The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (10 page)

“Look!” she shouted, yanking on Shirley’s sleeve. “There! Right in front of us!”

A young man with longish chestnut hair was sauntering across the street, hands in his duffel coat pockets.

“It’s him! The library guy! You know . . . See how handsome and laid-back he is?”

“Yeah, pretty laid-back, I’d say.”

Then the man turned around and waved to someone. The light was about to turn green.

“Uh-oh,” Shirley said.

A slim, beautiful blonde ran to catch up with him. She stuck one hand in his coat pocket and stroked his cheek with the other. The man pulled her close and kissed her.

“Oh, well.” Joséphine sighed.

“Oh, well, what?” Shirley snapped. “He can change his mind. You’re going to be Audrey Hepburn and seduce him. Just stop eating so much chocolate while you’re working. You’ll lose weight. All he’ll see are your big eyes and your tiny waist, and he’ll be on his knees in no time. Then you’ll be the one slipping a hand into his duffel coat pocket. And you guys will fuck each other’s brains out. That’s how you must think, Jo. It’s the only way.”

The minute she got to the office Josiane got a phone call from her brother, saying their mother had died. Josiane cried, even though the woman had never done anything but abuse her. She felt as if she’d been orphaned. Then she realized that she really
was
an orphan, and cried even harder. It was as if she were making up for lost time, crying the way she had never been allowed to cry as a child, when she’d been a slovenly little girl whose stomach ached from fear, hunger, and cold.

“What is going on here, may I ask? Goodness gracious, it feels like a funeral home with all this weeping. And why aren’t you picking up your phone?”

Wearing a hat that looked like a big pancake, Henriette Grobz was staring at Josiane, who noticed that her telephone was indeed ringing. She waited a second, and it stopped. She pulled an old Kleenex out of her pocket and blew her nose.

“It’s my mother. I just found out that she died.”

“That’s sad, of course, but we all lose our parents sooner or later. You have to be prepared for it.”

Henriette had never liked Josiane. Didn’t like her insolence, her catlike walk, her blond hair, and especially not her eyes. Those eyes! Bright, lively, and challenging one minute, deep and seductive the next. She had more than once asked Marcel to fire her, but he always refused.

“Is my husband here?”

“He’s upstairs, but he’ll be back. You can wait in his office.”

“I would watch my manners, girl,” said Henriette with vicious condescension. “Don’t you use that tone with me.”

“And don’t you call me ‘girl.’ I’m Josiane Lambert, not your girl.”

Henriette marched into Marcel’s office and slammed the door. Josiane allowed herself a smile of satisfaction.

She phoned her brother to find out when the funeral would be.
Could old lady Grobz really get me fired?
Josiane wondered while the phone was ringing. Maybe she could.

Overcome by a sudden wave of sentimentality, she told her brother she would come home for the funeral.

“Mom asked to be cremated,” her brother said.

“Really? Why?”

“She was afraid of waking up in the dark.”

“I can understand that.”

My little mother
, she thought,
afraid of waking up in the dark!
She suddenly felt a twinge of love for her mother, and started to cry again. She hung up, blew her nose . . . and felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Something wrong, sweetie-pie?”

“It’s my mom, Marcel. She died.”

“Come here.”

Marcel took her by the waist and pulled her onto his lap.

“Put your arms around my neck and let yourself go, like you’re my baby. I’ve always wanted a baby, you know. But Henriette always said no.”

“Well, she’s in your office, waiting for you.”

Marcel leaped up as if someone had jabbed him in the behind with a rusty nail.

“
What?
Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. We got into an argument.”

He rubbed his head, looking chagrined.

“Oh boy! And I need her signature on some papers! You know that crappy Murepain subsidiary? Well, I managed to palm it off on the Brits. Sweetie-pie, couldn’t you have chosen another day to pick a fight with her? What am I gonna do now?”

“She’s going to ask for my scalp.”

“Was it that bad?”

“Christ, Marcel! Does she really scare you that much?”

He smiled sadly.

“I’d better go see what she wants.”

“Yeah, go see what she’s doing all alone in your office.”

“Don’t be mad at me, honeybunch.”

“Just go.”

Josiane knew all about men and their courage. She didn’t expect Marcel to go to war with the Toothpick for her. She didn’t expect anything from him. Maybe some sweetness, some tenderness when they were in bed. He was a nice guy, and she enjoyed giving him the pleasure he’d been denied, because when
you’re in love, giving is as good as getting. She loved climbing on top to take him between her thighs, make him practically faint with pleasure.

Josiane stood up, and decided to get some coffee and collect her thoughts. She gave a last worried glance at Marcel’s office. What was going on in there? Was he going to knuckle under and sacrifice her on the altar of King Cash? That’s what her mother used to call money.

Here I am pretending to be a liberated woman, when I’ve actually spent my whole life enslaved to King Cash! It paid for my cherry, and it bought and sold me. Yet the moment I see a rich man, I look up to him like he’s a superior being, like he’s God’s gift to mankind.

Still angry at herself, Josiane smoothed her dress and went to the break room to buy a coffee from the vending machine. The plastic cup dropped, and she waited as it filled with hot, black liquid. She squeezed the cup in both hands, savoring its warmth.

“What are you doing tonight? Hanging out with the old man?” asked Bruno Chaval, tapping a cigarette on his pack. Yellow Gitanes, she noticed; he must have seen them in some old movie.

“Hey! Don’t call him that!”

“Okay, I got it. You’re in a bad mood. I’ll shut up.”

She shrugged and put the coffee against her cheek. They stood silently for a minute, not looking at each other, sipping their coffee. Then Chaval moved closer, lightly bumping Josiane’s hip. She didn’t resist, so he leaned close to her neck.

“Mmmmm. You smell good, like fancy soap. I’d like to lay you down and slowly breathe you in.”

She moved away, sighing.

Ever since he’d gotten into her pants, Chaval had been acting like he owned her. Josiane had promised to talk to Marcel about a promotion, and he was writhing with impatience. He’d taken to pestering her about it everywhere—in the hallways, the warehouse, the elevators.

He wanted to ask her again about it, but could tell that this was a bad time. “Come on, babe. Truce?”

He put his hand on her hip and pulled her toward him.

“Stop it! Someone’ll see us.”

“Oh, come on. They’ll just say we’re good friends having some fun.”

“No, I’m telling you. He’s in the office with the Toothpick. If he comes out and sees us, I’m history.”

For all I know, I’m already history
, Josiane thought.

“You do love me a little, don’t you?” she asked in a pleading voice.

“You know I do, babe. How can you doubt it? Wait and see and I’ll prove it to you.”

He slipped his hand under her ass and squeezed.

“But what if the promotion doesn’t come through, for some reason? What if you don’t get it? Will you stay with me?”

“What are you talking about? Did he say something? Tell me.”

“No, it’s just that I feel scared all of a sudden.”

Chaval stroked her hair absentmindedly. In his arms, Josiane felt like an awkward package he couldn’t easily put down.

“C’mon, Josiane, pull yourself together! Now they really
are
going to notice us. You’re going to screw this whole thing up.”

Josiane stumbled away from him, her eyes red from crying. She wiped her nose and apologized, but it was too late.

Henriette and Marcel Grobz were by the elevator, silently staring at them. Henriette with her pinched lips and face all scrunched up under her big hat. Marcel soft and slumped, his cheeks trembling with sadness.

Henriette was the first to look away. Then she grabbed her husband by the sleeve and pulled him into the elevator. Once the doors were closed, she joyously crowed, “See, what did I tell you? That girl is a slut! When I think of the way she spoke to me! And you’re always taking her side. Poor Marcel, you can be so blind sometimes.”

Eyes downcast, Marcel was counting the cigarette burns in the elevator floor carpet and struggling to hold back his tears.

The envelope bore a brightly colored stamp and was addressed to “Hortense and Zoé Cortès.” Jo recognized Antoine’s handwriting. She set it unopened on the kitchen table amid her papers and books. Then she raised it to eye level, trying to see if it had photos in it, or perhaps a check. But she couldn’t tell. She’d have to wait for the girls to get back from school.

Hortense spotted it first and grabbed it, but Zoé screamed, “Me too! Me too! I want the letter too!” Joséphine made them sit down and asked Hortense to read it out loud. Jo took Zoé in her lap, hugging her tightly. Hortense slit open the envelope with a knife. She pulled out six thin sheets of paper, opened them, and laid them on the kitchen table, smoothing them with the back of her hand. Then she began to read:

Hortense smiled indulgently and sighed. “That’s Dad for you!” Joséphine couldn’t believe it.
Kenya! Alone or with Mylène?
The red triangle hanging above the toaster seemed to taunt her. She had the impression it was blinking.

The girls’ jaws dropped in astonishment. Crocodiles! Even Hortense was startled, but she went back to reading the letter, taking a deep breath between each word.

“Daddy’s funny,” said Zoé, sucking her thumb. “But I don’t like that he’s working with crocodiles. Crocodiles are dumb.”

“That’s like being a big executive,” declared Hortense, after some thought. “That’s what I put down on the student-information forms we had to fill out at the beginning of the year when it asks for your father’s occupation.”

“Wow!” Zoé exclaimed. “Seventy thousand crocodiles! He’d better not fall in the water.”