Secrets Of Paris Part 15

Lydie looked up at her. "I do have a 'project,' though. If that's what you want to call it."

"You do? You mean the ball?"

"No. You're going to have mixed feelings about this."

Patrice could already feel her spine stiffening. She could just hear her mother's voice: "Now, I know you're not going to like this, Patsy..."

"I'm going to help Kelly get to America."

"What do you mean? How?"

"I'm filing a pet.i.tion for her."

Patrice felt rage growing inside her. It wasn't so much that Lydie had taken up Kelly's cause without a word to her: Patrice resented Lydie's defiant tone, as if she were daring Patrice to get upset. Considering the loving thoughts she'd just had for Lydie, it seemed a rank betrayal. "A pet.i.tion," she said.

"Now, don't get mad," Lydie said.

"I don't know why you think I'll be mad about this," Patrice said coolly. "I have the strangest feeling that you want want me to be." me to be."

Lydie shook her head. "Maybe I'm not thinking straight. I was afraid you'd think I was interfering."

"You plan to take Kelly home with you when you leave? After the ball?"

"If her pet.i.tion goes through."

Patrice's first thought was that she'd have two people to write letters to. She realized instantly that she was thinking just like her mother, twisting a situation around and planting herself in the middle of it. She tried to imagine how happy Kelly must be. "How far have you gotten?" she asked.

"I've spoken to someone at the emba.s.sy. That's all. I know I should have talked to you first..."

"Don't be silly," Patrice said. Although she believed it too, she knew how petty it sounded. To say that Lydie should have consulted her before starting the process seemed so selfish. Lydie was acting selfless-n.o.ble, even. Patrice could actually see the words "HUMAN RIGHTS," weighty as a headline, printed in the air above Lydie's halo of golden hair. "Is this a throwback to your days as a social activist? Isn't that what Michael told us you used to be?"

"I just feel sorry for Kelly," Lydie said.

"So do I," Patrice said, finally feeling calmer. Now that she had composed herself, she laughed. "There must be feasting and merriment chez chez Merida. One of their pilgrims actually found the road to Mecca. Thanks to you." Merida. One of their pilgrims actually found the road to Mecca. Thanks to you."

"You don't want her to go, do you?" Lydie asked.

"Of course I do."

"But you'll miss her."

"Look, I miss a lot of people," Patrice said, thinking of Lydie herself, who would be gone from Paris in just a couple of months. "It's the way of the world."

"You've always mentioned her college education and said how wrong it is for her to be doing housework. But I know that you rely on her, that you're fond of her..."

"Look, I just spent a month without Kelly Merida making my bed, so I think I can manage. I think it's great. I really do," Patrice said. She leaned toward Lydie to kiss her cheek, to prove she meant it.

But when Patrice returned home, when she was safe in her bedroom overlooking the Place des Vosges, she saw red.

"It's treachery treachery," she said out loud. Kelly, with her simpering manner, her "Oh, thank you, Mum" for any little favor, her false naivete, while all the time plotting, the wheels clicking, getting what she could out of people. And Lydie! Who would have thought she could be capable of such subterfuge? Acting so big big about the whole thing, as if she was saving Kelly from a fate worse than death. And all that business about Kelly's education: Patrice was willing to bet Kelly's first years in New York would be spent cleaning Lydie's house or taking care of Lydie's sainted mother in her declining years. She swept around the bedroom, fast and faster. She didn't know what to do with herself. about the whole thing, as if she was saving Kelly from a fate worse than death. And all that business about Kelly's education: Patrice was willing to bet Kelly's first years in New York would be spent cleaning Lydie's house or taking care of Lydie's sainted mother in her declining years. She swept around the bedroom, fast and faster. She didn't know what to do with herself.

The bags, still unpacked, stood by the bedroom door. When she had called Kelly last night, to tell her she was home a few days early, Kelly had given her some song and dance about not being able to work until late in the day. She had expected to hear some sort of welcome in Kelly's voice, but there had been nothing. In retrospect, Patrice supposed Kelly, like Lydie, had been dreading Patrice's return. The thought brought tears to her eyes.

Patrice did what she never did: called Didier at his office. She had to make polite small talk about Saint-Tropez with his secretary, Solange. But she kept her cool-she remembered to inquire about Solange's ill husband and the two Chihuahuas they treated like children.

"h.e.l.lo, baby," Didier said.

"I am ripping mad," Patrice said. "You know what Lydie did? She stole Kelly right out from under my nose."

"You mean she kidnapped the maid?"

"Don't start with the jokes, Didier. I'm not in the mood. She waited until I left town, then she moved in on Kelly. She promised to take her to New York with her."

"But that's good, no? At the beach you were telling me you wanted a better life for Kelly..."

Patrice fought to control her temper. Sometimes men, Didier, could be so dense. She remembered the exact conversation: it was after an especially lovely lunch. She had felt so close to him, it had seemed like a good time to enlighten him on the topic of Kelly. Specifically, to chide him gently about the way he treated her like a servant. She had been feeling expansive, and Didier had taken it well. "Didier," she said now, patiently, into the phone. "Imagine training a gem cutter. Some guy from the provinces, a mec, a diamond in the rough, so to speak. Say you treated him like a little brother, taught him to operate in the business world, showed him how things were done in Paris. How would you feel if Leonce came along, took your little gem cutter-now a little more sophisticated, able to tell the difference between Haut-Brion and vin ordinaire vin ordinaire, for example-and took him off to Geneva?"

"What difference would it make? One man can't own another, can he?"

Patrice screamed, did not bother to cover the mouthpiece. "Thanks for trying to understand!" she said.

"Listen, my baby," Didier said. "I do understand. It is very obvious you care a great deal for Kelly-and for Lydie. But how can you do for Kelly what Lydie can? How can you take her to the United States?"

"What's so wonderful about the United States?" Patrice asked.

"Patrice," Didier said patiently. "Get ahold of yourself. Think about what you are saying."

Patrice took a breath, deep, deeper; the breath filled her, forcing the tears up and out. "It just gets gets me," she said, "down there in Saint-Tropez, missing them both...buying them presents. And they've been planning their escape to the good ol' U.S.A." me," she said, "down there in Saint-Tropez, missing them both...buying them presents. And they've been planning their escape to the good ol' U.S.A."

"They're not escaping you," Didier said. "Leaving you will be their profound regret."

Patrice snorted. "You know just the way to talk to me, don't you, honey?"

"Imagine," Didier said. "Your two girlfriends leaving you all alone in France with me."

"The big bad wolf," Patrice said, laughing now. "But it's not you I'm thinking about. It's your snooty sister and your rat pack. Do you blame me for wanting allies?"

"Well. You must think about it," Didier said. "Just don't be too quick to turn on Lydie. You know she is your best friend."

"That's true," Patrice said, suddenly struck with real and deep sympathy for her. "Didier, something awful happened. Michael moved out."

"Ah..." Didier said.

"Why don't you sound surprised?" Patrice asked, instantly suspicious.

"It was a moment between men," Didier said. "But Michael did confide in me about someone else."

"And you didn't tell me?" asked Patrice, convinced that Paris was full of betrayal.

"You know I couldn't have done that," Didier said.

"I hear the little pilgrim now," Patrice said, listening to the sound of Kelly's key in the lock. "I think I'd better have a talk with her."

"Be gentle," Didier said.

"I'll try," Patrice said, already feeling her heart beat faster.

Twenty minutes later, reclining in her bedroom chaise, Patrice reread her favorite section of the Dumas book and tried to breathe evenly. She had not yet spoken to Kelly; she heard Kelly moving through the rooms, presumably removing the sheets that had covered the furniture during the d'Orignys' absence. She wondered what was running through Kelly's mind. Perhaps she was rehearsing what she would tell Patrice: "I am sorry, Mum, but I must leave you." Or "Thanks to your supreme generosity in introducing me to Lydie, I have found pa.s.sage to the States." Something contrite and humble, Patrice was sure. What a relief it would be if, instead, Kelly held her head high, thumbed her nose, said, "See you later, toots, my s.h.i.+p has come in..."

Patrice realized that leaving Kelly alone, not confronting her with what she already knew, was a form of torture. But she couldn't bring herself to seek Kelly out, greet her, lay it on the line. Her skin tingled as she heard Kelly advancing, room by room. Willing herself to concentrate, she read a letter from Madame de Sevigne to her daughter: "Are you really afraid that I prefer Madame de Brissac to you? Do you fear that her manner pleases me more than yours? That her mind has found the way to appeal to me? Is it your opinion that her beauty eclipses your charms? you fear that her manner pleases me more than yours? That her mind has found the way to appeal to me? Is it your opinion that her beauty eclipses your charms?"

Women really know how to stick it to each other, Patrice thought. We know how to play one off another, we use jealousy as a trump card, we fight to be number one in the affections of each other. Madame de Sevigne did it with her own daughter! Poor young Francoise-Marguerite, newly married and miles from home, tortured by the idea that her mother preferred another young woman to her. And, of course, Madame de Sevigne was shrewd enough to know exactly what she was doing. Not like Patrice's mother, who loved her sister in Cleveland more than anyone-more than her husband, more than Patrice. There was no game, no guile about it; nothing could have been clearer.

Was Lydie being shrewd? Patrice would not have thought so, yet she could not deny the jealousy Lydie had caused her to feel. It was an odious, three-cornered jealousy, a triangle, and Patrice wanted to sit at the triangle's peak. This triangle was different from the one she had shared with her mother and Aunt Jane because sitting at the top of this one had seemed possible. In the reverie she always occupied while reading the Dumas book, she envisioned the triangle's sides as the arms of Kelly and Lydie, reaching up toward her. Without Patrice, where would they be? They surely would never have met...

"Welcome home, Mum," Kelly said, startling Patrice.

Patrice carefully closed Three Women of the Marais Three Women of the Marais. She nodded at Kelly, and the sight of her was a stab in the heart. Did Lydie think Patrice had been blind to Kelly's plight? Did she think Patrice was unaware that in Kelly's plan Paris was just a way station on the way to America? Well, she was not. "h.e.l.lo," she said, trying to be calm.

"Shall I unpack your bags?" Kelly asked. Nervously, Patrice thought.

"That would be lovely," Patrice said. "In the pocket of that black one you'll find a plastic bag. Take it out, please."

Kelly fumbled with the zipper, then withdrew a small bag. She came toward Patrice, the bag in hand.

"It's a gift for you," Patrice said.

"Oh, Mum..." Kelly's face twisted with confusion. Patrice could imagine her wondering whether to confess her secret before opening the gift or afterward. For her part, Patrice knew that it would be kind to divulge her knowledge of Lydie's pet.i.tion now, but she said nothing. She just stared at Kelly's brown hands, holding the bright plastic bag.

"Open it," Patrice said.

Kelly obeyed. She pulled out a package, wrapped in pink tissue paper. Inside was a black felt bag that contained a coral necklace.

"Thank you, Mum!" she exclaimed, obviously thrilled with it. Patrice had chosen it for the color, an unusually vivid shade of rose, and for the refined craftsmans.h.i.+p. The clasp was made of 14K gold. Didier had checked with his jeweler's eye. Kelly held the necklace close to her face, examining each individual bead. With one hand Kelly held aside her thick black hair; then she fastened the clasp around her neck.

"It's very pretty on you," Patrice said stiffly.

"Thank you, Mum. Thank you very much."

Kelly jiggled her necklace the way Patrice, once as a lark having tea at the mosque, had seen Arabs handle worry beads. "I know about Lydie pet.i.tioning for you," Patrice said.

"You do?" Kelly asked, looking worried.

"She told me. I'm happy for you." As she said it, Patrice realized that it was true. On the other hand, she still felt an overwhelming sense of loss and betrayal. Didn't she mean anything to Kelly? They had coexisted-harmoniously, Patrice had thought-for a long time.

"My only regret will be leaving you," Kelly said. The pain in her eyes made the words ring with sincerity and was all Patrice needed to make her throat tighten.

"I will regret that also," Patrice said. "But I know your dream has always been to get to the States. Paris was just a pitstop, right?"

"Excuse me?"

"A stopping-off place. Your halfway point between Manila and New York."

"Yes, that is right," Kelly said.

"I do have one fear," Patrice said. "Our government sets limits on how many people of any one nationality it lets in. Such as eight thousand Brazilians, two thousand Egyptians, one thousand Swedes. The Filipino quota is one of the lowest-because so many Filipinos are already there."

"I know," Kelly said glumly.

"That's not to say you won't get lucky. But you should have a backup plan. Why don't we try to make you legal in France first?"

Kelly looked skeptical. "I don't think..." she said.

"I'm not saying you should stay here forever," Patrice said gently. "But French working papers could give you security. Think of them as insurance-in case Lydie's pet.i.tion falls through."

On the bus home, Kelly felt miserable. Americans had so many ideas. It was because they knew what was possible in the world. Become legal in France, Patrice had said, and now Kelly would have to go along with it even though it was the worst idea she had ever heard. It would make her feel like a traitor to the United States. For eighteen months she had lived in Paris, refusing to learn the French language.

"Think how much easier it would be for you at the market if you knew French," her sister Sophia would say, but Kelly did not care. She could not help learning a few words and useful phrases, but when it came to conversation, she wanted to speak English and only English.

She knew Patrice would probably move fast. One thing she had observed about Patrice and Lydie was that Patrice set her mind to something and did it right away while Lydie drifted a little. In many ways, she wished it was Patrice filing her pet.i.tion for immigration to the States. That way it would be granted sooner. On the other hand, she liked Lydie more. Although she felt loyal, even sort of devoted to Patrice, she prefered Lydie's company. She could imagine the day when she could tell Lydie true stories of the Philippines, of her dreams. With Lydie she felt like a woman; with Patrice she felt like a servant.

She disembarked at the Place de Clichy and walked quickly past the Quik-Burger and souvenir shops, turning right into the rue Biot. She ignored the men who spoke to her; she just walked straight ahead, her eyes on the ground. She stopped at the small cafe-tabac cafe-tabac where Sophia was employed as a waitress. where Sophia was employed as a waitress.

Sophia stood behind the bar, brewing espresso into gold-rimmed green cups. Kelly went to her, wordlessly arranging the cups on a brown plastic tray.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," the cafe proprietor said to her. Kelly smiled and nodded. He was always friendly to her, and why not? Whenever she stopped in to see Sophia, he had her labor for free.

"What did your employer say?" Sophia asked.

"She was very angry, but she pretended to be glad for me," Kelly said.

"Over there," Sophia said, gesturing to a table where four tourists sat. They must have wandered off the Place de Clichy; they chattered happily, examining the souvenirs they had bought. Kelly set down the cups amid bra.s.s ashtrays stamped with the word "PARIS," porcelain salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like the Moulin Rouge, and guidebooks.

Laborers dressed in blue overalls lined the bar, drinking cafe cafe or or pipperment get pipperment get, arguing about everything imaginable. Sophia liked to flirt. Kelly watched her now, speaking French to a cl.u.s.ter of them.

"I guess you're too busy to talk," Kelly said to her.

"No, stay," Sophia said. She finished telling her story in rapid French, then joined Kelly by the cash register.

"Patrice wants to get French working papers for me."

"Good-then you'll stay here!" Sophia said, grinning. Sophia and her illegitimate baby were both legal. Sophia, alone among the Meridas, loved France, had lost her will to get to the States.