by Vanda Writer
Juliana slid into a pew and I slid in beside her. She took out her rosary and gripped them between her fingers as if trying to squeeze something out. Perhaps her mother? My eyes wandered over the high vaulted ceilings and the statues of saints that surrounded me. I figured if you were going to worship, you might as well do it in a place where you were surrounded by great art, and I was a sucker for the tormented Jesus stuff.
Juliana kissed her beads and raised her head.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yes.” She nodded. “Let’s go.”
As we rose to go, the deep sound of a bell rang out. I stopped in the aisle to listen. Juliana saw me stop and backed up to stand beside me. She knew how much I loved the sound of church bells. I breathed in the deep vibrations. Oh, how I loved that sound. They called you—they called you to—something—I couldn’t find the word. When the deep bong stopped, I felt Quasimodo, the Hunchback of Notre Dame, standing beside me. How could I not feel him when I stood in his church? Of course, most people would say Quasimodo was never truly here and he never truly rang the bells in the bell tower. They’d say he was only a story, a creature made up in Victor Hugo’s mind. But is that all he is? Is that all any of us are? Creatures made up in God’s mind? Quasimodo is as real to me as I am to myself. He became real the moment I picked up Victor Hugo’s book and began reading his story; I was only a kid, living in the country. Quasimodo lived in a faraway, exotic land, centuries away from me, inside an old church I thought I’d never visit, but still we belonged to each other. He lived in me now. His love for Esmerelda, the woman he knew he could never possess—I looked over at Juliana, standing patiently beside me—Esmerelda, the beautiful gypsy girl. She alone gave him solace when he cried out from his prison of aloneness. I knew him as well as anyone who I might put out my hand to touch. Didn’t that make him real? As real as me? As real as Juliana?
We stepped into the daylight once more. “What do you get out of that?” I asked her when we stood again in the courtyard.
“Out of what?”
“That. Praying. The rosary. Does it comfort you?”
“I think I get out of it what you get from listening to the ringing of the bells. Let’s go look at the books. Maybe you can find some hard-to-find book you’ve always wanted. Something rare. Expensive.” She practically sprinted toward the booksellers with me running to catch up, but I wasn’t ready to hurry yet. I was still mired in stained-glass windows, holy sculpture, bells, candles, and Quasimodo.
I caught up with Juliana at one of the stalls where she was merrily talking in French to the bouquiniste. “Look,” she said to me. “He has lots to choose from. Pick something out. I’ll get it for you.”
I so wished I was in the mood for being a carefree sightseer. “No, Jule. Thanks for the thought, but I don’t want anything right now.”
“No?” She sounded disappointed, which made me feel worse, but I couldn’t take anything from her. Not now.
“I thought we were going to your mother’s, uh . . .”
“Let’s go down that street over there.” And she took off with me chasing after her.
“I love these little streets, don’t you?” she said. “Tres mediéval.” I followed her as she wandered through the shops, gaily chatting with shopkeepers.
“Let’s get your hair cut.”
“What? No.”
“I know a little place near here. A salon. Off the beaten track, but the owner is so talented. We’ll have him do it. No one but the boss will do for you.” She charged down the street again.
“Jule, no!” I called as I ran after her. “I hate beauty parlor stuff.”
“Oh, but you would look so cute in one of those new Parisian short styles. You like my hair, don’t you?” She trotted past a leather shop and a bakery. She was moving so fast it felt like me getting my hair cut had suddenly become an emergency.
“Yes,” I said, catching my breath. “It’s terrific for you, but nothing looks good on me, so let’s skip it.”
“That’s because it’s not styled properly. By an expert.”
“Max sends me to the best.”
“But Max doesn’t understand what you need.” She pointed down the street. “It’s down there.”
She almost ran the rest of the way with me running alongside her. “Jule, are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Couldn’t be better. We’re going to get your hair cut.” She stopped in front of a small door.
“But Jule—”
“Let me do this for you. Please.”
“Okay,” I sighed.
We walked into a dark little shop where two women hairdressers were working on their customers’ hair.
Juliana asked something of one of the women and the woman pointed to a curtain, yelling, “Marco!”
Marco, a brown-skinned man with thick gray hair, tossed the curtain out of his way with great joy. “Bonjour, mon amie.” They fell into each other’s arms and immediately bubbled back and forth with French. She pointed to me and Marco came close, studying me, walking around me, looking at me from every angle. It felt creepy. I was pushed into one of the chairs.
Juliana hovered over Marco the whole time while he worked. I was mostly in a daze. I couldn’t unlock my thinking from Schuyler and Juliana was making it so much harder for me to tell her.
“Well?” Juliana said, waking me from my stupor. “What do you think?”
“It looks—good. But—you don’t mind it this way?”
“Why would I?”
“Because uh . . .” I looked over at Marco who leaned against the mirror, smoking a cigarette and staring at me, apparently enjoying his masterpiece.
“You can say it,” she whispered. “He knows. They all know.”
“Yeah?” I looked over at Marco who was grinning at me.
“You’re afraid it might be a little masculine?” she whispered. “I like that. This is a salon where women come who want to express themselves differently.”
Now I look like what they think I am, I thought. What will that mean in the real world? But it felt so right. No more stupid curls hugging my neck. This style swept back from my forehead and ended before my neck. It was loose and free.
“And,” Juliana said, “when you need to add a feminine touch for your job, you can—” She ran her finger lightly over my lips— “add a little lipstick, or—” She ran the same finger over my eye lids. It was heavenly. “—eye shadow here. And you know what? Adding a pair of small earrings—” Her finger played with one of my earlobes and I didn’t care who was watching. I was slipping into heaven. “—would be perfect for this style. Voila, a girl! Yes, Marco?”
He nodded.
“Marco’s one of us. So are those two ladies and their customers.” They waved at me and I waved back. “Of course, like in the States, we never talk about this place to outsiders.”
“Of course.” I stared at myself in the mirror. “I love it, Jule. I look like me.”
“Yes, you do. Let’s go.” She thanked Marco as she paid him.
It was getting to be afternoon, and I thought for sure she’d want to take off to her mother’s grave, but . . .
“Oh look, a café! You wouldn’t have a true Parisian day if you didn’t stop at a café.” She was off again.
“Jule, I’ve been to cafes. I didn’t come here to have a Parisian day. I came here because—”
“I know. I know. But mixing it with a little fun can’t hurt.” She sat at a table and I joined her.
“Wine?”
“It’s kind of early in the day.”
“Not for a Frenchman. And you seem to be a little low in energy. Lack of sleep. The wine will perk you up.”
“Or knock me out.”
“Garçon, garçon.” She waved her gloves in his directi
on.
Maybe I should tell her now, I thought. Over wine. No. Then she might never be able to go to her mother’s grave. I can’t do that to her.
The garçon brought two glasses of wine.
“Such a lovely day, isn’t it?” Juliana said, leaning back in her chair and taking a sip of her wine. “I think autumn has finally arrived.”
“Are you all right?”
“Couldn’t be better. Enjoying my wine. Why don’t you enjoy yours? That hair style is perfect for you.”
“Jule, I don’t have time to—”
“To be with me? To enjoy the weather and a glass of wine with me? You don’t have time for that?” There was an edge in her voice. I couldn’t tell if it was anger or sadness or both.
“No. Of course, I have time to spend with you. I’m just worried about you because you’re . . .”
Her attention wandered from me to a man playing an accordion for a young couple holding hands a few tables over.
“They look very much in love. Don’t they?” she asked.
“Yes. Are you all right, Jule?”
“Why do you keep asking me that? I’m fine, the weather is fine, we’re in Paris, I’m a hit at the Lido. What could possibly be wrong?”
“You’re afraid, aren’t you?”
She looked away from me. “Have you—ever been to the grave of someone you cared about?”
“My grandmother.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, I had two grandmothers, but we didn’t go to the one who was my father’s mother because my mother had a fight with her before she died. But my grandmother on my mother’s side . . . I loved her a lot. She was the one I told you about. The one where I jumped in the leaves. Oh, you don’t remember that story.”
“Yes, I do. That story means a great deal to me. I feel like it’s almost my story.”
“That’s nice. I like my story being your story, too. Anyway, she had a heart attack when I was sixteen. I never expected her to . . . I mean, she was always strong and then one day she wasn’t there anymore.”
“It was hard for you to get over it?”
“Very.”
“But you got over it.”
“I don’t know. I still think of her a lot. And sometimes when I’m by myself, I cry because I miss her.”
“I didn’t know that. I should know these things about you. I—I’ve been avoiding thinking of my mother being gone ever since I learned of it. For a long time, I told myself it never happened, that she was safe, living in Marseille. And sometimes I could even make myself believe it. I can’t do that anymore. I should have been with her, Al. I could’ve stopped it.”
“Oh, Jule, I’ve heard you say that before, but you must see how silly that is. No one even knows who did it.”
“I do.”
“You think you do. You have a hypothesis. But you don’t know.”
“Yes, I do. I saw him.”
“What? But you weren’t even in France when it happened.”
“No one knows this. I never told anyone.”
“What do you mean?”
She took a sip of her wine and looked in the direction of the graveyard.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I assured her.
“I know.” She took a breath. “I saw him push her. He pushed her into a wall in our house. She probably was expecting my brother at the time. Maybe she’d told him about being pregnant. I don’t know. But I do know he pushed her. I saw him. They didn’t see me. He pushed her hard. Her head. There was blood. I never said anything. Why didn’t I say something? Why didn’t I say, ‘Mama, you can’t stay with him. He’s going to hurt you bad.’ Why didn’t I say that much to her? It would have been so simple.”
She looked at me as if I could give her the answer. Her face was lined with the pain she felt. I wanted to help her, but I didn’t know how. “How old were you when this happened?”
“What difference does it make? I don’t know. Around ten.”
“It makes a difference. How could such a little girl be expected to take care of her mother?”
“I was busy with my damn career and all my lessons.”
“Like your mother wanted you to be. You did exactly what she wanted. Did that creep live with you, then?”
“No. After he pushed her that day, he was never around. She was still seeing him, though. Sometimes, in an evening, he’d pick her up for dates. Sometimes, she didn’t come home all night. I think she was protecting me from him. He moved in the year I left for the States. She was so happy. She told me in a letter. ‘He was the one,’ she said. The special one she’d been waiting for. I could have stopped it, Al, but instead I dropped out of the Conservatoire. She was so proud I got accepted into that. Then, I quit to go to the other side of the world for my own selfish pleasure and let that man kill her.” Some tears bubbled up, but she wiped them away with her handkerchief.
“Did you ever think you left to come to the US because you knew staying would be dangerous for you? Maybe it wasn’t selfish; maybe it was survival.”
“No, I was selfish. You more than anyone else knows that’s how I am. Thanks for trying to make me feel better, but no, I was plain selfish and thoughtless. I can’t prove it and no one knows where he is, but I know that man who would not claim his son and give him peace was the one who . . . He bashed . . . he used a hammer and he . . .” Her throat seemed to clog and she could barely speak for a few seconds. “She gave up everything for me. She could’ve been a great opera diva, but because of me she didn’t reach those heights. And I didn’t either. That’s what she hoped I would do, that’s what she prepared me for, that I would take my place among the greats. I’m a nightclub singer, Al. She must look down from the heavens with such disappointment. How can I ever face her?”
“You’re one helluva nightclub singer and I betcha she’s proud.”
“I’m—I’m afraid—to go there. To the grave.”
“I know. I’m going to be there with you.” I wanted so badly to take her hand in mine and for us to walk to the grave together hand in hand. But we didn’t dare.
In the distance, I saw a young man and woman sitting under a tree at the side of the stone pathway that led to the cemetery. They were kissing and groping each other.
“Flowers! I should bring flowers, shouldn’t I?”
“If you want.”
“I saw a woman selling flowers by the side of the road over there. You wait here.”
She paid the waiter and dashed to the road where a woman sold flowers from her wagon.
Once she had her flowers, Juliana signaled me to follow her. We walked up the stone pathway that led to her mother’s grave. She had a piece of paper with a map to the site that her brother had given her. The walkway was lined on both sides with the last of September’s flowers. Down the sloping green hillsides were a few trees whose leaves were beginning to change color, but mostly the lawn was sprinkled with headstones. Juliana clutched a bouquet of daffodils. “Oh, I got this for you.” She held out a lavender rose. “The old woman said it means enchantment.”
“Enchantment, heh?” I took the rose in my hand.
She checked that no one was on the road with us and touched the side of my face with her fingertips, “Mon cherie. I wish I could . . . Oh well,” she sighed. “There’s tonight.”
Juliana started again on the road, moving ahead of me. I watched how beautiful she looked in her new dress, the way she stepped between the stones with such feminine ease. Everything I ever hoped for was happening that day right alongside everything I ever dreaded.
“Coming?” She turned around, waiting for me.
We walked up the hill side by side, periodically consulting the map. “I think it’s right over there,” I said.
She stopped.
“Come on, Jule, it’s only a few more steps away.”
“Could you—could you go and make certain?”
“Sure. You wait here. I’ll go ahead.”
I walked the short distance to the top of the hill and turned onto a small tributary where there were grand headstones with cement crosses of Mary or an apostle or Jesus. Next to one of these grand monstrosities sat a small gray headstone peering out of a knot of grass. I squatted down close to read the name. “Grace Masden.” That was Juliana’s mother. I stood up and waved my hand to signal her.
Juliana took the last few steps to her mother’s grave and we stood side by side.
“Hi, Mama. I brought you these.” She bent down and laid the flowers on her mother’s grave. Together we kneeled near the headstone, our hands interwoven into each other’s like we’d become one stone sculpture created from two stones. Juliana freely cried, probably for the first time, not stopping the tears.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I lay on my stomach on top of the mussed sheets trying to get unconsciousness back. I don’t know how much time ticked by, but at some point, soft hands and prickling nails ran down my back under my nightshirt and lingered a moment at the waistband of my underpants. I stretched out on my stomach, making it easier for her to get them off me. I might as well enjoy this one more time before all our time was gone. She tugged at the leg holes of my underpants, slowly pulling them down to my ankles. I always loved the feeling of that last moment before she took them off. That whoosh of freedom. She slipped my underpants over my feet and off. Oh, yes! There was the whoosh. She pulled my nightshirt up to my waist and nibbled on my rear while she reached around to the front and put her fingers between my legs, letting them slowly walk up my thighs to my clit. I let out a deep sigh. She turned me over and pulled my nightshirt above my chest. Her tongue circled a nipple while her fingers played between my legs. I wanted this, and I didn’t want this. In only a short time, I was going to lower the worst possible boom on her. How could I let her do this for me? I grabbed her by the shoulders and crushed her into me, kissing her. I tore off my nightshirt. There was nothing so wonderful as being naked with Juliana when she was naked too. Soon I was going to lose this. So, I would have it now. I will have it. I will have it. We kissed and touched in desperation. Forget tomorrow. Forget the next damn minute. Be one inside me now. Now! Now! Only now! Oh, God, Oh God, Juliana . . .
