Secrets of Paris (35 page)

“Of all of us, you are the only one who has met Americans that let you call them by their Christian names.”

“It is true. I am lucky,” Kelly agreed.

“Christmas will be very different in the States,” Marie-Vic said.

“I know,” Kelly said sadly. Christmas in the Philippines was the longest Christmas in the world. The rule was, it lasted through all the “ber” months: September, October, November, and December. All the radio stations would be playing carols, and decorations would appear in stores. That was because the Philippines were a Catholic country, very religious as well as magical. Naturally the States, with its mix of Catholics, Protestants, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, and born-agains could not have such a long and festive Christmas season. Kelly would have to learn to celebrate it in her heart.

“Do you think Lydie requires extra workers at the ball?” Marie-Vic asked.

“No, she told me there are enough. Lydie wants me to help the photographer.” She giggled with pleasure. “Imagine, me working at the very ball I discussed with Mr. Wright.”

“It is very hard to believe.”

“You should have heard me telling him about the shopping Lydie and I did to get everything ready.”

“To shop for a living! Wow!” Marie-Vic said, laughing.

“It’s not as easy as it sounds,” Kelly said, wondering whether she had sounded convincing in her interview.

“I hope the spell works and the petition is granted,” Marie-Vic said.

“I pray for it,” Kelly replied.

Patrice was writing in her diary. She had written twenty pages so far, covering her memories of the first year she had lived in Paris. She figured it would take her all winter to get up-to-date. She intended to fill the notebooks with personal details, including her innermost thoughts, her relationships with Didier and his friends and family, her experiences with Lydie. She would mention the food served in restaurants and at dinner parties; she would describe trips to the Midi, Courcheval, Saint-Lô, Corsica. She would discuss the elections, the tension between the political right and the Socialists, the new spirit of cooperation within the Common Market. She would relate, in detail, the immigration problem. She would weave facts with memories, humor with gravity, legend and predictions, gossip and confession. She knew the world would never see her words, but she found pleasure in recording her impressions, just as Madame de Sévigné must have done three hundred years ago in a house just across the Place des Vosges.

It was Kelly’s day off; at the sound of the doorbell, Patrice breathed deeply and lay down her pen. She had invited Clothilde, Didier’s sister, to tea. It was becoming a habit, their Tuesday afternoon teas; it was habit, also, the way Patrice’s stomach would tense at Clothilde’s arrival.

“
Gros bises!
” Clothilde said, kissing both Patrice’s cheeks.

Patrice led her into the salon, then went to the kitchen to make tea. When she returned, Clothilde was standing by the window. “The Bretechers are upset about not being invited to the ball,” she said.

“That’s tough cookies for them,” Patrice said, pouring the tea. “They should have realized this day might come when they had their little fête at Longchamps.”

“
Mais
Patrice,” Clothilde said, “they know Didier hates horse racing.”

“Well, I happen to love it,” Patrice said. “The reality of the situation is that I have a long memory, and I expect people to do unto me as they would have me do unto them.”

“I’m sure it was an oversight that you were not invited to Longchamps … ”

“You just said it was because Didier hates horse racing. Look: if you want the Bretechers, feel free to include them in your quota. Care for a biscuit?”

Clothilde shook her head. Watching her weight as usual, Patrice thought as she helped herself to an oatcake. She had to admit the d’Orignys really knew how to take care of themselves. Just once she would like to get Clothilde into the bright sun without dark glasses and a hat and check out her hairline for facelift scars. How old was she, anyway? Older than Didier, and she looked barely forty. She claimed to go to the same homeopathic doctor as Catherine Deneuve, and Patrice could believe it.

“Listen, Clothilde,” Patrice said. “What I need you to do is suggest two of your friends whom you would trust to wear jewels at the ball.”

“But I trust
all
my friends,” Clothilde said. A little testily, it seemed to Patrice.

“Of course, of course. But we want only about fifteen people to wear jewelry for the photo session, and not all at the same time.”
Patrice had to be a bit delicate; Clothilde, after all, was a major shareholder of d’Origny Bijoutiers.

“My dear, my friends all have their own jewelry. I wouldn’t impose on them to model our jewelry for advertisements.”

A definite slap in the face! Patrice sipped her tea and felt her cheeks redden. She had the mean, furious thought that Clothilde was the perfect example of what too much leisure and money could do to a woman. Yes, she looked beautiful; then again, she could afford the Fountain of Youth. Clothilde loved saying things like “I had lunch with the Minister’s wife.” Big fucking deal! What had the Minister’s wife done except marry better than Clothilde had? Patrice had to feel a bit sorry for Clothilde, married to squeaky little Fulbert, Mr. Haut-Bourgeoisie 1924, whose only obvious talent was his uncanny ability to work the word “enema” into practically every conversation Patrice had ever had with him.

“Patrice, dear,” Clothilde said. “Why don’t you like me?”

“What an idea!” Patrice said. “It’s you who doesn’t like me.” She had a psychic sense of talking to her mother.

“You are so huffy with me,” Clothilde said. “I always feel I am saying the wrong thing to you.”

“As a matter of fact, you just let me know it’s pretty tacky of me to let my friends model d’Origny jewelry. I know you think I’m the tacky American.”

Clothilde gave her a long look, then smiled. “Well, not exactly. I think of you as the ‘young American.’ So young, so modern. Really ‘with it.’ ”

Patrice had to smile at Clothilde saying ‘with it,’ even if she didn’t quite believe Clothilde’s smooth excuse.

“Didier tells me you are quite sad over the prospect of losing your American friend and your maid.”

Patrice really didn’t want to discuss it with Clothilde, but at the thought of Lydie leaving Paris her eyes filled with tears, leaving
her no choice. “Yes, I am. But he shouldn’t worry—I plan to keep busy. I’m working on my own personal history of France.”

The sympathetic set of Clothilde’s mouth was replaced by an “O” of astonishment. And that alone was enough to dry Patrice’s tears and make her smile.

The night before the ball, Lydie felt remarkably calm, well organized. Every item on two checklists, “the ball” and “Kelly,” was checked off. Her third checklist, “moving,” remained wide open, but she would turn to that in a day or so, when she and Michael had had the chance to discuss it. She had time, if she wanted, to do the things she imagined Patrice might do the night before a ball: set her hair, give herself a manicure, place damp tea bags on her eyes. But she felt charged up, full of energy that had no place to go. Twice she stepped onto the terrace, peered down the Seine. She wondered where the Hôtel Royal Madeleine stood in relation to the Grand Palais. Tomorrow morning Michael and the d’Orignys would pick her up before dawn to drive to the château.

She cooked an omelet, then settled down to eat it and drink a glass of Beaujolais. She pulled the soft middle out of a crusty baguette; thinking of the expression “all my ducks in a row.” Her mother had said it when Lydie was little. “I have everything I could ever want,” Julia Fallon would say. “My Neil, my Lydie, and a wonderful life. I have all my ducks in a row.” Lydie had envisioned the ducks, cute baby mallards swimming in a row. Now Lydie thought of her own life: waiting to reunite with Michael, optimistic about Kelly’s petition, ready to leave Paris for New York. Yes, all Lydie’s ducks were in a row. Then she thought of a carnival shooting gallery, with tin ducks going around on a conveyor belt, waiting to be picked off by anyone who’d pay a quarter.
The thought made her gulp her wine, and when the telephone rang, she was ready for bad news.

And those were Dot Graulty’s first words: “I have bad news, Lydie. You’ll get official notification soon enough, but Kelly Merida’s petition has been denied.”

“Denied? Are you sure?” Lydie asked in a voice that echoed in her ears.

“All too sure,” Dot said. “Someone from Immigration in D.C. called Bruce, and he told me.”

“Do you know why?”

“Officially, they’ll tell you it’s because you didn’t make your case strong enough. Between you and me, it’s because she’s a Filipino.”

“But I can try again, can’t I?” Lydie asked, the enormity of Dot’s words suddenly hitting her. She felt blinded by them, as if they were the bright flash of a star exploding.

“Well,” Dot said, “you’ll want to try, but I wouldn’t encourage you to bother. I’m truly sorry. I’m disappointed myself—I had a stake in this. You know I tried my best. In this place, sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Thanks for everything, Dot,” Lydie said.

She sat still for a long time, not hanging up the phone. Then she dialed the number of Michael’s hotel. The switchboard put her through.

“You ready for tomorrow?” he said when he heard her voice.

“Something terrible happened,” she said, her voice tight and little. “It’s about Kelly’s …”

“Her petition didn’t go through?” Michael asked.

“No, it didn’t,” Lydie said.

“Damn it,” Michael said. “I’m sorry. When did you find out?”

“A minute ago. Dot called to tell me. I just can’t believe it,” Lydie said, realizing that she was numb.

“Do you want me to come over?”

Lydie thought for a moment. She imagined negotiating an evening with her husband, their first in a long time. She believed that the fact she considered it “negotiating”—like a captain negotiating shoal waters or a lawyer negotiating a difficult deal—was a signal that tonight wasn’t the night. “No, but thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You sure will,” Michael said. “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?”

Lydie felt pretty sure she wouldn’t. “I’ll try to,” she said. Hanging up, she instantly called Patrice.

“Kelly’s petition has been denied,” she said instantly.

Patrice was silent for a few seconds. “Wow,” she said. “Wow. Does she know?”

“No,” Lydie said, realizing that her hands were shaking.

“We have to tell her.”

“Tonight, Patrice?” Lydie asked, feeling suddenly tired.

“Think about it, Lydie,” Patrice said. “Wouldn’t you want to know right away? Doesn’t she deserve that? Come on—I’ll pick you up in Didier’s car.”

Twenty minutes later Lydie was hunched over the Plan de Paris, and Patrice was speeding around the Place de Clichy. “Hookers, Quik-Burgers, riot police: this is where she lives?”

“Take that next left,” Lydie said. They stopped in front of a grimy tenement. Lydie would have liked to sit still for a few minutes, rehearsing what they would say to Kelly, but Patrice was already out of the car.