promise, there’s nothing wrong with you. The women in our family aren’t made frigid.”
I knew she was mistaken. I’d bought illicit books and tried to do things to myself, and I’d failed to coax my body out of its frozen state. But rather than argue I took a forkful of the delicious food and put it in my mouth.
We ate in silence for a few moments more, and I allowed the sounds of the restaurant to lull me into thinking that this was an ordinary night, with a grandmother and granddaughter having a delightful dinner in one of Paris’s most famous restaurants.
“You have only told me a sketch of what happened in New York. Are you certain of what you heard between your husband and father?”
“That Benjamin gave Papa no choice? That it was shame either way?”
She nodded.
“Certain that I heard the conversation, yes.”
I again described walking into my father’s study and seeing him pointing the gun at Benjamin and then hearing what was said. I was calm in recounting the events of the night and how the next morning I had sent the valet to my father’s room, and the poor man returned to tell us why my father was not yet at the breakfast table. But when itcame to describing the scene of her son’s death for my grandmother, I could not continue.
Our dinners had grown cold. The waiter removed the plates, and my grandmother ordered us cognacs and coffees without asking me if I wanted one.
“For money,” she said in a sad faraway voice. “All for money.” Her eyes filled with tears, but only for a moment. I had seen her eyes fill like this before, and I marveled at how she could blink away her grief so efficiently.
“Did you know Benjamin was gambling?” she asked.
“Papa had only just told me.”
“Your father was such a good judge of character. I wonder why he never saw through Benjamin?”
I shrugged.
“I think . . . ,” Grand-mère said as the idea occurred to her, “that he didn’t want to believe he could have been so wrong about someone and doomed you to such a life all because of—” She broke off.
One waiter approached with the crystal balloons of brandy and the fine china cups for coffee. Another approached with a plate of pastel-colored petit fours and chocolate bonbons.
“Because of what?” I asked.
While I waited for her to resume explaining, I put one of the chocolates in my mouth. It was darkly suggestive, slightly bitter and lushly sweet all at the same time.
“Because I warned your father so often and so vociferously that love is dangerous for Verlaine women. It leads to heartbreak and tragedy. We are too passionate, and it is a poison for us. I told him to marry you off to someone who would take care of you and be good to you, but someone whom you wouldn’t fall in love with. Philippe made fun of my superstitions, but in the end he listened to me, didn’t he? Or at least he tried to.”
I remembered the letter she’d written to my parents after the tragedy with Leon that terrible spring. She’d used almost the same words.
“A family curse? That’s preposterous.”
She trained her fiery opal eyes on me; her gaze was intense. “No, no, it’s not,” my grandmother said.
I bit down on the bonbon so hard that my teeth pierced the inside of my cheek, and the taste of blood ruined the chocolate.
“Sandrine, quick.” Suddenly my grandmother was standing, shouting at me. “Turn this way, come with me, run.” As I stood, she grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the table just as I heard an ear-shattering crash.
Cold air poured in.
I looked back. We were a dozen feet away from our table, which was now covered in fragments of glass glittering in the candlelight. It was all over our plates. Our seats. We would have been showered by the sharp splinters if Grand-mère hadn’t pulled me away.
“Don’t stop,” she shouted.
A man—either a diner or a waiter—screamed: “It’s the anarchists!”
“It’s a bomb!” another man yelled.
My grandmother
I knew she was mistaken. I’d bought illicit books and tried to do things to myself, and I’d failed to coax my body out of its frozen state. But rather than argue I took a forkful of the delicious food and put it in my mouth.
We ate in silence for a few moments more, and I allowed the sounds of the restaurant to lull me into thinking that this was an ordinary night, with a grandmother and granddaughter having a delightful dinner in one of Paris’s most famous restaurants.
“You have only told me a sketch of what happened in New York. Are you certain of what you heard between your husband and father?”
“That Benjamin gave Papa no choice? That it was shame either way?”
She nodded.
“Certain that I heard the conversation, yes.”
I again described walking into my father’s study and seeing him pointing the gun at Benjamin and then hearing what was said. I was calm in recounting the events of the night and how the next morning I had sent the valet to my father’s room, and the poor man returned to tell us why my father was not yet at the breakfast table. But when itcame to describing the scene of her son’s death for my grandmother, I could not continue.
Our dinners had grown cold. The waiter removed the plates, and my grandmother ordered us cognacs and coffees without asking me if I wanted one.
“For money,” she said in a sad faraway voice. “All for money.” Her eyes filled with tears, but only for a moment. I had seen her eyes fill like this before, and I marveled at how she could blink away her grief so efficiently.
“Did you know Benjamin was gambling?” she asked.
“Papa had only just told me.”
“Your father was such a good judge of character. I wonder why he never saw through Benjamin?”
I shrugged.
“I think . . . ,” Grand-mère said as the idea occurred to her, “that he didn’t want to believe he could have been so wrong about someone and doomed you to such a life all because of—” She broke off.
One waiter approached with the crystal balloons of brandy and the fine china cups for coffee. Another approached with a plate of pastel-colored petit fours and chocolate bonbons.
“Because of what?” I asked.
While I waited for her to resume explaining, I put one of the chocolates in my mouth. It was darkly suggestive, slightly bitter and lushly sweet all at the same time.
“Because I warned your father so often and so vociferously that love is dangerous for Verlaine women. It leads to heartbreak and tragedy. We are too passionate, and it is a poison for us. I told him to marry you off to someone who would take care of you and be good to you, but someone whom you wouldn’t fall in love with. Philippe made fun of my superstitions, but in the end he listened to me, didn’t he? Or at least he tried to.”
I remembered the letter she’d written to my parents after the tragedy with Leon that terrible spring. She’d used almost the same words.
“A family curse? That’s preposterous.”
She trained her fiery opal eyes on me; her gaze was intense. “No, no, it’s not,” my grandmother said.
I bit down on the bonbon so hard that my teeth pierced the inside of my cheek, and the taste of blood ruined the chocolate.
“Sandrine, quick.” Suddenly my grandmother was standing, shouting at me. “Turn this way, come with me, run.” As I stood, she grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the table just as I heard an ear-shattering crash.
Cold air poured in.
I looked back. We were a dozen feet away from our table, which was now covered in fragments of glass glittering in the candlelight. It was all over our plates. Our seats. We would have been showered by the sharp splinters if Grand-mère hadn’t pulled me away.
“Don’t stop,” she shouted.
A man—either a diner or a waiter—screamed: “It’s the anarchists!”
“It’s a bomb!” another man yelled.
My grandmother
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