The Boiling Season (37 page)

Sitting next to Hector was the man in the seashell necklace.

“This is a surprise, monsieur,” he said, a sharpness in his voice that I immediately recognized. “We weren't expecting you.”

So this was the colonel, the man with the office next door to mine. He was also, I was suddenly quite sure, a former waiter, one of Georges's colleagues. And then I realized who the others were. In appearance, there was little to separate Hector's lieutenants from the rest of the men I saw each day on the grounds. There were the same scars, the same scraggly beards. One of the younger ones had a broken tooth that pierced his cigar. Him I could not forget. He was the gardener we had arrested after he snuck onto the grounds with his pockets full of drugs. Beside him in sullen stupor sat one of the guards who had proven so useless the night of our grand opening. He had been equally useless on many other occasions too, until I was finally forced to fire him. And there was the pool boy who had nearly ruined Mlle Miller's visit.

I did not recognize the other three, but I could only assume they also counted themselves as victims of my unreasonable demand for basic competence and honesty.

“You must be kidding me,” I said, turning to Hector. “This is your high command?”

The colonel displayed a tight, withering smile. And then he nodded toward the broken-toothed houseboy, who rose and went to the writing desk to fetch me a chair.

“I came to speak to Hector.”

“Of course,” the colonel said, gesturing for me to sit. With a false, ungracious smile, he stood and signaled to the others to do the same. “We'll give you a few minutes.” Gesturing impatiently, he shooed the others toward the door.

Hector watched them go with slow, sad eyes, as if I were something to be feared. After all that had happened, I could not help feeling hurt. I had tried to give him everything—a new life, a future. Everything I had struggled for myself had been his for the taking. From the moment I met him, I had never been anything less than a friend.

“What do you want?” he whispered as soon as we were alone.

I slid my chair a few inches closer. “You have to end this,” I said. “It's not too late.”

I had never seen him look more miserable. He kept shaking his head, over and over again, as if there were someone else talking who I could not hear, someone he desperately wanted to silence. “What choice do I have?”

“You can't win,” I said. “You can't let the army come. Think of all these people. Think of yourself. It's not too late to save them.”

“Since when do you care about them?”

“I care about you,” I said. “And I've gotten tired of watching people die.”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “It doesn't matter,” he finally said. “We can't just give up.”

I felt a hand on my elbow, tugging me tentatively from behind. I did not need to look to know who it was.

“Let go,” I shouted, and he did. Just as useless a guard for Hector as he had been for the hotel.

The colonel was waiting for us on the patio, fingering the shells on the string around his neck. “Gerard will see to it that you make it back safely.”

With a jerk I once again pulled my arm from his grasp. “I'll take my chances on my own.”

Chapter Thirty

I
ran into Louis the next morning at breakfast, just as he was leaving. He asked if I had seen Marc.

“No one knows where he is.” He seemed distraught.

“He mentioned something about going to look for his wife,” I told him, not sure how much was appropriate to say.

One of the men in Louis's group called out impatiently from down the hall, and Louis waved for him to wait. “Do you think he'll be back in time?”

“Back?” I said.

“For my wedding.”

Smiles had been so rare of late that it felt strange to suddenly find one on my face. “Are you getting married?”

My smile was immediately dwarfed by his. “Tomorrow.”

“To Lulu?” I said. “The laundress?” I would not have thought such news would please me so, but it had been a long time since we had experienced anything worth celebrating.

I offered him my hand in congratulations. After a tentative pause, he accepted, first brushing his palm against his pant leg.

“How could he miss it?” I said.

Louis's face lit up with relief. “You should come, too.”

“Of course,” I said. “Of course.”

He was about to walk away for good when I raised my hand and gestured for him to stop. I hurried to close the distance.

“There's something I want to ask you,” I said.

He eyed me warily.

“I've been wondering if we knew each other before. Before all of this, I mean.”

He seemed to be doing the same sort of calculation as I had just a moment before. “Yes, monsieur.”

“You were a houseboy?”

He shook his head. “A porter.”

Of course. How could I not have recognized him? He looked exactly the same—as if he had not even aged. The skinny boy who could never keep his shirt tucked. Always quiet. The clerks often failed to see him standing there, ringing their bells while he shifted uncomfortably and invisibly beside them, one shirttail hanging out like an oar in the water.

“Of course,” I said with a smile. He had been so frail then. Despite his sloppiness I had never yelled at him, never raised my voice. Of that I was sure. There was nothing he could possibly hold against me.

I
knew just where to look and found the box easily, high up on the shelf in the back of the closet. Sitting at my desk, I pulled off the top. My fingers did not have far to dig. Around the edges, the brochure had turned the color of a tea-stained saucer. Some of the creases had frayed, but it was nonetheless intact. “The Wedding of Your Dreams.”

What would that look like, I wondered, the wedding of Louis's dreams? I doubted he had ever dreamed of any kind of wedding at all. What did he know of rose petals and horses and champagne?

Setting the brochure aside, I picked up the otherwise blank sheet of paper I had long ago addressed to Madame. I began to write.

I am sorry that it has been so long since my last note. Several times I have sat down to write to you, but I have found it difficult to know what to say. By now you have no doubt heard that our troubles continue. Yet having just written these words, I realize how ridiculous they must sound. When have our troubles ever ceased? Still, however accustomed we have become to these difficulties, it is true that the situation we now find ourselves in is the most dire we have seen. I must confess, I have held back some of the harshest realities in the hopes of sparing you. Things have reached such a state, however, that I can no longer do so in good faith. The truth, Madame, is that you would no longer recognize Habitation Louvois. I fear you would be heartbroken even to glance upon it. I have done my best, but it was not enough.

I put down my pen. I could not go on.

* * *

That afternoon, I went for a walk, and for the first time since our encounter in Hector's villa, I allowed my course to take me past the casino. I had been waiting to explain to Mlle Trouvé how well I understood what she was going through, how difficult I knew it to be to find oneself so compromised. She needed to know that there was someone here who cared.

It was recess time, and Mlle Trouvé was sitting in her accustomed spot on the dusty steps while the children played in the grass. Seeing her again now, I could not help wondering if it had been recognition that had first drawn me to her, all those months ago. Was it possible she was one of the many maids Raoul said had come back? No. If I had forgotten the others, it was because they were so forgettable. Even dressed in their hotel uniforms, they had never been anything but what they had since become. This had always been their fate. Mlle Trouvé was different. Within her she contained something far larger and far better than the circumstances in which she found herself.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the children playing in the grass—a little girl in a light pink dress—turn too quickly toward one of her classmates and catch her foot on the uneven ground. She landed on her side, and initially it appeared everything would be fine—she would dust herself off and her friends would laugh and together they would resume whatever it was they had been playing. But after the girl had taken a moment to examine the dirt on her hands and the scratch on her knee and the circle of classmates gathering around her, she suddenly broke out in a bitter sob. I realized by the way she held her hand to her head that she had struck a stone.

In an instant, almost simultaneously, her classmates' worried expressions turned toward their teacher, anxious to see what she would do. But somehow Mlle Trouvé appeared not to have noticed, either the fall or the little girl's bawling. It was not until another of the children—a little potbellied boy with slightly bowed legs—ran over and patted her on the knee that Mlle Trouvé seemed to awaken. Dazedly lowering her eyes to discover the child waiting at her feet, a look akin to horror crept onto her face.

Mlle Trouvé reached the girl quickly, and it did not take long to soothe her. Holding the girl in her arms, she gently touched her head.

“You'll be fine,” I heard her say. “It's just a scratch. . . . Just a scratch.”

And soon the girl was smiling and holding on to Mlle Trouvé's hand as they walked together over to the steps and sat down. In a moment, I was there as well, smiling down at the little girl, who suddenly stopped her breathless reconstruction of the fall.

“Mademoiselle,” I said, turning to the young schoolteacher.

She seemed surprised by my appearance. Wanting to assure her that there was no cause for alarm, I said, “I was sorry we didn't have a chance to talk the other day. I looked for you after you left Hector's.”

She nodded.

“I know how difficult this must be for you,” I said. “I understand. I've long thought that you and I have a great deal in common.”

She looked up at me uncertainly, a question forming on her lips that she seemed unable to complete.

“For the good of the children you have made incredible sacrifices. I have made sacrifices too.”

“I see,” she said. An uncomfortable look came upon her face, and I noticed her gaze straying. Only then did I realize the children had stopped playing. Behind me on the grass they had assembled, listening in on our conversation.

“Children,” Mlle Trouvé said, getting quickly to her feet, “it's time to resume your lessons.”

“I'm sorry if I intruded,” I said, watching as she led the children up the stairs to the casino.

“Good-bye, monsieur.” She left me there with a quick, distracted wave.

After she left, I remained out on the casino lawn a short while longer, replaying in my mind our clumsy conversation. Almost none of the things I had wanted to say had managed to leave my mouth.
You and I have a great deal in common.
She must have thought me mad. What I had wanted to say—what I thought she alone could understand—was that all the things we had endured were about to be over. The end was upon us. And it was time for us to decide what we would do. Hector and his followers had made their choice. If they wished to die here, taking their stand, there was nothing more I could do to stop them. But for Mlle Trouvé and the children and me it was not yet too late. Or so I hoped; I had wasted our best opportunity, and there was no way of knowing how much time we had left.

I started off down the path, walking in no particular direction. It did not matter where I went; I just needed to keep moving, to retain what little momentum I still possessed.

In that state I arrived at the pavilion. There I discovered that some of the women—Claire among them—had begun putting up decorations for the wedding, stringing up scraps of colored paper and the blossoms of the few flowers Hector's followers had not already killed. They were the sort of impoverished adornments one saw in Cité Verd on such occasions, when the last scrawny chicken was sold off for a package of streamers and a few crooked candles. The sight reminded me of the scraggly shrubs Paul's mother had planted outside their door, hoping to produce some small simulation of gaiety. I was happy for Louis and his bride. How could I not be?

And yet, as I gazed upon the pavilion, what stood out the most was not the decorations but the peeling paint and the warped, weathered boards, the cracked slats of lattice and the vines choking every pillar. No matter how many times we cut them, the vines always grew back. And the fresh paint faded and the wood continued to rot. And I realized now—as I had refused to for months—that no matter what happened, Habitation Louvois would not be rescued. Never again would it be as it had been before. Who would be foolish enough to try, after all of this? There would be no more hotel, no more parties, no more photographers lying in wait beyond the gate. And I realized as well that Marc had been right all along: Madame would never again return. There was nothing for her to return to.

I had been blind not to see it. I was probably the last to understand. Madame herself must have decided long ago. Possibly years ago. Possibly she knew even as she was leaving that last time, foreseeing what the future held. Or at least she had suspected it. She had cut her losses and slipped away, without even saying good-bye.

Had she already forgotten us? All those letters I sent—how many had remained unopened? Perhaps at first she had read them dutifully, intending to respond, but over time they became nothing more than a painful reminder of what we would never have again. Were we anything more to her now than a figure in a ledger, long since written off?

But the question that made me stop and rest in the shadow of the pavilion was this: What if we had not come here? What if M. Guinee had never brought me to this place, never shared it with Mme Freeman? Would Dragon Guy and Hector still have found it? Would they have known it existed? If Madame and I had never built the hotel, would the forest have remained as it was, untouched, unseen, a permanently preserved memory of our past? Maybe it would have gone on forever, like the story my mother had passed on to me. If so, that meant it was not Dragon Guy, but Madame Freeman and I, who were responsible for the destruction of Habitation Louvois. The things we had done to save the place had ensured its ruin. Did that mean we were somehow responsible for all these lives, too? If so, that was another burden Madame had excused herself from bearing; she had left it entirely to me. But what more could I do than I had already done?

A
fter dinner, I did not go up to my office, as was my habit. Instead, I went out to the terrace overlooking the pool and breathed in the still evening air. I was out there a long time, and I could not remember when I had last felt such calm. I felt as if I had been freed of some enormous weight. I no longer had to worry about disappointing Mme Freeman. I no longer had to worry about anything. All that was left was for me to do as she had done and take leave of the place. I still hoped Hector and Mlle Trouvé might come with me. Who knew what lives they might have ahead of them, if only they could start over somewhere else? But regardless of what they decided, I knew I must go.

In the courtyard near the laundry, they had built a fire, an enormous one with flames feeding off limbs and trunks it must have taken several men to carry. To the side, with their backs against the door of Mona's kitchen, three men were pounding on drums, and I stood for a while on the path, watching the dancers lose themselves to the deadening beats. At least some of Hector's army, it seemed, had been given the night off. Was the battle going so well for them that they could now take turns fighting?

In the middle of it all, like totems unsure of their purpose, stood the lovers, Louis and Lulu. The young man did not see me; he could see nothing but the glowing flesh of his bride-to-be. Indeed, she looked lovely, like a woman ready to embark on some bold new adventure. Perhaps it was for the best they had no idea what lay ahead of them. I was not going to be the one to spoil the moment.

It was time to head back to the manor house. I had one last piece of business to attend to, one last letter to Madame to finish, one final request. I did not need much. Just some kind of work. And a visa. I had enough money left for airfare. For Hector and Mlle Trouvé too, if they would come. How could Mme Freeman refuse, after everything we had been through together?

But as I turned to go, I happened to see a familiar face peering out from between the flickering peaks of fire. Mlle Trouvé's expression was odd, both intimate and cold. It was as if she had been expecting to find me here, as if she had heard my thoughts, as if we had come by mutual agreement, so that we might have a moment to speak in private about some vital business. Despite the party going on around her, she seemed completely alone, standing with her arms folded across the front of her faded dress. For whom but the two of us could such a celebration have afforded privacy?

She watched me as I made my way through the crowd. In a moment I was at her side.

“I'm sorry if I interrupted you today,” I said. I was relieved by the lack of anger on her face. “I didn't mean to frighten you. It's just that I cannot help but feel that Dragon Guy and Hector have forced our fates together.”