The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (44 page)

Sitting on the doorstep in front of Shirley’s apartment was a man dressed all in black. He saw them coming but didn’t stand up.

“Oh my God!” Shirley whispered in dismay. “Just act natural and smile. You can speak to me, he doesn’t understand French. Can Gary stay with you tonight?”

“No problem.”

“Can you also watch out for him, and make sure he doesn’t come to my flat, but goes straight to your place? This bloke mustn’t know that Gary is living with me. He thinks he’s in boarding school.”

“Okay.”

Shirley went up to the man, who was still sitting, and as casually as possible said, “Hi, Jack. Why don’t you come in?”

Later, when Jo mentioned the man in black, Gary immediately got the picture.

“I have my backpack, so I can go straight to school tomorrow. Tell Mum not to worry.”

Zoé was intrigued and asked questions during dinner. She’d come home before Gary and Hortense and had glimpsed the man in black sitting by the front door.

“Is that man your dad?”

“Zoé, be quiet!” Jo snapped.

Zoé nibbled at a bite of gratin Dauphinois and set her fork down, looking sad.

“I really miss Daddy. I liked it better when he was here. It’s no fun without him around.”

“You’re such a drag, Zoé!” said Hortense.

“I’m always afraid he’ll get eaten by the crocodiles.”

“They didn’t eat you last summer, did they?”

“No, but I was very careful.”

“Well, Dad is being really careful, too.”

“Sometimes he’s absentminded. And he spends a lot of time staring into their eyes. He says he’s teaching himself to read their minds.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Hortense asked Gary if he wanted to earn some pocket money modeling for Dior.

“They’re looking for tall, romantic-looking teens to model their new collection, and Iris mentioned you. Remember when we went to see her at Studio Pin-up? She thought you were very handsome.”

“I’m not sure it’s my thing. I want to be the guy who takes the pictures.”

“We can go back, if you want. I’ll ask her.”

With dinner over, Joséphine cleared, Gary loaded the
dishwasher, and Hortense wiped the table. Zoé just stood there with tears in her eyes, murmuring, “I want my Daddy.”

Joséphine took her in her arms and carried her to bed, pretending to complain about how heavy she was, what a big girl she was, how she was so beautiful that she felt she was carrying a star in her arms. Zoé rubbed her eyes.

“Do you really think I’m beautiful, Mommy?”

“Of course, my love. Sometimes I look at you and I wonder, ‘Who is this beautiful girl who’s living right here in my very own house?’”

“As beautiful as Hortense?”

“As beautiful as Hortense. As elegant and irresistible as Hortense. The only difference is that she knows it, and you don’t.”

“It’s hard to be little when you have a big sister.” Zoé sighed, turned her head away, and closed her eyes.

Late the next morning Shirley knocked on Josephine’s door.

“I finally got him to leave. It wasn’t easy, but he’s gone. I told him he couldn’t come here anymore, that there was an agent living in the building undercover.”

“And he believed you?”

“I think so.” Shirley paused. “I made a big decision last night, Jo. I’m going to get out of here. It’s the end of November; he won’t be back right away, but I have to leave. I’m going to go hide out in Mustique.”

“Mustique? The billionaire island? Mick Jagger’s place?”

“Yes. I have a house there. He won’t come.”

“A house? That’s . . . You mean you’re going to move away? You’re going to leave me?”

“You wanted to move too, remember.”

“Hortense did. Not me.”

“I know what! We’ll all go to Mustique for the Christmas hols, and then I’ll stay on. Gary will go back with you so he can finish his school year and pass his
baccalauréat
exam. It would be stupid for him to interrupt his studies so close to the end. Can you keep him for me?”

“I’d do anything for you, but please tell me what’s going on!”

“I’ll tell you on Mustique, at Christmas.”

“You’re not in danger, are you?”

Shirley smiled faintly.

“For now, no. Everything’s fine.”

Marcel rubbed his hands in glee. Everything was going according to plan. He’d expanded his empire by buying out Zang Brothers, a move that left his European competitors in the dust. He’d played his hand well. He’d also found a scheme to squeeze Henriette out of his life, and had rented a big apartment for Josiane and Marcel Junior. It was in a beautiful concierge building right next to his office. The apartment had high ceilings, Versailles-style parquet floors, and fancy fireplaces. The crème de la crème lived there: barons and baronesses, a prime minister, an eminent scholar, an important businessman’s mistress.

Marcel was sure Josiane would come back! In the mornings, when he got to the office, he would climb the steps slowly, on
tiptoe. Before going through the door he first closed his eyes and told himself that his little turtledove would be there, with her big tummy and her shock of blond hair, sitting at her desk, the telephone wedged against her neck.

And I won’t say a thing
, he thought.
I’ll just hand her the keys, and she can go to the apartment and wait for me there in bed. And we’ll christen the place in style.

As it turned out, Marcel didn’t have to wait that long. He came to the office one morning, and there was a very pregnant Josiane, sitting at her desk.

“Hi, Marcel. How are you?”

“You’re here?” he stammered. “Is it really you?”

“The Virgin Mary in person, with a little tadpole all cozy in my tummy.”

He fell to her feet, put his head on her knees. “Oh, sweetie-pie! If you only knew!”

“Actually, I do know. I met Chaval at the bar at Chez George.”

She told him the whole story: flashing the platinum card all over town, hiding out at the George V, spending a month and a half ordering the most expensive dishes on the menu, the big, soft bed, the carpet so thick she didn’t need to wear slippers.

“Luxury’s nice, Marcel, but after a while you get tired of it. And when Chaval told me all about your big score and the situation with the Toothpick, I finally understood. You love me, and you’re building an empire for Junior. I knew in a heartbeat that I was going back to you.”

“Oh, sweetie-pie! It’s felt so long! You have no idea.”

Marcel stood up, dug around in his pocket, and dangled the keys to the new apartment in front of her.

“It’s ours. It’s all decorated, ready to go. All that’s missing are the curtains in the bedroom.”

Josiane grabbed them.

“What beautiful keys! Nice and heavy. The keys to paradise! So where’s our little love nest?”

“Right next door. That way I won’t have to walk very far to get into your pants and watch over the little one’s progress.”

He put his hand on Josiane’s stomach, and his eyes filled with tears.

“Is he already moving?”

“Like a breakaway cyclist in the Tour de France.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“Absolutely! But introduce yourself first. I was pretty pissed off for a while, and I didn’t talk about you very much.”

To her belly, Marcel said, “It’s me, Junior. It’s Daddy.”

Jo had been working in a new library for some time now. It made her life more complicated, but she didn’t risk running into Luca there. That was worth changing buses twice, and getting home later.

Jo was standing in the 174 bus, with a baby stroller jabbed into her stomach and an African woman in a
boubou
stepping on her feet, when her cell phone rang. She rummaged in her bag and found it.

“Joséphine? It’s Luca.”

She was speechless.

“Joséphine, are you there?”

“Yes,” she mumbled.

“It’s me, Luca. Where are you?”

“On the one-seventy-four bus.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“I don’t think that’s a particularly—”

“Please. Get off at the next stop. I’ll meet you.”

“But the thing is—”

“There’s something really important I need to tell you. I’ll explain. What’s the name of the stop?”

“Henri-Barbusse.”

“I’ll be there,” he said, and hung up.

Joséphine was dumbstruck. This was the first time she’d heard Luca speak in such a commanding tone. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to see him again.

They met at the bus stop. Luca took her by the arm and firmly steered her to the nearest café. He took off his duffel coat and ordered two coffees.

When the waiter was gone, he steepled his fingers and spoke in a hoarse voice.

“Joséphine, if I said, ‘Sweet Jesus, good Jesus, even as I desire you, even as I beg you with all of my soul, give me your holy and chaste love, let it fill me, hold me, take my entire being,’ what would you say?”

“That you’re quoting Jean de Fécamp.”

“And how many people know who Jean de Fécamp is, other than you, me, and a few religious nuts?”

Joséphine gestured to indicate that she didn’t know.

Luca’s face was pale, his eyes bright. He irritably brushed a lock of hair away from his forehead.

“And do you know where I read Jean de Fécamp’s prayer recently?”

“No idea.”

“In Iris Dupin’s book,
A Most Humble Queen.
Do you know Iris Dupin?”

“Sure, she’s my sister.”

“I thought as much.”

He slammed his hand on the table, making the ashtray jump.

“There’s no way your sister could have come up with that on her own!”

“I loaned her my notes for her book.”

“Oh, did you really?” Luca looked exasperated. “Joséphine, do you remember a conversation you and I had about Saint Benedict and his penitential grace, which allowed him to shed tears daily and freely?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, in
A Most Humble Queen
, the author repeats a story about Saint Benedict’s mattress catching fire while he was praying, and how he put out the fire with his tears.”

“You can find that story in lots of old books, Luca.”

“No, you can’t find it in old books. And do you know why? Because I made it up! It was a story I made up just for you. You seemed so scholarly, I wanted to see if I could fool you. And now I find it in a novel—
your
novel, Joséphine! Along with a couple of other passages that your sister couldn’t possibly have found in a library because they came from up here.” Luca tapped his
temple with his finger. “That’s how I figured out that you must have written the book.”

Luca was squirming in his chair, fiddling with his shirtsleeves and licking his lips.

“You seem really upset about this, Luca.”

“Damn right I’m upset! Guess what: I really liked you. For once, I’d met a woman who was sensitive and sweet. For once I didn’t see that question in a woman’s eyes, ‘When are we going to bed?’ I loved your shyness, your awkwardness, the way you were so formal with me, giving me only your cheek to kiss. I wasn’t exactly delighted that you turned me down in Montpellier, but almost.”

Luca was getting worked up. His eyes were flashing, and he was waving his arms around. He’s definitely an Italian, thought Joséphine.

“I thought I’d finally met an intelligent, good-looking, thoughtful woman. And when you disappeared and I was missing you, I pick up
your
novel and read it, and there you are! I see and hear you on every page. The same restraint, the same modesty. I can even tell who inspired one of the characters. I wouldn’t be a little like Thibaut the Troubadour, by any chance?”