The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (31 page)

She was amazed by how easily the writing was going, by the pleasure she took in making up stories, and by the importance the book was taking on in her life. Florine was a strong woman, devout, courageous, and beautiful, but a woman nonetheless. Being a bride of Christ wouldn’t have been enough for her; Florine would have felt the prickly temptations of the flesh.
How do we act when we’re head over heels in love?
Jo wondered.

She took out her pen and notebook—she never went anywhere without them anymore—to jot down her thoughts.

She had just closed the notebook when she glanced up and found Luca leaning over her. He was looking at her with his usual affectionate detachment. Startled, she dropped her purse, spilling its contents. They knelt down together to pick everything up.

“Aha! Now I recognize the woman I met that first day,” he said with a mischievous glint.

“I was thinking about my book.”

“You’re writing a book? You never told me!”

“Well, no . . . I mean my postdoc research . . .”

When they got to the counter, Joséphine opened her purse, but Luca gently waved it away. Joséphine blushed.

The lights in the theater went down and the movie began. Right away, there were shots of water, powerful muddy water that made Jo think of the crocodile swamps in Kenya. Hanging vines, sun-scorched bushes. Suddenly Antoine seemed to appear before her. She could almost hear his voice, picture him hunched over her kitchen table, his hand reaching for hers, inviting her to join him for dinner with the girls. She blinked to make the image go away.

The movie was so beautiful that Joséphine quickly found herself carried away to the island with the farmers. She marveled at Montgomery Clift’s wounded beauty, and the gentle, wild determination in his eyes. When the farmers beat him up, she squeezed Luca’s arm. He patted her on the head and whispered reassuringly in the darkness: “He’ll be fine, don’t worry.” She forgot everything except that moment, Luca’s hand on her head
and his comforting tone. She waited, suspended in the darkness, for him to pull her closer, to put his arm around her shoulder, to bring their faces together. She waited and waited . . .

Joséphine wept. She wept from the sadness of not being the kind of woman a man pulls close. She wept from disappointment. She wept from exhaustion. She wept in silence, sitting up straight, not trembling. She was surprised to be weeping with such dignity, her tongue catching the tears streaming down her cheeks, savoring them like some salty vintage. On the screen, a flood was washing away the farmers’ homes—and washing away the old Joséphine, the one who never dreamed she would ever find herself weeping in a darkened movie theater, sitting next to a man other than Antoine.

After the movie, they walked the city streets. She looked at the lights of the cafés, felt the energy of people hurrying, yelling, laughing—the nervous pulses of Paris nightlife. The image of Antoine came back to her. They had dreamed of coming to live in Paris for so long.

How many lives are we allowed during our time on earth?
she wondered.
They say cats have nine lives. Florine has five husbands. Why shouldn’t I have the right to a second love?

Luca grabbed her by the arm, startling her out of her reverie.

“That car almost ran you over! You really are very absentminded. I feel like I’m walking with a ghost!”

“I’m so sorry. I was thinking about the movie.”

“Will you let me read your book when you finish it?”

“But I’m not—”

Luca smiled. “Writing a book is always a mysterious process. You’re right not to talk about it.”

He walked her to her front door, glanced up at her apartment building, and said, “Let’s do this again sometime, all right?”

He shook her hand gently, holding it for a long time, as if he thought it would be rude to let it go too quickly.

“Well, good night then.”

“Good night, and thanks so much. The movie was really beautiful.”

Luca strode briskly away, a man escaping the dreaded frontdoor good-bye ritual.

Jo watched him go. A terrible feeling of emptiness came over her. Now she understood what “being on your own” meant. Not being on your own as in paying bills or raising children by yourself, but being on your own because the man you hoped would take you in his arms is walking away. I’d rather be alone with the bills, she thought as she pushed the elevator button. At least you know where you stand.

The lights in the living room were still on. The girls were crowded around the computer with Max and Christine, giggling and shouting, “Look at this one! Look at that one!” while pointing at the screen.

“Why aren’t you all in bed?” demanded Joséphine. “It’s one o’clock in the morning!”

Absorbed by whatever it was they were looking at, they barely glanced up.

“Mommy, come see!” yelled Zoé.

“What’s going on? You look like you’re about to burst!”

“We can’t tell you, Mommy,” said Zoé seriously. “You have to see with your own eyes.”

Jo went over to the table with the computer.

“Are you ready, Mommy?”

“You better sit down, Madame Joséphine. This might come as a shock.”

“It’s not porn, I hope.” Jo didn’t exactly trust Christine’s judgment.

“Of course not, Mom!” said Hortense. “It’s much better than that.”

Christine clicked on an icon, and some photographs of little boys appeared on the screen.

“Okay, so what?”

“Don’t you recognize them?” Zoé giggled.

She looked more closely. “It’s William and Harry, the princes.”

“Yeah, but what about the third one?”

Concentrating, Joséphine now recognized the third boy.
It was Gary!
Gary on vacation with the two little princes, Gary holding Princess Diana’s hand, Gary on a pony being led around by Prince Charles, Gary playing soccer in a big park.

“Gary . . .?” she murmured.

“It’s him!” exclaimed Zoé. “Can you believe it? Gary’s a prince.”

“You’re sure those pictures haven’t been Photoshopped?”

“We found them online. They’re in a bunch of family pictures posted by a careless valet.”

“Careless is certainly the word!”

“Doesn’t that blow a hole right through your ass?” asked Christine.

Joséphine stared at the screen, clicking on one photo after another.

“What about Shirley? Aren’t there any pictures of her?”

“No,” said Hortense. “But she’s finally back home. She got in while you were at the movies. Speaking of which, how was the movie?”

Joséphine didn’t answer.

“How was the movie you saw with Luca, Mom?”

“Hortense, stop it.”

“He called right after you went out, to say he’d be a little late. Mom, you were early! You should
never
be early! I’ll bet he didn’t even kiss you. Nobody kisses women who are on time.”

Hortense ostentatiously stifled a yawn to show how bored she was with her mother’s lack of basic smarts. She knew perfectly well that Joséphine wouldn’t do anything to her in front of Christine Barthillet. She would have to endure her daughter’s humiliating remark—which she did, gritting her teeth and struggling to retain her composure.

“He’s got a nice name, Luca Giambelli,” said Hortense. “Is he as handsome as his name?” She yawned again, tossing her hair. “Actually, I don’t know why I even bother asking. I bet he’s one of those library geeks you like so much. Does he have dandruff and yellow teeth?”

Hortense laughed and looked over to Christine for support, but Christine felt embarrassed for Jo, and stayed out of it.

“Hortense, I want you to go straight to bed!” Jo shouted. “The rest of you, too. It’s late, and I’m tired.”

As the others filed out of the living room, Jo yanked the sofa bed open so hard, she broke a nail. She flopped on the mattress, thinking,
Boy, was that date ever a bust! I’m so insecure, I make no impression on people. And Hortense could tell right away. That girl can smell a loser a mile away.

The next morning, Max and the girls went off to a neighborhood flea market while Joséphine cleaned the kitchen. It was market day in Courbevoie, and she made a shopping list: butter, jam, bread, eggs, ham, cheese, lettuce, apples, strawberries, a chicken, tomatoes, string beans, potatoes, cauliflower, artichokes. . . . She was still writing when Christine dragged herself in.

“Man, I am so hung over,” she mumbled, rubbing her head. “We had too much to drink last night.” She was holding a radio to her ear, searching for her favorite station. She can’t be that deaf, Joséphine thought to herself.

“When you say ‘we,’ I hope that doesn’t include my daughters.”

“You’re very funny, Madame Joséphine, you know that?”

“Can’t you just call me Joséphine?”

“No, you intimidate me too much. We’re too different.”

“Please, just try.”

“I’m sorry, I already thought about it and I just can’t.”

Jo sighed.” “‘Madame Joséphine’ sounds like someone who runs a whorehouse.”

“What do you know about whorehouses?”

Something in her tone caught Joséphine’s attention. She stared at Christine, who had set her radio down and was swaying to a South American tune. “The question is, what do you?”

Christine solemnly drew her robe across her chest.

“From time to time, to make ends meet.”

Joséphine gulped. “Well, I—”

She was desperately trying to think of something to say when the phone rang, rescuing her. It was Shirley, who wanted her to come over.

Joséphine handed Christine the grocery list and some money, and told her to get dressed and do the shopping.

“And don’t buy candy instead of fruits and vegetables!” she called as she went out. “It’s bad for your teeth, bad for your skin, and bad for your butt.”

“I don’t care,” said Christine with a shrug. “I eat my potato every night.” She was peering at the list as if trying to decipher a user’s manual.

Joséphine almost said something, but stopped herself.

Shirley was disheveled and had bags under her eyes. She looked so exhausted that the resentment Joséphine had been nursing all week melted away.

“It’s nice to see you. Did everything go okay with Gary?”

“Are you kidding? Your son’s smart, kind, and handsome. What’s not to like?”

“Thanks for saying that. Cuppa tea?”

Joséphine nodded, while staring at Shirley as if she’d never seen her before in her life.

“Jo, why are you looking at me like that?”

“I saw you on television the other night. . . . At Windsor Castle, next to the queen of England, with Charles and Camilla. And don’t tell me it wasn’t you, because I swear I’ll—” Joséphine struggled for words. “Shirley, you’re my only friend, the only person I confide in, and I don’t want that trust and friendship jeopardized. So please, don’t lie to me.”

“Yes, that was me. That’s why I had to leave at the last minute. I didn’t want to go, but—”

“You were forced to go to a ball with Queen Elizabeth?” Jo asked, incredulous. “So you know Charles and Camilla? William and Harry, the whole royal family?”

Shirley nodded.

“Princess Diana too?”

“I knew her very well. Gary grew up with her kids, and—”

“Shirley, you owe me an explanation!”