The Third Grace (15 page)

Huchette Street was as crowded tonight as usual, with tourists clutching souvenir bags and students milling in front of coffeehouses and well-lit storefronts. A pair of high-heeled Asian girls teetered past them on the uneven
pavé
. A
restaurateur
, who lounged against the arch beneath his sign and flirted in his apron, tempted prospective diners with sweet talk and a menu, but Lou and Aglaia had already gorged themselves on
fruits de mer
—mussels gathered from their beds in Quiberon, creamy shrimp bisque, a lobster
ragoût
in white wine sauce. Jazz floated on the night air from the open doors of cabarets and, while Lou preferred the more celebrated nightclubs such as Le Pulp, any bar here would serve as well tonight.

“Pick one,” Lou said, and Aglaia chose an unobtrusive establishment near the looming silhouette of Notre Dame. The tavern's interior was paneled in oak, its chairs upholstered in maroon leather, and inverted wine goblets hung like grape clusters above an L-shaped counter. Musicians on a piano and a saxophone improvised a duet, and the barkeeper—ignoring the anti-smoking bylaw—took a slow draw from his cigarette and squinted a welcome at the women as they sat. Lou ordered two glasses of sauternes, perfect as a chaser to their dinner—though she was beginning to suspect Aglaia didn't, after all, have the discerning palate for wine she displayed just the other night in her apartment.

But Aglaia seemed sated, her eyes closed and her toe moving to the beat of the music. Lou held back from smoothing out a wrinkle on the younger woman's top, bunched at the breast. Aglaia was mellower than in the café that afternoon, with her tortured attempts to explain away her turmoil, her fixation on locating François. Lou had seen her frailty and her pleading eyes ready to spill over in frustration, and she'd wanted to fold Aglaia up in her arms then and tell her to hush, that it would be all right. Her maternal instinct disarmed her. How had a trait like that survived the brutalization of her upbringing?

Lou reflected on their day of sightseeing. All in all, though she'd accomplished the educational goals she set, she was no longer convinced this trip was the best platform for acquiring Aglaia's support. She surmised that there wasn't enough time to win her over. Perhaps her spontaneous decision to accompany Aglaia for such a brief jaunt had been optimistic, even reckless.

Their return flight was departing on Saturday morning, which left only three days—hardly enough time to forge an alliance in light of Aglaia's preoccupation with sleuthing out the boyfriend. That wild goose chase could cost valuable time Lou would rather spend with Aglaia's undivided attention.

The girl was incognizant of the effect she was producing in Lou, personally as well as professionally. For one thing, Aglaia was bound up by the constriction of her religious past and needed philosophical and perhaps sexual release—both of which Lou would love to orchestrate. But more to the point, her young friend was in a position to advance Lou's standing within academia in a way that could make or break her career, if Aglaia would accept the job she'd arranged. So Lou had a two-fold appetite for Aglaia.

She finished her wine and mouthed to the bartender to bring over a couple of glasses of absinthe without asking Aglaia, who was still keeping time to the music with her eyes shut. Enough liquor—especially with the high alcohol content of the “green fairy”—might lubricate communication and, besides, any tourist coming to Paris should partake in the Bohemian ritual.

Lou had been hoping Aglaia would broach the subject of the
Buffalo Bill
prequel and Incognito's interest in it, and all day she'd tried to arouse discussion around the subject of cinema—not difficult to do in the city that was the setting for movies with stars of every era, from Humphrey Bogart to Matt Damon, Gina Lollobrigida to Nicole Kidman. In passing the George V that afternoon, Lou pointed out to Aglaia's the hotel's lobby where Meg Ryan was robbed in
French Kiss
; on a side street, she showed her the alcove where Harrison Ford declared his love in
Sabrina
; at the boarding point for the Seine River cruise, she pondered aloud upon a famous boat scene with Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn in
Charade
—all to no avail.

Could it be that Aglaia's boss hadn't discussed with her the possibility of Incognito's part in the Denver movie, that she had no clue about what bid the company was submitting? Actual production was still a long way off, and the newspapers weren't yet making any public announcement, so it was conceivable she was unenlightened about the plans. In fact, perhaps Lou had overestimated Aglaia's rank in the costume company all along and was wasting her time in this esoteric courtship.

But then, as the musicians struck up another number, Aglaia opened her dreamy blue eyes for a second and Lou caught her breath at the innocent defenselessness in them, and her other greed—her greed to possess Aglaia—again possessed her. Whether or not Lou managed to squeeze her for details of Incognito's bid, this trip would be worth the effort if Aglaia warmed up to her enough to take the university job and be seen in the academic circles as her own little conquest. Aglaia was an asset either way.

T
he throaty saxophone lulled Aglaia as she lazed on the tavern chair, her belly full and her mind mellow. Maybe too mellow, she thought; she hadn't worried once since dinner about meeting with the curator in the morning. Lou kept plying her with alcohol and, if she were honest, she couldn't tell one wine from another.

“
Madame?
Mademoiselle?
”

Lou's eyebrows clumped together at the bartender's words as he set a small tray on their table, maybe because of the differentiation he made between their ages when he addressed them.

Aglaia sat up grudgingly as Lou—with exaggerated ceremony—placed a sugar cube on the slotted spoon spanning the rim of each glass, through which she poured water to make a murky drink of the green liquid already in the glass. Aglaia took an obligatory sip while Lou and the waiter looked on in expectation; she faltered over its bitterness and Lou upbraided her.

“If it was good enough for Oscar Wilde, it's good enough for you.”

But Aglaia didn't finish it. Instead, dizzy, she slumped down in her seat and hid again behind the veil of her lids. Hebe, she recalled, poured the nectar of immortality as a libation to slake the voraciousness of the blood-thirsty gods, with the Graces gathered around her in worship. Was Lou chasing the youth of ever-young Hebe in her mad pursuit around Paris today, as she force-fed Aglaia lessons about the Age of Enlightenment and the blood of the revolutionaries spilled on the altar of the cobblestones before the Bastille, lifeblood seeping away into the cracks between those dead stones? Aglaia's own sleepy inebriation, allowing the flow of such loosely associated thoughts, was no protection against the sharp words that so quietly cut to the very marrow of her memory:
Come to Him, the Living Stone… like living stones… offering spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God.

Lou tipped the goblet up for the last drop of her wine and then reached for the absinthe. At least Aglaia was not locked up in the hotel room, poring over that Bible. Keeping the girl's mind in the here-and-now was becoming a chore. She'd hoped today's schedule would result in at least more vigor on Aglaia's part, but instead here she was nodding off and likely plotting how soon she'd be able to get back to her reading. Lou considered perusing the diary François left behind in the Bible's margins. Her voyeurism didn't typically include such tame entertainment and she was inclined to leave Aglaia to her own fantasies, but perhaps she'd delve into it after all.

Lou toyed with the idea of appropriating the book and then dumping it somewhere, to get it over with, but the least obtrusive action might be to just fulfill Aglaia's demand to locate François, or at least make it appear as if she were aiming for that goal. Suggesting Aglaia purchase the phone card today had been a good stalling technique. The girl would never be able to negotiate the bureaucracy of France Télécom alone to find a listing for someone she wasn't even sure lived in the city, anyway.

A couple sauntered through the door. Lou could tell they were native to Paris by their aloofness in scanning the room, their offhandedness in ordering kir. The man was tall with thick, straight hair, wearing an expensive trench coat open over designer jeans. Aglaia's age, Lou surmised. His girlfriend had narrow hips and was reaching into her Prada bag for a lighter when their eyes met—Lou's and hers. The woman held her gaze just long enough, then shifted over to Aglaia and back to Lou. Her mouth turned up slightly, a query in her eyes.

Lou motioned them over and jostled Aglaia. “Wake up. We've got company.” This was the kind of excitement that would do them both good.

The room was roasting when Aglaia got back to the hotel, alone. She shuffled across the carpet to the window and fought with the heavy latch till it gave way, skinning a knuckle in the process. The late-night air floated in, clammy and close, and it wasn't much of an improvement.

Aglaia collapsed on the bed. The taxi ride back from the bar in the Latin Quarter had been difficult without Lou along to do the talking. Unable to comprehend Aglaia's accent, the driver resorted to stopping the vehicle and examining the name on a packet of matches she dug out from her purse. “
Ah, l'Hôtel du Caillou. Oui, bien sûr, mademoiselle,
” the cabbie had said courteously enough, but with a hint of exasperation as though he were tired of dealing with tourists.

On top of that, Aglaia had botched the payment and offended him with too small a tip. Now she was no longer sleepy. She surveyed a crack running alongside the molding of the ceiling, fuming over Lou's indiscreet behavior tonight.

Philippe and Emmanuelle, or whatever their names were, dominated the conversation and even Lou couldn't keep up with translating out loud. She didn't try for long, soon ignoring Aglaia completely and throwing herself into animated discussion with the couple, some of it seeming to be about her—the buffoon who couldn't speak French. But Philippe was checking Aglaia out and his girlfriend didn't care much, concentrating as she was on Lou and even, at one point, sipping from her glass—playing Wormwood to Lou's Screwtape, Eb would have said.

“They want us to join them for cocktails in their apartment around the corner,” Lou finally explained.

“I'm not comfortable with that.” They were total strangers after all, and, besides, Aglaia didn't like the dynamic. “I'm tired, Lou. I need to get back to the hotel.”

“Philippe would be devastated. He has a taste for blondes, he says.”

“I think we should leave right now.”

“Oh, loosen up,” Lou said. “Your lack of libido is putting a damper on the whole night.”

A blush burned Aglaia's cheeks, and she was sure that Lou's English insult could be understood without translation. “It's after midnight and I have that meeting tomorrow,” she said.

“I'll have the proprietor call you a cab, then.” Lou's words were clipped and snippy. She arose with the couple and left Aglaia stranded to wait for the taxi by the window like some stood-up date as the three of them walked off arm in arm down the narrow alley.

Now, sleep was not an option for Aglaia; she was too keyed up. Lou's desertion took her off guard, but Paris was the woman's second home, after all. And hadn't Aglaia been jaundiced about Lou tagging along with her in the first place? She should let Lou do what she wanted and get on with her own responsibilities. This was a business trip, after all.

Aglaia got ready for bed and then leafed through her documentation again for the morning. She packed her satchel, unwrapped and rewrapped the miniature oil painting, and opened the costume box to rearrange the tissue. But all the while she was wondering when Lou would show up.

After a couple of sleepless hours, she thought again about finding François's number. The bureau drawers held no Paris phone book, and it was too late to begin calling around for any Vivier that might be listed. But Aglaia slipped on her jeans and her shoes, then picked up her purse. There was a phone booth down the street and it had to have a directory. She might as well get going on her research.

The night clerk, snoozing behind the front desk, woke up enough to stretch out his hand for the gigantic brass key she held, and he placed it in the slot corresponding to her room number. She turned left outside the door of the hotel but found, when reaching the phone book, that the last pages—everything after “Trotte”—had been ripped out.

Aglaia's aggravation was replaced with her common sense. What were the odds that she'd happen upon the right number, anyway? And when she did call, she'd likely only make a fool of herself without Lou's intervention.

Now almost three o'clock in the morning, Aglaia's insomnia had set in for good. She counted backward; it was evening in Nebraska. She'd promised to call Naomi from Paris and now was as good a time as any.

The French instructions on the booth wall were unreadable, scratched out by some vandal, but Aglaia consulted her traveler's guide for directions. She inserted her phone card and punched the buttons for the Ennses' phone, and she was almost surprised to hear Naomi answer. The children were raucous in the background.

“You just caught us in from harvesting,” Naomi said. “I can't hear you very well—hold on a sec.” She shushed her kids and clattered some pots, and the homey sounds made Aglaia ache. She pictured Naomi in her kitchen—fertile mother, bountiful farm wife weary from her day in the field with Byron. “How's Paris?” Naomi asked. “Are you having fun?”

“It's great,” she said with false gusto. She recapped the day's events, leaving out the escapades at the bar. There was a lag in the timing of the telephone transmission so that Naomi's appreciative mumbles broke into Aglaia's descriptions, and it took a while to get through her report. Then Aglaia let it slip that she'd packed the Bible along with her after all, and she heard no response.

“Naomi, are you still there?”

“Have you found François, then?” Naomi asked, her voice reedy and hesitant.

“No, but I'm sure Lou will help with that in the morning.” Was she so sure?

“Because I need to tell you something first,” Naomi said, their words crossing in midair. “I should've come out with it before now, but I didn't know how.”

Aglaia strained to hear her. A dog yelped in the room.

Naomi was puffing, shooing the dog out the door perhaps, and she said, “Before you meet François—”

But then the line went dead. The phone card credits had expired and when Aglaia plugged in her credit card to redial, she was unsuccessful. She tried to call collect, but one attempt at speaking to the rude French operator convinced her that the ethnic barrier was insurmountable tonight. Naomi's confession—whatever it was—would have to wait.

Aglaia spent the next hour kneading her pillow into different shapes and stewing over Lou's continued absence. In all probability she'd be going to the costume museum on her own in—what was it?—five hours, and she was beginning to reassess Lou's loyalty as she sank into a short and troubled sleep.

The air in the attic smells stale to Mary Grace. Mouse droppings litter the floor between cardboard boxes full of holiday decorations and outgrown clothing, but François doesn't notice, taken up as he is with her. His lips tickle her neck.

“We're supposed to find the coffee perc,” she scolds. Mom wants it in preparation for harvest time, when caffeine is needed in great quantities.

François pays her no mind but draws her in closer to push her breasts up against his chest. Something sharp makes her shrink back. “What's this?” she asks, and pulls a postcard from his shirt pocket.

The photo is just discernible in the dusky light and she sits down on a rough wooden desk to examine the Three Graces—their burnished nudity, their otherworldly air. She hasn't seen the card since the night François arrived over two months ago, though he refers often to the Graces in his storytelling.

“See how they're worn smooth with time, as you're smooth with youth,” he says, stroking her face. He perches beside her, his thigh pressed close to hers. “Three silent girls telling a story of the gods.
Les Trois Grâces
are lovely like you, innocent and so full of mysteries.” His breath in her ear makes her stomach do gymnastics. She'll never get used to his touch or his flattery! But she elbows him, fearful that her mom, impatient for their descent into the kitchen, might pop her head up through the attic trapdoor and discover them.

“What mysteries?”

“The mysteries of a woman's beauty,” he murmurs, his hand sliding around her waist under her top, sending electricity across her skin.

“No, François.” She pulls his hand away and thinks that he can't have been carrying the card around for a thrill—the nudes aren't that detailed. By now he's seen her nearly naked, in her skimpy bikini. Why would he want a picture of
them
?