The Fury of Rachel Monette

by Peter Abrahams

  “Yes,” escaped from the old woman’s lips before she could clamp them shut. She bent over the scrub brush, hiding her face.

  “I’m not going to cause you any trouble,” Rachel said. “I just want to talk to Lily Gris, that’s all.”

  “I told you our fine tenants are gone. They’re all gone, long ago.”

  “When did Lily Gris go away?” The old woman continued to scrub the steps. Through the thin wisps of her hair Rachel saw the skull underneath, as white as bone. “Was it soon after Margaret Monette died?”

  The brush stopped moving. The old woman looked up at Rachel, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “If you know, why ask?”

  “Where did she go?”

  “I can’t remember,” she mumbled, and began working the brush. Rachel stood up and stepped on it.

  “You’re not trying,” she said quietly.

  “Why is it so important?” the old woman whined. A sudden thought wrinkled her brow. “Did her paintings end up making her famous?”

  “That’s it,” Rachel said.

  “Are they worth money?”

  “Some.”

  “How much?” Excitement rose in her tired eyes.

  “It depends on the painting.”

  “How much for one about this size?” The old woman held her hands apart.

  “I’d have to see it before I could tell you.” The old woman’s eyes went to a pigeon on the lintel but it didn’t give her any prompting. With a grunt of effort she got to her feet and wiped her hands on the front of her faded skirt.

  “Come inside.”

  The woman led her through the doorway and down a narrow flight of poorly lit stairs. The numeral one was painted on the door at the bottom in chipped white enamel. The old woman opened it and stood aside for Rachel to pass.

  She entered a dark and smoky room. The only light came from two small windows in the top of the wall on the street side. Through them she could see the treading feet of passersby. The smoke rose from an unfiltered cigarette held loosely between the yellow fingers of a man seated in a lumpy armchair. He wore a cotton undershirt and cotton briefs. Both had once been white. They bore the scars of frequent repair, like an aging fighter’s face. The man’s own face was not a fighter’s: he had buckteeth and a receding chin. The chin needed shaving and the teeth were coated in nicotine. His soft brown eyes looked at Rachel with interest. He crossed his skinny legs and brought the cigarette to his lips. Anyone guessing his age might easily have said forty-two.

  “Get dressed, Guy,” the old woman said. “This lady wants to see the painting. She says it might be worth money.”

  “What painting?” His voice was no lower in pitch than hers, and just as loud. They lived in a world where the sound was always turned up.

  “How many paintings do we have? The one Mademoiselle Gris left behind, of course. Go get it.”

  “I always said it was a good painting, didn’t I?” He rose from the chair. “How much money are you talking about?” he said to Rachel.

  “I can’t say until I’ve seen it.”

  His protruding teeth gnawed his lower lip. “It may not be for sale. It has a lot of sentimental value.”

  “Then I won’t buy it,” Rachel said. “But I can give you an idea of what it’s worth.”

  “Stop trying to be clever and get the painting,” the old woman snapped at him impatiently. He left through a doorway at the back of the room. “It’s true he was very fond of Mademoiselle Gris,” the old woman explained. “She used to keep an eye on him when I was out. Naturally I took a little off her rent. That was how she made ends meet, babysitting Guy and the little Monette boy.”

  The thought of Dan and the man in the underwear being boyhood friends gave Rachel a jolt. “Did she often take care of him? The Monette boy, I mean.”

  “Yes,” the old woman answered. She looked thoughtful. “But I don’t see that has anything to do with the painting.”

  “I think it does.” The old eyes went far away.

  “They were kind people, the Monettes,” she said at last. “Of course Madame Monette was very high spirited, but underneath she had a good nature. A lot of the time I think she had Mademoiselle Gris help with the boy because it was the only way she could give her money without making it look like charity. Often they would go out before dawn for an hour or two and put the child in number five with Mademoiselle Gris. They didn’t have to. They could easily have saved the money by leaving him asleep in his own bed. The Monettes had number three. It was our nicest apartment in those days.”

  “Where did they go for an hour or two before dawn?”

  “To the market.” The old woman gestured impatiently toward the street, then abruptly stopped her hand and let it fall to her side. She went on more quietly: “Madame Monette loved to eat onion soup and watch the market open.”

  “It sounds like they were well off.”

  “No. Not well off. No one had money in those days. Not around here. But they had a little more than most. And they were generous with it.” The thought of money combined with generosity brought the old woman’s eyes back to the present. “No one has ever had any money around here,” she said bitterly.

  Guy returned to the room, still in his underwear. He carried a painting carefully in his hands. It had a plain wooden frame and wore a thick layer of dust. He handed it to Rachel. She blew the dust off and held the painting up to the light.

  It was a night scene, lit by a full moon partially obscured by clouds. The clouds had an eerie translucence. The moonlight shone dimly on a still river. Out of the depths of the water rose the blurred shape of a black bridge, like a prehistoric sea monster.

  “Well?” said the old woman.

  Rachel gave the painting back to the man. “I may want to buy it. But first I have to know a few details.”

  “What kind of details?” the woman asked impatiently.

  “Anything that would authenticate the painting. For example, I need to know when it was painted.”

  “I remember that,” the man said quickly. “She painted it just before she left.”

  “When was that?”

  The buckteeth gnawed again at the lip. “I don’t know exactly. I never thought much about dates when I was a kid.”

  “You still don’t,” his mother said.

  “Don’t start on me.”

  Their voices rose, buffeting each other like clubs. “Stop it,” Rachel said. She turned to the old woman. “You must remember approximately when she left.”

  Closing both eyes she raised her hands to her face and gently rubbed the maroon pits with the tips of her fingers. “It must have been in the spring of 1948. April, I think, or May.”

  “Was it after Madame Monette died?”

  “Yes.” The old woman opened her eyes. They seemed wearier than they were before she closed them. “It was a great tragedy. Monsieur Monette cried like a baby. And poor Mademoiselle Gris. She was so upset they had to take her to the hospital.”

  “Is that why she left here?”

  “No. She left to get married.”

  “To whom?”

  “A friend of Monsieur Monette’s. I can’t remember his name. It was a long time ago.” She took the painting from her son. “Now are you going to make an offer or not? I haven’t got the whole day to waste.”

  “I’ll give you two hundred and fifty francs for the painting.”

  “It’s not enough,” the man said angrily.

  “You stay out of this,” his mother told him. “I’ll handle it.” She turned to Rachel. “It’s not enough.”

  “I’ll give you two hundred and fifty more if you remember Lily Gris’s married name.”

  The old woman’s head hunched forward aggressively. “If her paintings made her famous like you said why don’t you know her married name already?”

  Rachel sighed. “I lied to you. She’s not famous. But her paintings are good and I’m interested in them.” As she said it she realized the painting was very good indeed.<
br />
  “You mean there’s no market for it?” Disappointment reduced the old woman’s voice to a monotone.

  “Not yet.”

  “Then we’ll hang on to it until there is one,” the man said defiantly.

  “It may be twenty years.”

  “You’ll be sixty-two,” the old woman sneered at him.

  “And you’ll be worms.”

  “Sometimes I can hardly wait.” Tears welled up in the old woman’s eyes but they didn’t overflow. “Give me the money,” she said to Rachel.

  Rachel handed her two hundred and fifty francs and took the painting. The woman counted the money twice. “And what about Lily Gris’s married name?” Rachel asked.

  “I told you I can’t remember. It’s no use asking me over and over like that.”

  “Is there anyone else living in the building who was here then?”

  She shook her head. “They’ve all gone away. Didn’t I tell you that, too? You’ve got your painting. Why don’t you go away and stop bothering us?”

  Rachel moved toward the door. “Wait,” the man said. He turned to his mother. “What about Monsieur Tremblay?”

  She shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  “Who is Monsieur Tremblay?”

  “He’s a clerk at the post office,” the man explained. “He’s been there forever. She might have left him a forwarding address in her new name.”

  “Let’s go talk to him.”

  “We can’t. He’s on his holiday.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m not sure. I think he goes to Italy. He takes a bus from one camping spot to another, and sleeps in a little tent.” He lifted his hands palm up: there was no accounting for the man’s eccentricity.

  “When does he return?” Rachel asked. Mother and son conferred. They appeared to know the precise amount of holiday time the clerk had coming to him. They counted on their fingers.

  “Thursday,” the old woman said.

  “Good. Ask him Thursday morning.” Rachel took more money from her handbag. “Here are fifty francs. I’ll telephone you Thursday afternoon. If you’ve found out the name I’ll give you two hundred more.”

  “You said two hundred and fifty before.”

  “That’s right,” the man backed her up.

  “Two hundred and fifty includes the fifty I just gave you,” Rachel said sharply. “Now tell me your name and telephone number so I can reach you.”

  The old woman told her. Rachel opened her notebook to a new page and wrote April 1, P.M., and under that the name and phone number.

  “How can we get in touch with you, if we have to?” the son asked.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll call.”

  “But we don’t even know your name,” he pressed her. He put his hand on her forearm and moved it very slightly across the skin. She thought of the social workers.

  “That didn’t keep you from taking my three hundred francs.”

  The old woman cackled at him. He dropped his hand from Rachel’s arm and left the room.

  Outside Rachel walked slowly through the streets where the market had been. She thought of Margaret Monette, and felt a sudden hunger for onion soup.

  22

  Ed Joyce’s voice, a voice she knew to be deep and rumbling, sounded weak and thin as if the weight of the ocean pressing on the cable were squeezing the life out of it.

  “Hello,” he said to the long distance operator. “Ed Joyce here.”

  “Mr. Ed Joyce?” she said in her Parisian accent. “You have an overseas call from Paris.”

  “Paris?” But the operator had already left the line.

  “It’s Rachel Monette, Mr. Joyce.”

  “Oh. I thought you went to Morocco.” He didn’t sound thrilled to hear from her.

  “I did.” She heard noises like pounding surf and shrieking winds, far away.

  “What are you doing in Paris?”

  “Looking for Adam.” In the pause that followed the storm grew louder. “Is there anything new?”

  “No.”

  “What about the FBI?”

  “Nothing new there either, apparently. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you still working on it?”

  “We never close a case like this, Mrs. Monette.”

  “That’s not what I asked you.” Suddenly the storm abated, reduced in a moment to a faint hiss on the edge of her hearing. Ed Joyce’s voice, too, became very faint.

  “We’re doing our best,” came Joyce’s reply, smothered as though he held his hand over his mouth. “But nothing has happened to change our original analysis.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  “What? I can’t hear you very well, Mrs. Monette. You’ll have to speak up.”

  “I’ll be in Bristol next Thursday,” an aristocratic English voice said very distinctly. A rush of blended conversations followed. Rachel pressed her mouth to the perforated disc and shouted through the babble:

  “What about the document I left you? Has anyone asked about it?”

  “I can’t hear you.” His tiny cry cut through the din.

  “The document,” she yelled at the top of her lungs. Her free ear heard a knock at the door. Her other ear listened in on an anarchists’ convention.

  “Still in the safe,” she thought she heard Ed Joyce say.

  “Has anyone asked you about it?” she screamed. The knock was repeated, more loudly.

  “Negative,” he said, and then something else she didn’t catch.

  “Wednesday’s no good at all,” the Englishman said with annoyance.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Joyce.”

  “What?”

  She hung up the phone. The door opened and a worried chambermaid peeked into the room. “Is something wrong, madame?”

  “No.” The chambermaid didn’t believe her but she withdrew and closed the door anyway.

  Rachel reached again for the receiver. She noticed the sweaty imprint left on the black plastic by her palm, and wiped it dry on the bedspread. The hotel operator connected her to the information operator in Orange. The number for Xavier Monette was unlisted.

  Rachel caught the night train to Lyon. The couchettes were all taken. Rachel bought a first-class ticket which entitled her to share a compartment with a gray-robed nun, whose sharp nose and cold blue eyes forestalled any conversation. After the conductor inspected their tickets they lay full length on the padded seats that faced each other across the compartment.

  The train drummed its way south. As sleep closed slowly around Rachel’s mind she heard the door slide open. She looked up quickly and saw by the light in the corridor two girls dressed like hikers. They carried large backpacks on aluminum frames and each had a wineskin slung around her neck. Rachel and the nun sat up. The two girls hoisted their packs onto the luggage rack and took places on either side of Rachel. The nun remained sitting. One of the girls leaned across Rachel and said in English to the other:

  “I told you it was easy, didn’t I?”

  “You were right, Mindy,” replied the other. Their accents were Californian. They laughed together at the easiness of it, and the one who wasn’t Mindy unslung her wineskin, and tilted it to her mouth. The nun rose and left the compartment, closing the door after her.

  “Do you think she’s coming back?” the drinking girl asked. “I’d sure like to lie down.”

  “Go ahead.” The drinking girl took a last swallow and crossed to the opposite seat. As she lay down the conductor opened the door and stepped inside.

  “Tickets, please,” he said to the two girls in French.

  “No speak French,” Mindy said, shrugging in apparent hopelessness.

  “Your tickets, please,” the conductor said in English. The girls retrieved their packs and took a long time searching through little zippered compartments before they found their tickets.

  “These are second-class tickets. You must leave this compartment.”

  Mindy opened her eyes wide and gestured around the room. “But look at all the s
pace there is,” she said. “And it’s so crowded in second class. Can’t you make an exception just this once?”

  “Please do not make difficulties.” He beckoned them toward the door. The girls picked up their packs.

  “This sure is a dumb way to act for a country that depends on tourists,” the drinking girl said loudly to her companion as they went out. His face impassive, the conductor led them away.

  “You bet it is,” Rachel heard Mindy reply before the steel door at the end of the corridor slammed shut. She lay down. Once again the door slid open. The nun entered.

  A nifty bit of work, Rachel thought. The cold blue eyes rested on her face for a moment: they seemed disappointed that the conductor hadn’t removed her as well. The nun lay down. Rachel closed her eyes and tried to remember the story of the Spanish Inquisition. The train played its percussive symphony through the night.

  When the music came to an end Rachel awoke. The train stood motionless at the station in Lyon. She heard the air brakes venting steam. On the floor of the compartment, facing the window, the nun knelt in prayer. Outside the steam rose into the night air in little white clouds, sure to beat prayers to heaven in any race Rachel could imagine. She changed trains.

  Dawn of Tuesday March thirtieth cast a warm clear light on Provence. Blue mist nestled in the hollows of the eastern slopes, safe for an hour or two from the rays of the sun. Most of the brown sheaths had fallen from the buds on the vines, and the first tender shoots, which would become leaves and grapes and strong Provencale wine were green speckles on the moist red earth of the vineyards. A few of the higher slopes were topped by stone ruins of old forts, forts which had once made the farmers believe in the feudal system. Now they made the photo-processors rich, and their mortgages were enough to make the farmers believers in the system.

  At Orange, Rachel was the only passenger who got off the train. She left her suitcase with the clerk at the baggage claim counter and crossed the square to the Hotel Terminus. The manager unfolded a map of the town. Handling his gold pen with pride he drew arrows pointing to the Roman triumphal arch, the Roman theatre which he assured her was not only the best preserved in France, but in the whole world, and finally rue de St. Jean-Baptiste, which was what she had asked for. Rachel ran her finger along the almost straight line that marked the course of the street from the center of town to the outskirts where it became a minor departmental highway.