great-uncle?”
“No, madame.”
“No?”
“No.”
“What is he to you then?”
I became annoyed. She never went through this kind of trouble with any of the other guys who came to the house.
“He is my father.”
Séraphine’s eyes went so big they looked taxidermied.
“Your father? That’s impossible.”
I think she expected him to try to convince her otherwise, but he just stood, quietly waiting for whatever came next.
“How old are you, Felix?”
“Twenty-two.”
“You are the son?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Are you aware the rumor is that you are dead?”
I thought that was a rude thing to say no matter what she’d heard but kept quiet.
“As you see, madame, I am not.”
“But your mother?”
“Yes, my mother is dead.”
“But not from the bomb.”
“No. A car accident.”
“Ah, yes, I remember.” It was all coming back to her. “She took you away …”
“She took me to Normandy, madame. She never liked Paris. It was better for us.”
“Is your father still in the Vaneau house?”
“Yes, madame.”
“You never returned to live with him?”
“I prefer the countryside, madame.”
She eyed him. “It must be peaceful. My own doctor often tells me a move to the coast will improve my health. Better quality of air, good for the lungs. What do you think?”
“A fine recommendation, madame, though you have a lovely home here.”
In two minutes, Séraphine had learned more about Cato than I had in six hours of gentle meandering through Paris’s passages. I thought you should let a person tell what they want to tell. When you turn on the questions it gives them the right to do the same to you, and I hated when people asked me about myself—always left with the feeling that no matter what I revealed it was either too much or not enough. That’s why I decided to end the interrogation right then and there and told Séraphine we’d let her get back to her reading.
Cato told her it was lovely to meet her. I started for the door and motioned for Cato to follow, but Séraphine called after our backs.
“Felix, please tell your father that Séraphine de la Roque sends her regards.”
Back in the foyer, he pulled his sweatshirt off the coatrack and threw his arms into the wet fabric. I didn’t want him to leave but I wasn’t ready for him to stay. In my bare feet he was two inches orso taller than me. We stood by the door and made plans to meet the next afternoon. He didn’t kiss me, not even a good-bye bise, so of course, it was all I could think about as I watched him cross the courtyard in the rain hoping he’d look back at the House of Stars, but he didn’t.
I couldn’t stop Séraphine from spilling to me as soon as Cato was gone: how she’d known Antoine de Manou in the fifties when he was just back from Suez. Then he went to Algeria and she didn’t see him for many years. He was always a jackal, she said, but now he was an old jackal with money and experience and influence, all of life’s most dangerous things. He was on the Parliament until they grew tired of his radical antics. Now he was on the Assembly and had his own political party with the main objective of putting walls around the country to keep out
my
kind. I thought Séraphine meant Americans, but she hooted, “That’s part of your problem, chérie. You don’t even know what you are. But it doesn’t matter your nation or whether you are a street cleaner or a greenblood, because Antoine de Manou hates all foreigners indiscriminately. He’s the worst of France, chérie. The worst. No wonder that boy never mentioned him.”
She told me Antoine’s apartment was bombed when Felix was a baby. It might have been the Basques, Algerians, or Corsicans. It was never decided because so many people hated him. Except his small yet devoted following. Even the devil, Séraphine said, has fans.
“If he has an ounce of his father’s blood, you should be very careful, Leticia.”
I told Séraphine that Cato was
“No, madame.”
“No?”
“No.”
“What is he to you then?”
I became annoyed. She never went through this kind of trouble with any of the other guys who came to the house.
“He is my father.”
Séraphine’s eyes went so big they looked taxidermied.
“Your father? That’s impossible.”
I think she expected him to try to convince her otherwise, but he just stood, quietly waiting for whatever came next.
“How old are you, Felix?”
“Twenty-two.”
“You are the son?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Are you aware the rumor is that you are dead?”
I thought that was a rude thing to say no matter what she’d heard but kept quiet.
“As you see, madame, I am not.”
“But your mother?”
“Yes, my mother is dead.”
“But not from the bomb.”
“No. A car accident.”
“Ah, yes, I remember.” It was all coming back to her. “She took you away …”
“She took me to Normandy, madame. She never liked Paris. It was better for us.”
“Is your father still in the Vaneau house?”
“Yes, madame.”
“You never returned to live with him?”
“I prefer the countryside, madame.”
She eyed him. “It must be peaceful. My own doctor often tells me a move to the coast will improve my health. Better quality of air, good for the lungs. What do you think?”
“A fine recommendation, madame, though you have a lovely home here.”
In two minutes, Séraphine had learned more about Cato than I had in six hours of gentle meandering through Paris’s passages. I thought you should let a person tell what they want to tell. When you turn on the questions it gives them the right to do the same to you, and I hated when people asked me about myself—always left with the feeling that no matter what I revealed it was either too much or not enough. That’s why I decided to end the interrogation right then and there and told Séraphine we’d let her get back to her reading.
Cato told her it was lovely to meet her. I started for the door and motioned for Cato to follow, but Séraphine called after our backs.
“Felix, please tell your father that Séraphine de la Roque sends her regards.”
Back in the foyer, he pulled his sweatshirt off the coatrack and threw his arms into the wet fabric. I didn’t want him to leave but I wasn’t ready for him to stay. In my bare feet he was two inches orso taller than me. We stood by the door and made plans to meet the next afternoon. He didn’t kiss me, not even a good-bye bise, so of course, it was all I could think about as I watched him cross the courtyard in the rain hoping he’d look back at the House of Stars, but he didn’t.
I couldn’t stop Séraphine from spilling to me as soon as Cato was gone: how she’d known Antoine de Manou in the fifties when he was just back from Suez. Then he went to Algeria and she didn’t see him for many years. He was always a jackal, she said, but now he was an old jackal with money and experience and influence, all of life’s most dangerous things. He was on the Parliament until they grew tired of his radical antics. Now he was on the Assembly and had his own political party with the main objective of putting walls around the country to keep out
my
kind. I thought Séraphine meant Americans, but she hooted, “That’s part of your problem, chérie. You don’t even know what you are. But it doesn’t matter your nation or whether you are a street cleaner or a greenblood, because Antoine de Manou hates all foreigners indiscriminately. He’s the worst of France, chérie. The worst. No wonder that boy never mentioned him.”
She told me Antoine’s apartment was bombed when Felix was a baby. It might have been the Basques, Algerians, or Corsicans. It was never decided because so many people hated him. Except his small yet devoted following. Even the devil, Séraphine said, has fans.
“If he has an ounce of his father’s blood, you should be very careful, Leticia.”
I told Séraphine that Cato was
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