The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (17 page)

Marcel shook his head.

Suddenly René had an idea. He crossed his arms and told Marcel that his greatest fear had become a reality: their Chinese manufacturer had made a mistake with his orders. They’d confused inches and centimeters!

“I noticed it when I was going over the order slips for the Beijing factory. You better come see right now!”

“What? Goddamn it!” Marcel roared. “That could cost us a bundle! Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

He jumped up, grabbed his jacket and glasses, and clattered down the stairs to René’s office.

René followed, and as they passed Josiane’s desk, he shouted, “Grab your steno pad, Josiane. We’ve got yellow fever in Beijing!”

In his office, René opened the ledger on his desk, then slapped
his forehead. “Damn, wrong ledger! I left the big one at the loading dock desk. You stay put. I’ll go get it.”

He left, pulled the door closed behind him, and—click!—locked the two of them in. He walked off, rubbing his hands.

In the office, Josiane and Marcel waited. It was the first time they had been face-to-face and alone since the coffee machine incident. They could hear vans pulling up to the loading docks and workers yelling at the drivers.

“What’s René doing?” Marcel grumbled, looking out the window.

“Not a damned thing. He’s already done what he wanted—getting us together. That story about the messed-up Chinese order was bullshit.”

“You think so?”

“Just try the door. I bet it’s locked. We’re caught like rats in a trap.”

Marcel turned the handle, then jiggled it. The door wouldn’t open. He kicked it hard.

“As if I have nothing better to do!” Marcel yelled.

“How about me? I’m busy too.”

The air in the office smelled of old cigarettes, the electric heater, which was going full blast, and a sweater drying on a chair. Josiane wrinkled her nose and sniffled. She turned to look at the wisteria vine outside the window and saw Henriette striding in their direction.

“Shit!” she hissed. “It’s the Toothpick!”

“Hide, in case she decides to come this way.”

He pulled her close, and they crouched down against the wall below the window.

“Why are you so scared of her?”

Marcel put his hand on her mouth and squeezed her tightly against him.

“You keep forgetting that she signs off on everything.”

“Because you were dumb enough to give her the power.”

“Give me a break! You weren’t looking so cool yourself the other day, draped all over that stud muffin at the coffee machine.”

“I was just getting some coffee, that’s all.”

Marcel almost choked.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake! Are you saying you weren’t in Chaval’s arms?”

“Well, yeah, we did fool around a little. But it was just to get a rise out of you.”

Marcel shrugged and started polishing the tips of his shoes with his jacket cuff.

“I’d had it with you, Marcel.”

“Oh, really?” he said, pretending to be preoccupied with his shoes.

“I’d had it up to here with seeing you every night with the Toothpick! It drives me crazy. My life is zooming by, and I don’t have a grip on it. You and I have been together for years, and we’re still sneaking around. You never ever take me out in public, or anywhere nice. I’m what you do in the dark, a nice warm place to park your johnson.

“I make little Johnny happy, but before I know it, you’re
packing your bags and heading home. You slip me some jewelry when I threaten to freeze you out, but otherwise, it’s nothing but promises. So I cracked, that day. And on top of it all, she was really mean to me. I’d just learned my mom had died, and she told me I shouldn’t be crying on company time. I could have strangled her!”

Leaning against the wall, Marcel listened. He could feel himself melting. Josiane felt Marcel’s body relax, and she continued in a whisper. “It was really hard to lose my mother, you know. I thought I’d be okay about it, but it really knocked the stuffing out of me.”

She took Marcel’s hand and laid it between her breasts.

“It was like I was two years old again,” she said. “When you look up trustingly at the one person who should protect you, and all you get is a slap. You never really recover from those kinds of hurt, ever. You pretend you’re fine, you hold your chin up, but . . .”

“Oh, sweetie-pie, it’s so good to hear your voice again. Go on, tell me more. I love hearing you talk.”

Henriette had gone up to her husband’s office and, finding neither Josiane nor Marcel, went in search of René. She found him in the warehouse. René turned when he saw her, but a glance at his office window reassured him that the bickering lovers had hidden. He asked Henriette what he could do for her.

“I’m looking for Marcel,” she said curtly.

“Must be in his office.”

“He isn’t there.”

René assumed a surprised air and pretended to think.
Henriette’s pink face powder raised dry patches on her skin and emphasized the fine lines around her mouth and the sag of her jowls. She had an old lady’s face with a beak of a nose framing lips so thin and pursed that her lipstick looked smeared.
God, what a woman!
René thought.
Stiff as a fucking poker. Needs to have a stick of dynamite shoved up her ass.

“I’ll be waiting for him in his office,” Henriette hissed as she walked away.

“Right. If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re there.”

Meanwhile, kneeling in René’s darkened office, Marcel and Josiane continued their whispered reunion.

“Did you cheat on me with Chaval?”

“I let myself go one night when I was feeling blue. It only happened because he was there.”

“You do love me a little, don’t you?”

He’d moved closer, and his thigh now touched Josiane’s.

“Of course I love you, you big teddy bear.”

Josiane sighed and let her head rest against Marcel’s shoulder.

“I’ve missed you so much, you know.”

“Me, too. You have no idea.”

The two of them were whispering like a pair of schoolkids who’d cut class to go sneak a cigarette.

Suddenly, Marcel sat up.

“Watch out!” hissed Josiane. “She might be behind the door!”

“I don’t give a damn! Sweetie-pie, get up. It’s stupid to be hiding like this. I have something I want to ask you. Something too serious to ask when you’re sitting down.”

Josiane stood and brushed off her skirt.

“What is it?” she asked with a laugh. “Are you going to ask me to marry you?”

“Better than that, sweetie-pie! Better!”

“What then? I’m thirty-eight, and the only thing I haven’t done yet is get married. And it’s not as if I haven’t dreamed of it.”

“Do you love me, sweetie-pie?”

“You know I love you, Marcel.”

“If you love me, if you
really
love me, then prove it: give me a child, a child to carry on my name. A little Grobz.”

“Say that again, Marcel,” Josiane murmured. “Say that again.”

Marcel said it again, and again, and again. He was telling her that he had wanted this child for ages, and that he already knew what it would look like—the shape of his ears, the color of his hair, his tiny hands, the wrinkles on his feet, the dimples on his butt, the itty-bitty nails, and the little nose that wrinkles when he’s nursing.

“Mind if I sit on the floor, Marcel? My knees are dancing the Charleston.”

She slid down the wall onto her behind, and he crouched down beside her, grimacing when his knees hurt.

“This child . . . would you recognize him? Make him legit? He wouldn’t be some shameful little bastard?”

“He’ll sit at the family table, carry my name: Marcel Grobz Junior.”

“You swear to God?”

“I swear on my balls,” said Marcel, putting his hand on his crotch.

“See, you’re making fun of me!”

“No, no! It’s just the opposite. In the old days, you swore on your balls. Testicular, testament. Joséphine taught me that when you swear on your balls, it’s dead serious. Because if it isn’t true, your nuts shrivel and fall off. And honeybunch, that’s something I don’t want.”

Josiane started to laugh, then burst into tears.

A hand with sharp red nails dug into Iris’s. She cried out and, without turning around, jabbed an elbow at the hand’s owner, who squealed in pain.
How dare you!
Iris fumed, clenching her teeth.
The nerve! I was here first.
The stranger seemed to covet a cream-colored silk outfit with brown trim.
Well, I saw it first, so it’s mine
, thought Iris.
Not that I need it, but since you’re so determined to have it, I’m taking it.

She grabbed the precious items, and struggled to free herself from the crowd. The sale was taking place on the first floor of the Givenchy store, and it was a mob scene. The hand with red nails appeared again, trying to grab anything within reach. Iris saw it coming her way, like a stubborn crab, and decided this was her moment. Taking careful aim, she stabbed the hand with the clasp of her bracelet.

“What the— Are you out of your mind?”
screamed the owner of the hand as she tried to identify her attacker.

Iris smiled without turning around.
Serves you right! You’ll be scarred for months, and you’ll have to wear gloves to hide the damage.

She straightened up and broke free of the pack of anonymous
rumps. Brandishing her booty, Iris escaped to the shoe department, where she snapped up three pairs of evening pumps, a pair of flats, and some crocodile-skin boots. The boots were a bit punk, but the leather was very good quality, she noticed, running her hand inside.
Should I find a tuxedo to wear with these little boots?
Glancing at the furious mob, she decided against the idea. After all, she already had a whole closetful of them—and Saint Laurents, besides. Hardly worth getting ripped to shreds over one more.

Her phone rang, but she ignored it. Shopping required total concentration. Her laserlike gaze scanned the shelves, the racks, and the floor bins. She scooped up some earrings, bracelets, sunglasses, scarves, a tortoiseshell comb, a black velvet handbag, a few belts, some gloves—Carmen loves gloves!—and reached the checkout counter disheveled and out of breath.

“You need a lion tamer in here,” she said to the clerk, laughing. “With a big whip!”

The saleswoman smiled politely. Iris threw her bounty on the counter and fanned herself with her credit card while tucking a few strands of hair in place.

“That will be eight thousand four hundred and forty euros, madame,” said the clerk, as she folded the items in tissue paper and placed them in big white paper bags with the Givenchy logo.

Iris handed over her card. Her telephone rang again; Iris hesitated, but let it ring.

She counted the number of bags she would have to carry and felt exhausted. Luckily she had booked a car for the day. It was double-parked outside.

Turning her head, she noticed Caroline Vibert paying at another counter. Vibert was a member of Philippe’s firm.
How did that woman manage to get a sales pass?
wondered Iris, as she flashed her warmest smile. They traded sighs of mutual sympathy and held up their bulging bags. Iris made a coffee-drinking gesture with a quizzical look, and soon the two women were at Chez Francis.

“This kind of thing is getting dangerous,” said Iris. “Next time I’m bringing a bodyguard with a Kalashnikov!”

“Well, I got slashed by some psycho bitch! She jabbed me with her bracelet. Here, look!”

Caroline removed her glove, displaying a deep red furrow on the back of her hand.

Iris was startled to realize who her victim had been. “God, those women are crazy, aren’t they?” She sighed. “They’d kill for a scrap of fabric.”

“Did I tell you I met Joséphine this summer? I would never have guessed that you were sisters! It sure isn’t obvious.”

“Where’d you meet, at the Courbevoie municipal pool?” asked Iris jokingly as she signaled to the waiter. “What would you like, Caroline?”

“Fresh orange juice.”

“Ah, good idea. Two orange juices, please . . . I need some vitamins after an expedition like this one. By the way, what were you doing at the Courbevoie pool?”

“Nothing. I’ve never been there.”

“Didn’t you tell me you’d met Joséphine this summer?”

“Sure, at the office. She’s been working for us. Didn’t you know?”

Iris slapped her forehead, pretending suddenly to remember.

“Oh, yes, of course. I’m such an idiot.”

“Philippe hired her do some translation work. And in the fall I put her in touch with a publisher who gave her a biography of Audrey Hepburn to translate. He praises her to the skies. Says her writing is elegant, and the work she hands in is clean. She doesn’t charge much, either. Just takes her check and practically kisses your feet on the way out the door. A little worker ant, quiet as a mouse. Did you two grow up together, or was she raised in a convent?”

Caroline burst out laughing, and Iris wished she could shut her up.

“You talk about her as if she were some kind of half-wit,” she snapped.

“I didn’t mean to make you angry. I thought it was funny, that’s all.”

Iris bit her tongue. She didn’t want to make an enemy of Caroline Vibert, who had just been made a partner in the firm. Besides, she might know some things about Philippe. Iris decided to move her pawns carefully.