“What are you thinking?” Benoît said.
“She wanted you to publish the book in her name?”
“She was dead.” Benoît Doniel was self-righteous in his defense. “She left me. Just checked out. Bye-bye. You understand this? How this feels? She left me with her body. I had to take care of her dead body. My petite sœur. I had to cut her down from the ceiling. She did not deserve to be celebrated. The book was a gift. Her gift to me. Because I had to keep living without her. It was only fair. Don’t you see?”
Fair. Maybe it was. In Benoît Doniel’s French fucked-up view of the world. But not even drinking coffee from a bowl, none of his ridiculous fop-headed charm, could minimize the hurt Marie felt.
“Who else knows?”
Benoît sucked on his cigarette, smoked down to the butt.
“Who?” she repeated.
“You,” he said. “You and me. No one else. You and me. You and me.”
The wind blew Benoît’s swoopy, idiotic hair into his eyes. He threw his cigarette butt into the Seine, polluting his own city. You and me, a pathetic attempt to save himself. If nothing else, Marie held Benoît Doniel’s future in her hands. She could ruin him. Or she could walk away. Take the high road. Except that she was trapped on a slow boat going down the Seine, surrounded by water and old-world architecture.
“Do they sell drinks on this boat?” Marie asked.
“Drinks?”
“Cold beverages. Do they?”
“I don’t know. They must.”
“Buy me something,” Marie said.
“What?”
“I don’t care. A water. An Orangina. Buy me something French that I’ve never had before. Buy me that. Get something for Caitlin, too.”
“What?”
“What? I don’t know. Anything. Get her a juice,” Marie said. “No, milk, get her some milk.”
“Milk,” Caitlin said. Marie had not known that Caitlin, safe on her bench, was listening. “I want milk.”
“Milk,” Marie said, though she knew Caitlin had already had too much milk. But Marie was not Caitlin’s mother. Not her mother. Though not her babysitter, either, anymore. “Get her something to eat, too. She must be hungry.”
Marie looked at Benoît and he looked back at her. She tilted back her head, made a drinking motion, and he left. Marie turned to watch him go and noticed, with satisfaction, a long line. She turned to look again at the view, to take in the flying buttresses and the gargoyles, to appreciate them, but Notre Dame was long gone. Marie could see the Eiffel Tower coming up instead. It seemed to be everywhere, taunting her.
The grandmother’s apartment was dark and dirty and smelled horrible, like a dead animal. It was on the sixth floor of an old apartment building.
After getting off the boat, they had left the splendor of the day and gone underground, riding the metro, taking two different trains to what Benoît Doniel said was the outskirts of the city, before waiting for a bus that took them someplace even farther. The look of the people in the streets had changed. There were fewer stylish white people, wearing scarves, walking poodles. Instead, Marie heard people speaking Arabic. Instead, the streets were filled with mostly blacks, blacks and old people. Benoît told Marie the name of the neighborhood, but it was in French, complicated, and she promptly forgot it. It was not where Lili Gaudet lived.
They had climbed six flights of stairs, steep, winding, narrow, uncarpeted stairs. Benoît continued to carry the goldfish bowl; Marie had Caitlin. She had carried her all the way from the bus where she had fallen asleep. They had missed her nap time. The stroller remained in the French actress’s apartment, as did the four suitcases.
“My grandmaman,” Benoît said as he opened the door, “went into a home. Not too long ago, I think. I don’t remember exactly. There is supposed to be a cleaning lady. It doesn’t seem like she has been here for a while, though, does it?”
Marie could see particles of dust floating in the air.
A spindly black cat with scabs on its back came rushing at them. Mucus was dripping out of both of the cat’s eyes. It went straight for Benoît, pressed itself against his legs and started to meow, the loudest meow Marie had ever heard a cat make. Marie had to suppress the urge to kick it. Benoît almost dropped the goldfish.
“Do you know this cat?” Marie said.
“Ludivine, of course. My grandmother’s cat. I had forgotten all about her.”
“Is that a girl’s name?”
“Yes, of course.”
“She’s starving.”
“It looks like it.”
Benoît put the goldfish on top of a table and bent down to pet the miserable cat. It continued to meow, opening its mouth wide. Ludivine was missing her front teeth. If she didn’t shut up, she would wake Caitlin. Caitlin needed to sleep. Marie had been grateful when she had conked out on the bus.
“This is where we are going to stay?”
They stood in the hallway, unwilling to go farther, the cat screeching. Marie had been looking forward to laying Caitlin down, but she changed her mind, afraid that the cat might try to eat the girl.
Already, Marie missed the French actress’s apartment. It was clean and light and had sleek, modern furniture. A clean bathtub. A balcony in the room where she had had sex with Benoît. The room where Benoît had proceeded to have sex with the French actress.
“Are you sure she is in a home?”
Marie almost expected to find an old woman, eyes chewed out, body decomposing. She reluctantly followed Benoît down the hall. They passed through a living room, which was dark, the blinds drawn, and stepped into the kitchen. The bad smell grew fouler with every step. There were rotten onions on the floor of the kitchen, cardboard boxes and newspapers and bags ripped to shreds. Jars of spices, boxes of pasta, all of them on the floor. Chewed upon cans of cat food. Marie could see the bite marks on the metal.
This, of course, was also Paris.
Ludivine had followed them into the kitchen, rubbing against their legs, plaintively meowing. Marie stepped on her tail and nearly dropped Caitlin.
The cat started to chew on one of the closed cans. She obviously had no faith in Benoît Doniel, either. In the midst of the mess, Marie saw the long, sharp teeth on the floor, the two front teeth missing from Ludivine’s mouth. There was also an empty water bowl.
Marie gently lay Caitlin down on top of a wooden kitchen table, hoping not to wake her up. Caitlin opened her eyes. “Hi Marie,” she said.
“Stay there,” Marie said.
“The cat is meowing, Marie,” Caitlin said.
“I know it is. I’m going to feed the cat and maybe it will be quiet.”
“It’s hungry? That cat?” Caitlin sat up. She rubbed her eyes.
Marie nodded.
“Do you know where a can opener is?” she asked Benoît.
Benoît only shrugged. He pulled a chair from the table and sat down, lit another cigarette, filling the already airless, bad-smelling room with smoke.
“Mon Dieu,” he said. He was less than useless.
“Will you help me look for it?” Marie heard how she sounded. The nagging tone of an aggrieved wife.
“Help me,” she repeated. It was not a question.
Benoît got up. He began to open drawers, rifling through random objects. “I don’t see it,” he said. “There is none.”
Marie was silent. He had brought them here, to this place. He had said the words “grandmother’s apartment” and Marie had pictured crocheted rugs, a freshly baked quiche lorraine, bowls of hot chocolate.
Benoît kept looking, eventually finding the can opener in a crowded drawer. He handed it to Marie.
“I need a plate,” she said, and Benoît found that, too. Marie opened the cat food, pushing Ludivine away with one hand, afraid that the cat would bite her, which, of course, the cat couldn’t do because she had no teeth. But Marie didn’t want to touch or be touched by that miserable creature. She practically threw the plate on the floor and watched, dispassionately, as Lu
divine pounced.
“The cat is eating!” Caitlin thought this was exciting.
“She was hungry,” Marie said.
Marie was also hungry.
Benoît stared at Ludivine as she ate the food. In seconds, it was gone. Marie opened another can. She knelt down and pushed Ludivine away with her elbow. She put more food on the plate.
“Here, cat,” she said.
Ludivine did not seem like a good name for a cat.
The cat stepped away from the fresh plate of food and proceeded to vomit.
“Marie, Marie!”
“What is it, Caty Bean?”
“Is the cat sick?”
“She is,” Marie said. “Maybe she ate too fast. I don’t know. She’s not healthy, that’s for sure.” Marie looked at Benoît. He didn’t move. He smoked his cigarette, like the ridiculous French person that he was. He wasn’t going to clean up the vomit. But it wasn’t Marie’s cat. She wasn’t going to do it. Marie looked out of the kitchen, down the hallway: an apartment full of potential horrors.
“What else are we going to find here?” Marie asked.
A dead body behind one of the closed doors still seemed entirely possible. There was a knock at the front door.
“Aha,” Marie said.
Benoît looked at Marie. The knocking continued.
“Benoît,” a female voice called out. “C’est toi? Benoît?”
The knocking continued.
Marie wasn’t going to let this woman in. Not another woman from Benoît’s past. Instead, she opened the refrigerator. Earlier that morning, before leaving the French actress’s apartment, she had opened her refrigerator. She’d found two eggs, three bottles of chilled champagne, Dijon mustard, and a box of raspberries. Vanilla ice cream in the freezer. Marie also had a mental image of Ellen’s stainless-steel refrigerator, always crammed full of good food.
The grandmother’s refrigerator was empty. Clean. Cleaned out. A box of baking soda and nothing else. Marie breathed in the chemical smell of cleanser and started to cough. She slammed the refrigerator door shut. There was no air in the room, only Benoît Doniel’s rancid cigarette smoke. The kitchen windows were closed. Marie tried to open a window, but it was locked. The locks in France were different.
“I want off,” Caitlin said.
She stood up on the table.
Marie went to Caitlin and scooped her off the table; Caitlin locked her legs around Marie’s waist. She was getting heavier. Soon, she would need dinner. She would need a bath. Marie would need dinner. Marie would need a bath. The cat, done vomiting, returned to the plate of food as if she had never gotten sick. The knocking continued.
“Are you going to open the door?” Marie asked Benoît.
“I don’t know. Should I?”
“Benoît?” the woman called.
Another goddamned Frenchwoman. If Marie met another one like the French actress, she would start to miss Ellen.
“You better open it,” Marie said. “She knows we are in here.”
This one had dark curly hair. She was older and wore a shapeless green cardigan and a black shapeless skirt, a beaded necklace. She was overweight, had a mole on her cheek, a sharp black hair growing from its center.
Marie watched the inevitable cheek kissing, and then a long, sad hug. She did not know how long Benoît Doniel had been away or why he had left. He had left his country behind. He must have meant it, to leave everyone and everything behind: the old grandmother, the demented French actress, the memory of his dead sister, the book he had stolen.
The hug with this frumpy, distressed Frenchwoman finally ended and then she began to speak to Benoît. In urgent French, of course. Everyone was always speaking French. Marie found it maddening. She could read nothing in Benoît’s face, whose blank expression did not change though the woman grew more and more passionate. Big news, obviously, was being shared.
“Who is that?” Caitlin said. Marie shook her head, but Caitlin seemed to lose interest in the question the moment she asked it. “My shirt is dirty.”
Caitlin held out her arm. There was something red on the sleeve of her shirt. Marie recognized the breakfast jam.
“That’s okay,” Marie said. “We’ll clean it.”
Marie hoped that the woman would leave soon, or at least offer them something to eat. Marie noticed a break in the conversation. Benoît was sweating through his untucked shirt.
“Come,” he said to Marie. “This is Sophie. Marie.”
The woman appeared embarrassed; she had not noticed Marie or Caitlin. And because she was French, she went straight for Marie’s cheeks. They were both kissed. There was nothing Marie could do. The woman then tousled Caitlin’s hair.
“No,” Caitlin said.
“Parlez-vous Français?” she asked Marie.
Marie shook her head.
“Domage.”
“Sophie lives next door,” Benoît said. “The nursing home had her telephone number. My grandmother died two days ago.”
“Fuck,” Marie said.
“Fuck,” Caitlin said.
“She died?” Marie said.
“She died,” Benoît said.
“But not here?”
Marie did not want Caitlin to see a dead body.
“At the nursing home. They need me to tell them what to do with the body. They have been waiting.”
Sophie in the cardigan sweater started talking in French again, waving her arms, growing louder and louder, before enfolding Benoît in her arms, because he suddenly began to weep.
“Daddy is crying?” Caitlin said.
“He’s a writer,” Marie answered. “He’s very sensitive. It’s okay, Kit Kat. It’s okay.”
Ludivine had come back to where they all stood and started to meow. This roused Benoît. He knelt down and began to pet the wretched cat.
“Pauvre chat,” he said, shaking his head.
Benoît Doniel would not know what to do. Marie understood this. He would need a woman to tell him what came next. But Marie did not feel that this was her job. He had taken her to Paris; it was his town. He was supposed to be responsible for their well-being, Marie and Caitlin. The Frenchwoman continued to talk at Benoît, unaware that he was beyond helpless; she thrust at him various pieces of paper.
“I am going to have to pay for the cremation,” Benoît told Marie, still petting the cat. “And take care of this apartment. I have to pay her bills and get rid of her things. I am the only one left. Another body, Marie, I am supposed to take care of. I am not strong enough for this.”
The telephone in the grandmother’s apartment started to ring. It rang and it rang.
“I am the only one left,” Benoît repeated.
Marie felt no sympathy. Who was she? And Caitlin? He wasn’t alone. Unless he knew how much she could not bear to look at him, her fury so enormous. Marie hoped that would change. It was Sophie who put her hand on Benoît’s arm. She said something of consolation to him, in French, of course. Which was fine with Marie. She had not signed up for this. She had not signed up for being lied to, cheated on, and certainly not this, an all-out emotional collapse.
The telephone continued to ring.
“Réponds au téléphone?” the frumpy Frenchwoman said. Marie could hear the anxiety in her voice. The ringing phone made Marie want to jump out of her skin. She could hear the desperation on the other end, the insistence of the ringing.
“Don’t answer it,” Marie said, surprised by her instinct, still, to protect him. Protect herself.
Benoît went down the hall of the apartment, disappearing into another room.
“Oui?” Marie heard Benoît say.
And then silence. A long, heavy silence, broken only by Ludivine’s plaintive meows, until Marie heard Benoît Doniel put the phone back onto the receiver. He returned, slowly, dejected, down the hall.
“Ellen,” he said to Marie. “That was Ellen.”
Sophie responded again in rapid French.
Benoît put his hand u
p, as if to push her away.
Marie felt her heart start to race. She stepped away from the front door, almost expecting Ellen to come bursting through. What did she say, Ellen? Where was she? Paris? New York? What did she say? What did she plan to do?
“What did she say?” Marie asked.
She wanted to smack Benoît Doniel, for making her ask. She would have smacked him, but felt hesitant in front of the Frenchwoman, a witness to their disintegration.
“What did she say?”
Benoît’s face had turned a shade of ashy green. His swoopy hair was stuck to his forehead, which was covered with a slick sheen of nervous sweat. He did not answer Marie. He picked up Caitlin and started heading toward the door.
“Down,” Caitlin said.
Benoît did not put her down.
“Get the cat,” he told Marie.
“No,” Marie said.
Benoît picked up the cat.
“I want my goldfish,” Caitlin said. “I want Paris.”
“The fucking goldfish,” Benoît said. “Fine.”
He rushed past Marie and the Frenchwoman, still holding Caitlin and the cat. He managed to also grab the goldfish bowl from the kitchen, and then he made for the door. “Come,” he said to Marie.
“What did she say?” Marie demanded.
Benoît Doniel was already taking the steps, two at a time.
“We have to go,” Marie explained to the dumpy Frenchwoman whose mouth was wide open, who had finally stopped talking. At least, she could still say “we.”
Marie stepped out of the dead grandmother’s apartment. She watched Benoît make his escape. Halfway down the first flight of steps, Benoît dropped the cat, but he kept his grip on Caitlin and the goldfish. Ludivine ran ahead and then waited. Marie followed, slowly, hands empty, down the six flights of stairs, one step at a time.
Ludivine ran rapid circles around the back of the taxi, meowing loudly. The cabdriver cursed at Benoît and Benoît cursed back. The exchange was in French, again, so Marie could tune them out, and Caitlin could not mimic back the words. Not yet. Benoît could not catch the demented cat. He grabbed hold of her at one point, and Ludivine dragged a claw across his cheek, leaving behind a long thin line of blood.
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