“I want to,” Caitlin said, bending down to take off her shoes.
“Soon,” Marie said. “First breakfast.”
She was surprised by the adult tone of her voice. She was the responsible one, the one who told Caitlin what to do. Because she knew, by now, what Caitlin needed. Or maybe it was just that Marie was hungry. In need of coffee.
Marie found them a café out on the square, and she was able to order coffee, a croissant. She asked for everything in English. In France. This pleased Marie enormously.
“With milk?” the waitress asked, also in English. Because, of course, they spoke English in France. It was not much different from Mexico.
“Yes,” Marie said. “In a bowl. Please.”
“The milk in a bowl?”
“The coffee.”
Marie also ordered milk for Caitlin. In a glass. And another croissant. And fruit. A fruit salad. Marie asked for everything in English and it was all delivered, along with three different kinds of jams she had not asked for and a chocolate hazelnut spread.
Marie dipped her croissant into the bowl of coffee the way she had watched Benoît Doniel dunk his food into his coffee. This made Marie happy, though she would have rather shared the experience of her first coffee and croissant with Benoît. She was not happy to have left him. They had not lasted a day together. Not a single day. But Marie did not see what else there was for her to have done. She could still picture him, his hands in the French actress’s hair, his penis erect. Caitlin dipped her fingers into the pots of jam and then licked them clean.
“We like it in France?” Marie said. “Oui?”
Caitlin shook her head.
“No,” she said. And then she changed her mind. “Weeee,” she said.
She liked the jam, and Marie let her keep on eating it with her fingers. Caitlin had no interest in her croissant, but she drank her milk. She had gotten good with a glass, no longer needed a sippy cup. She was growing up. In the month they’d been together, Caitlin had gotten bigger, her hair longer. She grinned at Marie. There was jam in her hair. On her nose. On her yellow flowered T-shirt.
“Look at you, Caty Bean.”
Marie did not really believe that she had walked out on Benoît Doniel, taking his daughter with her. Benoît could take Caitlin from his wife, but Marie had no right to take the girl from her father. That was illegal; it had to be. But Marie could not fathom leaving the French actress’s apartment without Caitlin. She could not imagine her life without Caitlin.
The croissant, at least, was delicious. Lighter and flakier than any croissant she had ever had. It tasted like butter. And the coffee, it was also delicious. When the waitress came back around again, Marie ordered another.
“Do you want to eat your fruit?” she asked Caitlin.
Caitlin didn’t.
Marie gladly ate Caitlin’s fruit. The strawberries were smaller in France. Marie thought she should tell Caitlin what she was missing, insist that she should try the strawberries, but instead Marie ate them, every last one. She could not help herself. She had never tasted strawberries like these. They made her happy.
“Hi Caitlin,” Marie said, smiling at the little girl, fingers still in the jam.
“Hi Marie.”
“Hi Caty Bean.”
“Hi Marie.”
After breakfast, they would have to do something, go somewhere. Caitlin’s things, the bags and bags of favorite things Benoît had feverishly packed, were still in Lili Gaudet’s apartment. Marie had grabbed only Caitlin’s travel bag, Caitlin, and her own backpack, leaving everything else behind. She wished she had taken Caitlin’s stroller. A couple of stuffed animals. The Elmo doll. Caitlin’s father.
“What do you want to do next?” Marie said.
“I want to see sea lions,” Caitlin said.
Marie nodded. It was the right thing to do, symbolic. Whenever Marie required wisdom, she could count on Caitlin.
“How did you get so smart?” Marie asked her.
Caitlin grinned.
“We’ll go to the zoo,” Marie said. There had to be a zoo in Paris.
“Where is Mommy?” Caitlin asked.
“Mommy?” Marie only missed a beat. “Mommy is at the office.”
“Look at my fingers,” Caitlin said.
They were sticky with jam. She smeared jam on Marie’s bare arm. “Red,” Caitlin said.
Marie licked the jam off her arm. She licked Caitlin’s nose. Caitlin seemed to be satisfied with Marie’s answer. It was the same as in the airport. Caitlin did not miss her mother; she just needed to know her whereabouts.
“Your daddy is busy, too,” Marie said. “He is with the French actress.”
“There,” Caitlin said. “There is Daddy.”
Caitlin pointed, and there, in fact, was Benoît Doniel. His face was bright red, covered in a glossy sheen of sweat. His button-down shirt was unbuttoned and untucked. He doubled over once he reached them, hands on his thighs, catching his breath. His legs shook violently. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t.
“Of course,” he said, finally. “Of course. Of course. Bien sûr. You are having breakfast. No need to worry.”
Caitlin put her finger back into the pot of jam and offered it to Benoît. Benoît shook his head. He was staring at Marie. Marie couldn’t recognize the expression on his face. Love? Fear? Rage? She was inclined to think it was the latter, though she had never seen Benoît Doniel angry before. She did know what he looked like aroused by another woman.
“Good morning,” he said to Marie. “You have already eaten. That’s good. Very good. She went out for breakfast. That’s all. That’s okay. Sensible. You were hungry.”
“No,” Marie said. “I left.”
Benoît looked around for the waitress.
“I left you,” Marie said. “Then we decided on breakfast.”
“We saw French birds,” Caitlin said. “I pet a dog. This is good.” She dipped her fingers back into the jam.
“Don’t do that,” Benoît said, taking Caitlin’s hands out of the pot. “Why do you let her do that?”
It was the first time Benoît had ever criticized Marie for the way that she looked after Caitlin. Marie did not appreciate Benoît’s look of contempt. For the first time, he reminded her of Ellen. He had chosen to marry that woman. Why? Because she drank Diet Coke? Because she paid his bills? Was she even any good in bed? Marie doubted it. She reached for Caitlin’s croissant and took a bite.
Benoît ordered his breakfast in French, which seemed like just one more betrayal. But there they were, together, at a café in Paris, France, the way it was supposed to be. Standing in front of the sea lion tank, Marie had believed in them, in their future. She had thought everything was possible. They had been happy in New York, eating macaroni and cheese, taking walks to the park, taking baths in the afternoon. That had been real. Marie had been in love before and she recognized what it felt like.
“I know somewhere else we can stay,” Benoît said. “With my grandmother.”
“Good,” Marie said.
She needed some place to stay. Hotels in Paris would use up her meager savings in a matter of days. Marie was glad that Benoît Doniel had found them when he did. He could also pay for breakfast.
“I’m sorry, Marie,” Benoît said. “I beg you to forgive me.”
“I don’t want to hear that.”
“We have a complicated history,” Benoît said. “Lili et moi.”
The waitress came with Benoît’s coffee. He had gotten an espresso, not coffee in a bowl.
“I don’t want to know about her.”
“But you want to know about me. I am telling you about myself. Lili is practically a sister to me.”
“You have sex with all of your sisters?” Marie immediately regretted saying that. She didn’t want to engage him in this conversation. Did not want to be something as trivial as jealous. He could have this fight, later, with Ellen. “Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”
&nb
sp; “I want to tell you.”
Marie shook her head.
“Tell me,” Caitlin said. “Tell me, Daddy. Tell me.”
Caitlin could not walk fast enough for Benoît. He kept trying to hurry her along. Caitlin stopped at every new thing that she saw, and they were passing through an enormous flea market; there were many things to see. They got stuck at the fish tanks, rows and rows of colored fish. Marie would not have expected it. Fish for sale on the streets of Paris. Benoît bought Caitlin an orange goldfish in a small glass bowl.
“I like it,” Caitlin said.
“You’ll have to carry that now,” Marie told Benoît.
She was disturbed by the tone of her voice. Like an angry mother. Like a wife. She understood that she was mad at Benoît, but despite herself, she couldn’t maintain a sense of righteous anger. The market fascinated her: live fish and also dead fish for consumption; all sorts of produce and cheese, meats, and then, farther down the street, stall after stall of books, used books, new books, art books, postcards, prints. All of this across the street from the Seine.
It was springtime, and Marie was in Paris, and she could not help it, she felt excited. She wanted to go everywhere, see everything, even though she didn’t know what everything was because Marie knew almost nothing about Paris. The Eiffel Tower and the Louvre. Marie also knew that she wanted to eat snails, dripping with garlic sauce. It was Ellen’s mother who had long ago urged her to try them, who had told Marie that her life would not be complete until she had. This was Marie’s life. She had made it to Paris, and the snails were suddenly possible. Marie had never thought she would make it this far. She had not thought about what would happen after prison. Who she would spend her days with. Caitlin loved her goldfish.
“I want to name him Paris,” she said.
“Like Paris Hilton,” Marie said.
Caitlin looked confused.
“No,” she said.
“Not like Paris Hilton,” Marie said.
Caitlin said nothing, her expression troubled.
“Like the name of the city we are in right now?” Marie said. Caitlin nodded. To Marie’s satisfaction, Benoît already seemed put out, carrying his daughter’s goldfish bowl. She watched with amusement as he used one hand to get a pack of cigarettes from his jeans pocket, then to extract a cigarette and try to light it. He did not ask Marie to hold the glass bowl and she didn’t offer.
Following Benoît’s lead, they crossed the street bordering the Seine, and then made it down a flight of stone steps to the river, Caitlin holding Marie’s hand, going slowly, one leg and then another on each wide step, step after step. She refused to be picked up, and Benoît walked quickly ahead of them, with purpose. Marie watched him walk away and wondered what would happen if they weren’t able to catch up. But he stopped not far from the bottom of the stone staircase, positioning himself on the end of a long line, and Marie and Caitlin were able to join him there.
“What is this for?” Marie asked.
“We will travel by boat, I think,” Benoît said. “It will be faster. You’ll like it. Trust me.”
Marie raised her eyebrow.
“You will like the boat,” Benoît said. “Americans do.”
Marie watched as Benoît Doniel paid for their tickets.
Her American dollars, so far, were still untouched.
They went to the top deck of the boat and sat on a wooden bench that looked out on the Seine. Benoît was right about something. Marie did like it. It was also a way to see Paris without walking, without Caitlin constantly slowing them down.
Coming up, she could see Notre Dame. Marie had studied the building in an art history class, in college, when she had been a different person, a student, earnest.
“Those are called flying buttresses,” Marie told Caitlin.
Marie was impressed with herself, that she had remembered the term. She had never felt the need to use it before in everyday conversation. Marie wondered what else was stored in her brain.
“Those are gargoyles,” Marie said, pointing to the monsters on the cathedral, too far away for Caitlin to see. “Those crazy monsters. Do you see them?”
“No,” Caitlin said, leaning forward, standing on the tips of her toes. “Where are crazy monsters? Where, Marie?”
Marie pulled Caitlin back. It was impossible for Caitlin to fall overboard, she was too small to make it over the railing, but Marie pulled Caitlin against her legs anyway and tickled her ribs. Caitlin laughed happily, forgetting about the monsters.
“No!” she screamed, delighted, as Marie tickled her.
Benoît stood next to them, leaving the goldfish bowl on the bench. He tried to light a cigarette and failed with the wind.
“That was awful. What you did. In front of me.” Marie looked again at the cathedral, but somehow, what she saw instead was the pink nipple of Lili Gaudet’s perfectly formed breast, the top half of her black lingerie hanging around her waist. Marie blinked and she could see the cathedral again. They were getting closer and closer. “I had assumed something about us, what we might mean to each other, and I guess that wasn’t true.”
Benoît Doniel said nothing. Not a thing.
Even Caitlin was quiet.
Marie had never had a fight with Juan José. She did not know how adults behaved in a situation like this. It had felt brave to Marie, to speak the unspeakable. She was giving Benoît Doniel an opening, a chance to defend himself. Earlier that same day, she had left him, turning street corners at random, moving blindly forward, but now they were on a boat together. It almost might have been romantic.
He could say something, Marie thought. Something. Anything. He had left Ellen, had left his wife, for her. Taken off with Ellen’s beautiful child and her credit card. Wasn’t that a sign of love? Of something? Marie turned from the view to look at him. The sight of him took her by surprise, the same wonderful face that she anticipated every morning after Ellen left for work. The author of Virginie at Sea with his swoopy hair and beaky nose. Marie felt herself swell with love looking at him. Even after the French actress. She loved him. A little bit. Though she also understood that Benoît Doniel was rotten. And it was not just for sleeping with the French actress, but also because he had slept with her, Marie, the babysitter.
The boat was now directly in front of Notre Dame and it seemed to Marie that this was an incredible waste of extraordinary scenery, to be having the conversation she had started.
“I didn’t plan that,” Benoît said. “I would take it back. How that happened. I did not mean to ever see Lili again. It was a surprise on the airplane. I wasn’t prepared. She wouldn’t let me go. You saw that, Marie. I don’t plan these things in my life. I never planned on you.”
Marie blinked. This was his explanation? This was his big apology? This was how he conducted his life? By accident? Had Juan José planned his bank robbery? Or had he and his partner just shown up, guns waving? Marie had no idea. Why hadn’t she asked him? Ellen certainly planned things. She had an elaborate plan for her life that included law school and careful control of Caitlin’s diet. Had Ellen planned on Benoît Doniel? It had been a mistake, obviously, Ellen’s chance encounter with her future husband in Paris. She belonged with someone altogether different, a man who dressed conservatively and kept a meticulous account ledger. Marie had never planned on running away to Paris with Ellen’s husband and her daughter. She wished they could go back in time, go back three days, and stay there, forever suspended in time.
“How?” Marie wanted to know. “How did you ever write a novel?”
“What?”
“If you don’t plan things?” Marie said. “How did you write Virginie at Sea? How did you write it?”
Benoît shook his head. He did not answer Marie’s question. Marie suddenly remembered Caitlin, realized that she was no longer pressed against her legs. Where was she? Marie would blame Benoît Doniel if something happened to her. It would be his fault that he had distracted Marie from what was important, from Cait
lin, who had not disappointed Marie, who remained nothing less than wonderful, but Caitlin was sitting on the bench behind them, more interested in her new goldfish than the view.
“Hi Paris,” she said, talking to the fish in the glass bowl. Benoît still said nothing.
“You can’t write a book by accident,” Marie said.
“You’re right.”
“I’m right, what? You can’t write a book by accident? Then how did you write it?”
“I didn’t.”
Marie looked at Benoît, speechless, suddenly understanding the unmistakable truth of what he had just said. He hadn’t written Virginie at Sea. He had been lying to her, all this time. Marie bit her lip. She shook her head. She watched as Benoît tried, again, to light a cigarette. He was helpless, pathetic, the wind blowing out the flickering flame from his lighter. Marie was disgusted. She could not bear to watch him fail at this simple task, fail and keep on failing, and so she cupped her hands in front of his once beloved face, blocking the wind.
It all made perfect sense.
“Your sister wrote it,” Marie said.
“Yes. Oui. Ma sœur.”
“Nathalie wrote Virginie at Sea.”
The book that had spelled out Marie’s innermost thoughts, that had spoken to her soul. It had been written, of course, by a woman, a sad, lost, young woman, unsure if she wanted to live or die.
“I found it,” Benoît said, “after she killed herself. I found her book in a hatbox. She left me a note, telling me what to do. She left a list of publishers, their addresses, everything.”
Marie looked at Benoît, at his familiar face, the one she had first learned by heart on that worn book jacket, lying on the top bunk of her prison cell, fantasizing about an imaginary author instead of a dead lover.
Bad Marie Page 7