“What Odette means,” I say, “is that if you don’t keep an eye on your man, he’ll run off with the kitchen help. It’s an old French saying.”
“Mais non …” Odette says disingenuously.
Lucy comes out with the sausages, humming to herself and practically skipping on the pavement. Maybe Richard should stay away all the time
“We’ll just throw them all on, don’t you think? Whoever’s not around can have a cold one later.” She lines up the sausages on the grill, perfectly symmetrically, and surrounds them like little prisoners with halved onions and slices of green pepper. Under the fig tree, the girls are playing a modified version of jacks with their pebble collection. Agnes is winning, as usual. I thought at first that Sophie was letting her, but now I’m not so sure.
“That kid’s gonna be a card shark,” Jim says.
“A very silent card shark,” Lucy says.
“Hey, that’s the best kind.”
Jane emerges from behind the house with her drawing pad. She gives me a look and I make a little shrug as if to say, Why don’t we just drop it for now? Marge glances at her inquiringly. At least they’ve stopped making out all the time in front of Odette, who’s getting used to it anyway. A door bangs up the road and Yolande comes out of the Perettis’ house. She hastens over to us.
“I must tell you that the countess is very upset,” she says to Odette.
“She’s not a countess,” Lucy says heatedly. “Her name is Lupa Romesco and I think we should turn her in to the police!”
“Really, this is too much! Madame Fatulescu is a distinguished poet. I—”
“Ask her to show you one of her books!”
“I shall do no such thing,” Yolande says with dignity. Just then she notices the girls crouching in the dust. “Well, now, and what nice game are we playing?” she whines in the dulcet tones some adults feel obliged to adopt with children.
“None of your business,” Sophie says churlishly.
“Sophie!”
Yolande dismisses this with a wave of her hand, a motion that causes her many rings to flash dazzlingly in the sun. “It is nothing. Children will be children, no?”
“Vraiment, there is no excuse for rudeness.”
“Well,” Yolande says meaningfully, “when the mother does not teach them …”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, but Yolande ignores me, her eyes fixed on the girls.
“What pretty pebbles,” she simpers. “Did you find them on the beach?”
“Oh, they’re always picking up things,” Odette says. “It’s quite impossible to keep the house tidy…. Which reminds me, has anyone seen the big blue pot?”
“We stuck it in the attic,” I remind her.
“Oh, of course—could you run up and fetch it?”
I head upstairs. At the top of the house, across from the room where we store all the junk we no longer use but can’t bring ourselves to throw out, is the garret that Yves has been occupying. As I pass the closed door, I hear a soughing sound. I think at first that Yves must be taking a nap, until I remember that I just saw him in the kitchen peeling potatoes. I pause and listen. The soughing turns in to a gasp, followed by a low moan, then a silence broken abruptly by Isabelle’s voice.
“I hate you.”
“I know,” Jiri says.
I creep away. The attic light doesn’t work, but in the penumbra, I can make out Ross’s diving equipment, the oxygen tanks and masks and the speargun with which he famously never caught anything. A vanquished inflatable raft lies in a corner, in a jumble of mismatched flippers, broken nets, and the Chinese paper lanterns Lucy bought for Ross’s seventieth birthday party, which caught fire because she insisted on putting votive candles inside them. Odette’s pot is on a makeshift shelf along the far wall. When I bend down to lift it, I notice an old postcard lying on the floor, its face obscured with grime. I pick it up and wipe off the dust. It’s a view of the old town square in Antwerp, with the Brabo Fountain in the foreground. I turn the card over. It’s addressed to Ross, the handwriting bleached and smudgy but still legible. There’s a scrawled note in the message space— Greetings from Antwerp! —and a loopy, European-looking signature, Jacques Van Something, which, on closer inspection, turns out to be Langendonck, the same name as Yolande’s. Something at the back of my mind is nagging me: a trip we took when I was little to a northern city with spires and canals, chocolate shops, a tall blond man meeting with Ross in a café, huge ice creams that reeked of bribery.
I slip the postcard into my pocket, pick up the pot, and let myself out, closing the door softly behind me. In the little room, Isabelle and Jiri are still at it. Maybe it’s my imagination, but there’s a sort of desperate intensity to the noises they’re making, an animal pitch, or is that what everyone sounds like? I slink back down the stairs. On the second-floor landing, Jim is waiting for me.
“I was just going up to look for you.”
Maybe it’s what I just heard upstairs, or something about the way he’s standing, or the tone of his voice, but I am suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to rip my clothes off and throw myself at him. I blink.
Jim gazes at me solicitously. “Hey, Connie, what’s up? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
I hand him the pot and steady myself against the banister.
“What’s that noise?” he asks.
“Just the eaves creaking,” I say. “Is it really true, about Richard and Albertine?”
He turns serious. “You know, I wouldn’t have said anything, but I think they might be taking advantage of him-she and that brother of hers.”
“Why would anyone want to take advantage of Richard?”
“I don’t know, it’s just a hunch I have.”
“Maybe it’s just what he needs,” I say lightly, my wanton thoughts now dispelled. “A little rest and recreation.”
“She just doesn’t seem like his type of girl,” Jim says with a worried look. “I mean, Lucy is so beautiful, and Albertine—well, she’s kind of coarse … and they kept pouring him free drinks.”
“Free drinks at the Marmite? Something is definitely up.”
“I think we should go look for him,” Jim says doggedly.
“Oh, come on.”
“I mean it.”
Since he sounds like he does, I decide to humor him. “Okay, I’ll tell you what: If he hasn’t turned up by morning, we’ll send out a search party.”
“By midnight. If he hasn’t turned up by midnight.”
“Honestly, his own wife isn’t even worried about him. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“Hey, us guys have to stick together,” Jim says with a goofy smile, though in fact I don’t think he’s entirely kidding.
CHAPTER thirty-nine
Naturally Richard doesn’t show up by midnight.
“I’m going out to look for him,” Jim says. Odette makes a clucking sound and, with a sigh, puts down her knitting needles. Ever since I’ve known her, she’s always been knitting something, though I’ve never actually seen a scarf or sweater. Maybe she unravels her work every night like Penelope.
“You stay here,” I say. “I’ll go with Isabelle.” From the couch where she’s been sunk for the past hour in a sated stupor, engrossed in an Astérix comic, my sister gives me a befuddled look.
“Ah non!” Odette protests. “You must take the men.”
“We’re in a French village,” I snap, “not downtown Detroit.”
“She’s right,”—Isabelle yawns, dropping her book on the floor—“you’ll just make a scene, Jim. I can handle Eddie and Fabrice. Come on, Constance, let’s go.”
We step out into the darkness. At this time of night you can pick out the vacation houses by their lights, the bright yellow squares spilling their patchy illumination onto the path. I glance up at Philippe’s window.
“Aren’t you going over?” Isabelle asks, a solicitous tone in her voice.
“In case you hadn’t noticed,” I say irritably
, “I’ve been trying to catch your attention all evening.”
“It’s better that way, you know,” she says kindly. “You should always keep them guessing.”
“Spare me the philosophizing.”
“Men only fall in love with you if you treat them badly,” she imperturbably continues.
“Yeah, and tall, good-looking people get paid more than fat, short ones.”
“Is that true?”
“Yup. They’ve done research.”
“I thought it was different in business,” Isabelle says. “I thought it was about how smart you are.”
I turn to her. In the ghostly light cast out by the Perettis’ TV, my sister looks like a priestess, the guardian of some ancient rite. My leg brushes against a bush and a dry scent wafts up: rosemary? Lucy would know. I will my mind to clarity. “Don’t waste your time sucking up to me. I spoke to Jane, she wants her share of the money.”
“Yeah, I figured she would…. How do the rich stay rich, huh?”
“I’m not sure she’s all that rich. She’s got a project and I have a feeling it involves Marge.”
“They’re starting a foundation,” Isabelle says.
“What?”
“I heard them talking about it: It’s some kind of eco-feminist thing in Oxford. Marge is going to be the president.”
I hoot. “Really? No wonder she doesn’t want to use her own money. Anyway, if I were you, I wouldn’t press the issue.”
She peers at me with the disarming intensity she has always been able to summon at the drop of a hat, brushing my arm softly with the tips of her fingers. For someone who’s been betrayed by her body, my sister has a puzzling faith in physical contact. “Constance, I know you’re mad at me, but you have no idea what it’s like…. I know exactly how prostitutes feel.”
“Isabelle, just because you had sex with your husband doesn’t make you a prostitute.”
“I don’t love him.”
“I don’t love most of the guys I sleep with.”
“I hate myself for being so weak,” she bursts out. “He pushes my buttons and I roll over like a dog; it’s like I have no control over myself!”
I could tell her that I know how she feels, but something within me recoils at this cheap kinship. I touch her shoulder. “Come on,” I say.
We step out onto the road. From the tables outside Frédé’s snack bar, the uneasy summer mix of local kids and vacationing teenagers watch us glumly.
“Salut,” Isabelle calls out. Twenty years ago she would have been one of them, a forgotten glass of that beer-and-lemonade concoction they all drink beading up before her, stealing glances at soft lips and cruel eyes. The Parisian girls, like the summer houses, glow with a careless effulgence. A slim-hipped boy glances at us.
“Salut,” Frédé calls back. A couple of the kids wave halfheartedly. They all know her: She comes up here when she’s drunk to bum cigarettes.
“We’re looking for the Englishman,” she says.
Frédé shrugs. “Try the café.”
We cross the deserted place, our steps soft in our espadrilles. I used to think they were an affectation, but now I wear them like everyone else, buying them for twenty francs from the wire baskets outside the Perettis’ shop. Ross had to special-order his in the States because they never had his size. All of a sudden I remember the postcard.
“Did Dad ever take us to Belgium?” I ask.
“Sure, a couple times. We went to Bruges, remember? There was this shop where they sold breast-shaped chocolates and we brought some back for Daphne. She totally didn’t get it.” Isabelle sniggers.
“You mean we went without her?”
“Yeah. Don’t you remember?”
“How old was I?” I ask.
“I don’t know, four or five….”
“I thought Mom died when I was four.”
“Yeah,” Isabelle says vaguely.
“And she was sick for a year?”
“I guess so….”
“So what was Dad doing in Bruges, buying chocolate breasts for Daphne?”
“I might have the dates mixed up,” Isabelle says uncomfortably.
“I don’t believe you. Dad was cheating on Vera with Daphne, wasn’t he?”
“Look, it was complicated—”
“For Christ’s sake, she was dying of cancer!”
Isabelle whirls around. “You have no idea what our mother was like—she never had any time for him before she got sick!” she says angrily. “She was busy with her stupid ballet school, and she was crazy and anorexic and if you want to know the truth, she wasn’t even that great a dancer: Why do you think she was teaching?”
“What about the Kirov?” I ask.
“Oh, she danced at the Kirov, all right, but she wasn’t a principal; she was in the chorus.”
“I kind of figured,” I say. “Why did you go along with it, though? All those posters on your walls—or was that just to piss Daphne off?”
Isabelle shrugs in her inimitable French way. “I don’t know. I guess I was jealous because Daphne so obviously adored Lucy; Vera always acted like she never knew I existed. After she died, though, I could make her into anything I wanted.” She grins. “You know me, I always liked fairy tales.”
“Like someone else I know,” I say.
She scrutinizes me with a mysterious expression. “You’re a lot more like Dad than you realize.”
I know. It’s not something I think about a lot, but the consciousness is there, in the back of my mind, that I, too, am my father’s daughter. Not until this moment has it ever occurred to me, however, that I may also be my mother’s child.
“So much for our moral debt to Jane and Lucy,” I say. “I wonder if they know.”
“Lucy does. I’m not sure about Jane—she was too little. If you really think about it, though, they kind of owe us,” she adds hopefully. “I mean, their mother did seduce our father….”
“You’re just not going to let go, are you?”
“Sshhh! Isn’t that Eddie?”
I follow her gaze to the Marmite’s doorway where a figure stands in the shadows, the tip of his cigarette glowing.
“Eh, les filles!”
“He saw us; we’d better go over.”
We cross the place. Eddie sucks on his cigarette again, tosses it to the ground, and grinds it down with the heel of his boot as we approach. “You’re out late.”
“We’re looking for Richard,” Isabelle says.
Eddie smirks. “He’s busy.”
I peer beyond him into the empty bar. “Looks like you had quite a party,” Isabelle says. Eddie should shower more often: His cologne doesn’t quite succeed in masking his body odor.
“She’s funny, your sister,” Eddie says, addressing himself to me. “The English guy is funny, too—he told us some good stories.”
“Yeah, we find him pretty entertaining too,” Isabelle says. “Now, if you’ll get out of the way, we’ll take him home.”
“Don’t be such a wiseass,” I whisper.
“I know what I’m doing.” She turns back to Eddie.
“Arrête de faire le con …” Great, now she’s calling him names. There’s a rustling sound as someone parts the beaded curtain in the back of the bar, only to withdraw at the sight of us.
“Hey,” I say, because I could swear it was the countess, or Lupa Romesco, or whatever her name is.
Eddie shrugs and motions behind him with his thumb. “Go right ahead.”
“Come on, Constance, don’t just stand there!” Isabelle snaps as Eddie steps aside to let us through. The room has that desolate late-night look, dirty glasses lined up on the counter, full ashtrays. The curtain clicks back into place as we enter the kitchen, where there is no sign of the countess or anyone else. There’s a back exit though that leads through a courtyard to the annex the Simonettis built a couple years ago to house paying guests. I’ve never been back there, but Isabelle seems to know her way around. I follow her through the cheap glass-a
nd-aluminum door into a corridor lit by a naked bulb hanging on a cord. “Third on the left,” Eddie calls from behind us.
Isabelle turns the latch and pushes the door open. The room smells like sex and toilets, the latter from the bathroom en suite that is separated from the sleeping quarters by a plastic accordion door. Under the window, our brother-in-law and Albertine are slumped on the bed, naked except for Richard’s socks. Albertine gasps when she sees us. Richard lets out a bubbly snore.
“Who knew he had it in him?” Eddie cracks.
“Get out of here!” Albertine says, grabbing at the sheet. She sounds like she’s about to cry. Softly, Isabelle closes the door.
“I told you he was busy,” Eddie says.
Isabelle whips around to face him. “Why did you do it?”
“You know why.”
“It was you who broke into our house, wasn’t it?”
“He never paid us for the last job.”
“And you blew up Yolande’s cabin.”
“Why don’t we get out of here?” I say in English.
Eddie winks. “She doesn’t know anything, hein?” He turns to me. “We had a little business arrangement, me and your father. Cigarette?” He takes his time lighting it, the flare of the match illuminating his jaw, before drawing the smoke in hungrily in that addict’s way. “What was I saying? Ah yes, the money—your sister can tell you about that; I’m not going to interfere in family matters.” He smiles discreetly. “I thought at first, what with Monsieur Wright dying so suddenly, you might need some time to get his affairs in order, je suis un type raisonable. … But, like you say in America, business is business: Weeks are going by and I’m not hearing from anybody, and I’m starting to think, What’s going on here?”
Funny he should say that: That’s just what I’m thinking. Isabelle is avoiding my gaze, which for some reason pisses me off even more than Eddie’s snide sarcasm. Not that I require an explanation of the overall picture: It’s more the details that are bugging me, such as just what racket was Ross involved in, and how much did my sister know? Eddie must have noticed my expression, because he raises his hand in a conciliatory gesture, as if to signify that it’s all water under the bridge.
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