The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (42 page)

L
egs were parading past Joséphine’s face: black legs, beige legs, white legs, green legs, plaid legs. If she craned her neck, she could see polo shirts, jackets, raincoats, overcoats.

Joséphine and Hortense were sitting in the first row at the fashion show, right below the runway. The models were passing by them close enough to touch.

Before Iris left for New York, she told Jo she had two tickets to the Jean-Paul Gaultier men’s fashion show at the Intercontinental Hotel. “Why don’t you go, and take Hortense? It would interest her, and maybe it’ll give you inspiration for the next novel. We aren’t going to stay in the Middle Ages forever, are we, darling? Let’s skip ahead a few centuries for the next one.”

Jo glanced at her daughter. Hortense had her sketchpad out, and was carefully jotting down details of linings, sleeves, shirt collars, and the occasional necktie.
I didn’t know men’s fashion interested her so much
, Jo thought. Hortense’s solid work ethic always surprised her.

I’m definitely not writing another book for Iris!
she thought.
In interviews, Iris had started spouting nonsense. Now she was giving out recipes and beauty tips, and recommending charming hotels in Ireland. Joséphine was mortified.
I just yielded to the temptation of easy money.
She sighed.
On the other hand, life has certainly become pleasant.
At Christmas she would take the girls somewhere sunny, someplace picked out of a glossy travel brochure.

The sound of Hortense turning the pages of her sketchbook brought Joséphine’s thoughts back to the runway. A tall man with brown hair came out, modeling a suit. He walked straight down the runway, seemingly oblivious to the crowds at his feet. It was Luca! He strode along, his enigmatic face seemingly unconnected to the rest of his body.
Maybe modeling is what gives him that aura of mystery
, thought Joséphine.

When the show was over, the models came out to wave goodbye. They gathered around Gaultier, who was bowing with his hand on his heart. The atmosphere onstage was festive and relaxed. Luca was standing just a few feet away. Jo reached out and called his name.

“You know him?” Hortense asked.

“Yes, I do. Luca! Luca!” Jo called. He turned to her, and their eyes met, but he showed neither surprise nor pleasure at seeing her.

“Luca! That was wonderful! Bravo!”

He gave her a cold, distant look, the kind you might give a cloying admirer to keep them at a distance.

“Luca! It’s me, Joséphine!”

He turned away and joined the rest of the models as they waved and headed backstage.

“He doesn’t know you from Adam!” said Hortense.

“Of course he does. It’s him!”

“You mean the Luca you went to the movies with?”

“Yes.”

“He’s totally hot!”

Joséphine sat back down, her feelings in a whirl.

“He didn’t recognize me. He didn’t
want
to recognize me.”

“He probably just didn’t expect to see you here, that’s all. Put yourself in his place.”

“But the other evening in Montpellier, he kissed me.” Joséphine was so upset that she forgot she was talking to her daughter.

“Whoa! You, Mom? You’ve been kissing him?”

“That’s all we did. After the conference he kissed me and said I was wonderful, that I made him feel calm, that he felt good around me . . .”

“You sure you haven’t been working a little too hard?”

“No. It’s him, it’s Luca. The one who takes me to the movies. At the library, we have coffee together. He’s writing a thesis about tears in the Middle Ages.”

“You’re losing it! Come back to earth. What would such a gorgeous hunk be doing with a woman like you? I mean, come on, Mom!”

Joséphine started picking at her nails. “That’s what I keep asking myself. That’s why when we were in Montpellier I didn’t let it go any further. I was afraid I was too ugly.”

“You turned him down?” exclaimed Hortense. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

Hortense was fanning herself with her sketchbook. Joséphine
remained slumped in her chair. Overhead, the ceiling lights were being turned off one by one.

“C’mon, let’s go,” said Hortense, tugging at her mother’s sleeve. “Everyone’s gone.”

A buffet had been set up at the far end of a large red and gold lounge. Hortense suggested they get some orange juice or a glass of champagne.

“I think I want to go splash some water on my face,” said Jo. “Let’s meet in the lobby in fifteen minutes.”

“Half an hour?”

“All right, half an hour, but no more. I need to get home.”

“You’re no fun at all! The one time we come out from under our rock—”

“Half an hour, Hortense, not a minute more.”

Hortense shrugged and slunk off, muttering, “What a total drag!”

Joséphine found the bathroom, which turned out to be the most luxurious she’d ever seen. A small vestibule labeled “Powder Room” led to four pearl-gray doors with pink filigree trim. Jo pushed one at random and entered a round room, all marble. It had a deep sink, soft towels, a bottle of eau-de-toilette, bars of packaged soap, hand cream, and hairbrushes.

In the mirror, Joséphine looked haggard, and her lips were trembling. She filled the basin and plunged her face into the cold water.
Forget Luca
, she told herself.
Forget his I-don’t-know-you look. If I hurt myself now, fill my lungs with air so that the pressure’s enough to pop my eardrums, maybe the physical pain will replace the mental pain.

It was what she used to do as a child. When she felt sad, she would hurt herself. She would lock herself in her room and pinch herself hard, or burn herself with matches, or jab a pencil point under her fingernail. She would then console herself. And it worked. In a cold fury, she would take out her notebooks and return to her schoolwork.

She would go join Hortense and stop thinking about Luca.

Jo plunged her face into the water again and held her breath as long as she could. Then she stayed under some more, gripping the edges of the sink. She began swallowing water, but kept her face down. Now blood was pounding in her ears, hammering at her temples.

When she yanked her head out of the sink, water splashed everywhere, drenching the immaculate white towels and the packages of soap. Jo was choking, suffocating, gasping for air. In the gilt mirror she saw the pale face of a drowned woman, and the memories suddenly came flooding in.

Daddy . . . Daddy’s arms . . . Daddy yelling, “You’re a criminal!” And Jo coughing up salt water and sobbing.

She shuddered as it all came back to her.

It was on the beach in the Landes that summer afternoon. She had gone swimming with her mother and sister. Her father didn’t know how to swim, and stayed on the beach. Henriette dove into the surf with the girls. “Don’t go out too far!” her father, Lucien, cried. “The currents are dangerous!”

Her mother was an excellent swimmer. When they were little, Iris and Jo would watch her in the water, mute with admiration. She had taught them how, and took them out in all kinds of
weather. “There’s nothing better than swimming to build character,” she would say.

The sea was calm that day, and they were floating on their backs, kicking lazily. On the beach, Jo’s father started waving his arms. Henriette looked at the shore. “We’re being carried out,” she said. “We better go back. Your father might be right; the sea can be dangerous here.” They headed toward the shore, but the current started carrying them away. The wind had picked up, and threatening whitecaps appeared.

Iris started crying. “I can’t do it, Mommy! I can’t do it.”

“Be quiet!” Henriette shouted through gritted teeth. “Stop crying! Crying won’t help. Just swim!”

Joséphine could see fear on her mother’s face.

The wind started to blow harder. Now they were struggling. The girls wrapped their arms around Henriette’s neck. The waves were whipping them, the salt water stinging their eyes.

Suddenly Joséphine felt her mother shove her away. “Let go of me!” she shouted. Then she grabbed Iris and started swimming toward shore, holding the dazed girl under her arm. She swam sidestroke, head underwater except to breathe, kicking powerfully with her legs. Every stroke left Joséphine farther behind. Her mother didn’t turn around.

Jo watched as Henriette fought to get through the surf line. She kept being knocked back, but was eventually able to drag her unconscious daughter ashore.

On the beach, her father was yelling now. Jo felt sad for him, and started swimming sidestroke like her mother, one hand out front reaching for the shore, ducking her head under with each
kick. By the time she got to the surf line, the waves were bigger than ever, and she couldn’t push through. Finally a wave lifted her up and slammed her down right in front of her father. He had waded in up to his waist, calling her name. He pulled her out of the waves and raced up the beach, carrying her. He was screaming, “You’re a criminal! A criminal!”

She couldn’t remember what happened next.

And no one ever spoke about it again.

Joséphine looked at the drowned woman in the gilt mirror.

What are you so scared of?
she asked her reflection.
You should have died that day, but you got through it. A hand reached out and set you back on dry land. So don’t be afraid. You’re not alone.

And she suddenly knew it was true; she wasn’t alone.

Joséphine dried her face, fixed her hair, and powdered her nose.

A girl was waiting for her out in the lobby. Her own daughter, her love.

Ever since that day in the Landes, Jo had worked, and worked hard. She had thrown herself into her studies and built herself a life. Another wave had swept Antoine away, but she’d survived. And there would be more waves, some that would carry her off, some that would bring her back.
That’s life
, she told her reflection.
Waves and more waves.

Joséphine looked at the woman in the mirror and smiled. Then she took a deep breath and went out to find Hortense.

It was Sunday evening, and their flight back to Paris had just taken off from JFK. Philippe looked at his wife, stretched out
on the seat next to his. They had hardly spoken since the gala dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria that ended the New York Film Festival.

With her eyes closed, Iris looked like any other elegant woman in first class, comfortably settled under her blanket. But Philippe knew Iris wasn’t asleep. She was probably going over the events of the previous night.

I know everything, Iris
, he wanted to tell her.
I know, because I arranged it all.

In the limo that had taken them into Manhattan from Kennedy two days earlier, Iris had held his hand and chattered like a little girl: “How bright the weather is, for November . . . Look at that billboard! . . . What a funny-looking house!”

At the Waldorf, she grabbed the Arts section of the
Times
, which duly noted Gabor Minar’s arrival in New York. “The only thing the great European director lacks,” said the article, “is a contract with a major American studio. That may not be long in coming, because Minar is rumored to be meeting with a certain well-known producer.” Other papers—the
Wall Street Journal
, the
New York Post
—had similar articles. Iris read them from beginning to end, barely looking up to answer Philippe’s questions.

“Which movies do you want to see?” he asked, studying the festival program.

“You choose. I trust you,” she replied with a distracted smile.

Gabor was supposed to speak after the screening of his film, but when the lights came on, one of the organizers announced that the director wouldn’t be there after all. A murmur of
disappointment ran through the audience. Turns out Gabor had spent the night partying in a Harlem jazz club.

“You can never count on Minar,” said one disgruntled producer. “You have to cater to his every whim.”

“Maybe that’s why he makes such powerful movies,” another remarked.

At breakfast the next day, Gabor’s no-show was on everybody’s lips. That afternoon Philippe and Iris went to see more films. Iris fidgeted in her seat, and sat up every time a latecomer came in. Philippe could feel her body tense with expectation.