Magic (5 page)

“I'm not sure what Valerie will understand, or want to. All she's going to hear is that it will impact her career and she'll have to leave
Vogue,
to move to a miserable place everyone says is a difficult city to live in, with three young children. I'm not at all sure how reasonable she's going to be. Maybe not at all.”

“Have more faith in her than that. She's a smart woman, and the realities are pretty clear here, economically. If she wants a secure lifestyle in the future, this is it. And in any case, you have to tell her and work it out together, even if she doesn't take the news well at first. She'll come around, and maybe you can come up with some kind of reasonable compromise.” But she couldn't see one, and neither could he. He would either have to accept their offer or not. And Valerie had to go with him or not. It was painfully simple,
painful
being the operative word.

They talked about it all through lunch, and she left him on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.

“Call me after you talk to her, and tell me how it goes.” Valerie was a sensible woman, and she loved Jean-Philippe. Whatever happened, Chantal was sure their relationship would survive it, even if it was turbulent at first, which she thought it might be. “I'll be here for the next week, and next weekend I'm going to see Eric in Berlin,” her younger son. “I haven't seen him since February, he's been producing a new body of work, and he didn't want to be interrupted. He's getting ready for a show.” He was doing well, although his conceptual installations were too edgy for her, but he was one of the more respected emerging artists, and his pieces were selling well. She was proud of him, and enjoyed visiting him. He had been living in Berlin for three years, and the art scene there had been great for him. And he had a new girlfriend he wanted her to meet too. Eric included her in his life more than his brother and sister did, and they lived farther away. But even with him living in Berlin, she only saw him a few times a year. He was too busy with his art to see her very often, and only came back to Paris now for Christmas every year, when the others did.

She had raised very independent children, none of whom wanted to live in France. It was bad luck for her, as she said to Jean-Philippe. All three of them had an excellent work ethic, as she did, and were doing well, but they had found other countries better suited to them. Charlotte had been living in Hong Kong since getting her master's at Columbia five years before and spoke fluent Mandarin.

And her older son, Paul, loved living in the States and had become more American than hot dogs and apple pie, with an American girlfriend there, whom Chantal didn't like, but he had lived with her for seven years. Her youngest, Eric, was the last to leave the nest three years before, and they had been lonely years for her, a fact she confessed to no one but Jean-Philippe. Her children were talented and productive but had no time for her.

Chantal went back to her apartment after lunch with Jean-Philippe and didn't hear from him for several days, which was unusual, since he called her frequently to check in. He had become her self-appointed family since her children had left. She had no siblings or parents, so her children and friends were all she had. She plunged into her writing for days and weeks at a time, and was currently writing a very serious script about a group of women in a concentration camp in World War II and their ultimate survival.

She suspected that the announcement of Jean-Philippe's job offer had not gone over well with his wife, and she didn't want to call him and intrude. She worked all weekend and was pleased with her progress, and he called her on Monday afternoon.

“How did it go?” she asked, as soon as she heard his voice.

“The way you'd expect,” he said, sounding tired. It had been a long, stressful weekend, and Chantal could hear it in his tone. “She was shocked, upset, angry that I'm considering it. She cried all of Sunday afternoon. The good news is she didn't ask for a divorce.” He was kidding, but Chantal was sure that it had thrown a live bomb into their well-run life that had gone smoothly for seven years. They had been luckier than most, with happy children, easy times, good health, good friends, jobs they loved, and a lovely home in a city they adored. Now, overnight, they had to make a tough choice where one of them was going to lose and have to sacrifice. She didn't envy them, although they loved each other, and their marriage was solid, which would help, whatever decision they made.

“Do you think she'll agree to move to Beijing?” Chantal inquired.

“Right now, no, I don't. But that could change. She's thinking about it, and I have three weeks to decide.” It was going to be a long three weeks for him.

They had lunch on Wednesday that week, and he seemed very tense. There was nothing more to say on the subject, until Valerie made up her mind. For Jean-Philippe the decision was clear. He thought they should go, for all the reasons he had outlined to Chantal the week before. They talked of other things, and he told her that Valerie said that news of Gregorio's twins was all over the press, and that they were in a Paris hospital, dangerously premature.

“Poor Benedetta,” Chantal said with feeling. They had realized by then that they were born the night of the White Dinner, which was why he had left early. “I wonder how that's going to turn out. I'm not sure I'd be as forgiving as she is.”

“Maybe she won't be this time either. It must be a hell of a shock to know that he now has two children with someone else, when she can't have kids.” She had always been open about it, and shared her regrets, although she had made peace with it over the years. But now he had children, and she didn't, and they both wondered if it would give the Russian girl more importance in his life. He had brushed aside his affairs before, and they had never lasted long, but this added a whole new dimension to it. Chantal felt sorry for Benedetta, and Jean-Philippe thought Gregorio had been an idiot and finally gone too far. He didn't approve of his affairs, and Jean-Philippe had always been faithful to his wife, which Gregorio seemed to be incapable of.

After lunch Chantal went to the food hall at the Bon Marché, to get some favorite items that Eric loved. She always tried to bring him the French foods he missed, since he said he lived on sausages and schnitzel in Germany. So she filled a basket with tinned foie gras and assorted delicacies, his favorite cookies, French coffee, and everything she knew he liked to eat. It was a motherly gesture he always appreciated, when she arrived in Berlin with a bag full of French gourmet treats, and the Bon Marché was the perfect place to find them all. She had just dropped a box of his favorite cookies into the basket on her arm, when she saw a man staring at her from across the aisle, where he was selecting several brands of tea. He looked familiar to her, but she couldn't place him and walked on.

They met again in line at the checkout, where his face haunted her. She couldn't decide if he was just a stranger she had seen before, possibly at the Bon Marché, had a familiar generic look, or if they had actually met somewhere, which seemed unlikely or she would have remembered him. He was good-looking and somewhere in his late thirties. He was wearing jeans and suede loafers and a black sweater. He was behind her in the checkout line, and after she forgot about him and dismissed him from her mind, she heard a male voice in her ear.

“Did you get your wish yet?” She turned to stare at him when he said it, and this time she realized who he was. He was the man who had brought the beautiful paper lanterns to the White Dinner and held one for her and told her to make a wish. She smiled when she recognized him, and where they had met before.

“Not yet. It might take a little while,” she said easily, and he was smiling too.

“Oh, one of
those
wishes. It sounds like it's worth waiting for.” She nodded, and he glanced into her basket, impressed by the assortment of delicacies she'd chosen. The basket was heavy on her arm. “It looks like you're having quite a party.” She had added two bottles of red wine, which added to the weight and the festive look.

“I'm taking it all to my son in Berlin.”

“Lucky boy. He has good taste, and a nice mom,” he said, noticing the foie gras and the wine.

“He's a starving artist, he gets tired of sausages and beer.” He laughed at what she said, and then it was her turn at the checkout. When she finished signing the receipt, she turned to the man behind her as she left. “Thank you again for the wish, and the pretty lantern. You made the night for all of us.” She smiled at him and noticed that he had deep brown eyes, and he looked straight at her. There was something very powerful about his gaze, and it felt like an electric current running through her. She remembered that she had noticed his eyes at the White Dinner too, when he held out the lantern for her and told her to make a wish. There had been urgency in his tone then, before the lantern floated away, and he looked just as intense now. He had a serious, handsome face.

“I'm glad you enjoyed it. So did I. I hope you get your wish. And have fun with your son.”

“Thank you,” she said, and left. She thought about him for a minute, and how attractive he was, and then forgot about him, and went back to her apartment, and packed the food for Eric in her valise. She couldn't wait to see him. It had been too long. Waiting four months to see her youngest child felt like an eternity to her. It always did. The long time span between when she saw them was one of the reasons why she worked so much. She enjoyed her writing, but it also populated her life with the fictional people she wrote about, who became real to her while she was creating them. Writing screenplays, and scripts for occasional documentaries about subjects that were meaningful to her, filled her life, and the results were excellent. She put her heart and soul into everything she did, her writing, her friendships, and her children, when they let her. She was excited at the prospect of seeing Eric in Berlin.

W
hen Valerie came home from work at night now, she could cut the tension in the apartment with a knife. She had hardly spoken to Jean-Philippe since he had told her about Beijing. They had dinner together after they put the children to bed, and unlike the conversations they usually enjoyed at the end of their workday, these days she said not a word. He felt like she was punishing him, but she said she just needed time to think. And in the meantime she didn't want to discuss it with him. She knew all the pros and cons. But her mulling over the decision had precluded all other subjects or exchange.

Their children were too young to understand the unpleasant atmosphere, but they were instinctively aware of the tension between their parents. And inevitably their ultimate decision would impact the children as well. For Western children, to grow up in Beijing didn't sound ideal to her. If nothing else, the pollution was terrible, living conditions difficult, and most Westerners did not take their young children to Beijing with them. Their children were five, three, and two. She was even worried about medical care for them there, and the risk of disease. For Valerie, it was not just about giving up her job and impacting her career, maybe permanently, but also about her children. Jean-Philippe insisted that other families moved there, and it would expand their children's horizons at an early age, which could be good for them.

But for Valerie, it was also true that fashion was an unforgiving milieu, and she wouldn't have an easy time stepping back into it in three to five years. It might be over for her, and she wasn't ready to give that up. At times, she wondered how Jean-Philippe could even consider it. And although she tried not to be she was angry at him for wanting to turn their life upside down.

He tried to talk to her about it several times after their first conversation, and she refused.

“Why can't we at least discuss it?” he asked, pleading with her.

“Because I don't want to. I don't want you pressuring me, or trying to influence me either way. I need to think about it without your pushing me.” She had been short-tempered with him since the subject came up, which was unlike her.

“I'm not going to push you or force you to go,” he said reasonably, but she didn't want to hear it, and she didn't believe him. She knew what he wanted. He wanted to take the offer in Beijing. He had made that clear. “It's your decision too.”

“Is it?” She turned to him halfway through dinner with her eyes blazing, and she set her fork down. “Or do you just want me to say it's all right, so I can't blame you for destroying my career? This isn't my decision, Jean-Philippe. You've given me an impossible choice. Go with you to a place we're all going to hate, and screw up my career, or stay and have you hate me forever for the opportunity I robbed you of. You make more money than I do, so I guess in the end, you have the bigger vote. I just don't think it's fair to put it all on me. And what happens when we hate it there, or the kids get sick, or I never get another job, or you don't make the money you think you will? Then what?”

“Then we come home,” he said quietly.

“It may be too late for me by then. It's taken me almost thirteen years to get where I am at
Vogue.
Why do I have to give that up? Just because you make more money than I do, or because you're a man?”

“We'd be doing this for the family, Valerie. For our future. I can't make that kind of money here, and it's a big step up for me.” It was the truth, and she knew it too. “The time is now, the market there is hot. There are fortunes to be made.”

“We don't need a fortune,” she said seriously. “We're fine with what we have.”

“Then maybe that will be our decision in the end. I'd just like a chance to make more and put some aside. We may be happy to have it one day. And I can't make that kind of money in France or even in the States,” although he had never thought of working there. They were totally entrenched in France, and loved it.

“Why does money have to rule our life? You've never been that way before. That's one of the reasons I love it here. It's not just about running after money, it's about quality of life. And what kind of quality of life will we have in Beijing? We're not Chinese. It's a completely different culture for all of us, and not an easy city. Everyone says so. Are you willing to sacrifice all of that for the money you'll make? I'm not sure I am.”

“Then we won't go,” he said, looking depressed. He felt beaten down by their arguments, and he was well aware of the downsides himself, especially relating to their kids, and couldn't deny them to her. He didn't want to lie to her. He realized there was a good chance they would hate it there, and even three years at a minimum was a long time.

She was still at her computer, working, when he went to bed, and she barely said goodnight to him. She hadn't kissed him in days, and overnight she had turned into an angry woman, ready to blame him for everything. She had never been that way before. But she felt as though their whole life was on the line, and she was worried about their marriage too. What would happen if they were miserable there and fighting over it all the time? Nothing about his Beijing offer appealed to her, but Jean-Philippe wanted it desperately. She knew that. And it had started a war between them that was poisoning everything. They both felt like their world was falling apart. They had gone from being allies and best friends to enemies instantly, which was unfamiliar to both of them after seven easy, happy years. And whichever way they turned now, whatever they decided, one of them would lose, or even the whole family.

When Chantal boarded the plane to Berlin on Friday afternoon, all she could think of was the thrill of seeing her youngest child again. She was bringing him the food he loved, two new sweaters she was sure he could use, since everything he owned had holes in it when she last saw him, and several books she thought he'd like to read. And once she was there, she always noticed things in his apartment that needed replacing. She'd even brought her tool kit with her to do small repairs. Eric never paid attention to them or bothered to do them himself. She was the full-service mother, and her children always teased her about it. Eric was the only one who appreciated it, and loved it when she fussed over him. It was just bad luck that the art scene in Berlin was more avant-garde than in Paris, and professionally he was happier there. He felt that for his art he needed to be in Berlin, which was a loss for her.

Her relationship with Charlotte, her second child, had always been more difficult, and Charlotte liked living halfway around the world from her mother. And Paul had fallen in love with the States when he went to film school at USC, and decided to stay, which didn't surprise her. At thirty-one, he seemed far more American now than French, after thirteen years there. Eric was her baby, a sweet boy who enjoyed her company, and was totally open with her. They always had fun together. He was only three when his father died, and she had raised him alone. And he was the one she missed most. He had retained the same sweetness even as a man of twenty-six, and he still seemed like a boy to her.

He put his arms around her in a giant bear hug when he met her at baggage claim, and had borrowed a friend's truck to drive her to his apartment, where he always insisted that she stay. Eric loved her staying with him and having breakfast in the morning with her when they both got up. He actually made enough money from his art to survive, although she helped him occasionally, but he didn't need much. He lived in the Friedrichshain district and paid a tiny rent for an apartment that looked like a hovel, but he loved it, and he rented a studio in the same building, where he built his installations. They still made no sense to her, but there was a market for his work, and he was represented by one of the best avant-garde conceptual galleries in Berlin. She was proud of him, although she didn't understand his work. But she admired how dedicated he was, and how much it meant to him. And she loved meeting his friends, and seeing his milieu while she was there. It was always an adventure visiting him.

When they got to his apartment, she gave him the food she'd bought him at the Bon Marché, and he was delighted. He opened the foie gras immediately, and she made toast for him in the decrepit oven he never used. She felt like a mother again just being with him, listening to his stories, laughing at things together, and talking about the World War II script she was working on. He was always interested in what she was writing. It made her realize again how much she missed him, and how empty her life was now without all of them at home. But there was no turning back time to when they were children. Those days were over, and all she could do now was enjoy them when she saw them, when they had time to spend with her, however infrequently, or however far away they lived.

It was an art being the mother of adult children, and it hadn't come easily to her. They had left a tremendous void in her life when they moved away, which she never said to them. There was no reason to make them feel guilty for growing up, however challenging it was for her. It was up to her to make her peace with it, and she had, as best she could. And seeing her younger son always gave her a boost for weeks. He made her feel so welcome while she was there, and seemed so genuinely happy to spend time with her. She was always careful not to work when she was with her children, so they had her full attention.

They took his new girlfriend, Annaliese, to dinner that night. She was a sweet girl from Stuttgart, an art student, and she worshipped Eric. She clearly thought he was a genius, and Eric was mildly embarrassed by her unbridled adoration, but he was happy that Chantal liked her and seemed to approve, in spite of her many tattoos and facial pierces. Chantal was used to that look by now, on so many of his friends. His mother was just grateful that he had none himself.

It always amused her how different her children were from each other. Charlotte was the most conservative of the flock, and had always objected to her younger brother's disreputable-looking Beaux-Arts friends and his lifestyle. She even accused her mother of being bohemian and expected her to dress for dinner when she came to Hong Kong to see her. And Paul had adopted every aspect of life in the States, including some serious bodybuilding and heavy workouts, and he had been a vegan for years. He always lectured his mother about her diet and took her to the gym with him to do cardio and Pilates when she was in L.A. She told Jean-Philippe that it had nearly killed her the last time, and she had warned him of the crazy fads his children might engage in when they grew up. But she was a good sport about it, and always heaved a sigh of relief when she got home and could do what she wanted again, eat what she wanted, dress as she pleased, and even smoke occasionally if she felt like it. The one advantage to living alone was that she could do whatever she chose to do, but it was small compensation for seeing so little of her children.

By the time Chantal left Berlin on Sunday night, she had stocked Eric's refrigerator with the food he liked, changed all the burnt-out light bulbs in his apartment, cleaned it as best she could, repaired two shelves in his studio with her tool kit, replaced a broken lamp, taken him out for hearty meals at his favorite restaurants, and spent enough time with his new girlfriend to get to know her, at least superficially. They all went to the Hamburger Bahnhof museum on Saturday, which was one of Chantal's favorites, and Eric and Annaliese enjoyed it too.

She held him close and hugged him when she left him at the airport, and fought back tears, so he wouldn't realize how much she was going to miss him in the days ahead. Their time together had been precious, as it always was, and she boarded the plane to Paris with a heavy heart.

When the plane took off, she sat staring out the window mournfully as Berlin shrank beneath them, and she was still feeling sad to have left him when she landed in Paris and went to get her bag at baggage claim. It weighed a ton with her tool kit in it, but she was glad she'd brought it. She always put it to good use when she visited him. And she had taken dozens of photos of him with her cellphone, which she would print out and frame and put around her living room when she got home. She always did after visiting one of her children, as though to prove to herself that they still existed, even if she no longer saw them every day.

She was dragging her bag off the conveyor belt at the airport when she bumped into someone behind her, turned to apologize, and found herself looking into the face of the man who had done the lanterns and whom she'd seen at the Bon Marché when she bought the food to take to Eric in Berlin. He looked equally surprised to see her, and offered to carry her suitcase for her, at least until she found a cart.

“No, really, I'm fine. I can manage it.” He could barely lift it himself, it was so heavy, and she didn't want to tell him there was a tool kit in it. “Thank you, though.”

“No worries. I'll get it outside to the curb for you. I have no luggage.” All he had was a briefcase, and he was wearing a suit and looked quite respectable. She was traveling in jeans and a sweater, which was all she needed when visiting Eric in Berlin. “Did you see your son?” he asked conversationally as he carried the bag for her, and she apologized again for how heavy it was.

“Yes, I did. I'm just coming back.”

“Was he happy with all the food you brought him?” He smiled, remembering the foie gras. “My mother never brought me things like that. He's a lucky kid.” He imagined her son to be a student, since she didn't look very old. “What did you bring back with you,” he asked, with mischief in his eye, “a bowling set?” She laughed at the question and looked sheepish.

“My tool kit. He always needs things fixed in his apartment.” He looked suddenly touched as she said it. It gave him an insight into what kind of mother she was, and how much she must miss the boy who lived in Berlin.