The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (7 page)

Her gaze came to rest on a photo of her and Philippe on their wedding day. They’re smiling at the camera. He has his arm on her shoulder, in a loving, protective manner. It looks as though nothing bad could ever happen to her again.

Iris and Philippe were always going to art auctions. They shared a passion for finding undiscovered treasures and bidding on them. They had bought
Still Life with Flowers
by Bram van Velde ten years earlier. They bought the Barceló just after the exhibit at the Fondation Maeght. And the long handwritten letter by Jean Cocteau in which he talks about his love for Natalie Paley.

If I left Philippe, I would lose all this beauty. I would have to start all over again. Alone.

Iris shuddered at the word
alone.
Single women made her skin crawl, and there were so many of them!
Stressed out and pale, always rushing around, forever on the prowl. Terrifying, the way people live these days, burning themselves out.
She sipped the whiskey. Thanks to Philippe—t hanks to Philippe’s money, that is—Iris wasn’t burning out. In fact, she was trying to blossom. For a while now, she’d been writing. One page a day. No one knew. She locked herself in her office and scribbled words onto sheets of paper. When she wasn’t inspired, she doodled. It was slow going. She copied out La Fontaine’s
Fables
and reread
Madame Bovary
and La Bruyère’s
Les Caractères
, trying to figure how they chose just the right word. She tore up almost everything she wrote, but she felt that the work brought some intensity to her life.

She had once written screenplays she wanted to shoot, but she’d dropped everything when she left Gabor Minar behind and married Philippe.

Gabor . . . Gabor . . . He was so tall . . . Long legs, rough language.

“Iris, please, listen to me. Iris, I love you, and it’s not for fun, it’s for real. For real, Iris.” When he said her name, it sounded like “Irish” because of the way he rolled his r’s.

Joséphine told her that the twelfth-century marriage motto was “With and under him.” Iris wanted to roll right under Gabor.
What’s become of him?
she wondered.

Sometimes she fell asleep picturing Gabor ringing her doorbell and sweeping her up in his arms. She would give it all up for him: the cashmere shawls, the prints, the drawings, the paintings. She would run away with him.

But then two little numbers would puncture her fantasy: 44. She was forty-four years old. Her dream was shot.
It’s too late now
, she told herself.
I’m married and I’ll stay married. But I need a backup plan in case Philippe goes completely nuts and runs off with his young man.

Iris sighed. She would have to practice pretending—starting now.

Joséphine was relieved that she wouldn’t need to take the bus and make the two transfers to get to her sister’s. Antoine had left the car for her. She hardly ever drove, and it felt strange to get behind the wheel. She’d forgotten the code for the garage exit gate, and was rummaging in her purse for the notebook where she had jotted it down.

“It’s two-three-one-five, Mom.”

“Thanks, Hortense honey.”

Antoine had called the night before and spoken to the girls. Zoé first, then Hortense. After passing the phone to her sister, Zoé came into her mother’s room, where Joséphine was reading. The girl lay down beside her on the bed, sucking her thumb and hugging her teddy bear. After a long silence, Zoé sighed and said, “There are things I don’t understand about life, Mommy. It’s even harder than school.”

Joséphine felt like telling her that she didn’t understand much about life, either. But she held her tongue.

“Mommy, tell me Queen Eleanor’s story,” she said, snuggling even closer. “How she married two kings and ruled over two countries at the same time.”

“Should I start at the beginning?”

“Tell me about her first wedding.”

“That day, all of Bordeaux rejoiced,” Joséphine began, her words filling the room like a Christmas story. “On the embankment, Louis VII waited with his noblemen while Eleanor of Aquitaine finished getting ready in the Chateau de l’Ombrière. . . .” Soothed by Joséphine’s voice, Zoé soon fell asleep.

Hortense had remained on the phone with her father for a long time, then gone straight to bed without coming in to kiss her mother good night.

“I suggest we not talk about Daddy’s leaving during dinner,” Jo told the girls in the car.

“Too late,” replied Hortense. “I already told Henriette.”

The girls called their grandmother by her first name because Henriette Grobz refused to be called “Grandma” or “Grandmother,” which she thought vulgar.

“Oh, God! Why did you do that?”

“Let’s get real, Mom. If anyone can help us, she can.”

She has Marcel’s money on her mind
, Jo thought. Two years after the death of Joséphine and Iris’s father, Henriette had married Marcel, a very rich, very kind man. He had helped Henriette raise her daughters. He paid for their private schooling, the rent on the Paris apartment, and the chalet in Megève.

“And what did she say?” Jo asked.

“That it didn’t surprise her. That it was a miracle that you’d found yourself a husband, but that for you to keep him would have been beyond belief.”

“Hortense! That’s enough! You didn’t give her any details, I hope?”

The moment Joséphine asked the question, she wondered why she had bothered. Of course Hortense had gone into the details, all of them: Mylène’s age, height, hair color, what she did for a living. Hortense had probably laid it on thick, to gain sympathy as the poor abandoned little girl.

“Word would have gotten around sooner or later, so why not let it all out? It makes us look less dumb.”

“You really think Dad’s gone for good?” Zoé asked.

“He’s definitely moved on,” Hortense said. “He told me he was looking to start a ‘project’ that ‘she’ was going to finance. She’s crazy about him, apparently. He’s looking for work outside France, says there’s no future for him here.”

Joséphine was stunned: Antoine confided in their daughter more easily than in her. Did he now think of her as an enemy?

“Still, you could have asked me before you spoke about it, Hortense.”

“Don’t get too worked up about it, Mom. We’re going to need Henriette’s money, and she loves it when we come to her like lost little ducklings.”

“No, Hortense. We’re not going to play that game. We’re going to make do on our own.”

“Oh, really? How do you plan to do that with what you earn?”

Joséphine slammed on the brakes, pulled into a side road, and switched off the ignition.

“Hortense, I forbid you to speak to me that way! If you keep on like this, I’m going to ground you.”

“Oh, please, not that!” she sneered. “I’m
so
scared!”

“Now you listen to me, young lady. You may not think so, but I can put my foot down. I’ve always gone easy on you, but you’re crossing the line.”

Hortense sat back in her seat and assumed an offended look.

“Go ahead. I dare you. You talk big, but dealing with real life? That’s another story.”

That was the last straw: Joséphine pounded the wheel and shouted so loudly that little Zoé began to cry. “I want to go home!”

“What’s come over you since yesterday, Hortense? You’re being awful. I feel like you hate me. What did I ever do to you?”

“You made my father leave because you’re ugly and boring and there’s no
way
I’m going to be like you. I’ll do anything to
make sure I won’t, even if I have to kiss Henriette’s ass so she’ll give us money. I don’t want to be poor! I hate poor people! Poverty sucks!”

Joséphine was hardly able to breathe.

Hortense turned to Zoé, who was crying quietly in the backseat, her fist in her mouth. “And stop bawling! You’re getting on my nerves. Damn! How the hell did I wind up with you two? Now I understand why Dad left.”

Joséphine stared at her eldest daughter as if she were an escaped killer who had somehow found her. She forced herself to focus on the Bois road, which was lined with trees in bloom. The gentle swaying of the branches comforted her. Joséphine prayed that she hadn’t gone the wrong way and that they would come out at the Porte de la Muette.
Then all I’ll have to do is find a place to park—one more problem
, she thought with a sigh.

Mercifully, the family dinner went off without a hitch. Carmen ran everything smoothly, and the serving girl she’d hired was energetic and helpful. Wearing a long white blouse and lavender linen pants, Iris joined the conversation when it faltered. That happened often, since no one was particularly talkative. She seemed a bit withdrawn.

In the old days, when Iris came home, her arms full of shopping bags, she would shout, “Carmen! A hot bath, right away. Hurry, Carmencita! We’re going out tonight!” She would drop her parcels and run to find Alexandre in his room. “Did you have a good day? Tell me all about it, my love! How was school? Did you get good grades?”

In the bathroom Carmen would run the water in the enormous blue-green mosaic bathtub, mixing thyme, sage, and rosemary oils with some Guerlain bath salts. When everything was just right, she’d light the little candles and call for Iris to slip into the scented water. Iris would sometimes have Carmen keep her company and pumice the soles of her feet or massage her toes with rose oil. She would talk about her day, like the time she bumped into a homeless woman with her hand outstretched. Iris was so rattled, she dumped all her change into the woman’s leathery palm. “Oh, Carmen, I’m so afraid I’ll end up like her one day. I don’t have anything. It all belongs to Philippe.”

“You’ll never, ever end up like that, darling,” said the maid soothingly, as she spread her mistress’s toes and rubbed the soles of her delicately arched feet. “Not as long as I live.”

Tonight there had been no bath ceremony. Iris had just taken a quick shower.

Now only Hortense was chattering away, making her aunt and grandmother smile. And she had Marcel practically purring with pleasure every time she complimented him.

“I’m sure you’ve lost weight, Chief. When you came into the room, I thought, Wow, he looks good! How much younger he looks! So ‘fess up. Did you get a facelift?”

Marcel burst out laughing.

“And who would I do that for, you little vixen?”

“I don’t know. Me, maybe? I’d be sad if you got all old and wrinkled. I want you strong and tan, like Tarzan.”

After being flattered by Hortense, Marcel turned to Philippe to talk about the stock market. Would it go up or down in the coming months? Pull out or invest? Philippe only half listened to his ebullient father-in-law.

The moment dessert was over, Alexandre led his cousin Zoé to his room to play computer games, leaving Hortense on her own. She always hung out with the grown-ups. She knew how to make herself invisible when she needed to.

In the living room, Joséphine sipped her coffee, praying that she wouldn’t face a barrage of questions. Marcel read a financial newspaper. Henriette and Iris were talking about changing the curtains in one of the bedrooms. They waved Joséphine over to sit next to them, but she chose to join Marcel instead.