by Tracy Quan
My gaydar’s truly out of whack. In addition to misreading this thoroughly heterosexual twenty-eight-year-old, I’ve spent my entire adult life oblivious to Mother’s increasingly lesbian lifestyle. I mean, she doesn’t carry a banner, but she’s never hidden it from me.
“We’ll rendezvous in front of the basilica,” Duncan said. “Just call when you’re ready. I might be en route from Brignole. I’m … picking up some newspapers.”
“In Brignole??”
“There’s a big international newsagent, and Milt’s trying to find a Wall Street Journal. Is there something you’d like me to get for you?”
He gave a warm, parting smile as I left the car—a confusing smile that made me feel reconnected. As if nothing could break the flow of our unacknowledged flirtation. A smile that suggested he was about to kiss me. I walked past the half-empty hair salon toward the hôtellerie, thrown off-balance by that phantom kiss.
When I knocked on the door of Mother’s room, I was greeted by Ruth, wearing yesterday’s T-shirt—in black. “Oh sorry! Have I got the wrong room?”
“They’re downstairs ordering lunch,” she informed me, in a dour voice.
“That’s … quite a T-shirt! Weren’t you wearing one like it yesterday?”
“I have them in five colors. Would you like one? I’ve got—” Ruth opened the door and gestured toward my mother’s—her mother’s—unmade bed, now the repository for a pile of TAKE BACK THE MAGDALEN END ALL SEX TRAFFICKING T-shirts. “Come in. You look like a small.”
“Oh, I don’t think—Th-thank you!” I said. “Yes, the black one will do nicely. How kind!” I sound, eerily, like an echo of my mother. “So! We’re all having lunch?”
“I’ll be down in a sec,” Ruth mumbled, turning to the laptop. “Don’t let me hold you up.”
I found my mother in the converted Chapter House, sitting at one of the large square tables with Dodie on her left. Dodie was sipping an amber-colored aperitif while Mother poured her own pick-me-up from a small teapot.
“And how was your morning?” Mother asked. “How is Allison? What have you two been up to?”
“Oh, I … we … very uneventful.” The purple dildo was now resting in Allison’s bidet, in a special antiseptic solution which, she assures me, kills anything that might afflict jelly rubber or human flesh. “We decided to sleep in.”
“So did we!” Dodie chirped. “The real activity begins tomorrow.”
“We’re documenting Ruth’s conference,” Mother told me. She reached into her knapsack and held up a digital camera. “For their website.”
“Ruthie is the cofounder …” Dodie’s voice trailed off into maternal vagueness, something mothers do when the details of your life are getting to be a bit much.
“It’s a women’s group,” Mother explained.
Omigod. “What kind of women’s group?” Every T-shirt tells a story!
“Well.” Dodie exchanged a sheepish look with Mother. “They’re an offshoot. Ruthie joined a Protestant youth movement when she went into rehab. Then she broke away and formed a women’s group. Something to do with The Female Christ. Take Back The Magdalen Dot Org. Tee-bee-teemorg!”
“They’re planning some sort of alternative event,” Mother said, “for her feast day. But we’re not involved with Ruth’s religion,” Mother pointed out. “We’re just helping with the website. We came for the architecture. Have you seen the wood carvings in the basilica?”
“It’s hard to believe,” Dodie said, with a sly titter, “that our room was once a monk’s cell! But you can see little remnants of the austerity. And your friend’s uncle has a house nearby?”
“Oh it’s … on the outskirts,” I riffed. No need to tell Mother that Villa Gambetta’s just down the road from here. “Nice but rather small,” I lied. “And it’s filling up with new people every day. It’s a relief to get away from all the other guests—and Allison’s relatives! I think the rental agent was rather misleading.”
“Oh dear,” Mother said. “One of those situations.” Surely, if Mother finds out the “uncle” isn’t quite as advertised, she’ll pin the carnality on my bubbly single friend? “If you’re up in time, you can join us tomorrow for breakfast!”
“I’m uh …” That’s cutting it a little close! Serge arrives at eleven-thirty with Natalia, so she can get back to St-Tropez in plenty of time for her next date. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said, nervously consulting the lunch menu. Natalia has a standing appointment with a fortyish man from Monaco who, Izzy claims, is famous for being supported by his well-born—and somewhat older—wife. Yet he’s been booking Natalia for multiple hours each Friday. Seems dangerous to have a regular who’s such a successful gigolo. If his wife catches on, won’t she be furious with him for spending her loot on a younger woman?
Or am I being hopelessly provincial?
In any case, breakfast with Mother is out of the question under these circumstances. “What do you think of this blood orange salad?” I asked. Knowing full well that Mother would pronounce it “horribly trendy.” But it got her onto a new topic, thank goodness.
Ruthie’s seat at the table remained empty. “She gets a little intense at meal times,” Dodie confided. “She’s an ethical vegan these days. Gets all her protein from cashew nuts. Helen made the awful mistake—” Mother pursed her lips. She doesn’t like that word! “—of inviting Ruthie to the international boudin competition. They have it every year in Mortagne-au-Perche.”
Hmmm. The annual black pudding bake-off—a Norman tradition—must be a vegan’s worst nightmare. Ruth, clearly, is one of those high-maintenance offspring who can’t stop involving Mom in the minutiae of each new drama, whether getting off drugs, eating cashews or … “taking back the Magdalen.” Why, she’s even got her mother (and mine!) taking pictures of her “taking back” the Magdalen.
As I bade my mother farewell for the day, I congratulated myself for keeping her sheltered from my problems. I protect her from any HINT of drama. It’s not always easy, but I make the effort. I bet Ruth doesn’t even try.
While I’m forced to grapple with the reality of my mother’s personal life, she’s still in the dark about most aspects of mine. As she should be. Daughters, not mothers, belong in the catbird seat. In the eighties, when cocaine tested my sanity and threatened my looks, she never knew. She would be shocked to learn that, in addition to being seduced by freebase, I’ve been hustled by professional pimps, pursued by vice cops, terrorized by a bondage freak, and threatened (once) by a call-girl-turned-blackmailer.
Mother senses that my marriage is a safe harbor, but she has no idea why, exactly—and doesn’t want to know. As far as she’s concerned, I’m her “surprisingly conservative” child who always knew how to take care of herself. A mother’s denial mechanisms are a form of emotional genius. A daughter’s? Not so much. The self-centered hubris of a liar can really trip you up.
I passed beneath the high arched walkway of the deserted cloister with my phone turned off, at home in the dead zone—not with God, of course, but with my past. With the conflicting pieces of my life. And my smug assessment of somebody else’s daughter.
In the reception area, I switched on my cellphone. A startling vision emerged from the elevator. Her profile was unmistakable. The precision of her cheekbones, the glossy black hair, the perfectly formed figure, taut yet girlish. Today, in a simple orange T-shirt and a pair of jeans, she looked almost wholesome. But Tini is too regal to be taken for merely wholesome. She sailed right by, heading for the street.
What the hell is SHE doing in the monastery hotel??
That day, after our session with Milt, when I asked Allie what she was doing in Tini’s room, she denied exchanging phone numbers, but she was obviously lying! Is Allison thinking she might sneak out to the monastery and do a session with Tini and Milt behind my back? She’d better not! Or is this place becoming Sapphic Central?
But Tini said she wasn’t into girls.
Something does no
t compute.
I followed her through the gate. She paused outside the stone wall of the hôtellerie to light a cigarette. Why does everyone here—even a 2000 euro call girl!—smoke so much? As she walked ahead, I kept my distance from the trail of smoke.
We were passing the parking lot behind the town hall, but she was too far ahead and when she turned left, I couldn’t catch up. By the time I reached the town hall, she had disappeared. On the wall were announcements of impending marriages—name, address, occupation of each spouse—and hours of the office de tourisme. I looked around. Tini could only be in the town hall or the basilica.
Suddenly, a loud, familiar voice—from New York—nasal, female, completely out of place in this poky town was calling my name.
“NANcy!”
I froze when I saw Roxana Blair, two feet away, her arms extended in a gesture of solidarity. Time to deliver one of her righteous hugs! She was wearing a red T-shirt with black letters on the front. This was a T-shirt no English-speaking person could look away from. Did it really say …
W e
H onor
O urselves with
R espect &
E mpowerment
?
Yes. It really did. The first letter of each line was in grotesque Gothic caps. The O in Ourselves fit squarely, so to speak, over Roxana’s right breast. Her hair, as usual, was a mess, and I noticed some glitter on her cheeks. Why is she wearing body glitter in the middle of the day? This is so typical of the activist mindset.
I stared at her T-shirt. I wanted to flee. Then I realized: the Gothic font—in a small French town where few speak English on a daily basis—won’t be so easily read by the locals.
But my mother is right next door!
“I’m SO GLAD YOU COULD COME! I knew Allison wouldn’t let us down,” she told me.
“What are you—why are you—”
“Come with me!” she said, releasing me from her scary embrace. “Everyone’s waiting—well, we were expecting Allison, but now I feel blessed by the unexpected!” She gestured toward a cluster of girls in identical, red WHORE shirts, close to the door of the basilica. “We really need your perspective around here. And we need to get you a T-shirt! Before the meeting starts! Did you bring the maps?” she asked.
“Maps?”
“And the camera? I think we should do a group shot for the website! To document our experience. I’m so glad you’re getting involved. Is Allison okay? Her message was really weird! It’s not like Allison to miss a meeting!”
“Allison,” I said, “is doing just fine. Would you please tell me what’s going on? Since Allison can’t be bothered to?”
“What do you mean?” Roxana was bewildered—we both were.
“I came into town to get my hair done. I don’t know why you’re here or what you’re talking about. Would you please tell me what this is about? And what you’re doing here?”
“Oh.” Roxana looked crestfallen, but how crestfallen can a zealot be? After a second, she recovered her optimism and beamed at me, oozing benevolence and pride. “Bad Girls Without Borders has come to St-Maximin. We claim ownership of Mary Magdalen’s narrative. We’re here to preserve her bad reputation because it’s good for all sex workers. And we’re defending Provençal culture from the sex-negative extremists who have no respect for indigenous traditions.”
So. This is why Allison’s been so jumpy. This is what she’s been hiding from me. That phone call in the library. Emails to Roxana. Her obsession with Mary Magdalen’s “reputation.” Those maps? Did Roxana say something about maps? But Allie didn’t count on me going into town today! Her decision to stay away must be a last-minute ploy, her idea of damage control.
“So … you’re having a meeting? A conference of some sort?”
“Well, it’s more of an intervention,” Roxana explained. “The Paris whores told us about Ruthie Page when we were in Barcelona. They asked us to support their intervention with a statement. Then Allison had a better idea! Since she was coming here anyway, we came up with Plan B! Representatives from four different regions—on the ground. What I really hope is that Ruth will dialog with us. We don’t want a confrontation, but we don’t want forced rehabilitation either!”
Ruthie. I caught my breath. “Plan B?” The other day, that look on Allie’s face when I thought she was in dire need of the morning after pill! “Allie told me about the cave, and I’ve seen the relics. But I didn’t realize—”
“What Ruthie is planning to do here is nothing less than cultural genocide!”
“Does this Ruthie Page have access to weapons?”
“I don’t think so. But if she did,” Roxana warned me, “I wouldn’t put anything past her OR her followers. There she is now. Behind you.”
Ruthie, in the Rue du Général de Gaulle, was flanked by two teenage girls lugging too many Casino grocery bags. They were a curious-looking trinity, walking down the main shopping street in their black TAKE BACK THE MAGDALEN shirts. Ruthie was carrying a bag from the boulangerie.
I didn’t want her to see me standing with the red-shirted opposition. Roxana’s comrades were moving away from the church door. Eight or ten bodies, labeled WHORE, were advancing toward us, moving as one to protect Roxana from the feminist Christians. Or were they just making their presence known to Ruthie?
I don’t want to be caught in the middle. What if Mother has a sudden urge to photograph the basilica? Stranger things have been known to happen.
“Listen,” I said, in as steady a voice as I could. “I cannot afford to be spotted by Ruthie. Do you understand?”
“Where are you going? What about your T-shirt?”
“I’ll get it later!” I gasped. Then I bolted in the direction of the hair salon and ducked into a dingy, narrow cobblestoned street.
Walking past doors with peeling paint, exposed stairways, drying laundry, I turned a corner and found myself on another small street. Now there were brass name plates, lace curtains and the cobblestones looked clean.
When I called Duncan, he picked up on the first ring. “Where are you?” I asked, unable to hide my panic.
“Very close to the basilica,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“I wasn’t able to get a hair appointment. I’m—I’m hiding. But I’m okay.”
“Hiding.” There was a pause. “Where?”
“In …” I looked for a street sign. “Omigod. I’m not sure where I am! Wait. Wait. I’m in the Rue Raspail. Duncan?”
“I’m right here.”
“I cannot, must not, return to the basilica today. I’ll explain everything later.”
“Well, if you follow the street to the next corner and turn right, you’ll see some low arches under a covered sidewalk. There’s a sign that says ancien quartier juif. Walk away from that toward a house that has Lucien Bonaparte’s name on a blue and white plaque.”
It’s hard to believe Duncan’s only twenty-eight! He really knows how to make a girl feel handled … in a way that some guys NEVER can, at any age.
“Make a left. You’ll be in the Place Hoche. There’s a house with a very tall birdcage on the second floor balcony. I’ll be parked in front.” He paused. “Suzy?”
“Y-yes?” I could just see the medieval arches of the Jewish quarter coming into view.
“No need to explain. I’m here to help.”
Now safely back at Villa Gambetta, but dreading my next meeting with Mother. Perhaps I can persuade her to meet me at a distance from the basilique? Someplace where Roxana won’t be dialoguing with Ruth?
Allie—surprise!—has been resting in her bedroom with the door locked. But she can’t stay in there forever. Who does she think she’s kidding?
Midnight
Duncan, true to his word, hasn’t asked me to explain a thing.
This evening, as I was sitting by the pool, watching the sunset with a worried look on my face, wondering how to get Allie to end her wildcat strike, he appeared with a tiny shot of ice cold poire William.
>
“Really?” I said. “I don’t know … it does smell wonderful though.” Essence of orchard; soupçon of airplane fuel.
“When it’s this small,” he assured me, “it’s medicinal. By the way, there’s a hair salon on Rue Gutemberg. You can’t see the basilica from there, and it can’t see you. I’ll take you tomorrow, if you like.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
France: Two or Three Things I Know About Her
Friday morning, early
Allie’s work ethic has kicked in.
At dawn, I heard the blow-dryer going in her room. Readying herself for our midday adventure with Natalia. I must not confront Allie until that’s over and done with. It would be unprofessional to let personal issues affect our session.
Ten minutes later
Last night, when I called Isabel to confirm Natalia, her normal voicemail picked up. So far, there’s been no response. And now, Izzy’s outgoing message has changed to something generic—her phone number invoked by an efficient French robot.
Later
Breakfast by the pool was nerve-racking. Allie sat on a sun chair, meekly sipping her coffee. Now that I know that she knows that I know … the grounds I have for being thoroughly annoyed with her … she’s avoiding all eye contact! Roxana must have called her and told all.
But Allie doesn’t know I’m onto her arrangement with Tini. WHY does Allie have to complicate everything? Can’t she just keep her mind on the business at hand? I recruited her because I felt, on some level, I could trust her. What was I thinking?
Milt, studying his Wall Street Journal, was oblivious to the atmosphere of suspicion and panic circling his hired companions. I sat beneath a table umbrella, with one eye on my phone, chewing nervously on some blueberries. When I got up to call Isabel from the library, Allie began chattering to Milt about the beauty of his herb garden. “It’s a gorgeous lay-out,” she gushed. “We’re really at one with our environment!” She sighed with undisguised relief as I disappeared into the house.