The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (12 page)

“Am I a dull woman?” she murmured to the big mirror on her closet door. Before the mirror could answer, the telephone rang. It was Joséphine, and she sounded excited.

“Iris, are you alone? I know it’s very late, but I really have to speak with you. Antoine wrote a letter to the girls. He’s in Kenya, raising crocodiles.”

“Crocodiles? He’s nuts!”

“That’s what I think, too.”

Joséphine read Antoine’s letter to Iris, who listened without interrupting.

“So, what do you think?”

“I think he’s lost his mind.”

“And that’s not all. He wrote a little note at the end just for me. You’ll never guess . . . Wait, I’ll read it to you.”

She read aloud:

Jo went on: “And there are a couple of PS’s. The first one says: ‘They call me Tonio here, in case you call and get one of the
staff.’ The second one says, ‘It’s weird, but I don’t ever sweat anymore, even though it’s hot.’ That’s it. What do you think?”

Iris’s thought was,
Poor Antoine, he’s just so pathetic!
But she didn’t know how much emotional distance her sister had, so she took a more diplomatic approach.

“The important thing is what you think, Jo.”

“You used to be much harder on him.”

“Before, he was a part of the family. It was okay to abuse him.”

“So that’s what you think a family is for?”

“You didn’t exactly hold back six months ago when you lit into Mother. You were so rough on her, she doesn’t want to hear your name mentioned.”

“I can’t tell you how much better I’ve felt since then.” Joséphine paused, then added, “It’s true that with all the work I have, I haven’t had much time to think about anything. All I knew is that Antoine had gone abroad somewhere.”

“I’m going to have to hang up, Jo. I hear Philippe coming. Big kiss and don’t forget: Cric and Croc clobbered the big Cruc as it crept up to crunch them.”

Iris looked up to find her husband looking at her from the doorway.
I don’t understand Philippe either
, she thought. She sighed and began to brush her hair again.
I feel as though he’s spying on me, walking in my footsteps, his eyes boring straight through me. Could he be having me followed? Is he trying to catch me with someone as grounds for divorce?
Silence had settled between them like a fact of life, a wall of Jericho that no trumpet would ever tear down because they never yelled, never slammed doors, never even raised their voices.
Couples that fight are lucky,
Iris thought to herself.
Everything is clearer after a good argument.

Philippe sat down on the bed and took off his shoes. First the right one, then the left. The right sock, then the left.

“Do you have a big day tomorrow?” she asked.

“A couple of meetings, a lunch—the usual.”

“You shouldn’t work so hard. The cemeteries are full of indispensable people.”

“Maybe. But I don’t see how I could change my life.”

They’d had this discussion often.

And now he’ll go into the bathroom, brush his teeth, put on his long T-shirt, and come to bed. He’ll say, “I think I’m going to fall asleep right away.” I’ll say . . . I won’t say anything. He’ll kiss me on the shoulder and say, “Good night, darling.” He’ll put on his sleep mask and turn toward his side of the bed. I’ll put away my brush, switch on my bedside light, and read a book till my eyes close. Then I’ll make up a story.

On some nights Iris curled up in the sheets, hugged her pillow, making a little dent in the feathers, and thought of Gabor. They’re at the Cannes film festival. They’re walking on the beach. He’s alone. She’s alone, soaking up the sun. They cross paths. She drops her sunglasses. He bends down to get them, stands up, and they recognize one another. “Iris!” “Gabor!” They hug and kiss. He says, “I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you.” She murmurs, “Me too!” He’s there for the premiere of his film. She accompanies him everywhere; they walk up the steps together, hand in hand; she asks for a divorce . . .

On other nights, Iris chose a different fantasy. She’s just
written a book, and it’s a huge success. Translated into twenty-seven languages, rights sold to MGM. Tom Cruise and Sean Penn are fighting to play the lead. Little green stacks of dollar bills stretch out as far as the eye can see. The reviews are ecstatic. Iris is photographed in her study, in her kitchen. She’s quoted about everything.

Suddenly Alexandre was standing at the bedroom door.

“Mom, can I sleep with you guys?”

Philippe turned over and snapped, “No, Alexandre! We’ve discussed this a thousand times. By the time a boy is ten, he doesn’t sleep with his parents anymore.”

“Mom, say yes—please!”

Iris could see the panic in her son’s eyes. She got up, took him by the hand, and said, “I’ll put him to bed.”

“That’s no way to raise the child. You’ll just turn him into a sissy who’s afraid of his shadow.”

“Oh, come on, Philippe, I’m just taking him back to bed. Don’t make such a big deal out of it.” To Alexandre she said, “Let’s go, honey.”

“It’s very unhealthy,” said Philippe. “The boy will never grow up.”

Iris led Alex to his room. She switched on the nightlight and pulled back the covers. Alexandre slipped under the sheets.

She put her hand on his forehead. “What are you afraid of, honey?”

“I’m just afraid.”

“You’re still a little boy, but you’ll be a man soon, Alexandre.
You’ll be living in a world of bullies. You have to be tough. You won’t be able to come crying to your parents’ bedroom.”

“I wasn’t crying!”

“No, but you let yourself be afraid. You let your fear overcome you, and that’s not good. You have to conquer it, honey, or you’ll always be a baby.”

“I’m not a baby.”

Alex looked sad. He was frustrated with his mother for not understanding him. “You’re being mean!”

Iris didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t know how to speak to her son.

She kissed Alex on the forehead and stood up.

“Mom, will you stay till I fall asleep?”

“I’ll stay, but next time, promise me that you’ll be strong and that you’ll stay in your own bed.”

Alexandre sighed and closed his eyes. Iris softly stroked his shoulder. Slender body, long eyelashes, curly black hair—Alex had the fragile grace of a fretful child. He frowned even in sleep, and his chest rose and fell as if under some great weight.

Alexandre came into our bedroom because he knew I needed him
, thought Iris.
Children know. I’m a wreck. The relaxed, easy veneer I’ve maintained for so long is cracking, and the jumble of contradictions is showing through. Life doesn’t make sense anymore, and it’s slipping through my fingers. Once you start to live according to other people’s rules, going along with what other people think, your soul shrivels and dies. Is it too late? Have I become the woman I see reflected in Bérengère’s eyes?

Iris shuddered. She took Alexandre’s hand and squeezed it tightly. In his sleep he returned the squeeze, mumbling, “Mommy . . .” Iris’s eyes filled with tears. She lay down next to her son, put her head on the pillow, and closed her eyes.

“Josiane, did you book my tickets for China?”

Marcel was standing directly in front of Josiane, but staring over her head, as if he were looking at a road sign. Josiane felt her chest tighten, and she sat up stiffly in her chair.

“Yes. It’s all . . . Everything’s on your desk.”

She didn’t know how to talk to Marcel anymore. He was painfully formal with her, and she stuttered and groped for words in response. He had been avoiding her ever since catching her with Chaval at the coffee machine three weeks ago. He walked by her blindly, locked himself in his office from morning till night, and then called, “See you tomorrow,” while looking the other way.

I’m gonna be left high and dry
, thought Josiane.
Marcel will fire me any day now. He’ll pay my unused vacation time, give me a severance package, and wish me all the very best with my “future endeavors.” Then it’s bye-bye, don’t let the door hit you on the ass on your way out!

She sniffled and choked back tears.
What an asshole that Chaval is! Why did he have to go waving his dick right under Marcel’s nose? Couldn’t help it, I guess. Probably high on testosterone. And then he had to go and dump me!

I had it all: my big old snuggly bear, my hot young lover, and money about to start pouring in. All I had to do was pull the strings
and the knot was tied. Now I can’t even think straight. I wore sunglasses at Mom’s funeral last night, and everyone thought I’d been bawling my eyes out.

Her mother’s funeral . . . Josiane had taken the train down to Culmont-Chalindrey, then splurged on a cab to the cemetery—35 euros, plus a tip. It was pouring rain, and when she arrived, there they were, clustered under their umbrellas: all the people she’d left behind twenty years earlier. It probably hadn’t been such a good idea to show up without putting on more of a show—a few trumpets or a little fanfare to shut them up.

“What, you came by train?” a cousin asked. “Don’t you own a car?” In her family, owning a car meant you had it made.

“No, I don’t have a car. In Paris it’s considered cool to walk.”

She broke away from the others and went over to the hole where they’d put the little urn of ashes. That’s when the dam burst.

Marcel, Mom, Chaval!
she silently wailed.
I’m alone, I’m broke, and I don’t have a future. I am so screwed! I feel like I’m eight years old and I’m going to get slapped. I’m eight years old and I’m so scared, I’m about to shit my pants. I’m eight years old, and Grandpa is quietly sneaking into my room while everyone is asleep. Or pretending to be asleep.

Josiane was crying, but she wasn’t crying for her mother. She was crying for herself.

After the service they partied. The wine flowed like water; there were sausages and rillettes, pizzas and pâtés, Caprice des Dieux cheese and heaps of potato chips. Her relatives came over to Josiane in waves, checking her out.

“How’s life in Paris?” they asked. “You making out okay?”

“Like a bandit,” she’d replied, showing off the diamond and ruby bracelet Marcel had given her, and stretching her neck so they could admire the South Sea pearl necklace.

“What kind of work do you do? Is the pay good? Does your boss treat you all right?”

“He’s the best,” she answered, her teeth clenched. “He treats me just fine.”

The questions kept coming, and she gave the same answers over and over. Each time her relations saw how well she was doing, they looked surprised and went off to get another drink.

After a while Josiane began to feel light-headed and asked if someone could open a window.

“Having dizzy spells? You knocked up? Who’s the dad?” A chorus of raucous laughter followed that seemed to fill the room, with people nudging each other as if they were about to break into a funky line dance.

A baby! A baby with Marcel! Why didn’t I think of that before?
Josiane’s mind was suddenly racing. He’d always dreamed of having a kid, anyway. He never stopped talking about how the Toothpick had denied him that rightful pleasure. He would get teary-eyed at ads showing little buggers stumbling around in spilled baby food or smelly Pampers.

Josiane’s revelation was so powerful that time seemed to stop. The words became flesh.
A ba-by. A little ba-by. A baby Jesus. A plump little Grobz, born with a silver spoon in its mouth. A spoon? What am I saying? A whole place setting!

Josiane looked tenderly at her brothers and her aunts and
uncles and their snotty children. How she loved them for giving her this brilliant idea. How she loved their mediocrity, their dreary lives, their ruined faces. She had been living in Paris for too long. It was back to basics now. How do you keep a man? Simple: with a bun in the oven. How could she ever have forgotten the age-old wisdom that had created dynasties and filled treasure chests?

The hardest part would be convincing Marcel that her fling with Chaval hadn’t meant anything. Just a moment of weakness, a screwup, a bit of female fickleness. It was so momentary she’d already forgotten about it. That wouldn’t be easy, but Josiane wasn’t afraid of a challenge. She’d been through worse and come out on the other side.