Mira's Diary (13 page)

But listening to Malcolm, I had some inkling of what Mom meant in her letter—that small events that seem unimportant can turn out to be really important later on. So Dreyfus's unjust conviction led to the weakening of the French military state, led to the collapse of the government, led to intolerance in Europe, which somehow would lead to whatever she's so scared of.

It was too much to think about! What was I supposed to do? I was just one person, and like Malcolm said, not even the right one.

“You should go,” I told him, “not me. You'd be so much better at this. I never figure out the right thing to do in time. I don't know the history well enough. I don't know who all these people are.” I stopped clicking on websites and put my head down on my arms.

“Hey, you haven't figured it out yet, but you will.” Malcolm patted my back in an awkward brotherly way that felt like being pawed by a clumsy bear. “If I could time-travel, I would, but it seems like you inherited the lucky gene. The least I can do is help you while you're here so when you go back, you'll be better prepared. Then it's a little bit like I'm going with you.”

“So now that you've read about all this, what do you think I'm supposed to do?” I asked hopefully. “What would
you
do?”

Malcolm chewed on his thumbnail, which is something he does when he's thinking hard about something. “Maybe you could prove that Esterházy's the real traitor. You heard that there was another message between him and the German attaché. What if you found a newspaper reporter who would follow that story? That's the kind of thing you could do, be a deep-throat source to a daring reporter.”

“So find me that reporter. Tell me who I should talk to. Help me figure this out.”

“It's Zola,” Dad said. “That's why your mom had to talk to him. And maybe you do too.”

“Dad, Zola writes books! He doesn't work for a newspaper, and he really doesn't like being told what to write.” I knew at least that much.

“That's why his writing will be even more powerful, more compelling than any reporter's.” Dad leaned forward, serious and intense. “He could finally turn the tide so that the public supports Dreyfus and realizes how corrupt the military has been. Like Malcolm said, it's the press that rights the worst wrongs. It can let the public know the truth about how they've been lied to and fooled by the powerful and wealthy. Without the truth, there's no hope. You've got to get the truth out there.”

That was a pretty tall order for one girl.

I've stayed with Dad and Malcolm for two days now so maybe I won't be able to time-travel anymore anyway. Malcolm wanted to go to the Jewish Museum and do more research, but I needed a break.

“Can we do one single ordinary, fun thing this trip?” I begged.

“We went to Notre Dame!” Malcolm said.

“Yeah, and look what that started. C'mon, Dad, please. You wanted to take photos of the Eiffel Tower, didn't you? Can we go there?”

“Great idea,” Dad agreed. “We can go to the Jewish Museum afterward. Okay, Malcolm?”

So we both got what we wanted. It was a clear, sunny day with a brilliant blue sky, the perfect day for Dad to take pictures. After seeing the Eiffel Tower when it was new, it was funny to see it the modern way, like the backdrop for every movie you've ever seen about Paris. A long line of people snaked around the base, waiting to take the elevator to the top.

“I'll stand in line while you take pictures so by the time you're done, we'll be near the front,” Malcolm offered.

“Good idea,” Dad said. “You want to wait with him?” he asked me.

“After I look around.”

“You're not fooling anybody,” Malcolm teased. “You're going to draw, aren't you? You think we don't notice that sketchbook you carry everywhere?”

“It's just for notes and doodling,” I insisted, “So I'll remember stuff. Anyway who wants to rush to stand in a line? That's your job.”

Malcolm stuck out his tongue, but I knew he really didn't mind. He found crowds entertaining. He loved to eavesdrop on strangers' conversations and imagine what their lives were like, so long lines didn't grate on him the way they did on most people.

I tilted my head back, staring into the steel girders crisscrossing their way to the top. Degas saw you being built, I thought. And Claude too. I bet Claude hated me now, after I'd left him just the way he'd begged me not to. I hadn't said anything about him to Dad and Malcolm because really he wasn't part of my job. He was an incidental detail. But a detail that had almost kissed me, and looking up at the Tower, feeling a warm breeze play with my hair, I could almost imagine him standing next to me, his hand gentle on my back.

I threaded my way through the crowds where men hawked flapping toys, squeaking toys, and squishy blobs for toys. There were dozens of different vendors, and they all had the same cheap trinkets, including, of course, bucket-loads of mini Eiffel Towers of every size from key chain to statuette. I definitely wasn't in nineteenth-century Paris anymore. It was more like twenty-first-century Disneyland.

Trying to avoid the man bellowing, “Get your picture taken holding up the Eiffel Tower,” I walked behind one of the massive piers. Almost hidden by bushes, there was a brick pillar that looked like an old chimney. It was like a sliver of the nineteenth century in the midst of everything else. A strange throbbing pulsed from it, a weird magnetic pull. Was that what a touchstone felt like? I wondered. Was I finally learning how to recognize one?

I pushed aside a branch, reached into the darkness, and touched the cool stone. A sharp jolt went through me as the seasons furled past, the days and nights wheeled around me, and the mist cleared.

The crowds were gone. So were Dad and Malcolm. I took a deep breath and smelled the nineteenth century.

I knew the date from a copy of
Le
Figaro
that I picked up. And I knew why I was here, since the newspaper had a letter to the editor that listed all the proofs of Esterházy's guilt, all the reasons Dreyfus was innocent. So the truth was finally out, like Malcolm said it needed to be. Only the letter wasn't written by Zola, the way I expected, but by Mathieu Dreyfus, Dreyfus's brother. Did that mean Zola still needed to be convinced to write his own story, or did I have a totally new job to do? I hated how goals kept shifting. Time travel was like building on sand—nothing stayed the same.

I wondered where Mom was, what she was doing. And where was Morton? If I ever saw him again, I knew better questions to ask him now.

I wasn't sure what else to do so I headed toward the café Nouvelle Athènes, around the corner from Degas's house. It took me a couple of hours, but the day wasn't too cold, just crisp enough, and the light was that golden autumn color that turned everything brilliant and jewel-like. The streets were thick with trees, vines cloaked the houses, and everything felt smaller and cozier after the cold formality of modern Paris. I felt like I was walking through a dream, passing people who looked familiar but weren't, searching faces to find Mom or Claude or Mary Cassatt, somebody I knew. At least I felt like I was doing something, even if all I ended up with were tired feet.

By the time I got to the café, I was hungry and tired. I sat down at one of the little round tables and ordered a hot chocolate, forgetting that I didn't have any money. Before the waiter could come back with the drink I couldn't pay for, I ducked out in a panic. And bumped right into Claude, just like I had that first time. For a second I wondered if he was some kind of touchstone.

He was handsomer than ever, while I looked flustered and sweaty and miserably way too young for him. Anyway, he hated me now because I'd treated him so terribly, leaving him twice without any explanation, even if I hadn't meant to.

“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” he said formally as if we were strangers.

“Claude,” I said. “It's me, Mira, and you must think I'm horribly rude and there's really no explanation. You just have to trust that I'm not a bad person, and I really want to be your friend.”

“Ah, Mira,” he said slowly and so coldly the words had icicles hanging from them.

“How is Degas? And Mary Cassatt? And you, your own painting?” I was extra warm and friendly to make up for his remoteness.

“I really cannot stop to chat. My wife is expecting me.”

I blinked, trying to keep my face from crumpling. He was married? I gaped at his back, wiping away the tears I couldn't stop as he strode quickly away, not turning to look at me once. What a jerk I was! How could I expect anything to ever happen between us? Of course he got married. Of course I meant nothing to him. Of course.

It's one thing to know something rationally, in your head, and another to feel it in your gut. So I knew I should be fine with Claude living his own life lah-di-da without thinking of me. But it felt like a sharp kick in the stomach. It was a stabbing reminder that this wasn't my time, this wasn't my life. These people weren't my friends and they never could be.

I was here for one reason—to get Mom out of here, to do the job she wanted done so we could both go home. I swallowed the lump in my throat and went to Degas's house. He could tell me where to find Zola, where I might find Mom too.

The servant let me in to the drawing room and went to fetch tea. I hoped that meant some biscuits or cake or toast as well. Because though I thought my heart was breaking, my stomach was making the most noise.

Degas walked in, older than ever, hunched over now like a grandfather. His whiskers were white and his eyes looked clouded over. But he saw clearly enough to recognize me.

“It's Mira, isn't it,” he said in his lovely accented English, his voice light and dry. “Enchanting to see you again after all this time. Please do make yourself comfortable and tell me another American phrase as wonderful as turkey buzzard.”

“Bologna?” I suggested. “Macaroni and cheese? Tuna casserole?” I was so hungry that all I could think of was food.

Degas frowned. “No, those have none of the flavor of the delightful turkey buzzard. But I will offer you tea all the same.”

“Thank you! You've always been so kind to me.”

The servant came in with a tray holding teacups, a teapot, slices of bread, and some small cakes. My stomach growled so loudly that I was afraid Degas could hear it.

“You're American, so I almost forgot to ask, but I'm afraid I must do so now,” Degas said as he poured the steaming tea into two cups.

“Ask what?” I said as I took my cup and reached for a cake.

“I'm sorry, but these are hard times and I only allow visitors who are anti-Dreyfus. So tell me, are you for or against the traitor?”

“You ask everyone this?” I dropped the cake back onto the tray. Dreyfus had barely been a topic of conversation the last time I was here. “Does it matter that much?”

“I'm afraid it does, yes, very much so. I fought for France in the Prussian War. I believed in France then, and I believe in her now.”

“My country, right or wrong?”

“France has done nothing wrong here! From your tone, I take it you're one of those Dreyfusards. I'm sorry to see it, Mira.” He shook his head sadly.

“What if the military is wrong? What if an officer faked the evidence that convicted Dreyfus? What if they're protecting the real traitor? How is it patriotic to support that?”

“I think it's time you left.” The words were pure ice, and a stony coldness had taken over Degas's face, so kind just minutes before. He sat up stiffly, glaring at me.

I obviously wasn't convincing him of the merits of Jews. My cheeks flamed with anger and something else. Humiliation, that's what I felt, crushed by his cutting certainty. I left Degas to his lonely tea and hoped that Mary Cassatt wouldn't have a Dreyfus litmus test.

She didn't. She was surprised to see me but welcoming all the same. When I told her about Degas, she not only invited me to stay with her usual generosity, she also offered me lunch and the latest news.

“Degas has lost all his friends over this Dreyfus question, you know. Even the Halévy family.”

“But he used to eat dinner there once or twice a week! He vacationed with them! Mrs. Halévy developed his photographs for him. He considered the boys to be practically his children.” I was astonished.

“Used to.” Mary passed me the basket of bread. “Now he won't even hire models if they're Jewish. He threw Claude out, fought with all his artist friends. I think the only one who sees him now is Renoir, sweet, loyal Renoir.”

“Aren't you surprised?” I asked. “I thought Degas really cared about his friends. They're like his family. Is he really against the Jews that much?” I felt queasy thinking about it. Anti-Semitism had always been abstract to me, a hatred that belonged to the past, but here it was right in my face.

“Yes and no. Degas is old school, old money, and old family, and the traditional, conservative ways have a deep hold on him. As for Jews, they're just a scapegoat for problems with the government. If Dreyfus weren't Jewish, Degas would still be against him because being for him means believing that the military is corrupt and that the government cares more about its image than finding the real traitor.”

“Which it does!” I exclaimed, bolting down a generous hunk of cheese on a slab of bread.

“But this isn't just Degas. The Dreyfus affair is splitting families apart. People feel passionately both ways. I have to say I can't recall ever seeing anything fire up the public imagination the way this case has. And it's been going on for years!”

“What about Zola?” I asked. “Where does he stand?”

“Zola?” Mary looked like I'd just asked her if she'd invited a cat for dinner. “Why Zola? I didn't know you were friends.”

“We're not really. I just wondered. I mean, he's a famous writer so his opinion would matter, wouldn't it?”

“I suppose so. He travels a lot, though. I know he was in Rome when Dreyfus was court-martialed, and he just got back from a few weeks in London.”

“Are you friends? I remember you meeting with him at the Café Nouvelle Athènes years ago. He seemed interesting.”

Mary wrinkled her forehead, concentrating. “There was a group of us, no? I wouldn't call him a friend, more of an acquaintance, someone everyone in my circle knows, though I personally don't know him well.” She turned toward the bookshelf behind her. “And of course I've read his books. Though he hasn't written anything I've truly liked since
Germinal
. You can borrow it if you like.”

Mary handed me a green cloth-bound copy of
Germinal
, the title written in elegant gold script. I'd never seen a book that was such a beautiful object, so appealing in its thingness. Unfortunately, it was in French, so not much good to me in its bookness.

“If I could read French better, I'd love to,” I said, embarrassed that in all the times I'd visited Mary, my French hadn't improved. For me, it was a matter of days. For her, these visits happened over stretches of years. She'd think I would have improved at least a little unless I was a complete idiot. Which it seemed like I was.