Julia

by Marty Sorensen

XI, Elizabeth in Paris, 1980

  The Concorde flew low over the green pastures of northern France, along the meandering Seine, and into Charles de Gaulle airport. Elizabeth and Béatrice got off the plane and walked as fast as they could out to the customs. No luggage, no hindrance. The officer stamped their passports without delay. They walked on, hand in hand.

  At the end of a long steel gray hallway stood Julia and Carolyn, arm in arm, with their blonde hair and hazel green eyes. Elizabeth dropped Beatrice’s hand and ran to her mother and daughter, out of breath from laughing. The three of them hugged each other tightly, and when Béatrice arrived, Julia hugged her, and then the four of them stood for a long, long, time in tight embrace.

  A taxi took them to Julia’s apartment at 32 rue du Mont-Cenis, in the shadow of Sacré-Coeur. They opened a bottle, two bottles, of $20,000 Krug 1928 champagne. They laughed. They cried. They stared at each other. They ate Almas caviar, goose foie gras with Italian White Alba truffles. Until they were sick.

  And they were ready to hear Julia tell them what happened to them. Lizzie held her mother’s hand, and said she remembered the ship and being taken away and put in the back seat of the limousine with Grace. They were all in silent tears with the death of Christine and the disappearance of Isabelle.

  They heard that Julia had never been to Versailles, that she was in Vittel until the end of the war. She had come back to Paris, found that the neighbors had kept the apartment in the hope that Isabelle might come back, and when Julia showed up, they were happy to let her stay there.

  “But, Mama, why didn’t you come back for me?” Elizabeth said.

  Julia nodded in sorrow. “I did. I came back as soon as it was possible after the war. I came to New York to look for you. I was sure you would go back to Paris with me.” She took a drink of champagne, put her hands on her lap and signed. “I came to the house, and Mrs. Willow answered the door and almost fell over with shock when she saw me. She said that Lizzie wasn’t there, and I would have to talk to Hugh. She said come back later. Later? Later when, I said, this is my house. No, you will have to talk to Mr. Stuart. In an hour, he will be back.

  “So I came back in that one hour and he was there. He wouldn’t let me even in the house. Julia, he said, Julia, Lizzie has died. But he didn’t have any tears in those eyes. He showed me the death certificate, signed by Dr. Rivlin.”

  She looked intently into Lizzie’s eyes. “He showed me that. Then he got in the car and he took my down to Second Street and he showed me your grave, Lizzie.” Julia broke down and put her hand on her forehead, and sighed deeply. “So what was there for me? I had made friends in Paris, I had a life there. I could do something with art. Not paint.” She turned to Carolyn. “Only the one painting, the one painting that has been waiting for twenty years for you to come and see it.” She turned to Lizzie. “Oh, you must come tomorrow. Oh, of course you will, come to my little gallery, it’s just around the corner. To see the painting that has made a miracle.”

  Lizzie shook her head slowly. “Now I see. My father. Hugh Stuart. A monster. When I was five or six, or maybe older,” she brushed her red hair away from her face, beads of sweat appearing on her forehead. “He took me in his office, and he seemed so sad. He said that you had died of fever in France, that he had brought you home. And we went to that cemetery on Second Avenue, the Marble Cemetery. I never even knew there was another one. It was so beautiful, along the side walk, with a wrought iron fence, and I could see your grave even from the street. I’ve gone there on your birthday every year of my life. I even flew in from Stanford, I wouldn’t tell anybody.”

  When she finished the silence that filled the room kept the heaviness of all those years around them.

  “To think,” Béatrice said, looking at Carolyn, “we went there.” She turned to Lizzie and Julia. “We went into that cemetery on Second Street, we almost found your grave, Lizzie, but it didn’t look right, so we left.”

  The next morning, they all went to Julia’s gallery, and then Carolyn’s apartment, and they met Robert, and went out to Senlis for a startling introduction to Marthe and Luc.

  In the afternoon, they went to Notre Dame cathedral and lit candles before a statue of the Virgin.

  Julia took a match and lit two more candles. “For Christine and Isabelle,” she said. She put her arms around Lizzie and Carolyn and prayed for a long time.

  Lizzie took Julia’s arm on her left, and Carolyn’s arm on her right, and held them tight as they walked out beneath the rose window into the bright Paris sunshine.