The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (52 page)

“Shirley isn’t here in Courbevoie anymore,” she said. “When are we going to move into Paris?”

In fact, Joséphine had been looking at apartments in Neuilly, just across the Seine. It was close, so Zoé wouldn’t lose touch with her Courbevoie friends, and Hortense declared that Neuilly suited her perfectly. “It has trees, a Metro, and bus lines, and nicely dressed people with good manners. I won’t feel like I’m living on an Indian reservation anymore.”

Hortense asked whether they could get the TV out of storage now that exams were over. She wanted to watch the fashion shows on cable. Joséphine signed up for the stations that she wanted, happy to see her daughter moving on.

One Sunday in the middle of June, Joséphine was alone in the house. Hortense was out, but had told her to watch Channel 3 that night, because she might catch a glimpse of her. “Don’t miss it, because I won’t be on for long.”

Around 11:30, Jo was listening for the kids in the stairwell and absentmindedly channel surfing, but regularly switching back to Channel 3 to look for a shot of Hortense. Luca had offered to keep her company, but she turned him down. She didn’t want her daughters to see her with the man she was sleeping with. She wasn’t ready to combine her life with Luca with her life with the girls.

Jo flipped back to Channel 3, and suddenly there was Hortense, being interviewed. She looked very attractive and relaxed. Made up and with her hair done, she seemed older, more mature.
My God, what a natural she is!
thought Jo admiringly.
She looks like Scarlett Johansson!

The show host introduced her, told the audience how old she was, and said that she had just taken the
baccalauréat.

“So how did the exams go?”

“Pretty well, I think,” Hortense said, her eyes shining.

“What do you plan to do next?”

Hortense said how badly she wanted to break into the tight-knit fashion world, that she was leaving for design school in London in October but would be thrilled if some Paris designer wanted to offer her a summer internship.

The host interrupted. “But that’s not the only reason you’ve come on the show, is it?”

Joséphine recognized him. He was the same man who had hacked Iris’s hair off. Suddenly, she had a sinking feeling she knew what was coming.

“No, it isn’t. I’m here to say something about a book,” Hortense said, speaking very clearly. “A book that’s been a big success recently:
A Most Humble Queen.
”

“And you claim that this book wasn’t written by its presumed author, your aunt Iris Dupin, but by your mother, Joséphine Cortès.”

“That’s right. And I brought you the proof: my mom’s computer, which has all of her rough drafts.”

So that’s why I couldn’t find my laptop this morning!
thought
Joséphine. She had searched for it everywhere, and figured she must have left it at Luca’s apartment.

“We had a specialist examine the computer before the broadcast,” the host said. “And he confirmed that the computer indeed contains different versions of the manuscript of
A Most Humble Queen.
He also confirmed that the computer belongs to your mother, Joséphine Cortès, a scholar at the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique.”

“She’s a specialist in the twelfth century, which is exactly when the novel is set,” Hortense said.

“And just to be clear, you’re saying that the novel was written not by your aunt, Iris Dupin, but by your mother, Joséphine Cortès?”

“That’s right,” said Hortense firmly.

“You realize that this is going to cause a major scandal?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Yet you’re willing to risk ruining your aunt’s life.”

“Yes.”

Hortense was perfectly calm, and it wasn’t an act. She looked right into the camera and answered each question without hesitating or becoming flustered.

“I have to ask: Why are you doing this?”

“Because my mom is raising my sister and me on her own. She works really hard, and we don’t have a lot of money. I don’t want the royalties from the book to go to someone else.”

“You’re doing this for the money?”

“I’m speaking out mainly for justice for my mother. The money is nice, but it’s secondary. My aunt came up with the book idea for
fun, and I’m sure she didn’t expect it to be such a big success. But I think it’s right to render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s.”

“You’ve talked about
A Most Humble Queen
’s success. Can you give us some figures?”

“Sure. The book has sold five hundred thousand copies so far. I hear it’s being translated in forty-six countries. And Martin Scorsese has optioned the film rights.”

“Hortense, you’ve brought a lawyer with you, Lionel Gaspard, who represents a number of show-business stars, including Mick Jagger. Maître Gaspard, can you tell us what might happen in this kind of situation?”

The lawyer launched into a long discussion of plagiarism, ghostwriting, the trials he knew about, the parties he had represented. Hortense listened, sitting very straight and looking into the camera. She was wearing a green Lacoste shirt that brought out the color of her eyes and the copper tones of her long hair. Joséphine couldn’t help but notice the shirt’s insignia: a crocodile.

When Gaspard was finished, the interviewer turned back to Hortense, who talked about her mother’s brilliant work at the CNRS, her research on the twelfth century, and a personality trait that drove her crazy: her shyness and excessive modesty.

“You know, when you’re a kid—and I was a kid until not that long ago—you need to admire your parents, to think that they’re the best and the strongest. Parents are your fortress against the world. But I never felt like my mom was tough enough. I thought people would always walk all over her. I revealed a secret today, but I only revealed it to protect my mother.”

The studio audience burst into applause.

Joséphine sat rooted to the couch, thinking,
So now the whole world knows!
She was shattered, but also relieved. She was going to get her life back. She wouldn’t have to lie, or hide. She’d be able to write under her own name. That was scary too, because now she didn’t have any excuse for not trying!

Joséphine had written down a quote from Seneca when she started her graduate studies:
It’s not because things are hard that we don’t dare; it’s because we don’t dare that they’re hard.
Back then, it was to give herself courage. And now, she was going to dare. Thanks to Hortense.

My daughter, who has no use for love, tenderness, or generosity—my daughter, who faces life with a knife between her teeth—just gave me a gift no one has ever given me before: she looked at me and said, “Go ahead, take your name back! You can do it!” Maybe she does love me, in her own way. Who knows?

Joséphine pushed open the glass door to the balcony and leaned on the railing next to the dead plants. She’d forgotten to throw away the pots.
They’re all that’s left of Antoine
, she thought, touching them.
And I let them die.

Glancing up, she saw that the stars were out. She thought of her father and started speaking aloud to him.

“She doesn’t know, Daddy. She’s so young, she doesn’t know anything about life. She thinks she does, she judges everything, judges me . . . At her age, that’s natural. She would rather have had Iris for a mother! She doesn’t see the love and tenderness I’ve showered on her from the day she was born. She just doesn’t see it.

“Hortense thinks money is everything. But money wasn’t the reason I was there when she came home from school to make her
a snack, or dinner, or lay out her clothes for the next day. Money doesn’t buy that, love does. Please make her understand that, Daddy. Bring my little girl back to me. I love her so much! I’d give everything just to hear her say, ‘Mom, I love you.’”

Joséphine paused and put her face in her hands. She prayed with all her might that the stars would hear her, that the little star at the end of the Big Dipper would twinkle.

Just then, Joséphine felt something lightly touch her shoulder—probably the wind, or a leaf falling from the balcony above. She turned around.

It was Hortense. Jo hadn’t heard her come out. Joséphine smiled sheepishly, like someone caught doing penance.

“I was looking at your father’s plants,” she said. “They’ve been dead for ages. I just forgot to take care of them.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Hortense said gently. “Don’t feel bad.”

She helped her mother to her feet. “Come on. You’re tired, and so am I. I didn’t realize how tiring it would be to say the things I said tonight. You heard them, didn’t you?”

Joséphine nodded. “You stood up for me tonight, Hortense. You fought for me. I’m so happy, you can’t imagine!”

They were back in the living room, and Jo was feeling chilled and a little shaky. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight,” she said. “I’m too excited. Want to have some coffee?”

“Mom! That’s just going to keep us awake!”

“I’m already awake, Hortense. You woke me up! You woke me up! I’m sorry, I’m repeating myself—”

Hortense took her mother’s hand. “So, do you know what your next book will be about?”

A
N
I
NTRODUCTION
TO

T
HE
Y
ELLOW
E
YES
OF
C
ROCODILES

Katherine Pancol’s delicious novel begins as middle-aged medieval scholar Joséphine Cortès learns that her perpetually unemployed husband, Antoine, is leaving her for a woman named Mylène, a manicurist at a local salon. Even worse, the two plan to run off to Kenya to start a crocodile farm. Frustrated and unsure of herself, Jo must now find a way to support her two daughters—confident, beautiful teenager Hortense and shy, sweet preteen Zoé—while maintaining their suburban middle class way of life. Maybe Jo’s nasty mother, a social climber who mocked Antoine and his checkered employment history, was right all along.

Meanwhile, on the right side of the Seine, Jo’s sister, Iris, seems to have it all: beauty, enormous wealth, a successful lawyer husband, and a chic Parisian lifestyle. But Iris is struggling with the choices she has made in her life, too. A former film student at Columbia University, she regrets leaving America and her now-famous director ex-boyfriend behind for gossipy, leisurely lunches and endless shopping trips. While seated with a renowned publisher at a dinner party, Iris reveals that she’s writing a book—a romance novel set in the Middle Ages—and he immediately asks to see it. The only problem, of course, is that no such book exists and everything she’s told him is based on her sister Jo’s research.

So, Iris hatches a plan that is seemingly simple and beneficial for everyone: Jo will write the novel and pocket the book advance and any royalties—but the story will be published under Iris’s name and she’ll take all the credit. Desperate for a new income stream, Jo agrees, ignoring nagging warnings from her conscience and her liberated friend Shirley, who seems to have some secrets of her own. As Jo races toward her deadline, she discovers a newfound love of writing, begins a flirtation with a handsome man she meets in the library, and feels her life changing in ways she hadn’t expected. But when the book becomes a runaway bestseller, she begins to wonder who really got the better end of the deal. . . .