The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (29 page)

“Listen, Gary, we’ll talk about this again when you’re in love.”

“Do you really have to be in love?”

“It’s better that way. Sex isn’t something casual, and your first time is a big deal. You don’t want do it with just anyone. You always remember your first time.”

“There’s Hortense, but she never even looks at me.”

During their spring break in Kenya, he had followed Hortense around like a puppy. She’d pushed him away. “Gary! Do you have
to always be in my face all the time? Back off! Give me some space!”

One evening, Shirley explained to Gary that he was going about it all wrong. “A woman needs mystery and distance. She needs to desire the person she’s attracted to. Hortense will never desire you if you trail behind her like that.”

“Mum, I can’t help it. She drives me bonkers!”

But Shirley couldn’t revisit the topic today.

“Listen, Gary, this just isn’t a good time to talk. I have to go to London, it’s an emergency. I’ll be gone for a week. You’ll have to get by on your own.”

“It’s never the right time to talk to you!”

“That’s not true, love. I’m always there for you. But I can’t right now.”

Gary huffed loudly and went to his room. Shirley felt torn. Sex was a subject that needed time, which was exactly what she didn’t have. She had to pack a bag, book a flight, and warn Jo that she was leaving.

When she rang at Joséphine’s, Christine opened the door.

“Is Joséphine there?”

“Yes, she’s in her room.”

As she went in, Shirley noticed two big suitcases in the entry.

“What’s Christine Barthillet doing here?” she asked quietly.

“She was just kicked out of her apartment. I told her to come stay with me until she gets back on her feet.”

“Hm, bad timing. I was going to ask you a favor.”

“Try me.”

“I have to go to London right away . . . for a job. I wondered if you could watch Gary while I’m away.”

“Of course I will. At this point I might as well put on a little Red Cross cap!”

“I’m really sorry, but I can’t turn this job down. I’ll help you with Christine when I get back.”

“I hope she’ll be gone by then. I have two more months before my manuscript is due, and I’m only on husband number two. There are still three more to go!”

“Thanks, Jo. I won’t forget this!”

When the girls got back from school, Zoé clapped her hands on hearing that Max was going to be living with them. But Hortense angrily dragged Joséphine into the bathroom to talk.

“Is this some sort of joke?”

“No, it isn’t. We’re can’t let them sleep under a bridge!”

“Omigod! You mean we have to make room for those retards? You know Madame Barthillet is a nut case, right? You’ll be sorry, just you wait. In any case, there’s no way they’re taking over my room! Or touching my computer!”

“Please don’t be selfish, honey,” said Joséphine gently, trying to take Hortense into her arms. “Anyway, it’s Zoé’s room too.”

Hortense roughly shoved her away.

“I wish you’d stop acting like Mother Teresa,” she snarled. “It makes me want to puke!”

Joséphine slapped her before realizing what she was doing.

Hortense put a hand to her cheek and glared. “I can’t stand
living here anymore! I can’t stand living with
you
! All I want to do is get out of here, and I’m warning you—”

Joséphine slapped her again, this time putting her rage into it.

“You’re going to start behaving,” she muttered through clenched teeth, “or you’re going to be very sorry.”

Hortense stared at her, swayed for a moment, then plopped down on the edge of the tub and smirked. “You’re such a fucking loser!”

Joséphine felt like throwing up. She felt like crying. She hated herself for letting her anger run away with her.

“You despise me, don’t you?”

“Oh, Mom, give it a break! You and I have nothing to say to each other. I would have done better to stay in Kenya with Dad. I even get along better with Mylène than I do with you. Just imagine!”

“What did I ever do to you, Hortense?”

“I hate everything you stand for. Your hangdog look, all that bullshit you come up with!”

Looking balefully at her mother, Hortense rubbed her cheek.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have slapped you, honey, but you pushed me over the edge.”

Hortense shrugged. “It’s okay. I’ll try to forget about it.”

Someone knocked on the door. It was Zoé, announcing that dinner was ready, and that everyone was waiting for them.

Joséphine pulled herself together and wiped her eyes. She headed for the kitchen, but stopped in the hall. With the Barthillets there, she realized, she wouldn’t be able to use the kitchen to work—or the living room, for that matter. Where will I put my
books? My papers? The computer?
When we move, I’m going to get an apartment with my own study.

“Don’t you have a TV?” asked Max when she came into the kitchen.

“That’s another of Mom’s ideas,” Hortense said with a sigh. “She put it down in the basement. At night, she wants us to go to bed and read. A real blast!”

“We’re missing Charles and Camilla’s big ball at Windsor Castle,” said Christine. “The queen will be there, Prince Philip, William, Harry, all the crowned heads of Europe!”

“I know, we’ll go over to Gary’s!” exclaimed Zoé. “They have a TV. But we have the Internet here. Aunt Iris had it put in so Mom could work.”

“If anyone touches my computer, I’ll bite their head off,” said Hortense. “I’m warning you.”

“Don’t worry. I managed to keep mine,” said Christine. “I bought it at the Colombes thieves’ market.”

This was the bargain basement of an electronics store where you could buy stolen goods for a third of their retail price. Joséphine felt a shiver go down her spine.
That’s all I need
, she thought,
having the police knocking at the door!

“They took all your things?” Zoé asked, a pitying expression on her face.

“Everything,” Christine said with a sigh. “We don’t have anything left.”

“Okay, enough with the self-pity,” snapped Hortense. “You’re going to look for a job, and work. For those who really want to, there’s always work. You just have to get up early! I heard about
my internship, by the way. Chief’s taking me on for ten days in June.”

“That’s great, honey!” said Joséphine.

“Is the pasta ready? I have tons of homework to do.”

Jo drained the noodles and served them, careful to give everyone an equal portion. As she did, she wondered if taking in the Barthillets hadn’t been a huge mistake.

T
heir appointment with the fertility specialist was for 3:00 p.m., but Marcel and Josiane arrived at the elegant avenue Kléber office at 2:30, dressed to the nines and as nervous as newlyweds.

Dr. Troussard had asked them to have some tests done beforehand and said he would go over the results—a whole page of tiny printing—with them. The two were now perched nervously in the waiting room, intimidated by its ornate furniture and heavy drapes.

“I’m scared, Marcel! Feel my hands. They’re like ice!”

“Read a magazine. It’ll distract you.”

Marcel handed one to Josiane, but she waved it away.

“I’m not in the mood to read stuff.”

“Come on, sweetie-pie, read something.”

Marcel flipped his magazine open at random and read: “At forty, women are three times as likely to have a miscarriage than at twenty-five. The risk of a miscarriage goes up thirty-five percent when the father is over thirty-five, and that risk increases steadily with age.”

He closed the magazine in a panic. Josiane watched as he turned pale, and started licking his lips.

“You feeling okay, Marcel?”

Crushed, he handed her magazine.

She read the article, then put the magazine down. “No point in getting all worked up about it, honey. The doc’s got our tests, and he’ll tell us what’s what.”

Troussard reassured Marcel and Josiane right away. Everything was in working order with both of them, he said. The test results looked like those of parents half their age. All they had to do was roll up their sleeves and get to work.

“But that’s all we ever do!” Marcel exclaimed.

“And it’s not working,” moaned Josiane. “Why not?”

The doctor raised his hands, as if to say that there was nothing he could do about it. He stood up, handed them their file, and ushered them out.

“But—,” Josiane began.

Troussard cut her off. “Just stop thinking about it so much. Otherwise we’ll have to examine your head, and believe me, that’s far more complicated and expensive.”

Out on the street, Marcel took Josiane by the arm, and they walked in silence. “Here’s what we do: We don’t talk about it anymore. We live it up, we fuck like bunnies, and if you’re still flat as a flounder in six months I’ll have you put in a test tube!”

They strolled back to the office arm in arm. The weather was beautiful. The Arc de Triomphe stood out sharply against
the sky, and little tricolor flags fluttered from rearview mirrors. The women’s arms were bare, and the men’s arms were around the women’s waists.

“We almost never walk this way,” Josiane remarked. “You know, like lovers. We’re usually too afraid we’ll run into someone.”

“That kid Hortense is doing an internship with us in June.”

“Yeah, I know; Chaval told me. When’s he leaving, anyway?”

“End of June. I’d love to cut him loose sooner, but I need him. Gotta find his replacement.”

“Good riddance! I can’t stand the guy anymore.”

Marcel shot her a worried glance. Was that the truth, or was there a hint of disappointment in her voice? He would have preferred to hang on to Chaval, to keep an eye on his appointment and travel schedule.

“You never think about him anymore?”

Josiane shook her head and kicked a beer can into the gutter.