The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (43 page)

Gabor was the guest of honor at the gala dinner that night, and Iris lost herself in anxious preparations. This dress or that? These shoes or those? Which of these jewels, if any? She finally settled on a violet taffeta evening gown that accentuated her eyes, long neck, and graceful posture. To Philippe, she looked like a sinuous jungle vine. Iris hummed to herself as she left their suite and ran to the elevator, the folds of her dress flapping behind her.

When Gabor entered the ballroom, everybody stood and applauded, their resentment forgotten. Suddenly, everyone was praising his movie:
magnificent, sublime, compelling, unnerving!
He strode in, surrounded by his actors. A disheveled giant, he was wearing a pair of old jeans, a leather jacket, and motorcycle boots, his ever-present wool cap set firmly on his head. He bowed with a smile. When he removed his cap, his matted hair sprang free, and he patted it into place.

He crossed the room to the table where Philippe and Iris were sitting with Gabor’s actors, and took his seat. Iris was on the edge of her chair, her neck arched, her gaze bent toward him like a
bow. One by one, Gabor acknowledged each guest at the table with a nod. When he came to Iris, he looked hard at her for a few seconds as she leaned toward him, trembling. The other guests exchanged surprised glances.

“Irish! Irish!” he suddenly shouted. “Irish! You here! Unbelievable! Such a long time!”

She stood up, beaming with joy, and he took her in his arms.

Everybody watched Gabor Minar kissing Iris Dupin. In his arms, she accepted the room’s silent homage as if she belonged to him. The world had been righted, the past repaired. She was gazing at him in a way that Philippe would never forget. It was the look of a woman finally coming home, home to her man. Iris’s great blue eyes devoured him; her hands fit naturally into his.

Then Gabor loosened his bear hug, and introduced a slender blonde in a colorful gypsy skirt—a shy beauty standing in the shadow of a giant.

Gabor put his arm around the smiling woman’s shoulder and said, “This is Elisa, my wife.”

Iris’s eyes widened in astonishment.

“You’re . . . 
married
?” she blurted, unable to keep a tremor from her voice.

He laughed.

“Yes, and I have three kids!”

Then Gabor released Iris the way you might put down a valuable object you’d been admiring, and seated his wife next to him. Other people came over to say hello, and Gabor stood and
hugged each of them with the same enthusiastic warmth. “Hey, Jack!” “Hi, Terry!” “Hey, Roberta!” He would take them in his arms, practically lifting them off the ground, momentarily making each one feel as if he or she were the most important person on earth. Then he would turn and introduce his wife.

Iris sat down. She didn’t say another word for the rest of the evening.

And now she was sleeping—or pretending to—in the first-class Air France cabin.
It’s going to be a rough homecoming for her
, thought Philippe.
But a whole new chapter for me.

John Goodfellow had been masterful in setting everything up. He had patiently tracked Minar’s wanderings and finally got confirmation that the director would be at the Waldorf-Astoria dinner. Stage-managing the encounter between Gabor and Iris had taken two years and three previous failures, at Cannes, Deauville, and Los Angeles. Through others, Goodfellow promised Gabor and his producer a meeting at the Waldorf with the head of a major American studio. Then, to persuade the L. A. honcho to come to New York, he dangled the possibility of Gabor Minar directing the studio’s next picture. He arranged to have these fictions quietly passed along by carefully chosen intermediaries. But the whole scheme would have collapsed if the wayward director had failed to show up.

The morning after the gala, Philippe and Goodfellow met in a quiet café on Lexington Avenue near Forty-eighth Street.

“You did a great job, Johnny!”

“Thanks, Philippe. It took some doing. I’ve never seen a man who was so hard to keep track of, and I’ve been doing this for a while, as you know.”

Goodfellow ordered orange juice and coffee, then glanced around and lowered his voice.

“His wife is quite a beauty, isn’t she? But she looks exhausted. She’d like them to settle down somewhere. She’s a smart woman, and has him figured out. Knows how he operates, and stays in his shadow. Never a photo of her or their kids in the press. Hardly anyone knows he’s married. And behind Minar’s bohemian facade you’ll find a faithful husband. He’s completely absorbed in his work, doesn’t screw around. Oh, maybe the odd bit of crumpet—you know, a quickie with a script or makeup girl—but nothing to hurt his relationship with his wife. Deeply respects her. Loves her. She’s his alter ego.” Goodfellow chuckled. “It might surprise you, but I think the fellow’s a romantic.”

He paused. “So, Philippe, do you have any more work for me?”

“Sorry, John, but no. I have only one wife. And I’m not sure for how much longer.”

They both laughed.

“How did she take it?”

“Total silence. No reaction. She hasn’t said a word since last night.”

“This whole thing has been awfully hard on you, hasn’t it?”

“You have no idea what it’s like to be in some sort of weird threesome—and with a ghost, to boot! Iris idealized him so
much! Minar was perfect: handsome, intelligent, famous, engaging, fascinating . . .”

“And a slob. He really should clean himself up a little.”

“Oh, that’s just the English gentleman in you, holding your nose. Minar is too busy communing with his soul to pick up the dry cleaning!”

“I’ve enjoyed working with you, Philippe. I’d be very sorry if this were good-bye.”

“Whenever you’re in Paris, let me know, and I’ll treat you to the best lunch in town. I mean it.”

“I know. You’re a man of your word.”

“Thanks, Johnny.”

They finished their breakfast talking about movies and about Goodfellow’s wife, Doris, who complained that she and the kids never saw him. Then they shook hands and parted. Watching Goodfellow walk away, Philippe felt a twinge of regret. He would miss their meetings at Roissy; they had a slightly clandestine feeling that he enjoyed.

On the plane, Iris stirred in her sleep and muttered something Philippe didn’t catch. There was just one last lie, one final illusion, for him to deal with:
A Most Humble Queen.
He now knew that Joséphine had written it, and not Iris.

Before flying to New York, Philippe had phoned Joséphine to see if she could translate another contract. She’d turned him down gently.

“I have to get back to my research dossier,” she said.

“Your what?”

“My postdoc scholarship work. You know, for my professorship.”

“What do you mean, you have to ‘get back’ to it? Had you put it aside?”

Joséphine paused before answering.

“I have to watch what I say with you, don’t I, Philippe? Are you this tough on everyone?”

“Only with people I love, Jo.”

An embarrassed silence followed. To Philippe, Joséphine’s shy awkwardness had become a grace. He missed her. Sometimes he would dial her number, let the phone ring once, and hang up.

Philippe looked at the beautiful woman asleep beside him. His relationship with Iris was going to end soon, and he would have to handle that very carefully. He didn’t want to lose his son to her.

“You never cease to amaze me!” exclaimed Shirley. “You stick your head in a sink, and your whole life flashes before your eyes! Just like that, with the touch of a magical lav!”

“I swear that’s how it happened. Well, to be perfectly honest, it’s happened before. Little bits would come back to me like pieces from a puzzle, but the central meaning was always missing.”

“That mother of yours, what a bitch!”

“I don’t care. I survived.”

“Yes, but at what cost?”

“I’m so much stronger now, I can let all that go. It’s a gift from heaven, you know.”

“Stop talking to me about heaven with that beatific look on your face!”

“I’m sure a guardian angel watches over me.”

“And what has your guardian angel been up to these past few years? Sewing new wings?”

“He taught me patience and endurance. He gave me the courage to write a book, and gave me the money from it. Now I don’t have to worry about the day-to-day. You don’t need money, by any chance? Because I’m going to become very rich, and I don’t plan on being stingy.”

“Don’t worry, I’m loaded.”

Shirley restlessly crossed and uncrossed her legs. The two women were at the hairdresser’s, getting their highlights done again. With silver foil pleats all over their heads, they looked like Christmas trees.

“What about the stars—do you still talk to them?”

“I speak directly to God when I speak to them. When I have a problem, I pray and ask him to help me, and he does. He always answers me.”

“Jo, you’re going a little overboard there. Luca gives you the cold shoulder, you lose your mind, you stick your head in a sink, and you come out cured of an ancient trauma. Are you getting yourself mixed up with Saint Bernadette?”

“Here’s another way of looking at it: Luca gives me the cold shoulder, I think I’m going to die, I relive being abandoned as a child, and I put the pieces together.”

“Have you heard from Antoine?”

“He e-mails the girls. Always tells them the same old crocodile
stories. At least he’s getting paid and is repaying the loan. Antoine doesn’t live his life, he dreams it.”

“He’s going to hit a wall one of these days.”

“I don’t wish that on him. Anyway, Mylène will be there to help him.”

They were about to begin singing Mylène’s praises when it was time to take out their silver foils.

Joséphine insisted on paying. Shirley refused. They quarreled at the register, much to Denise’s amusement. Jo won.

The two women walked down the street, admiring their reflections in the store windows.

“Do you remember, a year ago, when you dragged me kicking and screaming to have my highlights done for the first time? And we were mugged on this very street.”

“I came to your rescue!”

“And I was amazed at your strength. Shirley, please tell me your secret. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Just ask God. He’ll tell you.”

“Don’t you go making fun of God! Just tell me, please. I tell you things, I trust you all the time, but you don’t say a thing.”

Shirley turned around and gave Joséphine a serious look.

“It’s not just about me, Jo. I’d be putting others at risk. And when I say risk, I mean great, earthshaking danger.”

“I’ve known you for eight years, Shirley. No one’s ever put a knife to my throat for information about you.”

“That’s true.”

“So?”

“No. Please don’t insist.”

They walked along in silence. Joséphine slipped her arm under Shirley’s and leaned against her friend’s shoulder.

“Why did you tell me that you were rich, earlier?”

“Did I say that?”

“Yes. I said I’d help you out if you ever needed it, and you said you were loaded.”

“See how tricky words are? Once you get close to someone, you let yourself go. Anyway, you’ll discover the truth all on your own someday—probably in some fancy washbasin!”

They burst out laughing.