Mira's Diary

by Marissa Moss

  I climbed the stairs to the gargoyle gallery at Notre Dame where this had all begun. Looking down at the city, I could see mobs swirling up and down streets. In one plaza, a man on a box was shouting slogans to a crowd around him. In another, piles of newspapers and books were burning, Zola’s accusations turned to ash and smoke.

  Was this what was supposed to happen? I wished Mom was here, that she could tell me it was all right, and she’d be home soon. It didn’t feel right. In fact, it all felt very wrong.

  The gargoyles looked down blankly on the frenzied streets. They’d seen much worse, I bet, including the French Revolution when people were guillotined in the public squares, something much more brutal than a pyre of newspapers. The sharp-beaked gargoyle eating the chicken creature still creeped me out, but I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out to touch its head.

  And just like then, the world buzzed with a strange staticky sound, the days and nights whirled around me, and I was back where I’d begun this whole weird trip—in 2012. Or if not that exact year, modern times, because looking down from the gallery, I could see that the streets were clogged with cars and buses, streams of tourists, and the occasional bicyclist fighting their way through. Were all the gargoyles touchstones? I was afraid to even brush against one, now that I was back in the time where I belonged. I skirted past an enormous German and plunged down the stairwell, eager to get back to my family.

  Where were Dad and Malcolm, though? Were they back at the Eiffel Tower where I’d left them?

  Since the hotel was close by, I decided to check there first. The good news was that not only did we still have rooms there (the right time!), but Dad and Malcolm were actually in them.

  “Mira!” Dad hugged me. “Where were you? What happened to you?”

  “So this time you noticed me going?” I asked.

  “Of course we noticed! We looked for you everywhere! We came back here thinking you’d find us, rather than the other way around.”

  “And that worked,” I said, suddenly exhausted, plopping down on the bed.

  “So where were you? Where’s Mom?”

  I wished I had the answers Dad wanted, but I didn’t.

  “Does that mean she didn’t succeed? She didn’t do what she needed to?” Malcolm asked. He didn’t add “and you didn’t do it either,” but I knew he was thinking it. We all were.

  “Zola wrote the story Mom wanted,” I said. “But maybe it didn’t make the difference she thought it would. I wasn’t there long enough to know. Did Dreyfus get a second trial? Was his name cleared? Was Esterházy ever convicted? And what about all the officers who framed him and covered up the truth?”

  Dad looked at Malcolm. “Do you know what happened to Dreyfus?”

  “And what about Zola?” I asked. “Why did he expect to be put on trial? What was the inquiry he said he was waiting for?”

  “I don’t know,” Malcolm admitted. “We’ll have to look things up again. That’s the only way to know if you guys did what you were supposed to do anyway.”

  We headed for the Internet café again. It didn’t seem to matter that we were in Paris, the most romantic city in the world. All we’d seen were Notre Dame and the bottom of the Eiffel Tower. And the Internet café.

  “Did you guys go up the Eiffel Tower? Did you get some good photos, Dad?” I hoped they’d had some fun at least.

  “I took some decent pictures, but we were looking for you so we lost our place in line. That’s okay, we’ll do it again, all three of us. Maybe all four of us even,” Dad said hopefully.

  Maybe all I’d get out of Paris was what I drew in my sketchbook. I let Malcolm look stuff up on Wikipedia while I sketched outside, imagining Claude drawing beside me.

  What Malcolm found wasn’t happy news. “Dreyfus did have a second trial, but despite the overwhelming evidence of his innocence, he was still found guilty. But because of Zola and the frenzy that his article started, the French president pardoned Dreyfus so he was freed. Wait, there’s more…”

  “At least you got him off Devil’s Island,” Dad said. “That’s something.”

  “I didn’t do that. Zola did. And it wasn’t enough.”

  “Zola wouldn’t have written the story without you.”

  “You mean without Mom. We both gave him information.” I should have felt proud, but I didn’t. Not without Mom.

  “Dreyfus was finally exonerated,” Malcolm said, “but not until 1906! By then, there was a general amnesty clearing anyone in the military who framed him. So they basically got away with it.”

  “What happened to Zola?” I asked Malcolm, expecting the worst.

  “That’s not good either.” Malcolm squinted at the screen and summarized the bad news, “Zola was tried for libel, and the military, of course, lied again—and again and again. And since Zola wasn’t allowed to introduce evidence about the truth of what he wrote—the name of Dreyfus wasn’t permitted to be even mentioned—there was no way for him to prove his case. It wasn’t a trial, it was a total joke, but the mob hysteria Zola had written about showed up in full force at his trial. He received death threats. Crowds threw rotten vegetables at him, yelling ‘Drown the Jews! Long live the army!’” Malcolm turned to look at me. “Were people saying that kind of stuff to you?”

  “Only Degas,” I said. “Well, not really. But he made it clear he had no use for Jews, so you can see how well I did with that bagel-selling job you recommended.”

  Anyway, Zola wasn’t Jewish, but he’d spoken up for the Jews and that was enough to label him one. He was stripped of his Legion of Honor status and sentenced to the maximum penalty, a year in prison and a fine of 3,000 francs. To escape prison, he fled to London, an exile from his own country. While he was gone, his property was sold by the government to pay the fine.

  I felt awful for Zola. I’d convinced him that he should take the risk, and he was punished for it. As was everybody who had tried to help Dreyfus. And what about Mom? Had she been punished too? Had Madame gotten to her? I had to go back and find out. I had to find her.

  Malcolm had other ideas. He suggested we go see Zola’s grave in the Montmartre Cemetery.

  “I didn’t know how great the guy was,” he said. “Seems like the least we can do is put some flowers on his grave or something. Right, Dad?”

  “Sure, and we’ll see a different part of Paris too. Montmartre is supposed to be especially charming.”

  I smiled. “I know that neighborhood pretty well. Let me give you a tour.”

  So we finally did something like regular tourists. I showed Dad and Malcolm where Degas used to live, Mary Cassatt’s and Renoir’s homes, the café where everyone hung out.

  It was strange seeing all these places in modern times, with cars parked on the paved streets, electric streetlights, parking signs, trash cans, bus stops, all the things that weren’t there in the nineteenth century. But some things stayed the same, like the streets themselves.

  “You really were here, weren’t you?” Malcolm gaped at me. “I mean, you know this neighborhood. You know where you’re going.”

  “Give me a little credit. I may not know history, but I have a pretty good sense of direction.”

  “It’s just hard to really believe it all,” Malcolm said. “You met Degas! And Zola!”

  “Too bad convincing Zola to write his article wasn’t enough.”

  “Why do you say that?” Dad said. “You made a tremendous difference.”

  “No,” I disagreed. “Because if things were fixed, then Mom would be back with us.”

  We walked through the cemetery, which was like a little town itself with graves built like small houses and elaborate sculptures. Usually I like cemeteries—I’m weird that way. I find them peaceful and pretty, kind of like gardens for dead people. And although this was an especially nice cemetery, I didn’t feel p
eaceful at all.

  “This is it!” Malcolm called, pointing out a bronze bust set into a marbled stage. It was Zola’s grave, magnificent and important, just like the man had been.

  “Looks like he got the recognition he deserved in the end,” Dad remarked. “This is hardly a shy little nobody’s grave.”

  Malcolm laid the bouquet of bright daisies we’d brought onto the stone under the bust. “I’d like to think I’d stand up for what I believe the way you did,” he said to the sculpture.

  I wanted to think that too. Would I? Was I brave enough?

  There’s a Jewish tradition that when you visit someone’s grave, you leave a stone on the marker. I found a smooth gray pebble and set it on Zola’s tomb. “Thank you,” I said. “For Dreyfus and for all Jews. For everybody who believes in justice.” I touched the brown marble lightly. “Thank you.”

  I started to say thank you again. I tried to get the words out. But space had collapsed around me, and time whirled by. Zola’s grave was a touchstone.

  I was still in the Montmartre Cemetery, but the grave was gone, because, of course, Zola was still alive. I had to be back in the nineteenth century; one gulp of air told me that. But when exactly? And did that mean I still had a job to do? Could I find Mom at last?

  “There you are!” I heard a screech. It was Madame Lefoutre. She leaped out from behind a stone angel as if she’d just time-traveled herself. Was that possible? Could she chase me through time? I wasn’t about to ask. I gathered my skirts (yes, I was in that dress again) and sprinted away from her, not caring where I went so long as it was far from her.

  I zigzagged through the streets, turning corners, trying to lose her in the narrow, winding neighborhood. A carriage almost jolted into me; I jostled a bristle-mustached man and nearly ran straight into an old woman walking her poodle. The streets were more crowded now, and I felt safer, like I could stop and catch my breath.

  That’s when I saw her again. Her back was to me and she hadn’t seen me yet, but it was definitely Madame. I turned back around another corner and found myself across the street from Degas’s home.

  Why not? I thought. At least I’d be safe from Madame. I rang the bell, and the same old servant let me in.

  “I’m so sorry to intrude, Monsieur Degas, but I happened to be in the neighborhood…” I tried to smooth my dress into looking decent, and I wiped the sweat off my forehead. At least for once I wasn’t lying. I really did just happen to be here.

  “Come in, come in. Have a seat. You look like you could use a good cup of tea. Or perhaps something stronger?” Degas was his old, welcoming self. Maybe he was done with measuring everything according to the Dreyfus Affair, yes or no. He’d been without his friends for a long time by now. Whenever now was. Which was actually a good question.

  “Thank you, I’d love some tea. And please forgive me my confusion, but I’ve forgotten today’s date.”

  “You have an appointment you’ve forgotten?”

  “No, I mean I don’t remember what day it is.”

  “Tuesday. Today is Tuesday. You’re a bit young to have these lapses, aren’t you? It’s the kind of thing you’d expect from me.” Degas chuckled. “I often forget what hour it is.” He took his watch out of his vest pocket and peered at it. “Almost four, so time for tea indeed.”

  This wasn’t helping at all. I tried a different tactic. “Do you have today’s newspaper? I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.”

  “Of course.” Degas reached for a folded-up journal on the table next to his chair and handed it to me. “You’re still interested in that Dreyfus, I imagine. You can see the results of his second trial—guilty again. No surprise there. But that spineless president pardoned the traitor. All the bad press France has been getting intimidated the fool. Bah! Who cares at this point! I’m tired of it all, aren’t you?”

  I listened with half an ear, trying to read and pay attention at the same time. The date, I noticed, was June 11, 1899, and as Degas had said, the new court had upheld the earlier verdict. Zola had written something about the trial: “There will exist no more detestable monument to human infamy…the ignorance, folly, madness, cruelty, deceit, and crime of the trial will lead tomorrow’s generations to tremble with shame.” Such stirring words! It was strange to think I’d just been at his tomb. Was he back in France or still in London?

  “Aren’t you?” Degas repeated, shoving a teacup at me.

  “Oh, yes, sorry. I’m a bit distracted.” I took a warming sip. “I wish this whole affair would be over. It’s gone on for such a long time now.”

  “Yes, far too long. Weakening the entire government, it is.”

  “And you, how are you doing? Still collecting art? Still painting?” What a dumb thing to say. Of course he was still doing both, but I didn’t want to talk about Dreyfus, not with Degas. What I really wanted to ask was whether he was friends with the Halévys again, whether he’d seen Claude.

  “Are we doomed to small talk, my girl? I thought we were far beyond that.” Degas gave me a piercing look, and I swear he knew who I really was. But how? That was impossible.

  I plastered on a smile, as simpering as I could make it. “I’ve never been much for deep discussions. You know that. I was just wondering how dear Claude is. Have you seen him lately?”

  “He can’t be that dear to you, the way you treated him,” Degas snapped.

  “The way I treated him?” My fingers trembled holding the delicate saucer.

  “He was in love with you, and you left him without a word.”

  My mind went blank, empty of a single plausible lie to explain my sudden disappearances. And I couldn’t bear to think of how much I must have hurt Claude.

  “I really must be going.” I set down my cup, trying to sound calm. Was it really true? Had Claude loved me? What difference did it make? He hated me now. And was married with a nice wife, probably several kids too. And what could I have done to stop that? Absolutely nothing.

  “Yes,” drawled Degas. “I suppose you must. Always going. It’s what you do.”

  I blushed, miserable. So that was what I was known for—running away. Leaving. And it was true.

  “Thank you for the tea. It’s good to see you so well.” I acted composed while inside every nerve was shaking. I had to get out of there, away from Degas’s sharp scrutiny, his harsh judgment, even if it meant running into Madame again.

  But the street was empty when I came out. I didn’t see her or anybody else I knew all the way to Zola’s. Not Mom, not Claude, not anybody.

  I had no real reason to go to Zola’s except that I didn’t know where else to go. He wasn’t home, but the maid said she expected him back soon, so I decided to wait. I was poking through the bookshelf when the door opened. It wasn’t Zola, though.

  It was Madame.

  I grabbed an ivory-capped walking stick that was leaning in the corner. Maybe it was one of those kinds that had a blade hidden inside, but even if it wasn’t, I could hit her with the stick.

  “Calm down, child,” Madame Lefoutre commanded. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m helping you.”

  “I bet!” I snarled, raising the stick over my head threateningly.

  “I’m setting things right. You don’t understand what’s really going on here. Because of you, poor Mr. Zola here will die. Can you live with that on your conscience?”

  “You’re lying!”

  “Am I? Am I really?” She tilted her chin up, proud and defiant and dangerously beautiful, like some poisonous flower. “Ask your mother. Maybe for once she’ll tell you the truth. You have it all wrong. She’s the one interfering. I’m cleaning up her messes.”

  Before I could answer, she turned and left, leaving me with the walking stick over my head when Zola walked in. I quickly leaned it back against the wall. Lucky for me, Zola was much older than
the last time I’d seen him, and with his stooped-over, slow shuffle, he didn’t notice anything strange. His face was creased with wrinkles, his gray beard chiseled to a point on his chin.

  “Ah, Serena, so good to see you again.” He kissed the air next to my cheeks. He must have thought I was my mom. I’d always thought we didn’t look at all alike, but there had to be some resemblance for Zola to make that mistake.

  “I’m sorry, Monsieur Zola, but I’m not Serena. I’m Mira, the American journalist who interviewed you several years ago.”

  “Of course!” Zola said. “Now sit, please. Colette will bring us something splendid, I’m sure.”

  “How was London?” I asked.

  “Horrible, as you can imagine. Terrible weather, worse food. The only saving grace was that I met Oscar Wilde, just released from jail himself. He told me I should take comfort in my guilty verdict since it’s always a mistake to be innocent, while being a criminal takes imagination and courage. And for him, the halo of sin has made him all the more popular in London fashion. He’s invited out every night and dines on his witty stories of prison life.”

  “And you? Are you more popular for your guilty verdict?”

  “Alas, no. Only the English appreciate crime that way. The French, it seems, are repulsed by it. Or perhaps it is the nature of our crimes. If I had seduced a young earl like Oscar, that could be forgiven, but to criticize the Grand Army, no, never!”

  “If it is hard for you here, perhaps it’s best to leave again,” I said. Maybe if he left France he wouldn’t die as Madame had said he would. I didn’t think I would be directly responsible for any harm that might come to him, but since he’d written “J’Accuse,” Zola had received plenty of ugly threats from people who considered themselves good patriots. “Italy would be pleasant. Sunny, and you’d eat well.”