and turned to walk back into the apartment.
“Who is
there
, Martha?
“All taken care of, Laurie.”
Now I knew the woman hadn’t lied to me, that she was
not
Madame Soyer. A moment later a slender younger woman ventured out into the hallway. At first glance I easily could have mistaken her for one of Michel’s teenaged daughters. Seeing me standing there, her curiosity getting the better of her, she gravitated toward me. “I am Madame Soyer,” she said. “How may I help you?” Her French sounded slightly foreign.
Laurence—or Laurie, as the other woman had called her—turned out to be a rather plain woman with a trim figure who appeared to be in her mid-thirties, perhaps ten years younger than Michel, with a pale complexion and dark half circles under her large chestnut-brown eyes. I apologized for coming unannounced. Terribly nervous now, my French faltered. “But I had to see you,” I managed to say. “I was once a friend of your husband’s.”
“I was trying to tell you this,” the other woman scoffed at her.
“No!” Laurence refused to be influenced. “Who are you?” she asked me.
“My name is Russell Todaro,” I said quietly.
She put her hand over her mouth and silently gasped. He’d told her my name.
“I will go in now,” the other woman said haughtily and stalked back into the apartment with a tommy-gun clicking of high heels.
Laurence, in the meantime, was blushing deeply, her small, delicate mouth contorted with anger. For a moment she peered down at the tiled floor of the enormous landing, then jerked her head in what seemed to be sharp annoyance. “For Christ’s sake!” she said in English. “Why did you come here?”
I was flabbergasted. “You’re American!”
She recovered herself somewhat. “You didn’t know?” she said stiffly and now was able to meet my eyes.
“Not a clue,” I said, feeling suddenly worse. A tendril of guilt began to weave itself into my keyed-up state. “Michel never mentioned it. I figured you were some kind of French aristocrat.”
This actually made her laugh. “Oh, please.”
“I’m serious.”
She looked at me shrewdly. “Okay, if that’s true, then here’s your free lesson about the French aristocracy. If I were his
French
aristocratic wife, this conversation would last thirty seconds tops. You’d be told that it was only because I allowed it that you’d ever had anything to do with my husband. Then I would have reminded you that it’s totally against the rules for you to show up at my apartment. I would have said good-bye and closed the door quietly.
“Whereas in America, you’d get cursed out and have the door slammed in your face,” she added with grim humor, unable to suppress a sardonic smile.
“I’m sorry to come here unannounced,” I repeated. “But you know it’s quite over between us.”
“If you were that sorry, you wouldn’t have shown up. Especially because you promised him you’d never do it.”
“I know I did. And I guess I felt I didn’t have a choice. Because I had to find out if something I read in the paper was true.”
She sighed as though having expected to hear just this and glanced toward a large clear window at the far end of the hallway. From there you could see the fringe of the tree line in the Bois du Bologne, where I’d told Ed I was going to stroll. “You also could’ve called and at least spared me showing up here. If you’d called, I would’ve told you what you read is a lie.”
“Well, then, believe it or not, I’m actually relieved. My good friend assured me that the paper was exaggerating.”
Madame Soyer looked skeptical. “Relieved?”
“Yes, relieved. Because he told me that he’d never leave you and the children. And if that’s why he couldn’t be with me, then I’d want him to live and do as he said.”
Laurence’s face softened. “That’s very naive. How old are you, anyway?”
“Thirty-one.”
“That’s what I figured.”
I didn’t like
“Who is
there
, Martha?
“All taken care of, Laurie.”
Now I knew the woman hadn’t lied to me, that she was
not
Madame Soyer. A moment later a slender younger woman ventured out into the hallway. At first glance I easily could have mistaken her for one of Michel’s teenaged daughters. Seeing me standing there, her curiosity getting the better of her, she gravitated toward me. “I am Madame Soyer,” she said. “How may I help you?” Her French sounded slightly foreign.
Laurence—or Laurie, as the other woman had called her—turned out to be a rather plain woman with a trim figure who appeared to be in her mid-thirties, perhaps ten years younger than Michel, with a pale complexion and dark half circles under her large chestnut-brown eyes. I apologized for coming unannounced. Terribly nervous now, my French faltered. “But I had to see you,” I managed to say. “I was once a friend of your husband’s.”
“I was trying to tell you this,” the other woman scoffed at her.
“No!” Laurence refused to be influenced. “Who are you?” she asked me.
“My name is Russell Todaro,” I said quietly.
She put her hand over her mouth and silently gasped. He’d told her my name.
“I will go in now,” the other woman said haughtily and stalked back into the apartment with a tommy-gun clicking of high heels.
Laurence, in the meantime, was blushing deeply, her small, delicate mouth contorted with anger. For a moment she peered down at the tiled floor of the enormous landing, then jerked her head in what seemed to be sharp annoyance. “For Christ’s sake!” she said in English. “Why did you come here?”
I was flabbergasted. “You’re American!”
She recovered herself somewhat. “You didn’t know?” she said stiffly and now was able to meet my eyes.
“Not a clue,” I said, feeling suddenly worse. A tendril of guilt began to weave itself into my keyed-up state. “Michel never mentioned it. I figured you were some kind of French aristocrat.”
This actually made her laugh. “Oh, please.”
“I’m serious.”
She looked at me shrewdly. “Okay, if that’s true, then here’s your free lesson about the French aristocracy. If I were his
French
aristocratic wife, this conversation would last thirty seconds tops. You’d be told that it was only because I allowed it that you’d ever had anything to do with my husband. Then I would have reminded you that it’s totally against the rules for you to show up at my apartment. I would have said good-bye and closed the door quietly.
“Whereas in America, you’d get cursed out and have the door slammed in your face,” she added with grim humor, unable to suppress a sardonic smile.
“I’m sorry to come here unannounced,” I repeated. “But you know it’s quite over between us.”
“If you were that sorry, you wouldn’t have shown up. Especially because you promised him you’d never do it.”
“I know I did. And I guess I felt I didn’t have a choice. Because I had to find out if something I read in the paper was true.”
She sighed as though having expected to hear just this and glanced toward a large clear window at the far end of the hallway. From there you could see the fringe of the tree line in the Bois du Bologne, where I’d told Ed I was going to stroll. “You also could’ve called and at least spared me showing up here. If you’d called, I would’ve told you what you read is a lie.”
“Well, then, believe it or not, I’m actually relieved. My good friend assured me that the paper was exaggerating.”
Madame Soyer looked skeptical. “Relieved?”
“Yes, relieved. Because he told me that he’d never leave you and the children. And if that’s why he couldn’t be with me, then I’d want him to live and do as he said.”
Laurence’s face softened. “That’s very naive. How old are you, anyway?”
“Thirty-one.”
“That’s what I figured.”
I didn’t like
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