The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (32 page)

“I can’t, Jo.”

Shirley was looking at her with a mix of tenderness and great sadness.

Joséphine, on the other hand, was practically choking with rage.

“I hated you all week, Shirley! I spent all week feeling you’d stolen something from me, that you’d betrayed me. And now you won’t even explain?”

“It’s for your protection,” Shirley said levelly. “What you don’t know, you can’t talk about. Knowing too much can be dangerous; it sure is for me! But I have to live with it. You don’t.”

“Is it that bad?”

Shirley came over to sit next to Joséphine and put her arm around her.

“Haven’t you ever wondered why I decided to live here—in this suburb, in this building? Why I was all alone in France, with no husband, no friends, no real job? I came here to hide. Someplace where I was sure not to be recognized or tracked down while I waited for things to settle down back home.

“I put all that behind me when I moved here. I changed my personality, I changed my name, I changed my life. Here I can bring Gary up without panicking when he’s late coming home from school. I can go out without checking to see if I’m being followed. I can sleep at night without being afraid that someone’s going to break down my door.”

“Does Gary know?”

“Yes. I told him. I had to. He’d already figured out a lot of things, and I wanted to tell him that he was right. He handled it pretty well. It’s made him a lot more mature. Sometimes I feel he’s the one protecting me!”

She hugged Joséphine tighter, and went on.

“And in the middle of all that misfortune, I found happiness here. A quiet happiness, without any fuss or drama. And without a man.”

Shirley shivered. She would have liked to say “without
that
man.” She had been with him again, which is why she’d extended her stay in London. He’d phoned and given her his room number at the Park Lane Hotel. He just said, “Room six-sixteen. I’ll be waiting,” and immediately hung up. She stared at the phone, silently repeating to herself,
I’m not going there.

Then she ran to the hotel, near Piccadilly and Green Park, behind Buckingham Palace. Inside, the decor scrolled by her as if in a movie. The big beige-and-pink hall with Venetian chandeliers shaped like bunches of grapes. The enormous bouquets of flowers. The bar. The elevator. The long hallway with beige walls, thick carpet, the sconces with their little skirted lampshades. Then room 616.

This was how they always met, in hotels next to parks. “Leave Gary in the park and come join me,” he would say. “He can watch the squirrels and the lovers and learn about life.”

Gary got to know every park in London.

Once, when he was eleven, he went over to Speakers’ Corner at Hyde Park and discussed the existence of God with a grumpy man on a soapbox. “If God exists,” the man asked him, “why does he make mankind suffer?”

Shirley asked her son what he’d answered.

“I told him about that movie,
Night of the Hunter
, and good and evil, and how you have to choose, and how can you choose if you haven’t experienced suffering and evil?”

Gary hadn’t been waiting in some park this time, and Shirley was free to stay locked away with her lover. She didn’t notice the hours passing, or the days. Food trays piled up at the end of the bed. The chambermaids who rapped at the door were told to go away.

Never again!
Shirley told herself.
This has to stop!

She had to stay away from him. He always found her. But he never came to France. They were after him. In France, she was safe. In England, she was at his mercy. And it was entirely her
own doing; she was unable to resist him. She always felt ashamed when she came back downstairs, to find Gary trustingly waiting in front of the hotel, or sitting in the lobby when it rained. They would walk home through the park together.

“So how’s it going with Christine?” asked Shirley.

“Does that mean you don’t want to tell me more?”

“I’m tired, Jo. I need a break. I’m happy to be home, believe me.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that we all saw you on television. What will you say if the girls or Max ask about it?”

“That I have a look-alike in the court.”

“They won’t believe you. They found photos of Gary with William and Harry on the Internet. Some servant posted them.”

“I’ll just say it isn’t Gary. I’ll say that all little boys look alike. I can handle it, trust me. I’ve dealt with much worse.”

“You must find my little life awfully boring.”

“Your little life is going to get complicated, with this whole book thing. Once you start lying and cheating, you go off on all kinds of strange adventures.”

The kettle began to whistle, and Shirley got up to make the tea.

“I brought some Lapsang souchong back from Fortnum and Mason. I’d like to know what you think of it.”

Joséphine watched Shirley warm the pot, measure out the tea, pour the boiling water, and let it steep, all with the seriousness of a true Brit.

“Do they make tea the same way in Scotland?”

“I’m not Scottish, Jo. I’m pure English.”

“But you told me—”

“I thought it was more romantic.”

Joséphine almost asked Shirley what other lies she had told, but decided not to. They sipped their tea and talked about the kids, and about Christine’s Internet dating.

“Is she helping you financially?”

“She’s flat broke.”

“You’re such a pushover,” Shirley said, giving Joséphine a little tap on the nose.

Jo shrugged.

“I spend all my time at the library. I went to a movie with Duffel Coat Man. Turns out he’s Italian; his name’s Luca. Still doesn’t talk much, which actually suits me just fine. I have to get the book done first . . .”

“How far along are you?”

“On the fourth husband.”

“Who is?”

“I don’t know yet. I’d like Florine to have a hot love affair, a real physical passion.”

“Like Shelley Winters and Robert Mitchum in
The Night of the Hunter.
Remember? He’s a fake preacher who quotes scripture and robs and kills women. Evil incarnate. He marries Shelley Winters, but on their wedding night, he gives her a sermon about the sins of the flesh and turns his back on her. Finally he kills her.”

“Yeah, that would work,” said Joséphine, holding her teacup. “The fourth husband could be a preacher. Just the other day, Luca was talking about what preachers in that period were like.”

“Did you tell him you were writing a book?” Shirley sounded concerned.

“Not exactly, but I really goofed.” Joséphine looked down, flustered. “I’ll have to be really careful when the book comes out.”

“Don’t worry, Iris will make sure she gets all the attention. How is she, by the way?”

“Busy rehearsing for the big day. She comes over from time to time to look at what I’ve written, and reads the books I recommend. Sometimes she gives me ideas. She wanted me to write about the Paris student riots. In those days the students were clerics, and being in the clergy protected them from civil justice. Even the king couldn’t lift a finger against them.”

Joséphine paused for a moment to reflect.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m just a big funnel. I listen to everything, collect anecdotes and little snippets from everyday life, and pour them into the book. I won’t be the same after this book is finished, Shirley. I’m changing a lot, even if it isn’t apparent.”

“Sounds like writing’s taking you places you’d never go otherwise.”

“The biggest thing is, I’m not afraid anymore.”

Jo giggled, hiding her face in her hands.

“I just have to be patient and let the new Joséphine grow up a little. One of these days she’ll take over, and she’ll give me her strength. For now, I’m learning. . . . I’ve learned that happiness doesn’t mean living a safe life without screwups or mistakes, without taking risks. Happiness means accepting effort and doubt, and keeping on moving forward, overcoming obstacles.
I’ve accepted that life has a dark side. It doesn’t get to me or scare me anymore.”

Joséphine smiled shyly, as if surprised to have made such grand pronouncements about herself.

Then she held out her cup for a refill and asked, chuckling, “So, what’s Queen Elizabeth really like?”

Shirley poured the tea. “No comment.”

Christine was back from the market, her arms aching and her palms sore from carrying plastic grocery bags.
I gotta get out of here!
she thought.
Start a new, cushy life. Take it easy, find some nice guy who’ll pay the rent and let me watch TV all day. Max can manage on his own. It’s every man for himself!

At five, she was going to meet Alberto at La Défense, and she needed to shower and get ready.
I wanna look pretty
, she thought.
That picture he sent of himself was so blurry, you can’t see shit. I bet he’s no beauty.

When Hortense came in, Christine was waiting for her. She was in her bathrobe on the living room couch, watching a talk show.

“You guys find any cool stuff?” she asked, sitting up.

“Oh, just some junk, but it was fun,” said Max. “We went and played pinball and drank Cokes.”

Christine turned to Hortense.

“Hey, Hortense, you promised to help me choose an outfit for my date, remember?”

Hortense looked her over.

“What do you have to work with?”

“Not much,” she said with a sigh. “I’m not big on designer labels, you know. I buy my clothes from catalogs.”

“Okay, go get them.”

She came back with a couple of bundles. Hortense picked up the clothes one by one, spread them out on the sofa, and studied them.

“Just wait and see,” Zoé whispered to Max. “She’s going to turn your mom into a bombshell.”

Standing in front of Max and the girls in her panties and bra, Christine covered her breasts in embarrassment. Max and Zoé shrieked with laughter. Then Hortense went into action.

“The safari jacket is a must. Rule number one: you wear it on top of Adidas tracksuit pants with the white stripes, which you happen to have. In fact, that’s the only way to look good in a tracksuit.”

“A safari jacket?”

“Absolutely.”

Hortense held out the clothes and had Christine put them on, then looked her over.

“Okay, not bad . . . Not bad at all.” She worked on Christine as if she were a dress-shop dummy. She stepped back to examine her, rolled up a sleeve, adjusted the collar, added a necklace, and perched a pair of aviator sunglasses on Christine’s head.

“Put on running shoes, and you’ve got it,” she declared, satisfied.

“Running shoes!” protested Christine. “That’s not very feminine!”

“Do you want to look like a mess or a mannequin? You asked
me to help you. If you don’t like it, you can wear your stilettos and look like a hooker.”

Christine put on the running shoes.

“You’re all set!” said Hortense.

“Wow, I love it!” Christine cried. “I look like a whole other person! Thanks, Hortense!”

She whirled around the living room, then plopped down on the couch, slapping her thighs with glee. “Amazing, what you can do with a couple of old rags!”

“It takes skill,” Hortense replied. “Do you know what this Alberto guy looks like?”

“No idea. He said he’ll be carrying a copy of the
Journal du Dimanche.
I’ll tell you all about it later. All right, I’m off. Ciao, everyone!”

As Christine was heading downstairs, Max and Zoé yelled after her to take a picture of Alberto so they could see what he looked like.

“He might be your stepfather someday, see,” Zoé whispered.