Secrets Of Paris Part 13

"Thanks, Dot," Lydie said. "Why don't you take this cab?"

"No, honey, you take it," Dot said, leaning against the man with her eyes closed. "We'll get the next one. We're enjoying the air."

Lydie said good-bye and climbed in. She gave the driver her address, then removed a notepad from her purse and wrote down the name "Bruce Morrison." By the time she glanced up they had already driven out of the Place de la Concorde, one of her favorite night sights: she loved the fountains, the obelisk, the way the spotlights made all the stately buildings look gold. Driving along the dark, tree-lined Cours Albert Premier, she was picturing the Place, festive even tonight. It wasn't until the car stopped in front of her building that she realized that she was coming home alone after dark. It was the first time. As she paid the driver, she wondered whether Michael would have preferred to invite that other girl to the party. The one he did or didn't love. The one Lydie hated. She wondered whether he was on his way to her now.

It felt bizarre to waken in Anne's canopied bed. Light barely filtered through the heavy silk draperies, which, Michael saw that morning, were deep green. He felt swamped by the heat, the closeness. It was the first time he had spent an entire night there. Anne lay beside him, already alert, smiling.

"Tu as dormi bien?" she asked, one hand lazily mussing her own hair.

"C'etait un peu trop chaud," Michael said, rolling onto his back.

"It's hot, yes," she said. She laughed at her double meaning. "And we'd better make love now, because I don't know when I'll have this chance again, to have you in my bed in the morning."

He had not told her that he was living in a hotel. That was something between himself and Lydie; he wanted time to consider the state of his marriage. Telling Anne would proclaim something to the world, to himself, which he wasn't ready for. Yet here he was in bed with Anne; he felt he had spent half the night with an erection. He had called to invite her to dinner after Lydie had gone home from the emba.s.sy. As soon as Anne accepted, Michael had known how the night would go.

She lay on her back, pulling him close, directing his fingers to her doudounes doudounes, her zizi zizi. She wanted him to call their genitals by name, something Lydie had hated. Saying the words in French made it at once easier and more forbidden.

"Je suis bien obsede de ta verge," she said, regarding his erect p.e.n.i.s as if she were, in fact, obsessed with it. She produced a condom, part of their ritual, and rolled it on. She treated his p.e.n.i.s a little strangely, as though it had its own life, separate from Michael. Lying back, watching her pay attention to it, Michael figured she considered it a third party. When she left it to kiss his lips, she was giving him equal time, ignoring it, but surrept.i.tiously reaching down every so often to stroke it, to rea.s.sure it. Just a little secret between her and it.

He could not be sure, but last night he thought she had whispered "Louis" at the moment of o.r.g.a.s.m. He knew she had fantasies of herself as Madame de Sevigne; perhaps, making love in this antique bed, she could pretend Michael was the Sun King. She did research the way other women conducted friendships, love affairs: with pa.s.sion and intimacy. This was obvious to Michael when he watched her at the Louvre. She blocked out everything but herself and the person she was studying. Her fantasy world carried into real life, and that was strange. Now, entering her, he wondered whether she was making love to him, Michael McBride, or to his p.e.n.i.s. Or to Louis XIV. But the thought was brief and faded soon enough.

An hour later, sipping coffee in her living room, all was proper, even demure. She wore a yellow dress with matching yellow sandals. Her hair, lighter than ever, looked curly and full. He had watched her after their shower, stiffening her wet hair with white foam, blowing it dry until it looked the way she wanted. The process was ritualistic, so feminine. He had never seen a woman pay that sort of attention to her appearance. In his mother's case it was unfortunate, because she hadn't much natural beauty to start with. Lydie looked beautiful, in spite of what she did not do; she washed her hair with shampoo thriftily bought by the gallon, then let it air-dry. He had never seen her wear lipstick or nail polish. She disliked any perfume except something called "Water of Struan" that smelled like hay. Thinking of Lydie, he had to look away from Anne.

"There's the doctor," he said, gazing across the street. A tall, stooped old man deposited a dripping tea bag in the garbage can on his balcony. A mangy German shepherd stood at his heels.

"What a pig," Anne said. "Why can't he keep his garbage out of my sight?"

"How do you know he's a doctor?"

"Because he has doctor plates on his car. It's that little red Mini down there. Also, he used to see patients. I'd watch him examining them in his library, which was then a consulting room. They had the most terrible ailments! Shingles, liver tumors, hemorrhoids."

"What did you do? Watch with binoculars?"

Anne's mouth thinned. Michael's joke did not amuse her. "No. It was obvious from their spots, and from the way he palpated their bodies. Sometimes I would see the patients in the rue Jacob, and I could tell what was wrong by the way they walked."

"Don't get mad," Michael said, "but you do have an active imagination."

"I know you intend that as a compliment," Anne said, beaming.

"I do." Just then he remembered George Reed predicting that Michael would find a mistress in Paris. "All men do it," George, who knew Lydie well, had said. "It's the national pastime." The memory was unpleasant.

"I don't like to ask this," Anne said. "But what will your wife think about last night? Did she not expect you to come home?"

"Don't worry about that," Michael said, feeling protective of Lydie. He would never discuss her with Anne.

"I liked her," Anne said. "That time I met her. And I feel funny telling you this, but I have gotten several letters from that friend of hers. The wife of that friend you introduced me to at the Louvre."

"Patrice?" Michael asked, hiding his shock.

"Patrice d'Origny. She has read Three Women of the Marais. Three Women of the Marais."

"Have you written back?" Michael asked. This information made him dislike Patrice, instead of just feeling jealous of her. Patrice corresponding with Anne seemed disloyal to Lydie. He realized, of course, that he was being unreasonable; how could Patrice know about Anne and him, since even Lydie didn't know Anne's ident.i.ty? And if Patrice didn't know, why shouldn't she write to Anne?

"Yes. I always answer my fan mail. And her letters were, I don't know...different. Sort of dreamy." Anne looked dreamy herself, remembering Patrice's letters. "She really lost herself in the material. I can well understand how that can happen, considering she lives on the Place des Vosges. You know that Marie de Sevigne was born in a house there, don't you? Her grandfather made a fortune collecting the salt tax..."

"Patrice's husband makes a fortune selling jewelry," Michael said, wanting to bring Anne back to the present day.

"D'Origny Bijoutiers. I know it well. It is the house where my family has always bought commemorative jewelry. For example, my grandfather acquired a rough diamond in South Africa and had it cut and set by d'Origny-my grandmother's engagement ring. Those particular grandparents were terribly Anglicized. All the silver timbales given by my family to newborn babies come from there. Also, the diamond earrings my father gave to me when I turned eighteen."

Anne had never previously spoken of her family. In fact, Michael realized, she usually treated the people she researched with the familiarity accorded to one's family. Now she was talking about her real family as if they were rich, somehow n.o.ble. He thought of applying words like "Anglicized" to his own family or Lydie's: it didn't work. "Immigrant Irish," "middle cla.s.s," and "New Yorkers" came closer. The McBrides, like the Fallons, were a close Catholic family. The highest praise they could bestow was to call someone "down to earth." He thought of their professions: firemen, police officers, small-business owners, plant managers, teachers, maids. He was the first architect in either family, and all four parents had been so proud. He knew that Julia, and Cornelius before his death, loved him like their own son, and that his parents loved Lydie like one of their daughters. What would the parents think if he left Lydie? If he came home with Anne?

Or if he never went home, lived in Paris for the rest of his life?

"Why do you look so grave?" Anne asked. "What are you thinking?"

"We're going to be late for work," Michael said.

"We are our own bosses," Anne said. "That is what is so wonderful."

"The builders expect me," Michael said. "The table will be delivered today."

"C'est pas vrai!" Anne said, sounding delighted. "I cannot wait to see it! You are terrible for not telling me sooner, but I forgive you."

He had known she would love his idea for the information kiosk: a copy of one of Boulle's tables from the King's state chamber in the Palais du Louvre, the chamber planned by Lescot and Scibec de Carpi. In one of those perfect coincidences, that was the time of Madame de Sevigne. Although most of the plans had been formed before he knew her, lately she had been trying to influence him to fill the Salle with paintings and a tapestry actually purchased by Louis XIV.

Now that he had told her about the table, she insisted that he finish his coffee and prepare to leave right away. They walked to the Louvre in five minutes, when it usually took ten.

"It's getting cooler. You can tell fall is coming," Michael said as they crossed the Pont du Carrousel. He gazed upriver, at the great gla.s.s dome of the Grand Palais. He tried to pick his apartment house out of those that lined the banks, but it was around the bend.

"Hurry up," Anne said, walking ahead of him.

Although the museum was an hour from opening, the first tourists trailed toward the gla.s.s pyramid, where they would enter. Michael and Anne used a more convenient, VIP entrance nearer the street.

"Patron!" called Gaston, the project foreman. He came toward Michael, shook his hand. He spoke to Anne. It didn't exactly bother Michael that the workers knew she was his lover, but it made him uncomfortable. Anne herself did not seem to mind.

"So, where is it?" she asked Gaston.

"Downstairs. We waited for Monsieur McBride before bringing it up. It is in four pieces, wrapped, in boxes. I saw them off the truck myself."

"Big boxes!" called Prosper, a toothless Greek whose working papers had just come through.

"Let's bring them up," Michael said. He led Anne, Gaston, and twelve workers down an interior staircase.

"You are Charles Lebrun," Anne whispered to him in English, so the others would not understand. "Architect to the King of France. You are directing this band of workers, from Reims, to install a great and marvelous table of the King's choice. It must be perfect, because guess who's coming to dinner?"

"The court's greatest gossip?" Michael asked.

"Hush, don't spoil it," Anne said, sounding hurt. "Think of her as a reporter, a chronicler of that age."

"Okay," Michael said. Why had he called Madame de Sevigne a gossip, intending to be mean? He felt exhilarated; the installation of the information table meant more to him than any other part of the project. He had found the artisan, ordered it commissioned. Michael remembered all the cajoling he had done to convince the maker to abandon his other work to have it ready on time. It galled him that Anne would tell him to pretend he was Lebrun. That was it. Michael admired Lebrun's work; who wouldn't? But why would Anne suggest that Michael, at his moment of triumph, pretend to be an architect who had lived centuries ago?

Yet when the table was carried in four sections to the second floor and the protective wrapping taken away, when it was centered in the Salle des Quatre Saisons, she gasped.

"As Marie de Sevigne said of Louis the XIV's apartment," Anne said, "'the furnishings are divine, utter magnificence everywhere.'"

"It is perfect," Gaston said. "The best information center in the Louvre."

The table was enormous: stately, simple, and long enough to hold a banquet for the court or all the brochures, maps, and booklets necessary to guide modern tourists through the vast Louvre. He would have liked to order a copy of the one gilded and carved with heads of dragons. The Ministry of Culture had balked at that, citing time and cost, chiding Michael to remember there had been a revolution.

"Now you must turn your attention to the paintings," Anne said. "Poussin's Sacrament of Extreme Unction must Sacrament of Extreme Unction must hang there." She indicated the long north wall. "Settle for nothing less. Remember, Louis XIV's Director of Fine Art would have made Poussin president of a French Academy in Rome if Poussin had not been old and about to die. It is imperative that you hang one of his finest works in here." hang there." She indicated the long north wall. "Settle for nothing less. Remember, Louis XIV's Director of Fine Art would have made Poussin president of a French Academy in Rome if Poussin had not been old and about to die. It is imperative that you hang one of his finest works in here."

Michael said nothing; Sacrament of Extreme Unction Sacrament of Extreme Unction was the painting Pierre Dauphin guarded so zealously. Michael wanted it for his own reasons. First, because it was a prime example of Poussin's work. Reminiscent of Michaelangelo in its foreshortening and the sculptural heft of its people, it had been painted by Poussin during his long sojourn in Rome. Michael felt moved by its subject-the ministration of last rites. Also, he liked the woman in it. Leaving the room, she glanced over her shoulder with a sad, secret smile that alternately reminded him of Lydie and the St. Pauli girl. was the painting Pierre Dauphin guarded so zealously. Michael wanted it for his own reasons. First, because it was a prime example of Poussin's work. Reminiscent of Michaelangelo in its foreshortening and the sculptural heft of its people, it had been painted by Poussin during his long sojourn in Rome. Michael felt moved by its subject-the ministration of last rites. Also, he liked the woman in it. Leaving the room, she glanced over her shoulder with a sad, secret smile that alternately reminded him of Lydie and the St. Pauli girl.

"I have a feeling I'll wind up with Apollo and Daphne Apollo and Daphne," Michael said after a while.

Anne shook her head vehemently. "It is too late an example. Exquisite in its way, but not representative. Poussin died before it was completed. Fight for the Sacrament. Sacrament."

Barricades kept tourists out of the hall, but the workers' activity attracted a certain amount of attention.

"Everyone wants to see what is happening," Anne said. "I want to tell them: history is being made!"

Hearing that, Michael thought of Lydie, of how she should be here. He looked around, noting change: restoration of the mosaic floor; two walls, nearly complete, to redirect flow through the French painting galleries; signs done in words, not glyphs, hung where Michael thought they would best be seen. The workers swept shreds of paper into small piles. It was nearly twelve, time for their lunch break. Michael felt relieved they had finished the hard part before lunch, knowing they would return at two drowsy from red wine.

"I have to make a phone call," he said to Anne.

"And I must go upstairs to work," she said. She stood on her toes to reach her arms around his neck. She collapsed against him, pressing her pelvis against his. "My zizi zizi remembers this morning," she whispered. When he didn't reply, she nudged him. "Say it," she whispered. remembers this morning," she whispered. When he didn't reply, she nudged him. "Say it," she whispered.

"My verge verge remembers." remembers."

She giggled. "You are so cute and embarra.s.sed. So American!"

Walking toward the pay phone, Michael wondered whether his embarra.s.sment was particularly American, whether Didier or Gaston would feel ridiculous calling their body parts cute names in the middle of the day. In bed was a different story. Then that made him wonder whether he had created the embarra.s.sment as punishment for thinking of s.e.x with Anne before calling Lydie.

In any case, Lydie was not home.

Never had Paris seen such a crowd of people. Never has the city been so aroused, so intent on a spectacle.

-TO F FRANcOISE-MARGUERITE, JULY 1676 "IT MIGHT BE possible," Lydie said to Kelly. They sat in a cafe overlooking the Beaubourg Center. Lydie drank tea, Kelly drank c.o.ke. "Mr. Morrison was nice on the phone, very sympathetic when I told him about you." possible," Lydie said to Kelly. They sat in a cafe overlooking the Beaubourg Center. Lydie drank tea, Kelly drank c.o.ke. "Mr. Morrison was nice on the phone, very sympathetic when I told him about you."

"What did you tell him?" Kelly asked.

"That you are a Filipino, in Paris illegally, that I want to take you to the United States. I told him that you are my a.s.sistant."

"Your a.s.sistant? How do I a.s.sist you?"

"That's what we have to discuss." Lydie spoke softly, in case some of the Americans jamming the cafe were emba.s.sy spies.

Kelly stared into her c.o.ke, trouble evident in her eyes. "Lydie," she said. She glanced up at Lydie, then averted her eyes again.

Lydie waited, holding herself back. She knew she could make this too easy for Kelly. She could imagine taking over, devoting herself night and day to Kelly's cause as if it were a religious mission. It would distract her from Michael, and when it was over, she would feel like a hero. But it was Kelly's cause, not Lydie's, and Lydie could only help her along with it.

"Lydie, what about my fish market?" Kelly asked after a moment.

"I don't really expect you to be be my a.s.sistant," Lydie said, smiling. "It's just something I thought up for the authorities. You can still have your fish market." She withdrew some papers from her briefcase. my a.s.sistant," Lydie said, smiling. "It's just something I thought up for the authorities. You can still have your fish market." She withdrew some papers from her briefcase.

"Is that the pet.i.tion?" Kelly asked.

"Yes," Lydie said, handing it to her. A green-haired boy stood before them, juggling shoes. Four high heels and a man's sneaker. Lydie couldn't take her eyes off him, but Kelly was mesmerized by the pet.i.tion. Her thumb traced the words "United States Department of Justice." When he pa.s.sed the sneaker, Lydie fished some francs out of her pocket.

"We have to fill that out," Lydie said.

"It's just four pages long," Kelly said, sounding perplexed.

Naturally she would expect more, Lydie realized, watching her. A doc.u.ment that could change her life's course, make her wish come true, should be many pages long. "Did you know that you have to be interviewed by someone from the emba.s.sy?" Lydie asked.

"I have heard that."

"Mr. Morrison said that your being illegally in France causes problems. If you show up at the U.S. Emba.s.sy without a proper visa to be here, they have an obligation to report you to the French police."

Kelly looked at her helplessly. "And they would deport me to the Philippines?"

"It's possible," Lydie said. "One option would be for you to return to the Philippines on your own, to file the pet.i.tion there." This seemed impossible to Lydie; she hated to even suggest it, but Morrison had said it might be the best bet.

"I would do that," Kelly said, a smile spreading across her face.

"What would happen if you went back?" Lydie asked, shocked by Kelly's happiness.

"I would see my home and the rest of my family. But I would have hope of going to the United States. I would be a star in my province!"

Lydie regarded her. She rarely thought of Kelly as a daughter. In the back of her mind, she thought of Patrice and Didier as Kelly's family. But seeing Kelly grin at the thought of her family made Lydie realize how far Kelly was from home, and how far she had to go.

"Kelly," Lydie said. "Tell me how you got here-to Paris-in the first place."

"I obtained a visa to visit Germany. It is much easier for Filipinos to visit Germany than any other country."

"A tourist visa?" Lydie asked.

"Yes. Did your parents get to the States on tourist visas?" Kelly asked.

"No, immigration laws were much more liberal then. It was thirty years ago." She watched Kelly, sensed that she was nervous, hesitant about going on with the story. "Don't you want to tell me what happened?" Lydie asked.