The Missing Italian Girl (37 page)

22

C
LARIE SPENT THE MORNING IN
a state of restless anticipation, agonized by questions: What if Maura was being stalked right now? If they all waited for nightfall, when Séverine promised to go to Montmartre, would it be too late? Knowing the killer was out there, how could Clarie not warn Francesca’s daughter? Clarie thrust her book aside. Why hadn’t she urged Bernard to tell the police to look for Maura first, before anything could happen to her? Maura was the one in danger. This had to be true.

“Maman?” Jean-Luc toddled into the living room from the kitchen.

“Yes, darling.”

“Play horsey?”

Clarie smiled and got down on her knees. All her anxiety might be totally unwarranted. Bernard had promised they’d track down Arnoux this morning.

Still, her unsteady hand toppled her son’s latest wooden-block formation.

“Maman bad.”

“No, Jean-Luc, we must not say that,” she chastened her son before planting a kiss on his forehead.
Maman is only nervous.
Clarie frowned as she restacked the blocks.
You would have thought life had taught her patience by now.

But it hadn’t. When the noon church bells rang, there was still no message from Bernard. Clarie had no idea what this could mean, but she was finding the waiting and indecision unbearable. She had to act. “Maman has to talk to Rose,” she whispered to Jean-Luc. “I think we are going to have an adventure today.”

Jean-Luc gaped up with big eyes, one drop of saliva hanging from his lower lip. He did not know the word “adventure,” but he seemed to understand that something new and exciting was going to happen. Clarie got to her feet and headed into the kitchen.

She told Rose they were about to take an excursion to the Parc Monceau. When Rose looked shocked, Clarie asked, “Have you ever been?”

Rose shook her head, not fully hiding her skepticism.

“It’s so beautiful. An oasis. Acres and acres of green, flowers growing wild in the English style, ponds, fountains, statues. Even a carousel. Luca will be thrilled. And I haven’t been since last summer.”

“But Monsieur Martin said—”

“It’s past noon. Everything must be fine. We’ll be together. There’ll be plenty of people around.” She could have gone on, said she could not bear waiting, that this was her best chance to find Maura. She didn’t have to say more, she rationalized, for there was every good reason to take Rose and Luca to the Parc Monceau on a hot, sunny day. She wasn’t really lying. And she didn’t want to upset her dear, faithful housekeeper.

Her housekeeper’s hands hovered over the bow that tied her apron, as if she couldn’t decide what to do. Finally, she pulled on the tie and managed a smile.

“Oh, good,” Clarie said as she turned toward the parlor. “We’ll be on our way soon.” She bent down to tell Luca that they were going to ride a tram, which is
almost
a train. And they were going to see a merry-go-round with big painted horseys. She left him solemnly considering all this as she hurried to her bedroom to get ready.

Clarie’s first hesitations came as she was pinning her straw boater to her hair. Staring into the mirror, she wondered if she had worn it two days ago when the man approached her. She couldn’t see herself clearly on that day, but she saw him. Saw his hand over Jean-Luc’s head. His deeply wounded face, the bubbling flesh around his missing eye, the reddened ripples of tortured skin on his cheek. Heard the words, those horrible words. And his laugh. She touched the side of her face. She wasn’t burning, but it crinkled with pain. She rubbed her temples to relieve the tension and put on a cheerful face before going into the parlor to get Rose and Jean-Luc.

Once they were outside, she assured herself, the worst would be over soon. They’d have to go past the Square d’Anvers to get to the tram that ran along the outer boulevards. Even though she assumed that Michel Arnoux was already in custody, she could not bear to go through the park. Instead she went around it, picking up Jean-Luc and hurrying, despite the fact that their presence would be obscured from any lurker within by the trees and iron fences. She breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the Boulevard Rochechouart and got in line for the tram. It was good to be surrounded by people.

“Horsey!” Jean-Luc pointed with delight at the white beast trotting toward them.

“Yes, Luca, he is going to pull the tram along the tracks.” She bounced her son in her arms and gave him a kiss. She felt the comforting presence of Rose behind her.

When the Etoile-LaVillette tram came to a halt, several men tipped their straw boaters and stepped aside to allow her, Jean-Luc and Rose into the carriage ahead of them. Clarie and Rose sat on the thinly cushioned leathery seats and faced the north side of the street. Jean-Luc, standing on Clarie’s lap, looked over her shoulder. Although the Parc Monceau was only four stops away, each link in the chain of the outer boulevards opened onto a different world. The vast park was in the middle of a new, very wealthy and fashionable neighborhood. To get there, the tram passed a line of some of the city’s most garish cabarets. Clarie winced as they pulled by the Place Pigalle, a name almost synonymous with prostitution. Poor girls, she thought, and hoped that Maura would never be among them.

She patted Jean-Luc’s back, grateful that the most flamboyant edifice behind her was the Medrano Circus. She held on even tighter as they lurched to a stop across from the false windmill and crimson front of the Moulin Rouge and the gigantic, hungry devil’s mouth framing the entrance to the Café of Hell. The ugliness of it made her shudder. “Only a few more stops,” she whispered as much to herself as to her son. For his part, Jean-Luc didn’t seem to mind that the car was hot and stuffy, redolent of perfumed women and sweating and smoking men. He was fully absorbed in the moving picture of the city.

Finally, the Parc Monceau was announced and Clarie reached up to pull the cord. Passengers stepped aside, making sure that Clarie and her entourage got out in good time. After she and Rose hopped off the iron grille staircase, they crossed to the entrance, went through a gate and passed a large stone rotunda, once used to collect taxes when the park formed a northern boundary of the city.

Clarie took a deep breath. The air seemed so clear here. The park, once belonging to a king, preserved much of its royal elegance and went on and on. The three of them could take any of the intersecting, serpentine paths and find something interesting and beautiful to look at and things for Jean-Luc to do. “We’re here,” she said to Rose. “Isn’t this lovely?” she added, even as she tried to calculate which path was the most open, the safest. She couldn’t move because she could not decide.

It was Jean-Luc who broke the spell. He spotted the merry-go-round and gasped “What’s that?”

“That is a carousel. With big wooden horses. Maybe we’ll ride on it later.”

Jean-Luc kept pointing and moving forward, fascinated by the hurdy-gurdy music and the shiny, painted steeds going up and down and around all at the same time. He took hold of his mother’s skirt and began dragging her toward the wondrous machine.

“I think we should walk for a while and see what else there is,” Clarie urged Jean-Luc, not wanting him to do the best thing first and lose all interest in the rest. “We might see some real horses you could pet, and sandboxes and other little boys.”

“Wanna ride horsey,” he insisted and pulled harder, while reaching and spreading out his fingers as if aching to receive the magic. Clarie picked him up and started down one of the undulating paths. “You’ll have fun, little Luca,” Rose assured him, walking slightly behind them.

“Look, water and boats,” Clarie said to distract Jean-Luc as they approached a basin where children were launching their toy sailboats.

“Want horsey,” Jean-Luc insisted.

“And music, singing.” Clarie stopped and listened. “I know that melody. It’s an old Italian song.”

Rose listened, while Jean-Luc wriggled in Clarie’s arms. She put him down. The music filled her with joy and sadness at the same time, the joy and sadness of the past. “My father used to sing it to my mother,” Clarie explained to Rose, “and then he’d translate it for me so I’d understand he was teasing her because she worried too much. It went something like this:

“I would have taken a wife, but have repented

’Tis well to change one’s mind before too late

I’d rather be a bachelor alone and contented

Than be consumed with the cares of an anxious mate

“It went on and on in that vein. He always thought my mother had too many cares. Of course, after she died,” Clarie said, staring down at the ground, “he never sang it again.” Clarie understood now how her mother had felt. Life brought many worries, and fears.

Jean-Luc kept pulling on her skirt. Now he was interested in joining the boys and their sailboats.

The melody had thrown Clarie off balance, into the past, and when she returned to the present she realized the clear, young voice might be Maura’s. She, too, may have heard that song when she was a child.

“Rose, would you mind taking Luca down by the water with the other little boys?” Clarie said, relinquishing his hand to Rose. “I want to see who the musicians are.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Oh, yes, there are lots of people around. I’ll be right back.”

Rose nodded and took Luca’s hand. Who could worry on such a glorious day?

Clarie followed the music around a bend and saw a gathering of spectators. She approached, stretched and craned her neck, and there, hair shorn, dressed in pants, a shirt, a vest and a cap, was Maura. Alive and strong. She had found her!

At the end of the song, while her companion, a bent-over white-haired man, played his concertina, Maura collected money in her cap. Some listeners left, and Clarie moved to the front. When Maura spotted Clarie, her eyes flickered with recognition, but Clarie could not tell if they conveyed hostility or fear.

Maura strode back to her companion and picked up a bundle of papers from a sack on the ground. “I’m going to sing a new song,” she said, legs apart in a stance of bravado. “It’s our own song, about freedom and justice, about a crime that has been committed in our city. You may buy a copy if you like it and help us spread the truth.”

Clarie shook her head and pursed her lips. So this is how that brave, foolish girl had been testing fate, putting herself in danger. Clarie was tempted to run up and tear the sheets away from her. Maura shot her a defiant look. The girl didn’t need protection; she needed a good talking to.

“Pieter, a boy from Russia,” Maura began, “Loved mankind with all his heart.” Maura’s face softened as she sang about her prince. When the chorus came, the old man, suddenly revitalized, joined in with touching conviction. Maura had found a protector, perhaps even a teacher. Or, simply, someone who loved her for who she was. Clarie hoped she would not have a hard time persuading her to leave him.

“Do you like this song?” A rasping whisper. That voice. Clarie’s heart jumped up to her throat. He was so close, she smelled his sour breath and sensed his nervousness. He blew on the back of her neck, separating the soft hairs that never got caught up in her bun. “I asked, do you like it?”

She opened her mouth, wanting to scream for help. Then she felt something sharp, jabbing her side by her breast. “Don’t say anything. Don’t make one sound, or I will stick it in you.”

This could not be happening. Didn’t everybody see?

But everyone was watching the musicians sing about a murderer.

“I like that song,” he murmured. “I’ll soon get her too.”

She wanted to shout. Her mouth was agape, panting. Drying up. Useless.

She turned far enough to see that he had tipped his boater to obscure his scars. One of his arms was extended across his chest, leading to the hand that held the knife. He was using his other arm, aimed down, flat against her body to conceal his weapon. She felt him groping and heard him mutter “We’re going to walk away, side by side, as if we were lovers.” He took tight hold of her forearm. Now her arm, pulled down and locked in his hand, was helping to hide the blade pointing at her. She wondered if it was the same knife that had penetrated Angela’s heart. She shuddered, afraid that her teeth would start chattering and make him angry. She shouldn’t be wondering. She should be thinking.

“Smile. Or would you prefer I go find your baby?”

She shook her head.
No, not that
.

“Let’s stroll,” he said, as if he were one of the gentlemen in a top hat languorously enjoying the day.

The hand gripping her forearm directed them around and onto the path. She lowered her head, swallowed hard, and pressed her lips together. At first, all she saw was the gravel beneath her slowly moving feet. He was so close, his arm against the side of her body as stiff as a rudder leading a ship.

Think.
Her terror rolled in waves from her chest to her stomach. “Where are we going?” she whispered.

“To a quiet place.” His voice had grown calmer. “Smile,” he insisted. “Don’t stumble.”

She lifted her head. She had to see where they were. They passed lovers holding hands; boys and girls in sailor suits, rolling hoops and carrying balls; women laughing together in big hats, which shaded their eyes and obstructed their vision. His hold got tighter as her body sprouted with sweat. The knife jabbed deeper, threatening to cut through her corset into her flesh.
Think.
The red and white flowers lining the path had turned into rivulets of blood. She was crying.

They changed directions, into a narrower path, a more deserted way, lined with shrubs.

“Why are you doing this?” Her voice trembled.

“To keep them from killing, from destroying people’s lives.”

“Who?” Maybe if she could keep him talking, someone would notice the knife.

“The anarchists. I came here to get her, the little singer, the girl dressed as a boy. But then I saw you. Trying to warn her. A good woman wouldn’t be on their side against me.” Whatever nerves he had felt in capturing her had disappeared. He spoke with deadly purpose.