Secrets Of Paris Part 11

"You sound strange. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about me. I always get sick in August. It's an annual event."

"Well, if you say so," Patrice said, sounding unconvinced. "Get yourself some decent medicine and sleep around the clock."

"Okay. I miss you."

"Kisses!" Patrice said, and broke the connection.

Hanging up the phone, Lydie had the strangest feeling that nothing bad would be happening if she and Michael had not left the United States. They would be happy together, she would not be sick, he would not be acting like a jerk. Her mother's guardian angel was punishing her for transferring loyalties to Patrice. She closed her eyes and saw the angel, an avenger: hooded, black-winged, straight from G.o.d. She knew she was superst.i.tious, but then, she had been raised by Catholics from Ireland. She fell asleep.

Kelly stepped off the number thirty-two bus carrying the present for Lydie. This was the moment she had been waiting for! All August she had worked alone at the d'Orignys'-polishing silver, cleaning closets and cupboards, wishing for a chance to speak with Lydie. She had Patrice to thank for it. Her lips moved, rehearsing the words she would say. Her palms sweated. She wiped them on a tissue. She wanted them to be dry, because she knew Lydie would shake her hand in greeting. She looked around.

Lydie's neighborhood was so different from Patrice's: every single woman on the street looked like a fashion model. The shops and restaurants had brilliant red awnings with gold lettering: Chez Francis, Bar des Theatres, Marius et Janette. The Place des Vosges was so drab, so ancient, in comparison. And Kelly's own neighborhood, behind Clichy, could not even be compared. It was dirty, grimy, full of Arabs. The shops sold rice and beans, cheap shoes, s.e.x toys. She wished her sisters and brothers could see her now, walking through the Place de l'Alma, ringing the bell of an American who was not her employer.

"h.e.l.lo, Lydie, h.e.l.lo, Lydie," Kelly said to herself, walking up the stairs. She remembered to wipe her palms.

"Kelly!" Lydie said, standing in the foyer of her apartment. She was wearing a robe. In the middle of the day! Kelly was so surprised by this, she forgot her greeting. But then Lydie stepped forward, shook her hand. "I'd give you a kiss," Lydie said, "but I'm sick and probably contagious. Come on in."

Kelly remembered to hand her the present, some homemade strawberry preserves that had actually been sent as a thank-you present to Patrice from her mother.

"My favorite kind," Lydie said, examining the jar.

Kelly stood in the entranceway and looked around. Tall windows overlooked the river. The furniture was beautiful! Very contemporary! The couch was covered in a wild pattern; there was an entertainment center complete with TV, VCR, and stereo; pole lamps were everywhere. She thought of Patrice's lamps: old things covered with gilt that flaked every time you touched them.

"Is that a Barcalounger?" Kelly asked, unable to help herself. She had seen pictures of reclining chairs in Patrice's magazines.

Lydie laughed. "Yes. It's not my favorite thing, but Michael's father gave it to him for his thirty-fifth birthday. Why don't we sit over there? You can try it out."

The sweat behind Kelly's knees bonded with the vinyl. "I'll get us some iced tea," Lydie said. Before leaving the room, she showed Kelly how to work the levers. Kelly made her feet go up and down and her head go back. She made herself comfortable, with her feet about six inches off the ground and her head back, not far, just a little.

Lydie rejoined her. At that moment, Kelly realized what she had done: allowed Lydie to serve her.

"Oh, Mum!" she said, scrambling to get out of the chair. This wasn't what she had planned! She had intended to offer to work a little for Lydie, for free, before proposing her idea.

"Sit back and relax," Lydie said. She smiled at Kelly, then sat on the sofa. "Are you enjoying August without the d'Orignys?"

"Oh, yes," Kelly said, holding her head up. Her comfort put her at a disadvantage. She wished she could trade places with Lydie.

"I really miss Patrice, that's for sure," Lydie said. "I don't know what I'll do without her when I return to New York."

"Will that be soon?" Kelly asked, forcing her voice to be steady.

"In October. Has Patrice done anything about helping you to get there? To the United States?"

Kelly could hardly believe it; Lydie was making it so easy for her. "No, not really. It is very hard for her to do, living forever in Paris, married to a Frenchman. It would be much easier for someone who was returning to the United States-to take me with them."

Lydie's head turned fast. Kelly knew then that Lydie realized exactly what she was after. She watched Lydie, generally so soft-looking, with her pretty reddish hair and white skin, even whiter with sickness, and thought she looked shrewd, even a little hard. Kelly felt afraid.

"Oh, I wish I could help you," Lydie said.

"You do? You do?" Kelly asked.

"But how can I, Kelly? This is between you and Patrice. If I brought you to the States, I would be taking you away from her."

Kelly had expected her to say that. It only strengthened her will. She used the levers to lower her feet to the ground, raise her head up straight. Now she felt she was in a chair of power, as substantial as a throne. "I would never want to hurt Patrice," she said. "She has done so much for me. It is she she who most wants me to get to the United States. She has been teaching me the computer, to give me a skill. She has told me about the Filipino community in Queens..." who most wants me to get to the United States. She has been teaching me the computer, to give me a skill. She has told me about the Filipino community in Queens..."

Lydie moved her mouth without speaking, as though she feared the next words would be painful. "I know she started off doing that, but I believe she feels too attached to you. It's just a sense I have-she hasn't said anything to me. But I think she would miss you terribly if you left."

"And I would miss her."

"Please understand, Kelly. I want you to get to the United States. But I can't go against the wishes of my friend."

Kelly grinned. She could scarcely conceal her triumph. "She tried to get her mother to take me with her."

"She did? She didn't tell me that." Lydie looked astonished.

"Yes, but Mrs. Spofford already employs a person she is devoted to. Patrice was very disappointed, even though Mrs. Spofford promised to talk to her congressman."

Lydie frowned a little. She pulled a loose thread on the sleeve of her robe. The hem of the sleeve was coming down. "I can fix that for you," Kelly said. She rose from the Barcalounger, smiling at Lydie.

"That's okay," Lydie said. "I can sew..."

"Please," Kelly said.

Lydie had confusion in her face. It derived from more than Kelly's proposal, Kelly felt sure. "It's awfully nice of you," Lydie said. She handed Kelly a tin box which held needles and thread. Kelly glanced at the robe, a pale shade of yellow, and began matching the thread. Lydie took off the robe, laid it on the Barcalounger. She had a T-shirt on underneath. "I'll be right back," she said.

When she returned, she was wearing a maroon silk robe that could only be her husband's. "Isn't it very hard to get a visa, even if an American is sponsoring you?" she asked.

Kelly st.i.tched busily. "Yes, it is difficult. But they say it is easier if the American says you can do a special job."

"Maid's work is not a special job," Lydie said. "What else can you do?"

"In the Philippines I was an accountant," Kelly said, not looking up from her work. She had finished the drooping sleeve. She tied a neat knot, bit off the thread, and began to strengthen the hem of the other sleeve.

"I do have my own business in New York, but I don't have enough work to keep an accountant busy," Lydie said.

"I want to open a fish market," Kelly said. "My family owned a fish pond in the Philippines, and I know all about fish."

"Fish?" Lydie asked, sounding dazed.

"Yes," Kelly said. She finished the second sleeve. She feared looking into Lydie's face. She felt that she had never been so close to making her dream come true. Her palms were very sweaty. Her fingers trembled.

"Kelly, listen," Lydie said. "I'm sick today. I don't know what to think. I have to talk this over with Michael and Patrice."

Kelly, who believed that all would be lost if Lydie talked with Patrice before making up her mind, looked at her. She looked straight into Lydie's hazel eyes. "What about your mother?" she asked.

"My mother?"

"Did you not tell me that she immigrated to the United States? That you talked to her about me and that she said I should try to go also?"

"Yes, I did."

"Do you believe that your mother had help along the way? That someone helped her to get there?"

"Many people helped her. I know what you're saying, and I appreciate it. I do. Let me think about it." Some of the confusion had left her face, and Kelly knew that she had won.

"Thank you so much, Lydie," Kelly said. "No matter what you decide, thank you for thinking about it. Will you let me do something for you now? I could go to the market for you, or do your laundry. I could go to the pharmacy..."

"No," Lydie said, sounding tired. "There's nothing at all. Maybe I'll just take a rest now."

And so they said good-bye.

That night Michael came home with ice cream from Berthillon. It had melted in the heat; the package had sprung a leak, and his hands were sticky. He dumped a pile of contractors' reports on the counter and washed his hands at the kitchen sink while Lydie poured liquid double-chocolate into soup bowls. She felt better after her nap, no longer feverish. She wore a fresh white nightgown, knowing that Michael preferred it to the T-shirt.

"I have the most interesting thing to tell you," Lydie said. "I had a visitor today. Kelly Merida-you know, Patrice's cleaning lady?"

"Should we leave it in the freezer for a few minutes, to get it cold?" he asked.

"Let's eat it just like this. It seems more sinful," she said. She wanted to sound lighthearted, wicked. She wanted to erase whatever had turned bad between them.

"I brought it home to cool you off, for your fever..."

"My fever is gone. I'm fine," Lydie said.

"Ah," he said. He stared at her. He didn't touch her. His look was steady, nearly expressionless, but it chilled Lydie, and only someone who knew him as well as she did could understand what it meant. She knew that they were about to have a conversation, and she knew what the conversation would be about. It would not be about Kelly. She put one hand over her eyes, then took it down.

"I love you," she said.

"Not enough," he said.

"What are you talking about? What's bothering you?" She felt a little frantic. She glanced around for the kitchen chairs, but Michael seemed to want to stand.

"Lydie." He placed his hands on her shoulders, guided her to the sideboard and propped her against it. It reminded her of the time, in their kitchen in New York, when he had told her that her father was dead. The overhead light was harsh and yellow; the loudspeaker of one of the tour boats broadcast a distorted message.

"How can you say I don't love you enough?" Lydie asked.

"Because I don't feel it. I haven't felt it for a while. Since before we came to Paris."

"You're the one who's different, Michael," she said. "You've acted strange ever since we got here, and I can't blame you. Your project was up in the air for so long...Is there another hitch at work?"

"This isn't about work." His voice rose, his anger freeing something in Lydie. She hit his chest with the heel of her hand.

"G.o.d, if I had known this when I agreed to come to Paris-" she said.

"That's right-you 'agreed' to come to Paris. Funny, I'd always imagined my wife would love love to come to Paris with me. Some people think Paris is the most romantic city in the world." to come to Paris with me. Some people think Paris is the most romantic city in the world."

"I think it's romantic-I love it here." Lydie felt shocked by what he was saying. But she found herself trying to remember the last time they had had s.e.x.

"You don't seem to love me, or at least being being with me, if there's a difference. You know what stands out in my mind about our time here?" with me, if there's a difference. You know what stands out in my mind about our time here?"

"What?"

"That time on the quai, when you kissed me. It seemed so nice, so unusual."

Lydie remembered; they had been walking to the Comedie Francaise that early summer night.

"I felt more like coming home to bed instead of going to the performance," she said.

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't know. Because we had tickets."

Michael grabbed a contractor's report and tore it in half. "This is what I would have done with the tickets," he said.

"That's really great, ripping up your report," she shrieked.

"Why should you care about my f.u.c.king report if I don't?" Michael threw the pages down; they skidded across the sideboard into the wall.

"When did this start? How long have you felt this way? Can you tell me exactly?" Her ears rang, making the words echo.

"I think it hit me when we got to Paris. Back in New York I just blamed it on your family. I thought you were giving them everything you should have been giving me."

"Like what?" Lydie asked.

Michael leaned toward her, grabbed her upper arms so hard she gasped. "Words, Lydie. Your mother's the one you call to talk about your father. I loved him too-do you ever think of that? When he died..." Michael closed his eyes and stepped back. He swallowed hard.

"What?" Lydie asked, suddenly terrified.

"When your father died, all I wanted was to comfort you, to help you through it."

"But you did, Michael."

"I wanted the same from you. Remember how he used to say I was like the son he never had? We were close too, Lydie-apart from you. But you were the one who brought us together."

"He loved you," Lydie said, reaching out to stop a tear from rolling off Michael's cheek.

"That ride we took? The day before he died? I saw how unhappy he was. I should have known. I've always believed that-that he was trying to tell me what he was going to do."

"You couldn't have stopped him," Lydie said.

"No?" Michael asked, looking at her. "You know, you've never said that to me before."

Because we don't talk about it, Lydie wanted to say but couldn't. She held her face in her hands and wept.