The photo was from Claire’s freshman year at Macalester, Parents’ Weekend. Claire stood with one hand on her crowded dresser, half smiling, irritated but tolerant. Fiona chose it because it looked the most like Claire had in the video, round-faced from the weight she’d gained that fall. She remembered, sickeningly, the relief she felt each time she sent Claire back to school that year. Not that she wanted her gone, far from it, but she’d imagined this would be how they got along best. Claire could have her space, then she’d come home and they’d shop and eat and catch up, and soon they’d maybe even split a bottle of wine, talk as adults. It would be this way through the rest of college, and then when Claire moved to another city—Fiona always knew she would—and visited twice a year. But at Christmastime she announced she’d be spending the summer in Colorado. She came home for a week in June and then Fiona drove her to O’Hare, and when Fiona started getting out of the car to circle around and hug her, Claire said, “They’ll start honking.” And she quickly kissed her mother’s cheek.
And that was it. That was all.
The girl shook her head. “I mean, she looks a little like Valeria.”
The guy said, “Is she Czech?”
Fiona said no, told them she had a little girl. The guy said, “Let me get Kate. She knows all the kids that come in.”
And then this Kate was standing there, tall and British, peering at the photograph. Kate said, “I couldn’t say for sure.”
“She’s older now,” Fiona said.
“She looks like that actress from American Hustle.”
There was a man waiting behind them to buy a stack of paperbacks, and so they stepped away, further into the store. Serge took the photo, held it by the edges. “She must miss you.”
Fiona didn’t know how to answer that.
Serge said, “You’ll stay for Richard’s show, okay? His friends mean so much to him.”
“I’ll try.”
“No, no, promise!” Serge smiled, a smile so suddenly dazzling that it must have let him waltz through his entire life making demands like that.
“I think I’ll have overstayed my welcome by that point.”
“So we kick you out and get you a hotel! Promise.”
“Okay,” Fiona said, “I promise.” She wasn’t sure she meant it, but it didn’t hurt to say. Another nine days away from the resale shop was too long, but in nine days she’d either have found Claire or would still be looking—and could she go home in either case?
Before they left, Fiona grabbed an English book of Paris history just so she wouldn’t walk out empty-handed, the staff feeling sad for her. The mustachioed bookseller was ranting to a customer about American DVD players. Something about the frames per second. “Americans don’t even care!” he said. “That’s why I moved to Paris.” He threw his hands in the air.
Fiona stopped herself from laughing. It couldn’t be true, could it? That someone would uproot as easily as that? Everyone she’d ever known to leave America had done it for solid reasons: job, romance, politics. To study, like Nora. Claire and Kurt had fled the reach of the Hosanna Collective—although she’d considered the possibility that Claire was running from her, from some perceived childhood trauma. But what if it was nothing more than a lark? First the commune, then Paris, next a sheep farm in Bulgaria? What if Fiona had simply failed, as distracted as she was in those early years of Claire’s life, to tether her daughter tightly enough to the world?
The guy looked at the price. Three euros. He told her it was on him.
* * *
—
By the time they circled back to Richard’s in the early afternoon, the filming had begun.
It was hard to see what was going on; people had packed together as if to watch a parade. Down the street a crane loomed overhead and enormous lights glared down from tripods.
Fiona left Serge behind and wiggled through—one advantage of being small, no one ever felt you were usurping the view—and soon she was at the front, hands on the wooden barrier.
The action was a block farther down, at the corner near a crimson restaurant front, but this was the closest the crowd could get. Fiona made out a mess of chairs and ladders and people—and in front of the restaurant, a woman talked with a man. He embraced her and she walked away. Just a few yards, then she stopped, went back, did it all again. Each time, two men ran in front of her carrying white reflective sheets. A camera followed on wheels.
“I know who the guy is,” a woman near Fiona whispered in English, “what’s-his-face, the Dermott McDermott guy. But I’ve never heard of her.”
The man she was with laughed too loudly. “Dermott McDermott. I love it.”
A security guard strolled past. “We’re gonna get in trouble,” the woman whispered. Really, there was a constant low-level murmur all around, one that could surely be edited out if the mics picked it up.
Fiona studied the crowd on the opposite side of the street. No one there who looked like Claire. No one with a little girl. No one like Kurt. But the crowd reshuffled constantly.
Claire had talked about majoring in media studies before she dropped out of college. In high school she’d go to the Music Box on Saturdays and sit through three movies in a row. At the end of her senior year, she had a boyfriend who wanted to be a screenwriter, and Claire was going to make the films. Fiona hadn’t liked that boy at all—long fingernails, no eye contact—but surely he’d have improved over time! How much better he’d have been in the end than Kurt Pearce.
Fiona had been out of touch with Kurt and Cecily for only a few years when he had walked into her store, told her he was doing some hunger activism around the city, that maybe they should be in touch. After that he invited her to occasional events, although she rarely made it. And she had no idea that the whole time he’d been battling addiction, stealing from Cecily, stealing, in fact, from some of the hunger organizations he worked for so tirelessly. That Cecily had given him one last chance, and then one more chance after that, before writing him off completely. All that news came out later, after Fiona had already introduced him to her daughter, after he’d ruined her life.
They paused the action when a plane flew overhead. Fiona remembered Julian Ames once telling her he’d rather starve doing live theater for the rest of his life than make a million dollars doing movies. Movie work, he said, was mind-numbing. Julian had paid rent by working in that blue-walled sandwich shop on Broadway, the one where Terrence first sat her down and told her Nico was sick. Julian couldn’t have been there that day—she’d have remembered if he was there when she started wailing, if she’d grabbed all those napkins off the counter right in front of him—but in her mind he was the one at the register. His hand forever in the tip jar. That lock of dark hair forever in his eyes.
The actress repeated her loop, and Fiona repeated her scan.
She should head back to Serge, make sure he knew she was okay. And she was beginning to do that, had just squeezed free of the crowd, when she felt a tap on the back of her head. She spun to see a man smiling down. A face she was supposed to recognize but couldn’t, quite.
“I knew I’d run into you,” he stage-whispered. She must have looked confused, because he added, “Jake. From the plane?”
“Oh!” A step backward. “It’s nice to see you. Jake.”
He seemed sober, but his beard and hair and the oaky scent of his clothes still suggested someone who might have slept in the woods last night.
Really, she was angry. If the laws of probability were going to allow her one random encounter on the streets of Paris, why must it be with her seatmate? This was lightning, striking only once.
He said, “I’ve just been wandering. My thing isn’t till tonight.”
“Your thing.” Had he explained this on the plane?
This meeting wasn’t random at all, she realized. Fiona had told him where she’d be staying, and it
was a very small island. She looked for Serge, but he’d disappeared. She waved for the guy to follow, and they ducked down a connecting street—far enough that they could talk in their regular voices, but not so far that no one would hear if she screamed.
“Are you okay?” she said.
“What? Oh, yeah. Yeah. No, they totally found my stuff at O’Hare. They’re sending it.”
“Just like that?”
He shrugged. “I got a boomerang wallet. I’ve lost it like twelve times. And every time, someone turns it in.”
“That’s—unbelievable.”
“Not really. It’s such a clear moral test for people. They see a wallet, and it’s like, Am I a good person or a bad person? People want to believe they’re good. Same people would totally steal from work, right? But they send back a wallet, they feel good about their souls.”
He was right. But how dare he? How dare he drop his things all over the globe and trust that they’d return?
He said, “This movie is a trip!”
“Did you come here to watch it, Jake?” She didn’t hide her sarcasm.
“No,” he said. “I was looking for you. Not, like—not in a creepy way. Sorry. I wanted to ask you something.” If he weren’t so attractive, she’d have run away by now. She’d have grabbed the arm of the nearest man, said, “Here’s my husband!” But instead she just stood there, looking up into his face and waiting.
He said, “I was mad at myself, after we got off the plane, for not asking more about Richard Campo. Like—I don’t want to sound like a stalker, but I could totally do something with him. I could pitch that so easy.”
Fiona held up a hand to stop him. She said, “I’m missing some information.”
“Sorry. I can’t remember how much I said. I write culture stuff, mostly for travel magazines. You read National Geographic? I had a piece there last summer, on this Mayan dance festival in Guatemala.”
“Okay.” It all made sense—the pilot who’d been, what, fired for drinking? Or decided he wasn’t cut out for that life, that there were better ways to see the world? She said, “He’s been doing a ton of interviews. I don’t know if that makes it more likely or less that he’d agree.”
“It wouldn’t really be about art, is the thing. It would be about living here, you know, like an expat artist’s view of the city. Or it could be about the art. I don’t know, whatever he wants.”
Why was she even considering helping him? Maybe it was the same principle as the wallet: She wanted to feel good. Maybe it was his beautiful eyes. Maybe it was a welcome distraction. She pulled her phone from her purse and said, “I can give you his publicist’s number.” His publicist being Serge.
Jake adjusted his backpack, scratched his beard. He said, “That would be phenomenal.”
She still had the phone in her hand, was still giving him the last digit of Serge’s number, when it started vibrating.
“Oh holy shit,” she said. “I have to take this!” She left him there, walked quickly for no good reason.
Static at her ear. Arnaud cleared his throat and said, “Well, they were easy to find. Mr. and Mrs. Kurt Pearce, and I have an address.”
She stuck her left hand into her jeans pocket to stop shaking. “You’re sure it’s them?” Mr. and Mrs.!
“Ha, yes, he was easy to find because he was arrested last year. No prison, don’t worry.”
“God, what for?”
“Small theft,” he said, before her mind could fully go to murder, infanticide, domestic terrorism. “It’s—the fine he got, this was probably just some shoplifting.”
“Wait,” she said, “hold on. No. He’d be deported, wouldn’t he?”
“Ah,” Arnaud said, “okay. No, not really, and it also turns out he’s an EU citizen. They could have, but—”
“Since when?”
Arnaud didn’t know. But hadn’t Kurt’s father been Irish or something? Maybe he’d had dual citizenship all along. Maybe that helped explain their move to France.
Serge was across the side street, waving. He trotted to her and stood there, listening.
“You didn’t talk to him, did you?”
“What I have is an address in the Fourth, just outside Le Marais. Affordable street for that area, but not dangerous or anything. You know Le Marais?”
Fiona remembered Richard implying it was a gay neighborhood, although she also thought she remembered this was where the Arabs lived, or maybe it was the Orthodox Jews. Surely not all three together, that would never work, would it? She said, “Not well.”
“I’m going to stake it out. Like in the movies, okay? Just surveillance.”
“Can I come?”
He chuckled. “This is not a great idea.”
“So, when, tonight? You’re doing this tonight?”
“Unless something comes up. I’ll take photos.”
“What do I do in the meantime?”
“Enjoy Paris. Your friend with the motorbike, he can take you out, yes? Go sightseeing.”
Sightseeing. Lord.
“Promise you’ll rest. Yesterday you nearly fainted in your omelet. Save your strength for when you need it, okay? For now, we wait. Drink some wine, rest, relax.”
Resting didn’t sound that bad. And she was so, so tired.
1985
Hanukkah passed, and the edges of the lake froze white. Charlie’s mother couldn’t fly in for Christmas because her new boyfriend was taking her to the opera. She’d come later, she said, and Yale was a bit relieved. He adored Teresa, but Charlie didn’t need more stress right now.
Yale ran into Teddy at the bank. His black eye had faded to purple, but the bandage was still across his nose, a strip of white tape. Teddy claimed it had been liberating, learning he could survive an attack. Yale didn’t believe him for a second. Teddy said, “Did you know you see actual sparks? I always thought that was just a cartoon thing.” Yale said, “Yeah. I mean, I’ve been punched.”
He ran into Fiona on the street, and she told him her family had finally cleaned out Nico’s place and hadn’t noticed anything missing. “Mostly because they didn’t know what had been there to begin with. My cousins took all the electronics,” she said. “That was all they cared about. My mom took his drawing board, but she just shoved it in a box, and I don’t know what she’s even gonna do with it. My dad wore gloves. He wore actual rubber gloves.” Yale hugged her so hard her feet came off the ground.
He ran into Julian at a resale shop where Julian was trying on bright yellow corduroys, and when they were too short on him, he made Yale try them next. He said, “They make your ass look like hamburger buns. I don’t mean that in a bad way.” He stepped back, looked Yale up and down. “They don’t do much for your front, though. And I’ve heard about your front.” Yale felt himself blush, all the way down to his neck. “What,” Julian said, “you think Charlie can keep a secret?” Julian bought a terrible white leather jacket with fringe. He told Yale that he and an actor friend were using their stage makeup skills to teach men with Kaposi’s sarcoma to cover their lesions. “They look pretty good,” he said, “from a distance.”
On a gray, sleeting day, Yale went with the real estate agent to see the house down Briar. He met her on the sidewalk and she clapped like a marvelous show was beginning.
The listing price was three times Yale’s salary. Better than he’d expected. Still a stretch, but doable if he kept this job, if his salary grew along with the Brigg, which it was supposed to. It was roughly the same amount Charlie had paid last year to buy the paper its own phototypesetting machine. An exorbitant amount for a piece of equipment the size of a refrigerator, but quite reasonable for a house. The purchase meant Charlie was broke, but it also meant Charlie’s staff no longer had to go downtown to the typesetting company and use its machine in the middle of the night, clearing out by 6 a.m., zombified. The paper would, theoret
ically, over the years, pay Charlie back, bar ad by bar ad; but he was more likely to increase his staff’s meager salaries than refill his own pockets. Charlie never bought anything for himself, not even food. If it weren’t for Yale, he’d live on tea and ramen.
Yale hadn’t mentioned the house to Charlie yet. He might balk at the cost, or even at the fact that Yale would pay most of it, but it would help Charlie feel more secure. It had to, if they owned the place together. They could get a dog then, too, and Charlie had always wanted a dog.
On the walk-through, Yale fell in love with the living room, the wooden floors, the built-in bookshelves on either side of the fireplace, the bay window. The kitchen wasn’t much, but they could invest in that later. He’d always wanted to learn to tile. The upstairs was filled with afternoon light, and just standing there in the empty bedroom, looking out into the small backyard, Yale felt like he was floating. A house! He could already imagine the ribbing they’d get—Teddy would call them lesbian separatists—but who cared, because look at the thick glass of the windows, the solid floors!
The world sounded the same as it did from his own apartment—the hum of traffic, a car door, someone’s stereo—but somehow it all felt new again. As if it weren’t just a new house but a new city. This was the buzz he’d felt when he first moved here, when he spent days exploring neighborhoods, studying maps, jotting in his notebook things like, “Tell cabs take Ashland, not Clark” and lists of restaurants (“BELDEN DELI” he’d written his first week, as if he’d single-handedly discovered the place), and things he heard about but never intended to follow up on, like the fifth-floor bathroom at Marshall Field’s being a tea room. He’d just wanted to know those places were there, wanted to feel at all times exactly as he’d felt in a cab flying down Lake Shore Drive. And for some reason, in this white-walled room of this little house, the city pulsed around him again.
“How much time do you think I have?” he asked the agent. “Honestly?”
The Great Believers Page 12