since I only had one, and I felt elegant with my hair pinned up and white silk gloves making my fingers look tapered and slender.

  “Don’t move. Stay just as you are,” Claude said.

  “You’re drawing me?” My cheeks flamed.

  “You’re the most lovely thing here. How can I resist?”

  I lowered my eyes. If that was true, why hadn’t he kissed me yet? I’d given him so many chances.

  “Are you an artist now?” I asked instead. “Not just an artist’s assistant?”

  “I am trying to be an artist,” Claude corrected. “Which is why I am an artist’s assistant. Who better to learn from than Degas? And I saw you sketching yourself, so you too, are an artist.”

  “No,” I said. “I was taking notes, that’s all. Things that pop into my head. It’s kind of a hobby, I guess.” I gripped my sketchbook tightly.

  His fingers moved quickly over the paper. The rasp of chalk on paper, horses snorting, hooves drumming on the dirt track, people murmuring and cheering—I let the sounds wash over me, along with the lemony sunlight and the grassy breezes. It was a perfect moment. Time could stop right now, I thought, and I’d be happy like this.

  But of course time doesn’t stop. It moves, backward I suppose as well as forward, but it moves. I began to wonder if Mom was still in this time and place. And if she was, what was she doing here? More importantly, what was I doing here? And when would we both go home? Paris was beautiful, but I missed Dad and Malcolm. And as nice as everyone was to me, I didn’t belong here. I wanted to click my heels together like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz and magic my way home again.

  I could feel tears of homesickness prick my eyes—and that’s when I saw her, with my vision blurred by tears. It was Mom, there in front of me for real! I wanted to rush up and hug her, hold her tight so she couldn’t get away, but I was afraid she’d run away again. Maybe if I came up slowly and quietly, the way you try to get close to a wild animal?

  I stood watching her, trying to figure out what to do. She walked alongside the track in a melon-colored dress, her arm linked with that of another woman wearing lilac. A man in a military uniform stood at the lilac woman’s side, the three of them forming a tight group. They were too far away for me to tell much, except that Mom was talking and the man was leaning toward her, listening intently, while the lilac woman looked horrified by whatever Mom was saying.

  Scarier was the woman I saw behind them. It was the beautiful creepy woman, the witch from Notre Dame. She looked ready to claw out Mom’s eyes. Now I had no choice but to go to Mom, no matter what the rules said.

  “I’m sorry, Claude,” I said. “I’ll pose for you later.” I gathered up my skirts, trying to stride quickly toward Mom. When she saw me, she shook her head, her eyes warning me off.

  That didn’t stop me. “Excuse me, madame,” I said. “You should be careful. There are pickpockets all around, and I recognize a particularly nasty one behind you.”

  Mom turned pale and nodded. Glancing back at the dark-haired woman, she hurried away with the couple. I lunged toward the woman, not sure if I should trip her or try to throw her to the ground like a football tackle. I just knew I had to stop her.

  I snapped my parasol shut, thinking I could use it as a weapon somehow. What I really wanted was some holy water. I should have taken some from the font at the front of Notre Dame. I imagined tossing the water on the beautiful nasty woman and watching her melt into the ground like the Wicked Witch of the West.

  “There you are!” she barked, grabbing my wrist with that iron grip of hers. “You naughty girl! I didn’t say you could have today off.”

  “I’m not your maid!” I tried to wrench free but I swear her hands were like the talons of an eagle.

  “You’re coming home where you belong!” she seethed. Her eyes drilled into me. I didn’t know someone so beautiful could be so ugly.

  “Get away, you crazy old bag!” I whacked her with the parasol, hitting as hard as I could.

  Claude rushed up. Even if he thought I was crazy for beating on an elegant lady, I had to give him credit. He took my side right away. He pulled the woman off me, trying to be a gentleman at the same time.

  “Madame has made a mistake, it seems. This young lady is not your servant, and you will leave her in peace.” It wasn’t a question.

  The dark woman glared. She must have been used to men fawning over her, so why wasn’t Claude? Then she smiled and her face was serenely beautiful again. “Ah, a mistake. Must be a trick of the light. No harm done, I’m sure.”

  “Don’t try it again,” I said. “Ever!”

  The woman sniffed and turned away, melting into the crowd. At least I’d kept her away from Mom.

  “Mira, she made a simple mistake. Did you have to hit her?”

  “She didn’t give me much choice.” I showed him my wrist where her claw-hand had left deep red marks.

  He looked startled, then sad. He lifted my wrist to his face and kissed all along the welts.

  A kiss! At last! And even if it wasn’t the kind of kiss I’d imagined, I could feel it all the way to my toes.

  I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to break the magic spell.

  Degas did that. “You two!” he called out. “Why are you dawdling? The light is changing. The air is turning chill. It is time to go home to a nice warm fire.”

  I had seen Mom again, which was good, but I’d also seen the beautiful scary woman, which was bad. Worst of all, I s
till didn’t know what the job was that I was supposed to do and why Mom was here in the first place. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I wandered through the streets, searching for some kind of clue, keeping my eyes open like Mom had said. Since Mr. Walrus had left the note for her at Notre Dame, that seemed a good place to try.

  By the time I got to the park behind Notre Dame, I was exhausted. I sank down onto a bench by the fountain and looked at the statues climbing the roof of the cathedral, their silhouettes black against the pale blue sky. They were an odd sight, statues where you least expected them. Just like me. I was someplace I didn’t belong at all. A place and a time where I would never fit in. I knew there was a reason for the sculptures, probably a kind of prayer reaching up to heaven. But what was the reason for me to be here?

  My feet ached. I slipped off my shoes, and the breeze felt so good playing on my toes that I almost didn’t notice it. Wedged into the side of my shoe was a folded-up piece of paper.

  “That’s strange,” I thought. “I didn’t put that there. Did Mary? Why?” I’d walked so much the creases were worn through, but when I unfolded the paper, I could see it was a letter. From Mom.

  Dear Mira,

  I need you to understand that I’m here for a very important reason. Something terrible will happen in the future, in your future, if I can’t change things. Time is always splitting off, like binary trees. When it hits a certain bump or hiccup, it splits and then it can go one of two ways.

  Our job, mine and now yours, is to make sure the second way heals or prevents the first way. I didn’t know you had the gift too, or I would have told you all this in person at home. I’m guessing this is the first time you’ve time-traveled, which means you’re here for a reason. There’s something you need to do.

  People like us, those who can time-travel, have a heavy responsibility. When something horrendous happens, we’re sent into the past to prevent it from happening. Some horrors are too big for us to change, but others can be altered.