The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (27 page)

“I’ll do your makeup,” said Mylène, “and you can be a walking advertisement for the salon. But don’t get the Chinese men too turned on!”

Hortense curled her lip in disdain. “They’re too small,” she said. “I want a real man, with big muscles.”

Gary discreetly felt his biceps. He was doing fifty push-ups twice a day, morning and night, and Hortense noticed.

“Keep at it, beanpole,” she scoffed. “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

Shirley scowled.

Zoé and Antoine walked along in silence. Antoine was showing her the park’s features, teaching her the names of trees and birds. He had been careful to slather her with sunscreen and give her a big hat to wear. She brushed away a fly and sighed.

“Are you going to stay here a long time, Daddy?”

“I don’t know yet, Zozo.”

“Once you’ve killed all the crocodiles and put them in cans and made bags out of them, then you can leave, right?”

“They’ll be more of them. They’re going to have babies.”

“When is a crocodile all grown up?”

“When it’s twelve years old it stakes out its territory and finds a mate.”

“So it’s kind of like us.”

“Sort of, yeah. The mommy crocodile lays about fifty eggs in a nest and she spends three months sitting on them. The warmer the nest, the more male crocodiles she’ll have. That’s not like us.”

“So she’ll have fifty babies? That’s a lot of children to look after!”

“Well, ninety percent of baby crocodiles die when they’re little. It’s a law of nature.”

“Does that make the mommy sad?”

“She knows that’s the way it is. But she fights to protect the ones who survive.”

“She must be a little sad, though. She sounds like a good mommy. She goes to a lot of trouble. Just like Mommy. She works really hard.”

“You’re right, Zoé. Your mom’s wonderful.”

“So why did you go away?”

She had stopped and was looking at him gravely from under the brim of her hat.

“That’s a grown-up problem, Zoé. When we’re little, we think life is simple, but when we grow up, we find out it’s more complicated.”

Antoine didn’t know what else to say. He’d been asking himself the same question: Why had he left? After bringing the girls home from dinner the other night, he would have been happy to stay there with Joséphine. They would have slipped into bed together, gone to sleep, and life would have picked up again, comfortable and sweet.

“When you sleep with Mylène, do you wear all your clothes?”

Antoine was startled; there was a question he didn’t expect! He took his daughter’s hand, but she pulled free and repeated her question.

“Why are you asking? Does it matter?”

“Do you make love with Mylène?”

“Zoé!” he stammered. “That’s none of your business!”

“Yes, it is! Because if you make love with her, you’re going to have lots of little babies and I don’t want that.”

He knelt down and took her in his arms. “I don’t want any children besides you and Hortense, Zozo.”

“Promise?”

“I promise. You’re my two wonderful daughters, and you fill my heart with love.”

Zoé looked concerned, and seemed to be thinking. Antoine was afraid that she’d ask more awkward questions, and was eager to change the subject.

“Do you like your room here?”

“Yeah, it’s okay.”

They walked back to the house in silence. Zoé was pouting, but she let Antoine take her hand again.

They spent the afternoon at the beach, but without Mylène, who opened her salon at four o’clock. When Hortense took off her T-shirt and pareo, Antoine got a shock. She had the body of a woman: long legs, a slim waist, nice round buttocks, a taut stomach, and breasts that her bathing suit barely contained. The way she lifted her long hair and pulled it back, the way she rubbed sunscreen on her thighs, shoulders, and neck, unnerved him. Antoine looked away, scanning the beach to see if any men were checking her out. He was relieved to see that they were alone, apart from a few children playing in the waves.

Shirley noticed his discomfort. “She’s something else, isn’t she? She’s going to drive men mad! The minute he sees her, Gary starts tripping over his own feet.”

“When I left Courbevoie, she was still a little girl.”

“Better get used to it. This is just the beginning.”

The kids rushed into the water, screaming with delight.

“Want to join them?” he asked. “You’ll see, the water’s great.”

As he dove in, Antoine realized he hadn’t had a single drink since his daughters arrived.

Henriette was on the warpath.

In front of her mirror, she made the final adjustments to her hat, jabbing it with a long pin so it would stay straight on her head and not blow off at the first gust. She smeared bright red lipstick across her mouth, patted her cheeks with dark blush, clipped a pair of earrings on her wrinkled earlobes, and stood up. She was ready to begin her inquiry.

It was the first of May, a holiday, a day when no one goes to work.

No one except Marcel Grobz.

At breakfast he had announced that he was going to the office, wouldn’t be back until late in the evening, and not to wait for him for dinner. He told Henriette this very casually, while slicing off the top of his soft-boiled egg.

Her suspicions had first been aroused at dinner the night before. She and Marcel were seated at opposite ends of the long dining room table. As he did every night when they ate together, Marcel asked if she’d had a good day. But then he added a word that rang out like a pistol shot:
darling.

“Did you have a good day, darling?”

And then he went on eating his beef carrot daube, blissfully unaware of the storm he’d just triggered.

It had been at least twenty years since Marcel last called Henriette “darling.” In the past, he’d been so put down every time
he did that he eventually started using more neutral terms, like “dear,” or simply “Henriette.”

But last night he had called her “darling.”

And it hit Henriette like a slap in the face.

Because that “darling” hadn’t been meant for her.

Later, she spent hours tossing and turning, alone in her big bed. (Marcel, claiming that his snoring would keep her awake, slept in the guest bedroom.) She got up at 3:00 a.m. for a glass of red wine to help her sleep, and quietly opened his bedroom door. The room was empty. She switched on the light. No doubt about it, the bird had flown the coop: the bed hadn’t even been slept in! She inspected the bathroom. Along with a razor, aftershave, comb, brush, shampoo, and toothpaste was a complete line of men’s beauty products: day cream, exfoliant, smoothing cream, moisturizer, eye cream, firming lotion, even a cream designed to shrink love handles. To Henriette, the array of beauty products felt like a taunt.

She shrieked.
Marcel has a mistress! He’s diddling someone, supporting a hussy, sneaking around!

She ran to the kitchen and finished the bottle of vintage Bordeaux she had opened at dinner.

So when Marcel claimed at breakfast that he was going to work on May Day, Henriette decided to investigate. First she would go to his office to see if he was really there—he wouldn’t be, of course. Then she would go through his mail, look at his appointment calendar, and examine his check stubs and credit card statements.

She tugged at the skin at her throat to minimize the wattles, and left the apartment, lips pursed.

Downstairs, she nodded and gave the concierge a big smile as she passed. Henriette was vicious with those close to her, but courteous to strangers. She suspected that her family—and Joséphine in particular—had probed her heart and found it empty. She figured that she had nothing left to gain from the people in her family circle, so she exercised a ruthless tyranny to keep them under her yoke. But Henriette was also very proud, and she needed strokes and flattery. So she made a laudable effort to win strangers over. What she got from them renewed her sense of worth and reinforced the high opinion she already had of herself.

Henriette was surprised not to find the chauffeur waiting downstairs with the car as usual, and then remembered that Gilles didn’t work on May Day. “All these days off and holidays just encourage laziness and hurt the country’s progress,” she muttered, deigning to hail a taxi.

A gray Opel pulled over.

“Avenue Niel!” she barked.

Seated comfortably at her husband’s desk, Henriette looked through the papers in Marcel’s in-box, opened one binder after another, checked every meeting on his calendar. No woman’s name, no suspicious initials. Undeterred, she rummaged through the drawers in search of a checkbook or credit card receipts.

She was beginning to lose hope when her hand happened on a fat envelope marked “Miscellaneous Expenses” at the back of one of the drawers. When she opened it, she could feel a wave of warmth; she’d hit the jackpot! Among other things, it contained a hotel bill for four nights at the Plaza for two, with caviar and champagne for breakfast.
Well, well, what do you know? Marcel
certainly enjoys himself when he’s with his floozy.
There was also a stiff bill from a jewelry store on place Vendôme, and others for designer perfumes and clothes.
My heavens! The old goat is paying through the nose to get his jollies. That’s what you have to do when you’re old: you pay and pay!

Suddenly a photograph fell out of the sheaf of bills, and Henriette’s flinty heart skipped a beat. Apparently taken in front of the Lido, it showed a beaming Marcel hugging a gorgeous brunette. The word “Natasha” was scrawled on the back, in the traitor’s own handwriting. Henriette was first shocked, then jubilant: “I’ve got you this time!” she exulted.

She went into Josiane’s office to Xerox her finds. As she was copying them, she suddenly wondered why Marcel had bothered to keep all those bills.
Did he pay them from the business checking account? If so, he’s embezzling from the company, and I can nail him on two fronts!

Back in Marcel’s office, she was continuing her search when her foot struck a cardboard box under his desk. She opened it, staring in disbelief at its contents: dozens of velour, silk, and terrycloth onesies in pink, blue, and white; burping cloths; baby mittens to keep newborns from scratching themselves; wool socks in every possible shade; and Swiss, English, and French catalogs for cribs, baby carriages, and toy mobiles. She studied the box and its contents.
So Chief is planning to start a line of baby products! Maybe his consolation for not having a child of his own.
She kicked the box back under the desk.

Henriette hurried away, clutching the incriminating envelope
under her arm.
Go ahead, have your fun
, she raged.
I’ve got you right where I want you.

“So
that’s
why we don’t see you anymore? You’ve shut yourself away to write?”

Iris assumed a mysterious look and nodded. Remembering the scene in Joséphine’s kitchen, she was describing the agony of the creative life to Bérengère, who couldn’t believe how much her friend had changed.

“It’s exhausting, you know,” said Iris. “I hardly leave my study. Carmen brings me meals on a tray. She makes me eat, because I completely forget.”

“It’s true, you’ve lost weight.”