by Deb Elkink
The neighborhood outside her window was rousing itself for a day of commerce. The tradesman across the street clattered wide his shutters and, one by one, the other shop windows blinked open to reveal their wares—sausages or souvenirs or cigarettes. The crumbling brick wall of the upper stories above the shops was graphed with miniscule apartment balconies, pots of scarlet blooming behind wrought iron railing.
The cab pulled up for Aglaia—using the Métro today was out of the question for her after all, she’d decided—and she gathered her purse and the costume box and documentation. The drive to the museum didn’t take as long as she’d anticipated. She hardly had time to reapply her lip gloss and review the French terminology she’d underlined in preparation for the meeting: la livraison, delivery; la réplique, replica; le jupon, petticoat.
But when she arrived at the museum, a Neo-Renaissance palace, she found that the officials there spoke polite English after all. The receptionist awaiting her introduced herself, with a genuine smile, as Christelle, and then ushered her through massive pillars into a conference room.
Three committee members welcomed Aglaia with a handshake; they hung the dress, offered gratifying accolades about her fine handiwork, examined the papers, and signed notification of delivery.
A long-haired journalist with a flashing camera peppered her with questions and informed her that the article would be printed in tomorrow’s Le Parisien. The curator, on exiting with his associates, handed her his business card and advised her to call if she needed anything else.
The whirl of activity—its formality and in particular its brevity—threw Aglaia off, the whole affair taking less than an hour. It wasn’t that she liked to be in the limelight, but she’d expected more ostentation somehow, more hoopla, perhaps even a luncheon. The meeting hardly justified the expense of the trip over to France, she thought as she picked up her handbag and glanced around the emptied room, wondering what to do next. But the receptionist stood by a tray of pastries behind her, and held out a steaming cup as if she read Aglaia’s mind.
Christelle shrugged. “They are industrious businessmen, non?”
“It’s the same at home.” Aglaia laughed, relieved that she hadn’t been left totally on her own. She deliberated over an éclair dusted with chocolate and a caramelized palmier, and chose the former. Christelle didn’t take a pastry until Aglaia urged her to help herself and said she didn’t want to eat alone, and then the woman picked out a buttery brioche.
“Bon appétit,” Christelle said.
While Aglaia finished her coffee, the receptionist explained that arrangements had been made for her to view a segment of the museum’s archived costumes. She led her through the stately halls of buff-colored stone, over intricate mosaic floors, beneath arched windows tinted gold, and alongside an exterior colonnade through which Aglaia spotted the Eiffel Tower in the distance, poking like a thick darning needle up into the fabric of the sky.
The exhibition they skimmed along the way showed mannequins dressed in suede fringes and miniskirts, celebrating the attire of the 1960s. Although the facility housed tens of thousands of garments and fashion accessories, only a small section of the palace was dedicated to the rotating showcase of costumes. Aglaia’s expectation of spectacular variety was a bit blighted, but at the end of a long hall they entered a chamber with high ceilings and carved columns where the next show was being organized for the floor. No one else was among the racks now, and Christelle left Aglaia unaccompanied to view the eighteenth-century clothing at her leisure.
The light was muted to protect the outfits but still allowed Aglaia to make out the tidy stitching around the cuff of a lace-ruffled blouse and the worked buttonholes in a striped jacket. She was enthralled with the protective cloak and headgear donned by a physician to protect himself from the miasmas of the Plague, and stockings worn by the Montgolfier brothers when their invention—the hot air balloon—first ascended to the skies above Paris. But the dresses were what captivated her most.
Aglaia was tempted to dash off a few sketches for future reproduction in her own studio but was afraid she’d be breaking some code and be embarrassed if anyone walked in. She gave herself over to the clothing, and her sensual enjoyment went beyond sight. Not spying any security cameras, and even though she wasn’t wearing cotton curatorial gloves, she allowed herself to stroke the rich textures of satin jacquard and felted wool and hand-loomed linen worn thin at the seams, and she picked up a lawn handkerchief and inhaled the mellowness of three hundred years.
She wished Eb could be here with her; he’d find such joy in the workmanship.
At the mental picture of Eb, Aglaia pulled herself away from examining a pair of hunting breeches—maybe sported by some aristocrat chasing a fox through the royal forests of the king. Perhaps “joy” wasn’t at all the word Eb would use in this situation, particular as he was about his vocabulary.
She recalled, years ago, admitting to him how happy she was at Incognito, what joy the job gave her. Eb took that as an invitation to discuss her inner life, and he made a point of distinguishing between joy and aesthetic pleasure. Artistic endeavor would never fill her void, he prophesied, quoting another of his author-heroes who’d said that joy must have “the stab, the pang, the inconsolable longing” mere happiness didn’t bring.
She comprehended his meaning on the spot, though she didn’t admit it to Eb, and the phrase had embedded itself. She knew only one source for that stab, pang, and longing—and it didn’t have anything to do with sewing or even with François Vivier.
Aglaia abolished those thoughts and concentrated on a flounced panier and robe volante—a hoop skirt beneath a “flying gown” that had graced a lady-in-waiting attending a duchess in the royal courts. Her hour with the costumes passed swiftly into noon.
“Excusez-moi.”
At the sound of Christelle’s voice, Aglaia looked up from a shelf of footwear—beribboned dancing slippers and crude wooden sabots and embroidered cloth mules with silver buckles. The receptionist was at the open door and standing behind her was Lou, appearing miffed.
“Why didn’t you wait for me this morning?” she barked. “I got back to the hotel to find you gone, and I was worried about you. Come along, the maitre d’ down the street is holding a spot for us.” Lou ignored Christelle’s farewell and hustled Aglaia past the curator’s closed office door without giving her the chance to thank him.
“You say you were worried about me?” Aglaia picked up the challenge when they were seated at the bistro. “That wasn’t evident when you ditched last night, leaving me to wait for a ride until even the musicians were gone. And as far as worrying goes, what in the world you were you thinking by going off with total strangers like that?” She marveled at her own offensive; it had been a while in coming.
“You have abandonment issues, Aglaia.”
That was just like Lou—deflecting the point to her advantage.
“This has nothing to do with my feeling abandoned.” Had it?
“Don’t raise your voice,” Lou instructed. She shook her napkin open on her lap and addressed the waitress: “Une bouteille d’eau.” Lou’s insistence on using French was becoming supercilious. She couldn’t even ask for a bottle of water without sounding as though she were instructing Aglaia.
“But why didn’t you come back to the hotel last night?” Aglaia pressed her complaint. “What would keep you from at least calling and letting me know you weren’t dead or something?”
Lou cocked her head and asked in a snide tone, “You’re serious? You want the lurid details of my nighttime activities with Philippe and Emmanuelle?”
Aglaia turned her face away, mortification dousing her anger.
“I thought not,” Lou said. “Let’s get on with our day then, shall we?”
And that was that. Repelled by Lou’s reference to her lasciviousness, Aglaia didn’t know what else to do but ignore it and resign herself for the afternoon to the pace the other woman set.
Lou escorte
d her along the grand avenues—Saint Germain, Haussman, and Montaigne—pointing out the haute couture houses and even stopping in at one to actually purchase a gown for herself at extravagant cost. It was made of deep magenta organza and peau de soie, the bodice encrusted with crystals. She said it was for the university function next weekend and suggested Aglaia try on an outfit that would have been completely out of range for her pocketbook, though it was on sale. Her own little black dress Naomi so admired couldn’t approach Lou’s in pizzazz, even if it did show off her décolletage, but it would have to do for the society dinner.
Lou led the way back to the street with the Givenchy bag in her hand to advertise her good taste to other wealthy shoppers. Despite Aglaia’s objections, and maybe as an apology for her hideous behavior of the preceding night, Lou insisted on buying her some eau de toilette in a Belle Époque boutique along the way, paying an exorbitant amount for the miniscule bottle.
Aglaia willed herself to forget her misgivings about her travel partner, especially when Lou vowed that tonight, on returning from their shopping spree, she’d track down François by telephone. Aglaia didn’t doubt Lou’s ability to do that—just her will.
Later that evening, with a cup of tisane in hand, Aglaia curled up in an armchair beside Lou’s in the hotel’s quiet lobby. She was worn out from the afternoon of shopping but excitement knotted her throat; she expected to speak with François at any moment. Their corner was a private place to sit, all the more because the other occupants of the hotel weren’t lined up tonight to check their e-mail on the courtesy computer, which was out of order according to the sticky note pasted to the screen: hors service. Lou’s laptop was useless as well because wireless was unavailable in the budget hotel—a disagreeable fact Lou blamed on Aglaia’s prepaid choice of lodgings. The shabby-chic establishment didn’t allow for outgoing telephone calls from the rooms, either, but guests were permitted to use the phone in the lobby for local calls—for a fee, of course. The two-star circumstances had an obvious effect on Lou, whose mood deteriorated with each call she placed.
Lou had already spoken in smooth French to the occupants of five residences listed in the phone book borrowed from the front desk, solicitous in her tone and taking enough time with each household to explain why she was calling. With apparent ease, Lou connected with numbers in several different arrondissements of the city, and Aglaia was glad not to be bearing the burden alone beneath a street lamp in a public booth. But each failed call brought Lou’s eyebrows closer together and produced a tightening in Aglaia’s own chest.
“Run up to the room and see that you have the spelling of your boyfriend’s name correct,” Lou ordered.
“I know I have the spelling right,” Aglaia said, bristling. As if she could make a mistake like that.
“I think ‘Vivier’ may have an ‘s’ at the end, like the city name. It will speed up the calling.”
Aglaia didn’t want to toy with Lou’s ferocity tonight. She acquiesced to the demand and, by the time she returned with proof of correct spelling, Lou was replacing the receiver with a pat of finality.
“Done.”
“What do you mean?” It was a stutter, and Aglaia picked up her pace across the lobby towards Lou.
“I located him. The number was right here all along, the first call I made after you left. Everything’s set, then.” Lou gave a brisk nod. “You’re to meet at the Louvre in front of the Three Graces at two o’clock on Friday—the day after tomorrow.”
Aglaia stopped dead on the area carpet that covered the grey masonry floor. At first, sheer delight flooded her, and then skepticism set in. How could Lou have introduced herself, explained to François all the details, and made the arrangements in the short time she was absent?
“Well, close your mouth and quit gawking,” Lou said. “You look like an imbecile and I hear somebody coming down the stairs—probably those gloomy crones from London.” She was organizing her research now, spreading papers out on the low table and slipping a pen from her briefcase. “This exercise of calling half of Paris took long enough and I need to review my notes for my stint at the Sorbonne, so if you’ll excuse me… ?”
Lou held out the telephone book and Aglaia automatically reached for it to return it the clerk, disparaging herself at the same time for being so subservient.
“But Lou,” she blurted as if her physical motion reactivated her speech, “what did he sound like? Was he surprised? Shouldn’t I have spoken with him?”
Lou peered over spectacles perched on the end of her nose, and her eyebrows twitched disagreeably. “He was going out and didn’t have time for pleasantries.”
“But isn’t Friday awfully late for me to meet him? I mean, it’s our last day here.” She was flustered. Lou was making changes she couldn’t keep straight in her head. “I thought we were spending tomorrow at the Louvre and then taking in Versailles on Friday.”
“I’ve reconsidered our schedule, Aglaia. Versailles is only a forty-minute train trip, perfect for Friday afternoon as soon as we’re finished at the Louvre.” She sorted through the papers laid out before her. “Tomorrow I’ll have enough to do here in the city with my research at the university.”
“But you’re allowing only a few hours for the Louvre,” Aglaia said. She knew from her reading that the museum held an immense treasury of works that would require at least a day for even a cursory exploration. But, more to the point, the meeting Lou had coordinated with François would be very brief if they hoped to squeeze in an excursion to the château of the Sun King as well.
Lou’s lips pinched together. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve caused this time-constraint issue yourself. You should have planned a longer stay in Paris to begin with. And your decision to book such an early morning flight home necessitates our last night’s stay in that generic airport hotel, though it’ll be an improvement on this dump.”
Aglaia glanced up at the clerk, but he didn’t react to the insult. Lou disregarded the feelings of others, Aglaia thought—hers in particular. Lou was right about her mistake in the timing of the return flight on Saturday; it meant they’d have to check out of the Caillou on Friday and drag their bags along with them for the day—first to the Louvre and then all the way out to Versailles and back to the airport. But that didn’t mean Lou had to be so offensive. Whose trip was this, anyway?
“That doesn’t leave a lot of time for a proper reunion with François,” Aglaia persisted.
“Listen,” Lou said, “if my provisions are unsatisfactory to you, I’ll dial François up again right now and you can speak to him yourself.”
“No, I wouldn’t know what to say.” Aglaia prickled at the other woman’s condescension and her own lack of confidence.
“I thought not. Now, if you don’t want to grovel before me in appreciation, at least let me get my preparatory work done. There’s nothing more I can do for you tonight,” Lou said in dismissal.
“Well, thanks for phoning,” Aglaia muttered, out of habit rather than gratitude. She was uneasy as she left the lobby with her cup of herbal tea and headed again for their room. As tired and agitated as she was tonight, she wanted to spend some time in bed with the Bible notes, making her own final preparation before delivering the book.
Seventeen
Once she was under the covers, Aglaia paged through François’s notations again to make sense of his thoughts and recapture the progression of memories. The last turned-down corner took her to Hosea, the story of the whore, where François had underlined a few words here and there—sin and kiss and lovers. But the words of the text itself pummeled her: I will make her like a desert, turn her into a parched land, and slay her with thirst. I will wall her in so that she cannot find her way. Aglaia didn’t welcome the rebuke to her own parched and walled-in soul, and she turned the pages quickly.
A four-hundred-year silence separated the Old Testament from the New, she remembered—four centuries where no voice rang from the prophets to the people of Israel, though they
sought their Messiah through ceremony and ritual. They didn’t recognize him when he appeared because they hadn’t harkened to that final voice crying in the desert—Prepare the way for the Lord—for their hearts were calloused and their eyes were closed.
Lou would return to the room shortly, so Aglaia sped up her reading. She skimmed another page to find herself at the birth of Christ, where François circled the words angel and virgin, and wrote in the margin the words Les Trois Rois.
How could she have forgotten the night of the stars, the night he had called her an angel for touching him?
Mary Grace is thirsty. That’ll be her excuse, anyway, if her parents catch her creeping by François’s door at three in the morning in her skimpy nightwear. She finds him sleepless, as well—the air is too hot. So they tiptoe out to the dewy grass, closing the screen door gingerly behind them.
“It’s called the Big Dipper in English,” she answers him, “and that one’s Orion’s Belt.”
“We say Les Trois Rois—the Three Kings.”
“Oh, like the Christmas story,” she says. “The Wise Men saw the star in the east and followed it to the place where Jesus was born, and worshipped Him there.”
“I worship you,” he says, and she’s thankful the darkness hides from him the naked pleasure that must be glowing on her face. “But I prefer your English name of Orion’s Belt.”
Then he tells her the tale of Orion, the giant huntsmen of the heavens born near Boeotia in Greece, the son of Poseidon who imparted to him the power to walk on water.
Orion met the nymph Merope and fell in love. He couldn’t do otherwise, for she was attired in the raiment of the Graces—gossamer threads, diaphanous and flowing so that not a curve, not a dimple, was hidden from his lustful sight.
