The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (11 page)

“I guess that’s bound to happen,” said Hortense. “When I go there, I’m only going to look at them through binoculars!”

Joséphine listened to all this, dumbfounded. A crocodile farm?

Hortense handed the last sheet to Joséphine, who folded it and slipped it into her apron pocket.

“Aren’t you going to read it right away?” Hortense asked in surprise.

“No. Do you want to talk about Daddy’s letter?”

The girls studied her.

“Why didn’t he stay in France?” Zoé asked.

“Because there aren’t any crocodile farms here,” replied
Hortense. “He was always saying he wanted to go abroad. That’s all he ever talked about. I wonder whether she went, too.”

Joséphine spoke up quickly, to keep the girls from talking about Mylène. “I hope he’s being paid really well and that he’s going to enjoy his job.”

Jo thought the whole project was crazy, and hoped against hope that Antoine hadn’t invested any money in it.
Whose money could he invest, anyway? Mylène’s?
Joséphine suddenly remembered that she and Antoine had a joint savings account. She resolved to speak with Monsieur Faugeron, the banker, right away.

“I’m going to go read about crocodiles in my book about reptiles,” Zoé declared, jumping down from her mother’s lap.

“If we had Internet access you wouldn’t have to,” said Hortense.

“But we don’t,” Zoé said. “So I just look things up in books.”

“Mom, we need a computer,” said Hortense. “All my friends have one. Mom, you’re not listening!”

“Of course I am!”

“What did I just say?”

“That you need a computer.”

“And what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know, honey. I need to think about it.”

“Thinking about it doesn’t mean buying it.”

Antoine must feel like he’s starting his life over
, thought Joséphine.
A new girlfriend, a new house, a new job. We must seem pretty dull to him, the three of us in our little apartment in Courbevoie.

Just that morning Max Barthillet’s mother had come downstairs and asked whether she’d had any news from Antoine. Joséphine said something or other, while noticing that Christine Barthillet had lost a lot of weight. Jo asked if she was on a diet. “You’re going to laugh, Madame Cortès, but I’m on the potato diet!” Joséphine indeed burst out laughing, and Christine went on: “I’m serious! You eat a potato every night, three hours after dinner! Apparently this releases hormones that neutralize your brain’s craving for sugar and glucose. You don’t feel the need to eat between meals. So you lose weight.”

“Mom, a computer isn’t some luxury, it’s a tool,” Hortense was saying. “You could use it for research and us for our homework.”

“I know, honey. I know.”

“You say that, but you’re not interested. This is my future!”

“Hortense, listen to me. I’d do anything for you, okay? Anything. When I say I’ll think about it, it’s because I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep. I think I may just be able to manage. Can you wait till Christmas?”

“Yes! Thanks, Mom! I knew I could count on you.”

Hortense hugged her mother and insisted on sitting on her lap, the way Zoé did.

“Can I still do this, Mom? I’m not too big, am I?”

Joséphine melted.

“I love you so much, honey. Let’s try not to fight.”

“We don’t fight, Mom. We argue. We just don’t see things the same way, that’s all. And you know, if I get angry sometimes, it’s because ever since Daddy left it’s been really hard and I take it out on you because you’re the one who’s here.”

Joséphine fought back tears.

“You’re the only person I can count on, Mom.”

Hortense’s trust came as such an unexpected pleasure, it chased away some of Jo’s worries, but not all of them.

Since she had started doing translations, Joséphine had put Hortense and Zoé on the school lunch plan, and dinner was almost always the same thing: ham and mashed potatoes. Zoé ate with a frown. Hortense picked at her food, and talked about her latest plans for making her dream of becoming a fashion designer—with her own label—come true. Joséphine finished their plates so as not to waste anything.
That’s why I’m gaining weight
, she thought.
I’m eating for three.

“Mom, Max Barthillet never invites me over anymore. Why?” Zoé asked.

I don’t know, sweetie,” Joséphine answered, absentmindedly. “Everyone has problems . . .”

“Can you give me some money to buy a Diesel T-shirt, Mommy?”

Joséphine sighed.

After the girls went to bed that night, Joséphine got back to the translation.
What would Audrey Hepburn do in my place?
she wondered.
She would work, keep her dignity, and focus on her children’s happiness.
That was how she’d lived her life, with dignity and love—and stayed thin as a rail.

Joséphine decided she would start the potato diet.

I
t was a cold, rainy November evening, and Philippe and Iris were driving home from a dinner at of one of his partners’ houses. The setting had been luxurious, the food excellent, and the evening boring, Iris recalled, leaning back in her seat as they made their way across Paris. Philippe was driving in silence. She hadn’t managed to catch his eye all evening.

Iris admired the city—the limestone buildings, the bridges over the Seine, the layout of the grand avenues. When she was living in New York, she missed Paris, missed sitting at cafés and watching the Seine flow by. She used to close her eyes and summon up images of home.

Early in her marriage, Iris had made an effort to keep up with Philippe’s friends’ conversations, to take an interest in business, in the stock market, profits, dividends, and corporate mergers. At Columbia, she’d reveled in freewheeling conversations about a film, a screenplay, or a book. But around businesspeople she felt awkward and ignorant. Gradually she understood that she was there just for decoration, because she was attractive and
charming, because she was Philippe’s wife. At first this had offended and hurt her, then she’d gotten used to it.

But this evening had been different.

Gaston Serrurier—a publisher with a reputation for publishing good books and sleeping with beautiful women—had sat across from her at dinner. “So, Iris, are you still tending the home fires?” he asked ironically. “You’ll be wearing a chador soon.”

Iris was miffed. “Actually, you might be surprised to learn that I’ve started to write.” The words were barely out when she saw Serrurier’s eyes light up.

“Is it a novel? What’s it about?”

“It’s a historical novel set in the Middle Ages,” she said, an image of Joséphine and her work on the twelfth century suddenly springing to mind.

“Well, well, that’s very interesting! Our readers love history and historical fiction. How far along are you?”

“Oh, I’m making headway,” she said, desperately conjuring up what her sister had said about that time. “It’s set in the twelfth century, Eleanor of Aquitaine’s time. We have so many misconceptions about that period. It’s a pivotal era in French history, and a lot like the one we’re living through now. Money has replaced barter and has come to dominate people’s lives. There is an exodus from small towns, and the cities are growing. France is opening up to the outside world. Trade is flourishing across Europe. Young people are struggling to find their place in society, and are rebelling. The clergy is fanatical and repressive, and they stick their noses in everything. But it’s also a time of great public works. Magnificent cathedrals, universities, and
hospitals are being built. It’s also when the first romance novels appear.”

Serrurier watched Iris raptly, his eyes never leaving her face.

“That’s fascinating! So when can we have lunch?”

“I’ll call you when I have something I’m ready to show.”

“You have to promise not to show it to anyone else first, okay?”

He gave Iris his direct number, and, before leaving, reminded her of her promise.

Philippe dropped her in front of their building and went to park the car. Iris hurried to the safety of her bedroom and got undressed, thinking back on the fantastic story she’d just made up.
God, that was brazen of me! Now what do I do? He’ll forget all about it
, she reassured herself.
And if he doesn’t, I can say I’m just starting out and need more time.

The brass clock on the bedroom mantelpiece chimed midnight. Putting on an act had felt so delicious. It took her back to her time at Columbia when a group of them had been studying mise-en-scène. Gabor had been very supportive.
Gabor
 . . . She kept coming back to him.

Iris shook her head at the memory. For the first time in ages she felt alive. She had told a lie, of course, but it wasn’t a very big one.
How wonderful life is when you can be something other than someone’s wife or someone’s mother.

She sat at the foot of the bed in a cream-colored negligee, brushing her long black hair. It was a ritual she never missed. In the novels she’d read as a child, the heroines always brushed their hair, morning and night.

She sighed. Another day, and she hadn’t gotten anything done; hadn’t written, hadn’t seen anyone. She’d eaten lunch in the kitchen, feeling very alone. She felt she was spinning her wheels.

If only I could call Bérengère.
Iris never saw her anymore, and she felt as if part of herself had been cut off. Maybe not the best part, but she had to admit that she missed the woman and her gossip, with its whiff of the sewer.

I used to look down on Bérengère
, Iris thought.
I told myself I had nothing in common with her. But the fact is, I was all a-twitter when we were chattering.
They hadn’t seen each other in six months, and Iris no longer knew what was happening in Paris, who was sleeping with whom, who was in and who was out.

Iris had spent most of the afternoon locked in her study. She reread a Henry James short story and was so struck by a passage that she copied it in her notebook: