The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (21 page)

“I’m going to write a historical novel set in the twelfth century, just as I boasted I would, that night. I phoned Serrurier yesterday. He’s thrilled. To whet his appetite, I fed him a few of those anecdotes you kindly gave me the other day—you know, about Rollo, William the Conqueror, taxes being ‘banalities,’ and all that. He sounded delighted. ‘How soon can you have it for me?’ he asked. I said I had no idea. So he promised me a big advance if I gave him fifty pages to read as soon as possible. Just
to see how I write and if I can pull it off. Because to write a book like that, he said, you need both knowledge and staying power.”

Jo nodded.

“The only problem is that I don’t have the knowledge or the endurance. And that’s where you come in.”

“Me? No offense, but I don’t see how—”

“You come in because you and I are going to make a secret deal. Remember when we were kids, and we used to do that blood oath thing?”

“Yeah, and after that I did anything you wanted. I was always terrified I might break the vow and die on the spot.”

“It’s simple. You write the book, and you get the money. I put my name on it and talk it up on TV, the radio, the newspapers. You produce the raw material, and I pitch the product. I’ll handle public relations, getting people talking, photo shoots, and author appearances. That’s all about how your hair and your makeup look, and what you’re wearing. Having your picture taken when you’re shopping, in your bathroom, under the Eiffel Tower, whatever. All the things that have nothing to do with the book but make it sell. I’m great at that stuff, and it terrifies you. If we work together, the book will be a hit. For me, it’s not about the money; you’ll get all that. For me, it’s about waking up, feeling alive again.”

“But Iris, that’s fraud!”

Iris let out an exasperated sigh. Her eyes swept over Jo and came to focus on her face like a bird of prey’s.

“I knew you’d say that. But tell me, where’s the fraud if I give you what you most need at the moment—money—and all I’m asking in a return is a tiny lie? Not even a lie, a secret.”

Joséphine looked doubtful.

“You just have to trust me.”

“Like when we were little.”

“Exactly.”

Joséphine watched the countryside racing by.

“Jo, I’m begging you. Do this for me. What do you have to lose?”

“I don’t think in those terms.”

“Oh, stop it! Don’t tell me you never hide anything from me! I heard you were working for Philippe’s office, and you didn’t tell me. You think that’s a good thing, sharing secrets with my husband?”

Joséphine blushed.

“I’m not proud that I hid that from you,” she stammered.

“Yeah, but you did! You did it, Jo. Are you saying you’ll do it for Philippe but not for me, your own sister?”

Iris could sense Jo weakening, and assumed a softer, almost pleading tone.

“Listen, Jo, you’d be doing me a huge favor—me, your sister. I’ve always been there for you. Cric and Croc, you remember? Ever since we were little . . . I’m all the family you’ve got. You don’t have anyone else! No mother, since you’ve stopped seeing her and she’s seriously pissed off at you, no more father, no more husband.”

Joséphine shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. She felt alone and abandoned. In her elation over her first check, she’d assumed that the translation jobs would keep coming, but they hadn’t. The editor who’d congratulated her on her work
hadn’t called. On January 15, she’d have to make a loan payment—unless Antoine miraculously turned up, checkbook in hand. Then again on February 15, March 15, April 15, May 15, June 15, July 15 . . . An ominous cloud of misfortune suddenly descended on her. The feeling of dread gripped her, and she could hardly breathe.

Noticing that Joséphine now looked worried, Iris bore on.

“And I’m not talking chump change, either! I’m talking fifty thousand euros, minimum.”

“Fifty thousand euros!”

“Twenty-five thousand as soon as I hand in the first fifty pages and an outline. Another twenty-five when the book’s done.”

“Fifty thousand euros!” repeated Jo, who could hardly believe her ears. “Serrurier must be out of his mind!”

“No, he’s not out of his mind. He’s thinking, he’s calculating. He’s a publisher; he’s running the numbers.”

“Yes, but . . . ,” protested Jo, more weakly now.

“You write it. You know that period by heart. For you, it’ll be a breeze. And in six months—listen carefully—in six months you’ll have fifty thousand euros! You won’t have any more worries. You can go back to your old parchments and your François Villon poems, your
langue d’oïl
and
langue d’oc.
”

“You’re mixing it all up!”

“Who cares? I’ll only have to talk about what you write!”

Joséphine felt a tingle of pleasure deep in her chest. Fifty thousand euros! Enough to pay—she quickly calculated—at least thirty loan installments. Thirty months of relief! Thirty months
of being able to sleep at night and tell stories by day. She would bring them all to life: Rollo and Arthur, and Henry and Eleanor and Enide! She would set them off on a mad whirl of balls, tournaments, battles, castles . . . and conspiracies.

As the train pulled into the Lyon-Perrache station for the three-minute stop, Joséphine agreed.

“Okay,” she said with a sigh. “But just this once, okay, Iris? You promise?”

“I promise: just this once. Or the big Cruc will crunch me.”

T
he train hadn’t even come to a complete stop at the Lyon station, and Iris was already kissing Jo.

“You have no idea what a jam you’re getting me out of! I know I’ve wasted my life, but it’s too late, I can’t go back now. I have to make do with what’s left. It’s not very glorious, I’ll admit, but that’s the way it is.”

Iris kissed her again, then withdrew into her composed, older-sister self. She gave Joséphine a searching glance.

“You’re looking pretty, Jo. Those little blond streaks . . . very nice. Are you in love? You will be soon. I see so much good in your future: beauty, talent, wealth.” Iris snapped her fingers, as if conjuring fate. “Your time has come, Jo. I was born with more than you, but I’ve squeezed every drop out of life, and all I’ve got left is the dried-out rind. Remember when people used to say that I had talent, that I was a true artist, that I would be somebody? Take Hollywood by storm?” Iris laughed bitterly. “Hollywood, hah! Turns out you’re the real writer in the family.
I remember those letters you sent when you were away at camp. My friends all said you were a great writer, like Mme de Sevigné!”

Jo was moved by Iris’s unusual candor, but still felt intimidated. Could she really pull this off?

Iris snapped her out of her reverie. “First thing I’m going to do is buy you a new laptop computer and get you hooked up to the Internet.”

Joséphine protested, but Iris insisted. As usual, Jo gave in.

So now Jo was staring at that computer, its screen staring blankly back at her. The kitchen table was littered with a week’s worth of books, bills, markers, pens, sheets of paper, plus the remains of breakfast.
I simply have to make room to write
, she told herself.
Put everything else out of my mind.
She sighed deeply, and when she did, all her resolve vanished at the thought of the effort she’d have to make.

How do you come up with a plot for a book? How do you create characters? Who should she bring to life? William the Conqueror, Richard the Lionheart, or Henry II? Should she try to channel the early writers of romances, like Chrétien de Troyes? Maybe she should use the people in her daily life: Shirley, Hortense, Iris, Philippe, Antoine, even Mylène.
Can I put hennins and clogs on the women, and helmets and pointy shoes on the men? Just dress them up in twelfth-century attire and drop them into a farm or a castle?

Is there a recipe book for writers?
Joséphine wondered.
Mix one cup of love with a dash of adventure, a few ounces of historical references, and two pounds of sweat. Let simmer on low heat, stir, sauté so it doesn’t stick, let sit for three months, six months, a year.

Stendhal supposedly wrote
The Charterhouse of Parma
in three weeks. Georges Simenon could bang out a book in ten days. But how long had they carried those books around inside as they got up in the morning, sipped their coffee, read the mail, watched the morning light on the breakfast table?

Every writer had a trick. Drink coffee, the way Balzac did. Write standing up, like Hemingway. Lock yourself away, like Colette. Prowl the mean streets, like Zola. Take opium, like Coleridge. Yell, like Flaubert. Run, go nuts, sleep . . . or maybe not sleep, like Proust.

And what about me?
Joséphine stared at the sink, the clock, the remains of breakfast, and the bills. The writer Paul Léautaud used to say, “Write as if you’re writing a letter, and don’t reread what you’ve written.”

Who should she write her letter to? Maybe write to some man she would invent . . . A man who would listen to her.

The computer was sitting before her, its screen still blank. Iris had bought it for her in Megève, the day after Joséphine got there. At the chalet, Philippe bent down and asked in a whisper if she had bought it with the money from the translations. Joséphine turned beet red. Iris was busy lighting a fire in the fireplace.

“The whole firm’s delighted with your work,” he said. “You saved us from a real blunder on the Massipov contract.”

I’m becoming the queen of secrets and lies
, Joséphine thought to herself.
I can manage translating contracts for Philippe, but what if the Audrey Hepburn publisher asks me to do another book? I’ll have to hire a ghost translator!
She laughed aloud at the thought, and Iris turned around.

“Is what Philippe’s saying that funny?” asked Iris, turning around. “You should let us in on the story.”

Joséphine mumbled an explanation.

She was feeling more and more at ease with Philippe. They weren’t exactly close and probably never would be, but she was beginning to notice a strange kindness in Philippe that she found comforting. He seemed to be coming out of his shell, much as she had herself had started to.

The sun went behind a cloud just then, and the cold light of January dimmed. Joséphine sighed. She really needed to clean up the place if she wanted to make a work space for herself. She pushed the kitchen table aside and spotted the red paper triangle she’d made when she saw Antoine and Mylène together for the first time; it had fallen behind the toaster. Jo picked it up. She closed her eyes and went back in time to that July day when Antoine had picked up the girls, and she’d felt like jumping off the balcony.

Joséphine tore up the red triangle and threw it in the trash.
It’s my fault
, she thought.
I bored him with my love.
She looked up at the clock and gasped. It was seven o’clock already! She’d sat down to work at three. The four hours had flown by. The girls would be home from school at any moment, and she hadn’t even started dinner.

Jo filled a pot with water, dropped in some potatoes, put in lettuce from the fridge to soak, and set the table.
No point in panicking
, she told herself.
You’ll manage. A writer doesn’t need to be a genius, just has to have a way to translate what she feels. I have to find the words that will express those feelings. Who do I feel like writing to?