The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (28 page)

“All those characters living in my head! They inhabit me. They’re more real to me than you are, or even Alexandre or Philippe. You think you see me, but I’m not really here at all, I’m with Florine, my heroine.”

Bérengère listened, mouth agape. “How do you come up with the Middle Ages stuff?”

“The twelfth century, darling; a turning point in the history of France. I bought tons of books and I just read and read: Georges Duby, Georges Dumézil, Philippe Ariès, Dominique Barthélemy, Jacques Le Goff . . . I’m also reading Chrétien de Troyes, Jean Renart’s novels, and that fabulous twelfth-century poet Bernard de Ventadour!”

Iris sat slumped in her chair, as if weighed down by all that learning.

“Do you know what they called lust back then?” she asked.

“No idea.”

“Lechery. And do you know how they aborted? With ergot.”

Bérengère was amazed by her friend’s knowledge.

It’s working!
Iris silently congratulated herself.
If all my readers are as easy to fool as Bérengère, this’ll be a breeze.
Iris had reconciled with Bérengère for the sole purpose of testing her mastery of facts. She scheduled regular lunches to practice answering questions the way she would later when dealing with reporters.

“What about the Decretum? Do you know about the Decretum?”

“You know I never went to college, Iris. I barely graduated from high school!”

“It was a very crude questionnaire drawn up by the church to regulate women’s sexual behavior. Some of the questions are pretty scary: ‘Did you make an instrument of suitable shape, strap it over your private parts or that of another woman, and fornicate with other sinful women using that instrument or any other?’”

“They had dildos back then?” asked Bérengère in disbelief.

“‘Have you fornicated with your little boy? Have you placed him on your private parts and simulated fornication?’”

“Oh, gross!”

“‘Have you given yourself to an animal? Have you provoked it into copulation by any means? Have you tasted your husband’s semen so that he would burn with greater love for you? Have you made him drink your menstrual blood or eat bread kneaded with your buttocks?’”

“That’s a new one.”

“‘Have you sold your body to lovers for their enjoyment, or sold those of your daughter or granddaughter?’”

“It all sounds so modern!”

“That makes it easier, in a way. The clothes, the food, and the pace of life have changed, but feelings and personal behavior are still the same, unfortunately.” That was another point she’d heard Joséphine make.

Iris knew that Bérengère had had several abortions. For her coup de grace, she leaned close.

“‘Have you killed your unborn child? Expelled the fetus from the womb by the use of spells or herbs?’”

Horrified, Bérengère begged her to stop, but Iris went on. “Aha, damned soul! Repeat after me: ‘I renounce sex and the vanities of this world and I offer my body as a living sacrifice to God!’”

“Amen,” said Bérengère, eager for all this to end. “What does Philippe think of your writing?”

“He was pretty surprised, I must say. But he respects my need to be left alone to work. And he’s been a love, takes care of Alexandre all the time.”

That part was true. Philippe seemed perplexed by his wife’s new project, and never discussed it with her. On the other hand, he had started to spend much more time with Alexandre. He came home every night at seven and hung out in the boy’s room, going over schoolwork, helping with math problems, taking him to soccer and rugby matches. Alex never looked happier.

Iris phoned the detective agency to tell them to stop their
investigation. “I got all worked up over nothing,” she said, hoping to keep the conversation short. “It was just a business matter of my husband’s.”

As it happened, the head of the agency had decided to close the case even before the lovely Madame Dupin called. Philippe Dupin had dropped by and warned him that if they didn’t stop following him, he would get their license revoked. He could do that, he said, and he meant it.

Her lunch over, Iris drove home to work on polishing her image as a best-selling novelist. Not a single detail could be left to chance. She had to be ready to answer any and all questions with crisp, penetrating answers. And she had to read as much as she could. Iris asked Jo to list a few essential works on the period, and she studied them, taking notes. Carmen was allowed to bring her tea—in silence—while she read.

At times, she thought of Gabor.
I wonder if he’ll read the book. Maybe it will occur to him to pitch it as a film. We could work on the screenplay together, like in the old days.
Iris sighed.

Joséphine had sought refuge in the library. Its windows, open to a classic French garden, let in soft light along with birdsong and the regular pulse of a water sprinkler.

She spread her notes around her on the table and worked on her outline. Florine was about to be widowed for the first time.

After six months of married bliss, Guillaume once again rides off to war in the Orient. He finds a treasure, and quickly arranges to have it sent back to Florine. Then he dies, his throat slit by a jealous Moor. Florine weeps over her pile of gold ecus, and veils
herself in mourning and devotion. But her status as a grieving young widow unleashes her neighbors’ covetousness.

They want to force her to remarry. She is besieged by suitors and threatened with the loss of everything she owns. She had no time to produce an heir who could protect her and demand that his father’s name be respected.

What’s more, her trusty servant Isabeau informs her of a plot brewing against her. Her neighbor Etienne le Noir has hired a band of mercenaries to kidnap and rape her, so he can seize her lands.

Florine resolves to marry, and chooses the suitor she thinks will least impede her devotion to God: Thibaut de Boutavant, known as the Troubadour. He is from a good family, honest and upright. The real challenge will be getting the other feudal lords to recognize the marriage!

Florine decides to present them with a fait accompli. She secretly marries Thibaut in the castle’s chapel one night. Next day, she throws a banquet at which she presents her new husband to the flummoxed suitors. Thibaut raises his banner on the ramparts to show that he is master of the house.

As she wrote, Joséphine endowed her characters with the traits of people she knew—a few details, sometimes just a brief impression. In this way she had modeled Florine’s father after her own father. At times memories came to her that she didn’t understand, like pieces of driftwood in a pattern she couldn’t discern. And her father’s frightening, silent rage that stormy summer day in the Landes. She clearly remembered being carried off in her father’s arms. He smelled of salt: was it the sea or his
tears?
Someday I’ll figure out the secret of the floating driftwood
, Joséphine thought to herself. But Thibaut was a puzzle. Who could she use as a model for the gentle poet? She was chewing on her pen when she looked up and realized that the man in the duffel coat was sitting at the other end of the long table.
He’ll be my Troubadour!

Moved by her new husband’s gentleness, Florine discovers love and neglects God, then prays long and hard for forgiveness. She also discovers the pleasures of the marriage bed. Joséphine found herself blushing as she started to describe the wedding night, and decided to put off writing the scene until later, when she wouldn’t be sitting right across from Duffel Coat Man!

Though he is a lord, Thibaut pens pamphlets protesting the king’s power. A born troublemaker, he gives voice to the serfs’ and vassals’ discontent. Weary of Thibaut’s tirades against injustice, Henry II has him poisoned.

Joséphine sighed. She would just have to accept the Troubadour’s death. Time flew by, and she worked the whole afternoon, inspired by the man in the duffel coat.

Joséphine barely noticed that he was putting away his things and getting ready to leave. She hesitated for a moment, torn between Thibaut and Duffel Coat Man, then followed him out through the big double doors.

When she caught up to him at the bus stop, he seemed lost in thought.

Standing next to him, she dropped one of her books. When he picked it up, he recognized her and smiled.

“Are you always dropping things?”

“I’m sorry. I’m very absentminded.”

He laughed softly. “But I won’t always be around.”

He said that without any flirtatiousness, and Jo was immediately ashamed of her ploy. He let her board the bus first, assuming they were both going in the same direction.
Oh, God!
she thought.
This isn’t at all where I want to go.
The bus was heading away from Courbevoie, not toward it. But she sat down anyway, and he joined her.

“Are you a teacher?” he asked politely.

“I work at the CNRS,” she said. “My field’s the twelfth century. What about you?”

“I’m working on a book about the history of tears. It’s for a foreign publisher, a university press. Not very cheerful, as you can imagine.”

“Oh, but it must be fascinating!”

She felt like kicking herself.
What an idiotic thing to say!

“In those days, men and women used to cry a lot. It was a way of expressing yourself, in public or private.”

He sank back into his duffel coat.
This guy doesn’t like cold weather
, thought Joséphine, who decided to use that detail in describing Thibaut. He would have weak lungs.

Glancing out the window, she saw that she was traveling farther and farther out of her way. She really had to think about getting home.

“Do you come to the library often?” she asked, gathering her courage.

“Whenever I need peace and quiet. When I’m working, I can’t stand the slightest noise.”

He’s married with children
, thought Joséphine. She needed to find out more, and was wondering how to question him without seeming too nosy when he stood up.

“This is my stop. I’m sure we’ll see each other again,” he said awkwardly.

She nodded and watched him get off.

Now she had to take the same bus going back the other way.
I even forgot to ask him his name! He’s hard to talk to. For someone who poses for photographs, he sure isn’t very outgoing.

When Joséphine got to her own street, she saw a crowd in front of her building, and her heart started to pound. Something had happened to the girls! She pushed through, to find Christine and Max Barthillet sitting on the front steps.

“What’s going on?” Joséphine asked her third-floor neighbor.

“They’re being evicted. Too many months of unpaid rent.”

“Where are they going to go?”

The woman shrugged. Christine was weeping quietly, her head down. Max looked grim. Joséphine caught his eye.

“Do you have someplace to go tonight?”

Christine shook her head.

“They can’t just throw you out on the street! Not with a child!”

“You think they give a damn?”

“Come stay with us. At least for tonight.”

Christine looked up. “You sure?”

Joséphine took the boy by the arm.

“Come on, Max. Get your things and follow me.”

The third-floor neighbor shook her head in dismay.

“That poor woman has no idea what she’s getting into! She’s opening a can of worms.”

“Mum, when will I get to have sex?”

On the phone, Shirley said a few words in rapid English, then hung up. She was going to have to go out of town, and her son’s question caught her off guard.

“You’re only sixteen, Gary! There’s no rush.”

“There is for me.”

She looked at him.
He’s a man now
, she thought, almost with surprise. He stood over six feet tall, had slender arms and legs, a deep voice, and a shock of black hair. Gary had started to shave, took hours in the bathroom, refused to go out if he had a pimple, and spent all his money on gels and lotions.

It must be confusing to feel a man’s body growing inside that of a child
, Shirley thought.
I remember when my breasts started growing, I used to bind them. And when I got my first period, I thought that maybe if I just squeezed my legs tight enough . . .