The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (34 page)

Iris told the children she planned to quiz them later. They each had to pick three paintings and talk about them. She would buy a present for the one who discussed them the best.
That way I can do a little shopping, too
, she thought.
It’ll relax me.

So the three were wandering the halls of the museum. Alexandre looked at the paintings, came close, stepped back, tried to
make up his mind. Max dragged his feet on the parquet floor, making his sneakers squeak. Zoé couldn’t decide whether to act like her friend or her cousin.

She went to stand next to Alexandre, who was examining a Manet.

“Ever since Max moved into your place, you don’t talk to me anymore,” he said.

“That’s not true. I still like you the same.”

“No. You’ve changed. I don’t like that green stuff you put on your eyes. It’s vulgar. Makes you look older and sort of weird.”

“Which paintings did you choose?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“I’d really like to win,” said Zoé. “I’d ask your mom to buy me an outfit so I can dress up and be pretty, like Hortense.”

“You’re already pretty!”

“Not like Hortense.”

“Don’t you have a personality of your own? You just want to do everything like Hortense.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have any personality either. You want to do everything like your father. You think I haven’t noticed?”

They separated, annoyed with each other. Zoé went off to find Max, who’d stopped dead in front of a Renoir nude.

“Me, I like the women this guy paints,” said Max. “They’re relaxed. They look friendly and happy.”

In the museum cafeteria, Iris had a hard time getting Max to talk.

“You don’t have a very big vocabulary, do you, sweetheart? Not that it’s your fault. It’s a question of education.”

“Yeah, well, so what? I know things you don’t. Things you don’t need words for.”

Iris dropped the subject. There was a gulf between her and this boy, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to bridge it. So that nobody would feel left out, she decided to let all three children choose presents, and they set out for the Marais to look in the stores.
I can’t wait for this thing to be over!
she thought.
For Jo to finish the book so I can take it to Serrurier and we can all leave for Deauville. Carmen will be there, and I won’t have to deal with moody brats every day.

Iris had managed to convince Joséphine to spend the month of July with them. “That way, if Serrurier wants any changes, you’ll be right there. It’ll be very convenient.”

Joséphine had agreed reluctantly.

“Don’t you like our Deauville house?” asked Iris.

“Sure I do. It’s just that I don’t want to spend all my vacations with you guys. I feel like a third wheel.”

As they walked through the Marais, Zoé began to feel guilty. She caught up with Alexandre and slipped her hand into his.

“What do you want?” he grumbled.

“I’m going to tell you a secret.”

Alexandre weakened. Having to share his cousin with the Barthillet kid who came along everywhere they went pained him.

“What’s your secret?”

“Ah, so now you’re interested! But first, promise you won’t tell anyone. Cross your heart and hope to die?”

“All right.”

“Shirley’s son Gary is a prince!”

Zoé told Alexandre the whole story: the evening watching T V, and then the Internet pictures of William and Harry and Charles and Diana. Alexandre shrugged and said it was bullshit.

“It is not bullshit! Honest, Alex. I swear! Anyway, this’ll prove it: Hortense believes it too. Suddenly she’s being all nice to Gary.”

“You shouldn’t tell lies, Zoé.”

“They aren’t lies!” she yelled. “It’s true!”

She ran to get Max and asked him to back her up.

“Sure, I saw them,” he said. “On TV and the Internet. I may not have a big vocabulary, but I’ve got eyes.”

Alexandre grinned at him. “Did my mom hurt your feelings?”

“Yeah, she did. Just ’cause she’s farting through silk doesn’t mean she can shit on people who don’t have any money.”

Joséphine was the first one up, and she went downstairs to make herself breakfast. She loved those summer mornings in Deauville when she got to be alone in the big kitchen with the bay window looking out onto the beach. She put some bread in the toaster, heated water for tea, and set out the butter and jam.

She missed her characters: Florine, Guillaume, Thibaut, Baudouin, Guibert, Tancrède, Isabeau, and the others.
I really wasn’t very fair to poor Baudouin
, she reflected.
He’d barely made his appearance when I bumped him off just because I was angry at Shirley. Guibert still gives me the shivers. Men were so violent in those days!

Joséphine had given the manuscript to Iris, who in turn delivered it to Serrurier. Now every time the phone rang, the two sisters jumped.

That morning, Philippe joined Joséphine in the kitchen. He was an early riser, too. He usually went into the village to buy the newspaper and some croissants, had a cup of coffee, then returned to finish breakfast at home. His vacation wasn’t until August, so he only drove out to Deauville on weekends, arriving Friday evening and leaving on Sunday. He took all the kids fishing except Hortense, who preferred to hang out on the beach. Joséphine felt she ought to meet Hortense’s friends, but she didn’t dare ask to be introduced.

Hortense was going out in the evenings, too. “Come on, Mom, I deserve to go out!” she’d say. “I’m on vacation, I worked hard all year, and I’m not a baby anymore.”

“All right, but I want you to make like Cinderella and be back by midnight.” Jo knew her teasing tone didn’t hide her nervousness, and she was afraid Hortense would rebel. But to her relief, she agreed. Joséphine didn’t bring it up again, and Hortense always came home on time, right at midnight.

In August the girls would go to Kenya to be with their father.
It’ll be Antoine’s turn to be the bad cop
, she thought.
Right now, all I want is not to exhaust myself in endless arguments with Hortense.

“Want a warm croissant?” Philippe asked, putting the newspaper and the bag of pastries down on the table.

“I’d love one.”

“What were you thinking about just now, when I came in?”

“About Hortense and her nightly outings.”

“She’s a tough cookie, that daughter of yours. She would have needed a father with an iron fist.”

“Probably,” she said, and sighed. “But you know what? I’m not too worried about her. Hortense knows exactly what she wants.”

“Were you like that at her age?”

Joséphine almost choked on her tea.

“You’re kidding, right? I was the same as I am now, but even more clueless.” She stopped, sorry she’d said that. It felt like she was asking for pity.

“What didn’t you get when you were little, Jo?”

She thought for a moment. She’d never really asked herself that before, but ever since she’d started writing, childhood memories had begun to come up, bringing tears to her eyes. Like the day she was in her father’s arms and he yelled, “You’re a criminal!” at her mother. It was late on an oppressive afternoon, with pounding waves and dark clouds in the sky.
I’m starting to sound like a bad romance novel
, she thought.
I have to get a grip on myself.

“I didn’t lack for anything,” she said. “I got a good education, had a roof over my head, and two parents. But no one paid me much attention. Nobody told me that I was pretty, or smart, or funny. People didn’t do that in those days.”

“But they said those things to Iris.”

“Iris was so much more beautiful than me, I got used to being in her shadow. Mom always used to hold her up to me. I knew she was proud of her, and not of me.” Reddening, Joséphine took a bite of croissant.

“What about now, Jo? Today?”

“I guess my writing gives my life meaning these days. When
I’m actually writing, that is, not when I’m reading what I’ve written. Ugh! That’s when I want to throw it all out!”

“You mean your postdoc scholarship?”

“Uh, yes, that’s right,” Jo stammered, then quickly went on. “You know, I sometimes wonder if I’m missing my chance to break free, but at the same time I’m not even sure what that chance would be. You don’t know what that’s like, Philippe. You’ve never let anyone push you around.”

“Nobody’s ever really free, Joséphine. Not me, not anybody. And I see you changing. Someday you’ll be living exactly the life you want, and you’ll have done it all by yourself.”

She gave him a fleeting smile. “Do you really think so?”

“You’re your own worst enemy, Jo.” Philippe picked up the newspaper and his coffee mug. “Mind if go out on the deck and read?”

“Not at all.”

How easy it is to talk to Joséphine
, Philippe thought as he opened the
International Herald Tribune.
With Iris these days, he just clammed up. The night before, she’d suggested they go for a drink at the Royal Hotel bar, and he let her have her way. In fact, what he really wanted to do was hang out with Alexandre. A month before, he’d finally written the letter to his son, and it changed their whole relationship.

Carmen told Philippe about it.

“You should have seen him,” she said. “He ran into the kitchen shouting, ‘I got a letter that Dad wrote me! He says he loves me, and is going to spend all his free time with me! Isn’t
that great, Carmen?’ He practically made me dizzy, racing around the kitchen waving the letter in the air!”

Philippe kept his word. He’d promised Alexandre to teach him to drive, and every Saturday and Sunday morning he took him out, sat him on his lap, and showed him how to handle the steering wheel.

Iris ordered two glasses of champagne. A young woman in a long gown was playing the harp.

“What did you do in Paris this week, darling?”

“Just work. The usual.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Iris, it’s really not that interesting. Anyway, you know I don’t like talking about my cases when I’m out here.”

Their table was at the edge of the terrace. Philippe was watching a bird trying to fly off with a piece of bread.

“Would you mind if I took off my jacket?”

Iris smiled at him and gave his cheek a pat. The gesture was affectionate, but it was also a way of treating him like an impatient child. Philippe was thinking:
I know you’re beautiful, and you rule over me and my love. But that beauty leaves me cold, because it’s built on lies. I first met you because of a lie, and you haven’t stopped lying since.

“You never tell me anything,” she said petulantly.

“What do you want me to tell you?” asked Philippe, watching the bird struggle with the bread.

She threw an olive pit at the bird, which was flopping around, unable to take off with its prize.

“That was mean!” he exclaimed. “That might be dinner for its whole family.”

“You’re the one who’s mean! You never talk to me anymore.”

He looked at Iris. She was sulking. He knew that attitude, the one that said:
Look at me, pay attention to me! I’m the center of the universe.
But Iris wasn’t the center of his universe anymore. Had she changed, or had he?
Either way, it’s all over
, he thought.
Some marriages exude a boredom so sweet and gentle, it puts you to sleep. But I woke up a few months ago. Was it my meeting with John Goodfellow that did it? Or did I meet with him because I’d already woken up?

Having managed to break the bread in half, the bird flew away so quickly, it seemed to melt into the blue sky. Philippe looked at the part left on the ground.
He’ll come back for it
, he thought.
You always come back for what is yours.