The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (18 page)

“Don’t worry about it. I love my sister, but at times she seems like she’s from another planet. She does research at the CNRS, you know. Another world altogether.”

“Do you see each other often?”

“Mostly at family get-togethers. This year we’re spending Christmas together at the chalet.”

“That’ll do your husband good. He seems tense, these days. A nice week in Megève, and he’ll be in great shape. But don’t let him work. Take away his laptop and cell phone.”

“That’s impossible.” Iris sighed. “He sleeps with them—on them, even!”

“Then he should be well rested, because he’s totally on top of his cases, as sharp as ever. A real shark. Though he seems softer lately, not so hard-nosed. The other evening I caught him daydreaming in the middle of a meeting. There were about ten of us in his office, all talking at once, waiting for him to cut to the chase. Philippe had a big file open in front of him and everyone hanging on his every word, and suddenly he was somewhere else entirely. He looked serious, hurt. There was something vulnerable in his eyes. In twenty years of working together it’s the first time that I’ve seen him like that. I’m so used to the ruthless warrior, it felt weird.”

“I’ve never found him ruthless.”

“Well, of course not! He’s your husband and he adores you! When he talks about you his eyes light up like the Eiffel Tower. You dazzle him.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far!”

Was Caroline being sincere? Iris studied her face as she sipped her orange juice, but didn’t detect any duplicity in the woman.

“Philippe says you’re writing a book.”

“He told you that?”

“Yeah, is it true?”

“Not really. I have an idea I’m toying with.”

“Philippe must be very proud. He’s not the kind of husband to be jealous of his wife’s success.”

Iris didn’t respond. Her worst nightmare was becoming a reality: everyone was starting to talk about her book, everyone
was thinking about it—except her. She not only had no idea how to begin, but she felt incapable of writing it in the first place. She’d made up a little story at a dinner party, and now it was taking over her life.

“I need to find a husband like yours,” Caroline sighed, not realizing that Iris was feeling unnerved. “I should have nabbed Philippe before you married him.”

“Are you still single?” Iris asked, trying to sound interested.

“Afraid so. My life is just a big nonstop party. I leave my house at eight in the morning, get home at ten at night, heat some instant soup, and go off to bed to watch TV or read a trashy novel. I avoid reading mysteries so I don’t have to stay up till two in the morning to find out who did it. Talk about a fascinating life! No husband, no children, no lover, no pet. Just an elderly mother who doesn’t recognize my voice when I call her. Last time she hung up on me, saying she’d never had any children.” She laughed mirthlessly.

Caroline suddenly struck Iris as pitiful, exhausted and used up, whereas half an hour earlier she was a harpy ready to kill to get her hands on a silk Givenchy top.

We’re the same age
, Iris thought,
and I have a husband and a child drifting away from me. Why didn’t Jo mention the translations? Why didn’t Philippe tell me about it?

My life is falling apart, and I’m watching it dissolve. I put all the energy I have left into seasonal sales on the first floor of Givenchy. I’m just another rich chick with a pea-size brain. And in my circles, that makes me one in a long line of them.

“Iris, I’m sorry. All this talk has made me feel bad. I don’t
usually go on like that. Maybe I’ll go back and risk my life at Givenchy again. Provided that crazy woman with the box cutter is gone.”

The two kissed each other good-bye.

Iris had to jump over puddles to reach the cab. She thought of the crocodile boots, congratulating herself on buying them.

Settling into the backseat of the car, she watched Caroline join the queue for a taxi on place de l’Alma. The line was long, and it was raining; Caroline had stuffed her purchases under her coat to keep them dry. Iris thought of offering her a ride, and was leaning out the window to call her over when her phone rang again.

“Alexandre, darling, what is it? Why are you crying, love? Tell me.”

He was cold and wet and had been waiting in the rain in front of the school. Iris was supposed to have picked him up for a dentist appointment an hour ago.

“Z
oé, what’s wrong? Tell Mommy. You know that mommies understand everything, forgive everything, and they love their children even if they’re cold-blooded murderers. You do know that, don’t you?”

Zoé was standing straight and had a finger up her nose.

“Don’t pick your nose, love. Even when you’re feeling very sad.”

Zoé pulled the finger out regretfully, inspected it, and wiped it on her plaid pants.

Joséphine glanced at the kitchen clock. It was four thirty. She had a date with Shirley at five to get her hair done. She had only a half hour to get Zoé to talk. Hortense wasn’t around, so she had to strike while the iron was hot.

“Can I sit on your lap?”

In Zoé, Jo could see herself as a child in family photos. A pudgy little girl bundled in a cardigan sticking her stomach out and looking suspiciously at the camera.

“There you are, my love, my little girl, whom I love truly
madly deeply,” she murmured, holding Zoé tight. “You know that Mommy is always here, don’t you? Always, always?”

Zoé nodded and snuggled against her mother.
She must be feeling sad with Christmas approaching, and Antoine being so far away.
The girls never talked about him, and they didn’t show her the letters they received. They drew a clear line between their mother and their father.

She started gently rocking Zoé, whispering to her.

“My, how my baby has grown! She’s no longer a baby at all, is she? She’s a beautiful young girl with beautiful hair, and a beautiful nose, and a beautiful mouth.”

She stroked Zoé’s hair, continuing in the same singsong voice:

“A beautiful young girl, and all the boys will fall in love with her. All the boys in the world will come lean their ladders against the wall of the castle where Zoé Cortès lives, to climb up to get a kiss.”

At those words, Zoé burst into tears.

“Mommy, that’s not true! You’re lying! I’m not a beautiful young girl, and no boy wants to lean his ladder against me!”

Uh-oh
, thought Joséphine,
here we go: the first heartbreak. I was ten when it happened to me. I used to cake my eyelashes with gooseberry jam to make them grow longer. And the boy ended up kissing Iris anyway.

“First of all, sweetie, you don’t say, ‘You’re lying!’ to your mommy.”

Zoé nodded.

“And second, I’m not lying. You’re a very pretty girl.”

“No, I’m not! Max Barthillet and Rémy Potiron made a list, and I’m not on it! He put Hortense on it, but not me.”

“What was the list, sweetie love?”

“A list of girls who are vaginally exploitable, and I’m not on it.”

Joséphine almost dropped Zoé on the floor. She took a deep breath.

“Do you even know what that means?”

“It means girls who can be fucked. He told me so.”

“He explained that to you, did he?”

“Yes, but he said not to make a big deal out of it because I’d eventually have an exploitable vagina too, just not right away.”

Zoé began chewing on the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“First of all, lovey, a sensitive boy doesn’t use a girl like a piece of merchandise. You should tell him you’re proud not to be on his list.”

“Even if that’s a lie?”

“What do you mean, a lie?”

“Well, yeah. Because I’d like to be on his list.”

“Really? Well, tell him it isn’t nice to classify girls that way, that men and women don’t talk about vaginas, they talk about desire.”

“What’s desire, Mommy?”

“It’s when you love someone, when you really want to kiss them, but you wait and wait . . . All that waiting, that’s desire. It’s when you haven’t kissed them yet, but you dream about them when you fall asleep, tremble when you think of them, and it’s
so wonderful. Zoé, you tell yourself maybe someday maybe—maybe—you’ll kiss them.”

“So you must be sad.”

“No! You wait, and the day he kisses you fireworks go off in your heart, and fill your head, and you feel like singing and dancing, and you fall in love.”

“So I’m already in love?”

“You’re still very young, Zoé. You have to wait.”

Joséphine tried to think of a way to convince Zoé that Max wasn’t the right boy for her.

“It’s as if you talked to Max about his wee-wee,” she said. “As if you said to him, I’ll kiss you but I want to see your wee-wee first.”

“He already offered to show it to me. Does that mean he’s in love too?”

Joséphine felt her heart racing.
Stay calm, don’t show you’re upset, don’t start yelling about Max.

“And did he show it to you?”

“No. I didn’t want him to.”

“Zoé, there’s something you have to understand. Max is fourteen, almost fifteen. He’s Hortense’s age. He should be her friend, not yours. Maybe you need to find yourself a new friend, sweetie.”

Zoé thought this over for a moment, and released her sleeve. “That means I’ll be all alone,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Or you’ll find other friends.”

Zoé sighed, got off her mother’s lap, and pulled up her slacks. “Do you want to come to the hairdresser with Shirley and me? He’ll give you those beautiful curls you love.”

“No, I don’t like the hairdresser. He pulls your hair.”

Zoé had resumed sucking on her sweatshirt sleeve.

“You know, Mommy, life hasn’t been easy since Daddy left.”

“I know, sweetie.”

“You think he’ll ever come back?”

“I don’t know, Zoé. I really don’t know. In the meantime you’re going to make tons of friends now that you aren’t always stuck with Max. I’m sure there are many boys and girls who’d like to be your friend but who thought Max took up all the space.”

“That’s not the only way life is hard.” Zoé sighed. “It’s hard every way.”

“Come on!” Joséphine shook her and laughed. “Think of Christmas, think of the presents you’re going to get, think of the snow, of skiing. Won’t that be fun?”

“Can’t we take Max with us? He’d like to go skiing too, and his mother, she hasn’t got the money for—”

“No, Zoé!” Joséphine struggled not to lose her temper. She calmed herself and began again. “We’re not bringing Max to Megève. We’re Iris’s guests, and we can’t just show up with extra people in our suitcases.”

“But it’s Max Barthillet!”

Two quick rings of the doorbell saved Joséphine from losing it completely. Bending down to kiss Zoé, she sent her to review the reading for her history test.

Joséphine watched her daughter go to her room. Soon she wouldn’t be able to handle the girls anymore. Wouldn’t be able to handle life in general.

If only she could go back to the days of courtly love and its mysteries, forbidden caresses, enchanted sufferings, stolen kisses, and knights who rode into battle with their lovers’ favors on their lances.
I was made to live in that world
, Jo thought,
not this one.

She sighed, grabbed her bag and keys, and went out.

At the salon, Joséphine and Shirley were having their hair highlighted.

“I look pretty funny, don’t I?” asked Jo, catching a glance of herself in the mirror, her head covered in little twists of aluminum foil.

“You’ve never had highlights done?”

“Never.”

“If it’s your first time, you get to make a wish.”

Joséphine looked in the mirror and said, “I wish that my girls not suffer too much in life.”

“Was Hortense being mean again?”

“No, it’s Zoé. She’s lovesick for Max Barthillet.”

Joséphine told her the “list of exploitable vaginas” story, and Shirley burst out laughing.

“I don’t find that funny at all!” snapped Jo. “It worries me!”

“It shouldn’t, since she told you about it. Zoé got it off her chest, and she trusts you.”

“You’re not shocked?”

“So many things shock me, I can hardly breathe. So I’ve decided not to be shocked. Otherwise I’d go mad.”