The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (51 page)

“Mylène?” she asked hesitantly. “Is that you?”

She nodded and grabbed the bags slipping from Joséphine’s grasp as she fumbled for her keys. The two women sat down together at the kitchen table.

“It’s about Antoine, isn’t it? Did something happen to him?”

Mylène nodded, and her shoulders began to shake. Joséphine took her hands, and Mylène burst into tears, sobbing on Jo’s shoulder. Joséphine rocked her for a long time.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Through her tears, Mylène managed to say yes, and Joséphine held her tighter. She couldn’t imagine Antoine dead. She started to cry as well, and the two of them hugged each other, weeping.

After a while, Joséphine sat up and wiped her eyes.

“How did it happen?”

Mylène told her about everything: the farm, the crocodiles, Mr. Wei, Pong, Ming, Bambi. How the work got harder and harder. The crocodiles refused to reproduce. They attacked anyone who came near them. The Chinese workers went on strike and started stealing chickens.

“Meanwhile Antoine was drifting away,” she said. “He was there, but not there. At night he would go talk to the crocodiles. Every evening he’d say that: ‘I’m going to talk to the crocs. I have to make them listen!’ As if they could listen! One evening he was walking by the swamp as usual, and he waded into the water. Pong had shown him that if you kept very still, you could get right next to the crocodiles and not get bitten. But they ate him alive!”

Mylène burst into tears again.

“There was almost nothing left of him,” she said, pulling a tissue from her purse. “They just found his shoes and the diving watch I gave him for Christmas.”

Joséphine straightened. “We can’t let the girls know, Mylène. Hortense has her
bac
in a week, and Zoé is so sensitive. I’ll tell them soon, just not right now. He’d stopped writing, and he never called anymore, so they won’t expect news of him right away.”

And then it all came back to her: the day they met, so many years ago.

The first time Joséphine saw Antoine, it was on the street. He was holding a map of Paris and looked lost. Taking him for a foreigner, she screwed up her courage and walked over to him. Very slowly, she asked, “Can I help you?”

He answered in perfect French. “I have an important business meeting and I can’t find the address. I’m worried about being late.”

He showed her the address, which was on avenue de Friedland.

“That’s not very far. I’ll take you there.”

It was a beautiful day, the first day of summer. She had just passed her teaching qualification exam in literature. She was wearing a light summer dress and was out for a stroll.

She led him to a large polished wood door on avenue de Friedland.

He was sweating. He wiped his face and asked, “Do I look all right?”

She laughed and said: “You look great.”

The man thanked her, looking a bit sheepish—a look Joséphine would long remember. Then he said his name was Antoine, and suggested they meet for a drink after his appointment. “If it goes well, we’ll celebrate my new job. If not, you can console me.” The invitation felt a little clumsy, but she accepted.

That was a good deed
, she’d thought to herself.
I was of some use today. Poor man, he looked so uncomfortable, like a little boy. Maybe that’s why I didn’t get all tongue-tied with him.

To kill time while she was waiting, she went for a walk on the Champs-Elysées, bought an ice cream cone and some lipstick. She met him back at the same door. But the man who came out was now dashing and self-confident, almost imperious.

Had she idealized him while she was waiting, or did she misperceive him the first time? Later, she would wonder if her feelings for a person depended on the way she perceived them. Where do feelings come from? she wondered. From a brief, variable impression? From a shifting point of view that’s then replaced by an illusion that you project onto the other person?

There won’t be any more shifts now
, she thought.
Antoine is dead, and the image I’ll keep of him is of an unfocused but gentle and lovable man.

“What are you planning to do now?” she asked Mylène.

“I’m not sure. I may go to China. I don’t know if the girls told you, but I started a business there. I could earn good money.”

Mylène’s eyes had brightened. You could tell she was thinking about her projects, her orders, her future earnings.

“In any case, I don’t have a choice, because I’m broke. I gave Antoine all my savings.” Then she quickly added, “Oh, I’m not asking you for anything! I wouldn’t want you to think this was why I came.”

When Mylène mentioned money, Joséphine had recoiled slightly. But she looked so sweet and upset that Jo felt guilty about her reaction, and tried to make up for it.

“My stepfather, Marcel Grobz, does business in China. He might be able to give you some advice.”

Mylène blushed.

“I already used his name to find a lawyer once,” she admitted.

She was quiet for a moment, fiddling with the handle of her purse. “But it’s true that it would help me if I could see him.”

Joséphine wrote down Marcel’s address and telephone number. “You can tell him I sent you, and that—”

She was interrupted by a clatter in the stairway and the sound of a door being thrown open. Zoé came running in, red-faced and out of breath, but stopped short when she saw Mylène.

“Where’s Daddy?” she asked her. “Isn’t he with you?”

Zoé went over to Joséphine and put her arm around her waist.

“Mylène was just telling me that Daddy has gone off to scout locations farther inland. He wants to expand his crocodile pens. That’s why you haven’t heard from him in a while.”

“Didn’t he take his computer with him?” she asked suspiciously.

“A computer in the jungle?” exclaimed Mylène. “What an idea, Zoé! Aren’t you going to give me a kiss?”

Zoé hesitated. After a glance at her mother, she gave Mylène a cautious peck on the cheek.

When Hortense arrived, she was as surprised and wary as her sister.

They’re taking my side
, Joséphine was pleased to realize.
Not a very admirable thought, but comforting just the same.
She repeated to Hortense what she had told Zoé, with Mylène nodding approvingly.

But Hortense didn’t seem convinced. She went to her room, opened her books and notebooks, and started to do her homework. But something in the house felt out of whack.
What the heck was Mylène doing in the kitchen with Mom, and the two of them looking upset and teary? Something’s happened to Dad, and Mom isn’t telling me.

She stuck her head out into the hallway and called her mother.

Joséphine came to her room.

“Something’s happened to Dad, and you won’t say what it is.”

“Listen, baby—”

“I’m not a baby anymore, Mom. I’m not Zoé. I’d rather know.”

She said this so coldly, with such determination, that Joséphine wanted to hug her to prepare her for the news. But Hortense jerked free.

“Stop beating around the bush. He’s dead, is that it?”

“Hortense, how can you say that?”

“Because it’s true, isn’t it?”

Hortense was holding her arms rigidly by her sides, and looked at her mother with unconcealed hostility.

“Yes, he’s dead,” Jo said. “He was eaten by a crocodile.”

“He’s dead,” Hortense repeated. “He’s dead.”

Joséphine tried to come close again, to put her arm around her shoulder, but Hortense shoved her away so roughly that Joséphine fell onto the bed.

“Don’t touch me!” she screamed. “I can’t stand you, Mom. You’re driving me crazy! You’re just, you’re just . . .”

She sighed in exasperation. Head down, Joséphine waited.
Hortense plopped down on the bed next to her, but far enough away so they didn’t touch.

“When Dad was out of work and hanging around the house, you put on your fake composure, you did your sweet, reassuring routine, to make us think that everything was fine, that Dad was doing a ‘job search.’ Nothing to worry about, right?”

“And you blame me for that?”

“I blame you for being so damned clueless. You just don’t get it. You go on the balcony and talk to the stars like some sort of moron. You think I never heard you, babbling away? I felt like pushing you right off the damned balcony. I used to feel sorry for you and hate you at the same time.”

Joséphine waited in silence.

“You were getting uglier and flabbier by the day, whereas Dad at least tried to keep going. He would shower and shave, and put on his nice suits. It wasn’t surprising that he turned to Mylène. She made him feel like a man, at least.

“And those lectures you used to give about money and life values. They made me want to puke! When Dad left, you’d practically forgotten how to drive a car. You spent whole evenings balancing your checkbook, counting your pennies. We only survived because Uncle Philippe has money and connections. If he hadn’t been there, where would we be now? Tell me that!”

“There’s more to life than money, Hortense, but you’re too young to realize it.”

“I loved Dad so much. He was the one who taught me to stand up straight, to be pretty and different. He took me clothes shopping in Paris, and afterward, we’d drink champagne in fancy
bars and listen to jazz. With him I was unique and beautiful. And he gave me something else, a kind of strength he didn’t even have. I know he was weak, but to me, he was magical!”

She was sitting up at the edge of the bed. Joséphine kept her distance, allowing Hortense to let out her sorrow however she chose to phrase it.

Suddenly she turned and looked her mother right in the eye.

“But I’ll tell you one thing: we’re never going to live the way we did when Dad was out of work. I won’t do it, you hear? I don’t want to go through that ever again! Was he giving you money?”

“Oh, you know—”

“Was he giving you money, yes or no?”

“No.”

“So we’re able to get by on our own?”

“Yes.”

Provided Mom gets the royalties
, thought Hortense.

“Zoé mustn’t know, that’s for sure,” she said. “Zoé isn’t like me. She needs to have it broken to her gently. I’ll leave that to you. That’s your department.”

She stayed silent for a long time, wrapped up in her sadness and anger.

After waiting a while, Joséphine said, “We’ll tell her gradually, and take as much time as it takes. She’ll learn to live without him.”

“We were already living without him,” replied Hortense, abruptly standing up. “Well, that’s that. And now I have a
bac
to study for.”

Jo left and went into the kitchen, where Mylène, Gary, and Zoé were waiting.

“Mommy, can Mylène stay and have dinner with us?” asked Zoé. “Say yes, Mommy!”

“That’s sweet of you, Zoé, but I think I’d better go back to the hotel,” said Mylène, kissing her hair. “We’re all pretty tired, and I have a long day tomorrow.”

She thanked Joséphine and said good-bye, saddened by the thought that she would probably never see them again.

I
n early June, Hortense and Gary endured their week of
baccalauréat
exams.

Joséphine got up early to make them breakfast. She offered to give them a lift, but Hortense said no, that it would sap her morale.

Hortense came home feeling satisfied at the end of the first and second days, and got through the week without getting too stressed. Gary was more low-key, and didn’t act especially worried. They would have to wait until July 4 to find out how they’d done.

Shirley didn’t come over to Paris to keep Gary company after all. She had decided to settle in London, and was looking for an apartment. But she called every night, and Gary went to join her as soon as the exams were over.

Zoé graduated to the next grade with honors, as did Alexandre. Philippe took them horseback riding in Evian. He saw Joséphine at the train station the day they left, and kissed her hand. “Forget me not,” he murmured. She felt a terrific urge to kiss him.

Zoé quit asking for news of her father.

Hortense phoned Capucine, the fashion editor at
Gala
, and landed a three-week internship as an accessory consultant for photo shoots. She left for work every morning, griping about how long it took her to get there by public transportation.