Blackbird Fly (7 page)

“
Oh, she’s fantastic, from Harvard
Law. She’s been clerking in Brooklyn and before that for the Second
Circuit. Her name is Nina Cortez.”

“
Latina? Good.” Merle frowned over
Laura's shoulder at the receptionist, standing in the
doorway.

“
Someone to see you. She said it was
personal. Should I send her back?”

Laura got up. “I’ll come back later.”

Merle turned off her monitor. Probably a courtesy
call from someone she’d helped over the years. Mabel Siddons,
maybe, who had been evicted and sued for back rent because she
couldn’t read the notices for renewing her Section 8 certificate —
or anything else. Or, Tanya, living on the street with her baby
until they found her an apartment and government assistance. Every
so often someone would come by and tell her they had found a job,
graduated from trade school — or needed money.

The visitor stepped into the open doorway, glancing
at the nameplate. Merle didn’t recognize her. She was thirty-ish,
with blond hair to her shoulders. She wore a black suit with a blue
blouse and heels, and could have passed for a thousand other
professional women in the city.

In other words, not a client. Merle stood. “Can I
help you?”

The woman smiled slightly, her eyes darting around
the office, but didn’t speak.

Merle said, “Sorry. Do I — have we —?”

The woman clutched a black briefcase on a long strap
over her shoulder. “My name is Courtney Duncan. I am — was — a
friend of Harry’s.”

“
Oh. Sit down.”

“
I just wanted to say how sorry I
am. That he — ” Her face flushed. “I couldn’t make it to the
funeral.” She half-turned to the door. “My — my condolences to your
family.” And she was gone. Merle stared at the spot she had
vacated, blinking.

Laura returned. “Who was that?”

“
A friend of Harry’s. Or so she
says.”

Tristan had his counselor appointment Monday
afternoon but didn’t go back to school. He pecked away on a paper
for his history class and the Dylan Thomas essay, and watched a lot
of television. Annie went home on Tuesday. Merle worked long,
satisfying days to clear the backlog of cases and slept soundly,
from exhaustion, every night. She looked at the old photos once,
and the obituary, then put everything into the manila envelope. On
Thursday afternoon she took the subway to Brooklyn to meet the
property lawyer Francie had recommended.

Hoffmann Suisse International’s brownstone sat
mid-block among residences in various phases of renovation and
decay. As she pushed through into their reception area the smell of
bread baking made her smile.

The receptionist’s desk sat empty so she lowered
herself into a hard, modern chair padded in purple velvet. She
picked up a copy of the
International Herald Tribune
as a
stylish woman with a European up-do returned and ushered her into
the lawyer’s office.

Ramon Sauvageau stood, smoothed his tie, and shook
her hand. He wore a gray suit with a white shirt setting off his
tan and black hair slicked back in an outdated Wall Street look.
His accent was soft, indefinable. On the corner of his desk sat a
small vase with three perfect pink roses. The receptionist returned
with coffee and a plate of warm pastries. Merle chose a square
cookie. The buttery crumbs melted in her mouth.

“
Now. The inheritance,” he said,
looking at her under his thick eyebrows. “Under French law all
children of the deceased, as well as the spouse, inherit equal
shares of property, no matter what the will says. Am I correct that
you have just one child, a son?”

“
Yes.”

“
So you and your son will each
inherit half of the house and land. Then there is the issue of
inheritance tax. It is probable that because the house was held for
so long by your late husband that the tax will be lowered
substantially. We will work with the French government on that on
your behalf.”

“
But there will still be inheritance
tax?”

“
It is the way.”

“
Has someone been to the
village?”

“
My contact in Toulouse.” He moved
his coffee aside. “This village, Malcouziac, is small, with some
services, a small grocery and tabac, that sort of thing. Medieval
with some of the old walls.”

“
How small?”

“
Three hundred. More in the summer
when people go to their vacation homes. Not an unpopular area for
summer people.”

“
Good. I’ve decided to sell
it.”

“
Very good. We can help you with all
the details. I should warn you, it may not be quick.”

“
I heard these small cottages were
sought after. Lots of British in the Dordogne, right?”

“
But yours has had no one in it for
many years —”

“
Fifty.”

He frowned. “If you will indulge me, I’ll read you
what Monsieur Rancard reports.” He put on wire-rimmed glasses.
“‘House sits on the street, approximately twenty feet of frontage.
Wooden shutters, paint gone but solid, on all windows and door on
the front. House is constructed of local yellow stone in fair
condition. A seven-foot wall of stone surrounds the building,
including a large rear yard. An alley provides access. Some signs
of water damage and mortar in need of repair on both house and
wall. Tile roof needs work, tiles missing, birds flying in and out.
Possible interior damage from the hole.’”

“
He couldn’t get in?”

“
One moment. He continues: ‘Location
at edge of village, adjacent to destroyed fortress wall, is
desirable except for wall debris along the street, with excellent
southern exposure and windows which face the many vineyards and
hills.’”

“
That shouldn’t be difficult to
sell.”

He held up a finger. “'Shutters on the street
padlocked from inside, on first and second floors. Attempt to open
door shutter with bolt cutter brought gendarme and neighbors. A
Madame Suchet across the street informed me that someone lives in
the house. The local gendarme confirmed this. Said occupant has
paid the ‘taux occupier’ — this is the tax a renter must pay to the
state each year — they paid ‘the taux occupier’ dutifully and on
time for ten years.’”

“
Someone’s been in the house for ten
years?”

“
But not legally, madame.
”

“
A squatter.”

“
Who has made all believe that the
house belongs to her, even to lawfully paying her tax.”

“
The house isn’t recorded in her
name, is it?”

“
It appears, no. She has no legal
claim to the property.”

“
Did Harry pay taxes on the
property?”

Sauvageau handed her the sheet with tax figures for
the last twenty years. “When he was 21 and came into his trust he
paid the back taxes. He kept up the payments. That will strengthen
your claim. With a house unoccupied for so long, it is not unusual
to have a squatter.”

Homeless, and French. The squatter was probably like
one of her clients in Harlem, destitute, toothless, and clueless.
Of course there was a squatter. But one could always hope for an
unscrupulous opportunist with bad intentions. Much easier to toss
into the street.

“
Monsieur Rancard will find out who
the woman is. We pay the tax. We record the property for sale with
the real estate company.”

“
Can we sell it if the ownership is
in question?”

“
Technically we wait until we have
access to the property. But Monsieur Rancard knows many
people.”

“
How much is the tax?”

“
About two thousand
euros.”

More money out the door. “We don’t know anything
about the squatter then?”

“
The gendarme indicated that she was
a known person in the village. The people in the village are likely
to take a elderly Frenchwoman’s case over yours, you being a
stranger to them and so far away.”

Chapter 9

The return letter from her aunt is several weeks old
by the time Marie-Emilie receives it. The postman must have refused
to give it to Weston. By the time she is answering the door again
he appears with it.

Her bruises have faded; her face is no longer
swollen. Her arm only hurts when she raises it over her head.
Several nights after she made her soup he had thrown her drunkenly
onto the bed and her head scarf had come loose, revealing her
chopped, ugly hair. He was always rough in bed but she supposed all
Americans were. She had only one boyfriend in France when she
worked in the pharmacy, sweeping floors and washing windows. He was
the son of the druggist, a brute himself. Weston is no different,
except when he drinks.

He had beaten her then made love. It seemed wrong to
her. It is wrong. But she wanted a child so she received him on
whatever terms he offered. But she has not been able to go out of
the house for two weeks.

According to her aunt’s letter, there is no curse on
the house. Marie-Emilie had hoped for a simple cure to her
unhappiness, something she could say or do that would break the
spell. The letter is long and reassuring, except for one part:

‘
There was much love in that house,
cherie
. The pain of war too. So many souls lost. I kept
their pictures on the wall, clipped from newspapers, to remember
them. How I tried to keep house for your dear uncle so that when he
returned he would find flowers blooming in the yard, the grapes
ready to pick, the shutters painted and secure. But I was only one,
I could not do it. You cannot do it alone either. You must insist
that your husband help you with the house. He is young, he can fix
the roof, plant a rose bush, build a fire. Make him be a man. You
are not a slave to him.’

Tante
is wrong. Marie-Emilie sits next to the
garden wall in a slice of shade. She is so tired. Weston goes out
every night and rarely comes to bed before she gets up. He sleeps
during the day and goes out again. He no longer even makes a
pretense of trying to write. She suspects he sold his typewriter.
Her only reprieve from his dis-approval is now, these last days,
when he has gone on the train to Paris for business.

She is so hungry. There is no food, no money. If by
some chance she carries a child now he would surely die from
hunger.

She washes herself under the cistern, the warm water
rinsing away her tears. She is fortunate that she no longer owns a
mirror to see her butchered hair. Dressing again she finds one of
Wes’s handkerchiefs to cover her head and goes to the market.

One of the old widows gives her two eggs; another
woman grudgingly offers her some cream. It won’t go far but she is
grateful. The men will have nothing to do with her, call her ‘gypsy
blood.’ The priest won’t even speak to her. On her walk home she
wonders what she’s done to offend them all. And thanks the Lord for
kind old ladies with good hearts.

Weston arrives home that evening in a singing mood.
He swings into the house, takes her into his arms, and gives her a
green scarf and nylon stockings from Paris. He had made a deal with
someone abroad. They fronted him money for a big delivery of wine,
many cases, he says. She is happy but afraid he’s already spent the
money and the businessmen will be angry. He laughs when she tells
him that, saying he’s already paid for the wine, and has plenty
left over. “Although you’ll never know where, my pretty,” he laughs
again, tweaking her still-sore chin.

Just as quickly, he is gone again. American husbands
didn’t have to say where they were going, she thinks bitterly. He
hasn’t touched her since the beating, much too long for him to be
without. She imagines the perfumed whores he’s been with in Paris,
the trinkets he bought them, the wine they drank, the beef they
ate, until she curls up in her bed and cries.

Chapter 10

Friday came, like every week. Merle walked into the
Legal Aid building, five stories of reassuring brick, utilitarian
and unfussy, and ran through the day in her head as always. She’d
come in early, hoping to actually take a lunch break today. Then,
at ten o’clock her boss, the head of the Harlem Neighborhood
Office, called her into his office. She was on her second cup of
coffee.

Jeff O’Donald, once a campus radical at Columbia, was
now balding and plump with an unruly beard and wire rim glasses. On
his window sill white orchids bloomed.

“
How are you, Merle? Things okay at
home?”

“
Sure. The bed’s a little cold,
Jeff. You looking for some action?”

He cringed. “Sorry. I said that wrong. Are you coping
all right?”

She was sounding more and more like the scary widow.
Ready to bite off the head of anyone who dared to be nice. She
tried to smile. “Thanks for asking.”

He let her sip her coffee then leaned forward. “I’ve
got something on my mind.” He was an intense guy, and this was his
intense way of preparing you for his pronouncements. “This Skadden
fellow, Cortez. Crackerjack, according to her rec’s. Her proposal
is a new intake system that could really shake things up for us.
We’re very excited.”

“
I’m excited too.”

“
Super. I’d like you to train her to
take over your job.”

Merle set down her cup and stared at him. He squirmed
and explained. “She’ll be full-time, you’re still part-time. She’s
fully funded by this fellowship. Then we use you in Development.
Get us more fellows, and all that.”