The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (38 page)

Antoine gaped at her. She was thinking about hiring him! She was probably already figuring his salary and his year-end bonus! Sweat began to trickle down his back. No, not that! He threw his napkin on the table and got up to go change.

“You really shouldn’t get angry, lovey,” she said. “It’s a gamble. If it works, I’ll be rich! Wouldn’t that be funny?”

Antoine stopped at the door to the house. Mylène hadn’t said “we.” She’d said “I.” He peeled off his sweaty shirt and went inside.

Philippe sat down heavily on the couch in Iris’s study and sighed. He couldn’t believe he would ever be rifling through his wife’s things like some jealous husband. Whenever he saw a man doing that in a movie, he always found it pathetic.

Philippe, Alexandre, and Carmen had watched the hair-shearing broadcast together while eating in front of the TV. When Iris returned from the studio, she planted herself in front of them, looking triumphant. “So what did you think?” she asked. “Was I terrific, or what?” They didn’t have the heart to contradict her.

The next day, she ran to her salon and for a cool 165 euros got a proper haircut. The short hair made her blue eyes look even
bigger and more soulful. Her long neck, the perfect oval of her face, and her tanned shoulders stood out as vividly as a monogram on a tapestry. She looked like a pageboy.

“Mom, you look like you’re fourteen!” Alexandre exclaimed.

Seeing her new look, Philippe felt an almost forgotten sexual stirring. If he hadn’t been so disgusted by the rest of her behavior, he might have been turned on.

He found a pink binder on Iris’s desk. On it, she had written
NOVEL
in big letters, and below that, “A Most Humble Queen” in green marker.

Is she planning to write more books?
Philippe wondered as he opened the binder.
Or will she have someone else write them?
He couldn’t help it, he just had to know. Confronting her would have been nobler, but you couldn’t confront Iris. She always found a way to wriggle off the hook.

The pink binder was full of newspaper clippings. The magazines hadn’t come out yet, but when they did, the reviews would be full of Iris and her lies. Philippe looked over the first articles, some by journalists he knew. They all spoke of Iris and her boldness. “A Star Is Bared” read one headline; another, “Heading for Glory.” One thoughtful critic wondered where spectacle ended and literature began, but he admitted that the book was well written. “Iris Dupin seems to know the twelfth century intimately, and she brings it to life with great skill. Readers will find themselves following the Rule of Saint Benedict as closely as they might the plot of a Hitchcock movie.”

After the reviews came articles quoting Iris on writing and writer’s block. She was very articulate, talking about her years as
a Columbia student and beginning screenwriter, and citing André Gide’s advice to young writers: “So as not to be tempted to go out, shave your head!” She said: “What I hadn’t dared to do out of vanity was forced on me.”

In the photos she wore low-waisted jeans and a T-shirt that ended above her navel. With her new tomboy haircut, she looked like a rebellious teenager. In one picture, she was photographed with her head bent, “Love” and “Money” written in lipstick on her neck. The caption read: “She carries her novel’s plot and the future of the world on her shoulders.” Philippe groaned.

I’ve been supporting a monster
, he thought. But the realization wasn’t painful. That’s how you know that love is gone: it doesn’t hurt anymore. You take a long, hard look at the person you once loved, and you realize she’s simply the way she is, and that you can’t change her. You’re the one who has changed. And it’s over.

All Philippe felt now was disgust and anger. For years he’d been obsessed with Iris, wanting only to please and impress her. He wanted to be the best corporate lawyer in Paris, then the best in France, then a player on the international stage. He began collecting art, buying rare manuscripts, underwriting ballets and operas, starting a foundation—all to make her proud of him.

His gaze moved around the room, lingering on each work of art.
The record of our love
, he thought.
No
, he corrected himself,
of my love. She never really loved me.

It was all over. He had just one final, dramatic thing to do, and then he’d leave her. It was a bit ridiculous, he knew, but it was big. He would go out in grand style. It would be his own piece of performance art.

A last newspaper clipping caught his eye, an article about the New York Film Festival. Iris had highlighted one name: Gabor Minar, who was to be the festival’s guest of honor; they would be screening his latest film,
Gypsies
, a prizewinner at Cannes. “So it’s still Gabor Minar,” Philippe murmured thoughtfully. “The flashy movie director. It’s always Minar.”

He snapped the binder shut and checked the time. It was too late to call Johnny Goodfellow. He would phone him tomorrow.

When Iris got home that night, she was holding a copy of
L’Express.

“Number four on the best-seller list!” she cried. “In only two weeks! I called Serrurier and they’re shipping forty-five hundred copies a day. And that’s on top of the initial print run. Can you believe it? Every day, forty-five hundred people are buying Iris Dupin’s book! I bet I’m at the top of the list next week! And you wondered whether getting myself shorn in public was worth it?”

Her eyes were alight as she devoured the review. Surprised by her husband’s silence, she lowered the magazine, gave him a big smile, and took a bow, awaiting his congratulations. Philippe bowed politely back.

I must be dreaming!
thought Joséphine. She blinked, but the scene on the 163 bus didn’t change. The woman sitting across the aisle really
was
reading her novel. Not just reading it, but devouring it. She sat bent over, turning each page carefully, apparently savoring every line, as if she didn’t want to miss a single word. Around her, people were getting off and on, making
phone calls, coughing and chatting, but the woman didn’t move.
A Most Humble Queen
was riding the 163!

Every time Jo read a good review of the book, she felt like whooping and screaming and leaping about. She would run to Shirley’s, the only place she could give free rein to her feelings of joy.

Then, as the days passed, a feeling of emptiness began to overcome her. Iris was everywhere; her smile was all over town, her blue eyes gazed out from every newsstand. One day, Jo even heard an interview in which her sister invoked divine inspiration to explain why her writing was so fluid. “It’s not me writing,” Iris said. “I’m being told what to write.”

Joséphine collapsed onto a stool, shouting, “She has a hell of a nerve!”

That night she rang Shirley’s doorbell, but no one was home. Zoé had left a note saying that she was going to stay at Alexandre’s and that Carmen was coming to pick her up. Also, that Hortense was going out, would be back late, and not to worry. Joséphine was alone.

She reheated some leftover quiche, ate a little salad, and watched as night fell. She felt sadder and sadder. When it was fully dark, she went onto the balcony and looked at the stars.

“Daddy?” she asked quietly. “Can you hear me?”

She went on, in a little-girl voice: “It’s not fair! Why is she always first, huh? Once again, I’ve been left behind.”

Jo could still hear her father yelling, “You’re a criminal! A criminal!” She remembered feeling his arms around her, the salty taste of his skin as he ran, carrying Jo as if to save her. They were
on the beach; it was summer.
I was coming out of the water—my eyes stung. I was spitting up water, and sobbing. Daddy never again slept in the same room as Mom after that, I remember. He took refuge in the crosswords, in his awful puns, in his favorite pipe. And then he died. He piped down for good.
Joséphine chuckled; the pun was so terrible her father would have liked it.

“Daddy, Daddy,” she sang to the stars in the darkness. “Some day I’ll find the missing piece of the puzzle. In the mean time, thank you for making the book a success. You must be proud of me, since you know I’m the one who wrote it.”

Joséphine looked up again. A peaceful feeling came over her.
I’ll get back to doing the research for my postdoc scholarship. I’ll go back to the library, back to my illuminated manuscripts and my histories.

And someday I’ll write another book.

A book that will be mine, and mine alone.

A
t the airport, Marcel threw his bags into the trunk of the car and got in front next to his driver.

“God, I’m exhausted! I’m getting too old for these long trips. What do you think, Gilles? Do I look ready for the scrap heap?”

Gilles Larmoyer glanced over at him.

“You look pretty shipshape to me, boss.”

“Nice of you to say. And thanks for not noticing the ship’s extra cargo around my waist. Did you buy the newspapers for me? What’s happening?”

“They’re on the backseat. Your stepdaughter, Madame Dupin, really hit the jackpot with that book of hers.”

“
What?
She wrote a book?”

“Yeah. My mother bought it, and she loved it!”

“Oh, great! I’m sure to get an earful about that one. Anything else?”

“Not much. I took the car in for a tune-up, like you asked. Everything’s fine. Where are we going, boss?”

“To the office.”

I really have to see Josiane
, thought Marcel.
Each time I’ve gotten her on the phone, she’s been distant. Maybe she’s seeing Bruno Chaval again. That sex-crazed
schnorrer
is as bad as they come.

“Any news about Chaval?” he asked casually.

Marcel knew that Bruno and Gilles were buddies who went out clubbing together. The chauffeur would regale his boss with tales of swingers’ parties and lap dances. They would stumble out at dawn to straighten their ties and tuck in their shirts, and Chaval would head to the office, and Gilles to go drive the car. The chauffeur seemed free of any ambition. Marcel had tried to give him a leg up, but Gilles loved only cars. To keep him happy, Marcel got a new one every couple of years.

“So you haven’t heard about Chaval? He’s head over heels in love with your niece.”

“Little Hortense?”

“That’s the one! And I’m telling you, it’s killing him. He’s been trying to get her into the sack for six months, but no luck! Has to go home and finish the job by hand. She’s driving him batshit.”

Marcel snorted with laughter, partly from relief. So Chaval wasn’t screwing around with Josiane. He took out his cell phone and called the office.

“Sweetie-pie, it’s me! I’m in the car, on my way. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Aren’t you glad to be seeing me?”

“I’m jumping for joy.” She hung up.

When Marcel walked into the office, Josiane didn’t so much
as smile. Didn’t even look up from her desk. He spread his arms to give her a hug, but she stayed where she was.

“Your mail’s on your desk. Your list of phone messages too. I sorted through everything.”

Marcel sat down at his desk to find a pile of letters—and a Xerox of a photograph right on top. It was the brunette from the Lido, and her eyes had been poked out. He snatched it up and ran to the outer office, chuckling.