Secrets of Paris (37 page)

Patrice, Didier, Michael, and Lydie walked four abreast through a hayfield, waist-deep in mist. Only Lydie was gunless. Guy and Marcel, the guard, followed. Lydie listened to the rasp of boots through dry grass she could not see. It was not quite dark, though the sun had not yet risen. The world was pale and gray, the color of a cloud.

Then wings flapped, birds cackled, and shadows appeared on the lightening sky. There were two nearly simultaneous orange bursts: Didier’s gun and Guy’s flash. Lydie jumped. The dogs, only their heads visible over the mist, raced to find the birds.

“Great shot!” Patrice said. Didier, in his padded green hunting jacket, looked proud and excited.

“Let’s see what the dogs bring back before you say that,” he said.

Lydie stood still as Patrice and Didier hurried forward to meet the dogs. They seemed pleased by the catch, but Lydie hardly noticed. The shot roared in her ears, and she felt curious about something that had never occurred to her before: what was it really like for her father? She wasn’t thinking of the impact on her family or wondering about his last crazed thoughts. For the first time, she wondered whether the shot rang in his ears, whether he had even heard it.

“Four grouse in one shot!” Didier called.

“Still a little too dark for good pictures,” Guy said.

Didier stuffed the bloody birds into a leather sack slung over his shoulder. “Let’s get a few more before we start taking pictures.”

The line formed again, continuing across the field. The rising sun, illuminating the silvery mist and dark forest, made the scene beautiful and eerie, and after Didier shot another bird and Patrice shot three, Lydie told everyone to stop. “You can keep hunting, but we have to start photographing,” she said. “Marcel?”

Marcel, tall and dour, came to her, bearing the lockbox in outstretched hands. He wore a pistol on his hip. “Didier?” she said.

Didier produced a key, opened the box. Although Lydie had never seen the actual jewels, she knew what would be inside. Michael said “wow” at the sight of them, but Lydie went about her business methodically, noticing but not distracted by their sparkle. She pinned a sapphire-and-diamond brooch, shaped like
a snowcapped mountain, on her own jacket. Didier removed a ring, a giant emerald-cut diamond. He displayed it, for everyone to admire. “For my wife’s trigger finger,” he said.

“Now, that’s my idea of a rock,” Patrice said. She held out her gloved hand, wiggled her index finger. “Slip it on.”

Didier tried. It didn’t fit. “Shit, Marcel,” he said. “You know her size.”

“Perhaps without the glove,” Marcel said.

It didn’t fit her bare finger. Lydie’s eye was on the sun, which was shining through the forest. Soon it would rise above the trees, and the mist would burn off. “Let’s forget the ring,” she said. “Give Patrice some dangling diamond earrings, and let’s take pictures.”

Didier came to Lydie, held her right hand, slid the ring over her brown kid-gloved ring finger. “There,” he said. “Now grab your gun.”

Lydie froze. The sight of that huge diamond on her finger was mesmerizing, but she looked past it, to the rifle Didier was holding out. “I can’t,” she said.

“You don’t have to shoot,” Guy said. “Just pose, holding the gun. It’s what we planned. There’s not much time.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Michael said, but Lydie reached for it, in a daze. Her fingers closed around the wooden handle, highly polished and engraved with Didier’s name. It was the first time she had ever touched a gun. Its weight surprised her; she had no idea of how to hold it.

“Left hand on the barrel,” Patrice said, “the stock in your armpit, and your finger on the trigger.”

Lydie pointed at the sky, looked down the barrel at the sight. Her father had used a shotgun. Shooting his Margaret Downes, he could have used two hands. But how heavy, how clumsy it must have been to turn the gun on himself, to hold it in one hand,
point it at his head, and pull the trigger. “Take the picture,” she said to Guy. “Fast.” His flash went off three times, in quick succession, and Lydie lowered the gun.

“Excellent shots,” Guy said. “With that diamond and the gun metal sparkling, and dawn breaking through those trees.”

“Let’s take another try for birds,” Didier said. “Get some pictures of Patrice in these earrings.”

Lydie started to join them in line, but Michael took her hand, held her back. Michael said nothing, only looked into her eyes. The gun had felt so solid, Lydie thought. He would have had to lift it, aim it, pull the trigger. It took some time. Had he been scared of what he was about to do? The phrase “without hope” came into her mind. Lydie thought of Kelly, a young woman with high hopes journeying far from the Philippines. Another journeyer came to mind. She thought not of her mother, but of her father, a young man full of dreams, sailing on a steamer out of Rosslare Harbor, setting a southwest course for New York City.

The day was sunny, hot for September. Patrice and Lydie both wore sundresses. Patrice followed Lydie around. Now they were in search of Kelly and had walked from the kitchen to the salon to the lawn, where they found Michael and Didier sitting side by side in chaise longues.

“It’s definitely warm enough to hold the ball outdoors,” Lydie said to Didier.

“But why, when we have that beautiful ballroom?” he asked. “My guests would prefer it.”

“I’m thinking of the pictures,” Lydie said. “The château owners told me about chandeliers in the attic, from when this place was new, made for hanging in trees. Imagine hanging them in
those chestnuts over there—” She pointed across the lawn. “I mean,
anyone
can hold a ball in a ballroom …”

Michael grinned at Lydie’s powers of persuasion. “Sounds good to me,” he said.

“Okay—we dance under the stars,” Didier said.

“Let’s check out those chandeliers,” Patrice said.

“We’ll need help,” Lydie said. “Let’s find Kelly, okay?”

Kelly stood in the great kitchen peeling carrots. The sight of her pierced Patrice’s heart. Patrice had harbored such mixed feelings about Kelly’s going to America, but now she felt only wholehearted sorrow that Kelly’s chance was lost. Other workers stopped talking at the sight of Patrice and Lydie. “Hey, there,” Patrice said to Kelly.

“Oh, hello, Mum,” Kelly said. To Patrice she looked unchanged, untouched by what had happened. Was that because life in the Philippines trained you to face disappointment? Patrice imagined childhood there to be one disappointment after another: no food one day, a swarm of mosquitoes the next, no presents on your birthday. Or were those just a spoiled American’s view of what might disappoint a Filipino?

“We could use a hand,” Lydie said. “Will you come with us?”

Kelly glanced at the chef, who, Patrice supposed, Kelly considered her boss at that moment. For Kelly, life was hierarchy. The chef was watching them, his arms folded across his chest; he had never met Patrice before, had no idea that she was Madame d’Origny, and for one instant Patrice had the brutal wish that he would put up a squawk about letting Kelly go and Patrice would let him have it.

But Lydie explained to him, very politely, in French, who they were and why they needed Kelly. He smiled graciously and said, “
Bien sûr.
”

The three women climbed a rickety spiral staircase inside the
northeast turret. Lydie said, “Precarious.” Patrice gasped once or twice. Kelly climbed in silence. All three seemed determined to focus on their task instead of more important matters. At the top they looked around the round room. Piles of hard and ancient bat feces covered the floor. The only window was a small square cut in the stone, overlooking the park, forest, and river. Lydie glanced out, saw they were at least one hundred feet off the ground.

“ ‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair …’ ” Patrice said. Lydie pulled back a canvas tarpaulin, revealing four chandeliers. The three women knelt. “They’re wonderful,” Lydie said, dusting them off. To Patrice they looked too heavy for chandeliers, stocky, made of wood. Each one was attached to a long woven rope with a wooden stake at the end.

“Aren’t chandeliers supposed to be graceful?” Patrice asked. “With prisms to reflect the light?”

“Not if they’re made to hang in trees,” Lydie said. “It could be windy. Let’s see … I guess we toss the rope over a tree branch, then anchor the stake in the ground.”

Patrice listened to her, noting the flat tone in her voice. Was this her way of suffering over Kelly, to keep herself from taking any pleasure in the ball? Yet Patrice felt the same way. Her own voice sounded sonorous, a dirge echoing through the turret. Absently she picked tendrils of hard candle wax off the chandeliers.

“We’ll put candles in the holders,” Lydie said. “They’ll be lovely.”

“I’ll go downstairs and locate many candles,” Kelly said, leaping to her feet.

“Wait!” Patrice and Lydie said at once. Kelly stood still; with escape impossible, her eyes flooded with tears.

Lydie and Patrice rose, walked to Kelly, and hugged her. “I’m so sorry about the petition,” Patrice said.

“It will be okay,” Kelly said, a note of panic in her voice. She
quivered; sensing that Kelly wished to wriggle out of their embrace, Patrice stepped back. Kelly wiped her eyes furiously, as though she were angry at them for betraying how she felt. Patrice herself felt washed out, and Lydie was crying. She sobbed with such intensity, Patrice wondered what else had gone wrong: could it be something with Michael? “Um …” Patrice said to her. Lydie glanced up, her eyes red-rimmed.

“Am I making it worse?” Lydie asked Kelly, taking her hands. “I can’t tell you how badly I wanted you to get to America …”

“I know you did,” Kelly said. “And I am so grateful.”

For what? Patrice wanted to say. She felt like snorting, shaking some sense into Kelly. It made her feel impatient, to see Kelly lapse into her old, subservient role. Patrice wanted to believe that Kelly’s time with her and Didier had enlightened her a
little
. On the other hand, Patrice realized that she herself was slipping into a familiar pattern: it was easier to feel outrage than compassion. “We do have options,” Patrice said, steadying her voice. “I can make you legal in France, my mother can call her congressman …”

“I can contact Immigration when I get to New York next month,” Lydie said.

“Next month?” Patrice asked.

“Yes,” Lydie said, looking at her. “I leave in October. You know that.”

“Of course,” Patrice said, and she did—but she had never thought of Lydie’s departure happening
next month
.

Lydie smiled suddenly, an expression of recognition in her eyes. “You’re going to miss me,” she said. “Isn’t that nice?”

“Wonderful,” Patrice said, looking from one friend to the other. “Aren’t we a fun bunch to be throwing a ball?”

“Hilarious,” Lydie said. There was silence, and Patrice actually held her breath, waiting for Kelly to say something.

“We’re a barrelful of monkeys,” Kelly said, her shy smile turning into a grin at her successful use of the American phrase.

After that, they seemed to feel better. As the afternoon progressed, Lydie spent more time with the photographer and Patrice began greeting early arrivals. Lydie smiled whenever Patrice saw her, but she acted skittish. Finally Patrice cornered Michael, who was staking a chandelier. He had thrown the rope over the branch of a chestnut tree and was pounding the stake into the ground. Patrice stood above him as he crouched. Sweat glistened on his tan neck; his brown hair had fallen into his eyes, making him look boyish.

“Can you take a break?” Patrice asked.

“Sure,” Michael said, laying down his mallet. He tugged the rope, to make sure it would hold, then stood.

“What’s with Lydie?” Patrice asked.

Michael gazed at her. “She’s upset about Kelly.”

“No,” Patrice said firmly. “It’s definitely more than that.”

“I don’t know, Patrice,” Michael said. “Kelly mattered a lot to Lydie. I think she’s more upset than you think.”

“Listen, you bozo,” Patrice said, realizing that he was patronizing her. “I’m the one who held her hand while you had your fun. I know her better than you think, and I know her mind’s on something else.”