poured the water into the pastis and watched it turn cloudy, I thought of the pictures I had in my mind of my own mother when she was little, part photograph, part remembrance of tales told me—a curly-haired toddler crying at being cooped up in a playpen, a four-year-old fiendishly riding a tricycle. Then I thought of the frightened child who was Rachel’s mother threatened by the Nazis. It wasn’t fair.
Rachel was looking at me patiently. I had the feeling she had told this story before, met sympathy, lived through it.
Foxy laid his head on my foot.
Michel came to the table, pencil in hand.
“It is such a very sad thing—a horror, the happening at the archive,” he said.
“Yes, it is,” I replied. For a second, I wondered how he knew, but then remembered how fast news seemed to spread in this part of town.
“I hope you are not too afraid.”
“No, the police stand guard.”
Michel held his pencil over his order pad, in readiness. For once I didn’t care about food, just dittoed Rachel’s order of salad and steak-frites .
Rachel absentmindedly put two spoons of sugar in her coffee; she had once said she didn’t like sweets. “What did the policeman ask you about?”
I told her: “What you might expect. Where was I. Where everyone else was. Information about the others in the archive. When he was interviewing me, I realized how little I know about anyone. Even the other Americans—you, Jack, and Fitzroy.”
“I can’t imagine Fitzroy having anything to do with a nun.” Rachel gave a weak smile—it looked tired.
“Maybe he’s more of a Casanova than you think.” I said.
“What makes you say that?” Rachel said sharply.
“I’m joking,” I said.
“What did you mean?” She wasn’t going to let it be.
“There have been rumors.” Rumors had it that since his divorce ten years before, he had squired a series of ladyloves, all younger than he, all adoring. “But maybe he’s just an academic with a huge ego.” As I wished I had never brought up the subject of Fitzroy’s love life, Rachel stirred still another spoonful of sugar into her coffee and stared down at it as if it could tell her something. Finally I added, “And . . .? What else do we know about him?”
“Divorced. Specializes in. . . “
I interrupted her: “Was he ever in the army? What are his politics really? And so on. See what I mean? We know so little about each other.”
“We should let the police take care of it,” Rachel said.
“I guess so.” I looked across the little round table with its faded cloth at Rachel’s serious face. “Agatha. Gone. Now you see her, now you don’t. Where is she?” Foxy sat up and put his paw on my knee—I put my hand over it.
The food arrived. Foxy’s ears went up, and. I cut him off a little piece of steak. “A dead nun in the bathroom says something. It says that France is not just a repository of history. It’s alive. Present. Now. Dangerous. If Agatha could die, so could we. All of a sudden, France really seems like a foreign land to me. Even though I’ve spent so much time living here, off and on, France has always been my escape.”
“From what?” asked Rachel, as she pushed a frite around on her plate.
“Demanding students, for one. From always having to cover my ass as a historian, for another. You know how it is—we all know it’s impossible to know everything, but we can’t admit it.” I was confessing, but I didn’t care.
We ate in silence for a while.
Michel came to get the plates and looked at me in amazement when he saw that I had left most of the food. “Was there something wrong with the steak, Madame Ryan?”
“No, Michel, it was fine. I am just not that hungry today.”
“Perhaps you should see the doctor,” he said. He looked down at me, concerned.
“No, I am just sad,” I said and asked him to pack up the leftovers for Foxy.
Later that evening, back in my apartment, all I wanted to do was to shut the door, lock it, pull the
Rachel was looking at me patiently. I had the feeling she had told this story before, met sympathy, lived through it.
Foxy laid his head on my foot.
Michel came to the table, pencil in hand.
“It is such a very sad thing—a horror, the happening at the archive,” he said.
“Yes, it is,” I replied. For a second, I wondered how he knew, but then remembered how fast news seemed to spread in this part of town.
“I hope you are not too afraid.”
“No, the police stand guard.”
Michel held his pencil over his order pad, in readiness. For once I didn’t care about food, just dittoed Rachel’s order of salad and steak-frites .
Rachel absentmindedly put two spoons of sugar in her coffee; she had once said she didn’t like sweets. “What did the policeman ask you about?”
I told her: “What you might expect. Where was I. Where everyone else was. Information about the others in the archive. When he was interviewing me, I realized how little I know about anyone. Even the other Americans—you, Jack, and Fitzroy.”
“I can’t imagine Fitzroy having anything to do with a nun.” Rachel gave a weak smile—it looked tired.
“Maybe he’s more of a Casanova than you think.” I said.
“What makes you say that?” Rachel said sharply.
“I’m joking,” I said.
“What did you mean?” She wasn’t going to let it be.
“There have been rumors.” Rumors had it that since his divorce ten years before, he had squired a series of ladyloves, all younger than he, all adoring. “But maybe he’s just an academic with a huge ego.” As I wished I had never brought up the subject of Fitzroy’s love life, Rachel stirred still another spoonful of sugar into her coffee and stared down at it as if it could tell her something. Finally I added, “And . . .? What else do we know about him?”
“Divorced. Specializes in. . . “
I interrupted her: “Was he ever in the army? What are his politics really? And so on. See what I mean? We know so little about each other.”
“We should let the police take care of it,” Rachel said.
“I guess so.” I looked across the little round table with its faded cloth at Rachel’s serious face. “Agatha. Gone. Now you see her, now you don’t. Where is she?” Foxy sat up and put his paw on my knee—I put my hand over it.
The food arrived. Foxy’s ears went up, and. I cut him off a little piece of steak. “A dead nun in the bathroom says something. It says that France is not just a repository of history. It’s alive. Present. Now. Dangerous. If Agatha could die, so could we. All of a sudden, France really seems like a foreign land to me. Even though I’ve spent so much time living here, off and on, France has always been my escape.”
“From what?” asked Rachel, as she pushed a frite around on her plate.
“Demanding students, for one. From always having to cover my ass as a historian, for another. You know how it is—we all know it’s impossible to know everything, but we can’t admit it.” I was confessing, but I didn’t care.
We ate in silence for a while.
Michel came to get the plates and looked at me in amazement when he saw that I had left most of the food. “Was there something wrong with the steak, Madame Ryan?”
“No, Michel, it was fine. I am just not that hungry today.”
“Perhaps you should see the doctor,” he said. He looked down at me, concerned.
“No, I am just sad,” I said and asked him to pack up the leftovers for Foxy.
Later that evening, back in my apartment, all I wanted to do was to shut the door, lock it, pull the
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