The Missing Italian Girl (30 page)

Just like that. “How do you know it was her?” Martin demanded.

“My man followed her. Easy enough to do. Although the cab gave him a bit of a run for his money. She was even clever enough to be dropped off at the corner so that none of the neighbors would see her getting out of the carriage. After that it was a walk in the park, so to speak, to follow her to your place.”

“Do you mean to say, he chose to follow some innocent woman, whoever she may be, rather than the man who was making all the threats?”

“Maître Martin,” Jobert drawled. “Please. Changing the subject will not change the fact that you had better talk to your wife.”

Martin had to restrain himself from grabbing Jobert’s suit jacket by the collar and shaking him. “I repeat, why was your agent following an innocent woman instead of that man?”

Jobert shrugged. “Until last night, there was no particular need to follow him. He seems to have become something of a fixture at that café. According to the bartender, he started coming around a few months ago, claiming that the side of his face was burned by an eruption of flames while he was shoveling coal at the gas works. But we doubt it. My man says he is too skinny, too refined to be a stoker. But it was a good story. Industrial accidents. Isn’t that one of the things you and your union men bleat about all the time? It certainly got the sympathy of the young Russian.” Jobert screwed his mouth to one side and peered into Martin’s face with those irritatingly knowing eyes. “He may be crazy
and
violent.”

Clarie in danger. Clarie associating with a loose woman. Clarie, Clarie, Clarie. What are you doing?

Taking advantage of Martin’s stunned silence, Jobert reached into his vest and took out a new cigar and his “little guillotine.”

“And you don’t know who he is?”

“Not yet. Doesn’t seem to be from the neighborhood. Of course,” Jobert said, as he carefully aimed one end of the cigar into the hole of the guillotine and chopped off the cap, “maybe he’s from yours.”

The complacency with which Jobert insinuated that this fanatic might be near enough to put Clarie in danger filled Martin with loathing. He bolted out of his chair. “Is that all?”

“Mmm,” Jobert nodded as he struck a match and puffed on his cigar until the fire caught. Then he waved his hand to put out the flame. “All for now,” he said, taking the cigar out of his mouth. “Talk to your wife.”

If Jobert expected a response, Martin made sure that he would be sorely disappointed. He grabbed his bowler and wove his way out of the café as fast as he could.

Reaching the street did not offer much relief. He wanted to walk. To work off the tension. But he realized that pushing his way through the gawking, chattering, window-shopping crowds on the Grand Boulevards would only frustrate him. After almost being hit by a motor car as he neared the Place de l’Opera, he boarded a tram. Even that moved too slowly. Hanging on to a strap, Martin lowered and shook his head. He had to talk to Clarie. No, he had to confront his wife. What did she think she was doing? He tried to calm down. He tried to tell himself that perhaps she wasn’t the woman that the police agent had seen. But a quick reprise of the last few days routed this hope. She didn’t just come upon this Séverine’s article by accident. She had to be looking for it, and she had to buy it, and, then, read it, before showing it to him. Or, worse, she had to have had some secret connection with that woman before the article came out. Sweat sprouted under the lining of his bowler and into his shirt. How had this gotten by him? What in God’s name was Clarie up to? He had never been so humiliated. Being told by a police inspector to “talk to your wife.”

He jumped off as the tram slowed at the Square Montholon and wound his way home, along the same route they took on their peaceful Sundays. He was so angry that everything around him was a blur. How could she?

When he got to the apartment, he ran through the entrance and courtyard to their stairway and took the steps two at a time. Chest heaving, he forced himself to catch his breath before, with trembling fingers, he took out his key and opened the door.

Clarie was in her chair, reading to Jean-Luc. When she first looked up, there was a smile on her face, before it turned white. “Bernard, you’re home early. This is a surprise.”

“Not as big a surprise as the one I just had. Talking to a police inspector.” Martin barely got these words out through his clenched teeth. “Where is Rose?”

“I don’t know … I suppose….”

“Rose,” he called. “Rose.”

They stared at each other for a moment before their maid came scurrying out of the kitchen. “Yes, Monsieur Martin. Oh, you’re home.”

“Would you mind taking Jean-Luc into the kitchen with you for a few minutes? I need to talk to my wife.”

Clarie got up, kissed her son, and handed him to Rose without once taking her eyes off Martin. “Your wife?” she said, even before the door had closed to the kitchen.

“Yes, my wife.” Unable to stand still, he began to pace. “How could you?”

“How could I what?”

“You know what. I knew it was true as soon as I came in and mentioned the police.”

“I have a right—”

“To what? To consort with that woman? Go where you want? Even if it’s dangerous? You are a mother.” His hands had become hard fists; his heart was pounding.

“I was in no danger. I’m here, aren’t I?”

This was a weak defense, and Martin was sure that she knew it. He knew, too, that he should try to regain his composure. But he was angry. And he could see that whatever remorse she had, should have had, had turned into anger. “How long have you known that woman? When did all this start?” he demanded.

“A few days ago. After that column. I went to see her, because she, at least, was willing to help.”

“Help? With those Laurenzano girls? You have no idea what they were involved in.” There was terrible buzzing in his ears, a sign that his anger was mounting, a sign that he should try to calm down.

“I think I have a better idea than you.” Each word came out distinctly, defiantly.

“Listen, Clarie, my love,” he pleaded, “you may be putting yourself in danger, or at least taking up the wrong cause. That boy was carrying a bomb. Those girls probably knew it. One of them was murdered, for God’s sake, murdered, probably by one of their own gang.”

“I don’t believe it.”

It was the cold calm of her declaration that drove him mad, mad enough to say it. “I forbid you to consort with that woman. I forbid you to have any more to do with those girls.”

“You
forbid
me?”

Suddenly Clarie’s beautiful, passionate face dissolved before his eyes, the buzzing got louder, and his heart was pounding. It was frightening until he realized that his vision was dimmed by tears—of frustration and sorrow. They had never been so angry at each other before. They had to stop. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just trying to reason with you.”

“Reason?” Her tone was defiant, incredulous.

He took out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow, hoping Clarie would not notice that he was also wiping his tears away. “Yes, reason.” He looked down at the crumpled white cloth in his hand.

“Did I try to reason you out of helping your friend Merckx, even when you were breaking the law? No, I comforted you, I helped you, I kept your secret. And you loved me for it. You called me your strong, brave girl. And now, what am I, your
wife
?”

“Quiet. Rose.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. She’s not listening. And if she were, she’d never betray us.”

Martin put his handkerchief in his pocket and continued more quietly. “What happened to Merckx happened a long time ago. And there’s a difference. He was my oldest friend. And I was young and foolish.” She knew how important his childhood friend had been to him and how guilty he felt for trying and failing to help him escape from the army.

“You wouldn’t do it again?”

Do what again? Get Merckx shot dead? The room fell so silent, Martin heard the clock ticking over the fireplace.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, as if she finally understood the cruelty of using what had happened to Merckx against him.

“You don’t know these people,” he retorted. He was so hurt.

“But I know from you about justice. How we should seek it. How we should understand what it means to be poor.” The fire in her almond-shaped brown eyes had been almost completely extinguished. She was the one who was pleading now.

“Justice is my profession,” he said, still smarting. Another blunder, which reignited her defiance.

“Your profession. Your sense of justice. For men, for workers, for Jewish army officers. Girls are beaten every day, by their bosses, by their husbands, by their lovers, and you always found their trials rather ‘sordid.’ Perhaps I have a different sense of justice: for mothers who have lost their children, for girls lost in the world.” Her voice was steely, and her gaze never wavered from his face.
Mothers who have lost their children
.
Clarie and their dear, dead Henri-Joseph.
They had to stop. They could not continue to thrust and probe until they laid bare their deepest wounds. Even though he wanted nothing more in the world than to convince Clarie that his concern was for her, her safety, her well-being, the ground they were treading was too treacherous. He dare not say another word.

Clarie relented and offered a meager conciliation. “In any case, you needn’t worry. I do not plan to see ‘that woman’ again. But I will insist on my right to see Francesca if I think I can help her.” When Martin did not respond, she raised her hand toward the kitchen. “I’m going to get my son and read to him.”

“And I’m,” Martin stuttered, not knowing exactly what to say, “I’m going for a walk until dinner.” He went out the foyer and closed the door quietly behind him. They’d talk more when both of them were calm.

15

A
LL DURING THE NIGHT AND
through to the next morning, Clarie played the argument over and over again in her head. She wished she had been more conciliatory, even admitted she was wrong. But admitting she was wrong would have required her to know
how
she had been wrong. Although she hadn’t lied to Bernard about seeing Séverine, she was well aware that not telling was a form of lying. But what crime against marriage and society had she actually committed? Had it been wrong to seek out Séverine, to meet her one night, even to go to that wretched café? What sins, except the sin of doing something, anything, that had nothing to do with her child or her profession or Bernard. “Hah,” a quiet troubled retort escaped from Clarie’s lips as she pictured yesterday’s confrontation. It was obvious why she hadn’t told him. He would have tried to keep her from doing what she thought was right.

Clarie pulled out a piece of stationery from her desk drawer. She wanted their lives to return to normal. Inviting Bernard’s mother to come as soon as possible would be a first step. Then he would see that Clarie intended to put Séverine and all her ideas aside for the time being. No police, no “consorting with loose women,” no anarchists. Clarie slumped back in her chair. Normal. What did that mean for her?

“Maman!” Jean-Luc came running out of the kitchen.

“Darling,” Clarie answered as she reached down and scooped up her son.

“Did you drink all your milk?”

Jean-Luc pursed his lips, puffed out his chubby cheeks, and nodded, trying hard to put on a serious mien. Rose, who had followed him into the parlor, rubbed his back and said, “Yes, our Luca was a very good boy.” Then she stepped back and looked at Clarie. “Is everything all right, Madame Clarie?” she asked. Undoubtedly she had heard the shouting and noted the silences at last night’s dinner.

“Yes, Rose. I’m going to write Monsieur Martin’s mother today. I expect she will be here soon. You think we can be ready?” Clarie said, hoping to insert some levity into the morning. Adèle Martin was a very demanding personage.

“Of course,” Rose bowed her head. The humor had fallen flat.

“Well, then, this is Luca’s time to go to the park. We,” Clarie said as she bounced her son in her lap, “are going to go on the swings and, if we are lucky, we’ll meet some new friends.” She gently nuzzled her nose against his, as he reached for her ear.

“Good, enjoy yourselves,” Rose said as she retreated into the kitchen.

The sound of her housekeeper’s sad, worried voice made Clarie’s heart shrink. Perhaps she should have confided in her. Rose had been a pillar when Henri-Joseph died, sitting quietly by Clarie as she mourned; offering food, sympathy, devotion. Clarie kissed her son as she tried to quell the sadness in these memories. She shook her head as she rubbed noses again with her son. No, no matter how faithful Rose had been, Clarie could not get her housekeeper involved in her differences with Bernard. Resolved in her decision, she set Luca on the ground and told him it was time to go.

After more than an hour of swinging and trying to introduce Jean-Luc to a few other little boys in the park, Clarie was ready for a rest. Most of the children were in the charge of nannies, whose close-fitting hats signaled their profession. They banded together, happy to be out from under the eyes of their mistresses. Mothers, gathered in twos and threes, seemed to know each other too. Had Clarie been less distracted, had it not been getting so hot, she might have tried to penetrate one of the closed circles. At noon, the sun beat down on the playground and on the new church atop Montmartre, making it as white and shiny as an alabaster moon. “Let’s sit down and see if we can figure out when they will finish Sacré-Coeur,” Clarie said to her son as a way of getting him to join her on a bench in the shade, some distance from the others.

When they settled down, Jean-Luc pointed his finger. “I wanna see. I wanna see.” She nestled him on her lap as they both looked up toward the growing church and its scaffolding.

“Perhaps one of these days we will climb that big mountain and you will get to see it. For certain we will go when it is all finished.” She tousled Jean-Luc’s hair. Bernard would argue against introducing a child to a building he considered the very symbol of reaction. But then he would give in. After all, the finished basilica, in all its ornate grandiosity, promised to be the kind of place that would amaze a little boy. Clarie sighed. How nice it was to have that kind of disagreement. One that had Bernard grumbling and her coaxing, and both of them ending up in laughter. Clarie patted her son’s sturdy thigh. How different from what was happening now.