The shop had obviously just finished with the last of the lunch crowd, for it was nearly empty. I arranged my blouse carefully over my slightly rounded stomach, though it was really not noticeable to those who didn’t know how thin I had become since Antoine’s death. Still, I felt as if a neon sign pointed to the baby inside me.
The stout woman at the counter glanced up as I entered. One hand went up to push back a piece of gray hair that had escaped from her bun. She smiled wearily. “What would you like?”
Looking down at the splendid array of sandwiches and pastries, I felt suddenly hungry. I had stopped several times during the day to nibble at the cheese and bread I carried in my purse, but it was long past time for me to eat again. Nausea rose up in my throat, and I fought it down.
“I’m—I’m looking for work,” I said as clearly as possible. “Do you have any openings?”
The lady studied me a full minute in silence before saying severely, “I don’t hire people on drugs.”
“But I’m not,” I protested as the room around me began to spin. I felt the blackness coming as it always did if I didn’t eat at least every three hours, and suddenly I knew I was going to either be sick or pass out.
I turned from the woman as quickly as I could, hoping at least to make it out the door. The room whirled faster, and the blackness ate at the edges of my consciousness. Desperately, I clutched at the nearest table to try to steady myself. Then everything went black.
The next thing I knew, someone was dabbing my face with a cool cloth. “Wake up,” said a woman’s voice. It was the woman from the counter, but this time her voice was softer.
I sat up quickly, only to feel a return of the sickness. I lay back down on the cot and looked around the small room anxiously for my purse.
“My purse,” I whispered urgently. “Where is it?”
The woman clenched her lips tightly but handed me the purse. She obviously thought that I was going to pull out some drugs. I ignored her as I fumbled through my bag, my fingers eagerly closing around my one remaining cheese sandwich. I took a big bite and began to chew while the lady watched me curiously, a puzzled expression replacing her former disgust. After swallowing the first bite, I forced myself to eat more slowly; it would make my embarrassment even worse to throw up now.
After the small sandwich was gone, I glanced up to see the woman still staring at me. I brought one hand instinctively to my stomach that jutted out, still small but tellingly from my thin body as I lay on the cot. The woman saw the gesture, and her gray eyebrows raised slightly.
A bell rang in the distance, and the woman spoke. “I’ve got customers. You rest right here a moment, and I’ll be back.” She smiled ever so briefly and disappeared through the door.
I sat up slowly and surveyed the small, windowless room. A desk, a chair, the cot, and a large bookcase took up most of the space, obviously the woman’s—or someone else’s—office. I stood up and walked to the office door, which led into a large kitchen. Through a door beyond that I could see the stout woman helping a man at the counter.
There seemed to be no way out of the shop without passing the woman—unless one of the closed doors in the kitchen was a hall leading to her living quarters and perhaps a back door. It was likely, but I didn’t want to make the situation worse by being caught snooping. I went back and sat on the cot.
The woman returned in minutes. In her hands she carried a glass of milk. “Here, drink this,” she said gruffly, handing it to me. “You should drink a lot of milk for the baby.”
I took the milk and did as she asked. “I’m sorry,” I said between sips. “I didn’t realize I had gone so long without eating. I’ve been searching for a job all morning, and I was almost home when I saw your shop. I thought it couldn’t hurt to try.” I looked down at the floor and blinked back tears. Whatever hope I had of getting a job at this particular café was long gone.
“What’s your name?”
“Ariana. Ariana Merson, I mean Ariana de Cotte—I got married recently.”
“I’m Marguerite Geoffrin,” the woman said. “My husband and I own this café and the apartment building over it. That’s where he is right now, fixing a shower in one of the apartments while we’re not too busy.” She paused, and her next words surprised me. “Business is very good, and in fact we do need someone to work the lunch and dinner shifts, Tuesday through Saturday. If you are willing to work, we’ll give you a chance.”
I looked up at her quickly, hardly daring to believe my luck. “But why?” The words came out before I had a chance to stop them. “What about when the baby comes?”
Marguerite smiled. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Ariana. First let’s see if you’re a good worker.”
I returned her smile eagerly. “Oh, I will be, I promise!”
Marguerite held up her hand. “But there is one condition.” Her expression became serious. “You will not use drugs of any kind.”
“I smoked pot for a few months,” I confessed hesitantly. “But since I found out about the baby, I quit. I want to do what’s right for it.”
“Then it’s agreed. You will earn the minimum salary plus two meals daily—or four half meals if you prefer, given your condition. Be here tomorrow at noon. I think that you already have been too long on your feet today.”
“Oh, thank you, Madame Geoffrin! And I won’t let you down, I promise!”
“I hope not, Ariana,” she said softly. Her eyes grew very sad. There was something more she wasn’t telling me, some reason why she was giving me a chance, but I didn’t want to push her. There would be time enough later to find out her secrets.
Jacques and I celebrated that night, using our last money to pay for an inexpensive dinner at a restaurant, saving just enough to buy bread until payday. Since Jacques also ate a meal at work, we would survive. After dinner, he drank a lot of wine, but I was used to his doing so. I was content to see my handsome husband enjoying himself.
The next weeks went by happily for me. The work at the café was constant but not strenuous, and the customers were nice. I had plenty of opportunities to rest my feet when business wasn’t so brisk. Marguerite, as I soon began to call Madame Geoffrin, even brought a tall stool to put behind the counter where I could sit and take the customers’ money while she filled their orders during the rushes. Together, we developed a system that efficiently took care of customers in the minimum amount of time, and this only increased our business. In the kitchen her husband, Jules, was busy preparing the foods we served to the many customers. I felt more needed than I had ever felt in my life, even when Antoine was alive. He had never needed me, only loved me.
Marguerite mothered me, and I responded to her care. She filled a void in my life that I hadn’t realized even existed. She and Jules became my closest friends besides Jacques and Paulette.
Summer turned into mid-October, and I blossomed—in more ways than one. Of course my stomach grew, and in fact I gained needed weight all over. But I also became more sure of myself and more positive about my future. The only strain on my new happiness was Jacques. Two months before the baby was due, four months after our marriage, he came home in a rage.
“I quit!” he exclaimed as he walked through the door. It was nearly noon, and I was getting ready to leave for the café.
“You what?” I asked in amazement. He had been doing well at work, and together our wages were paying nicely for our expenses. We had bought a few new things for the apartment and for the baby, and I was already dreaming about moving to a better home—someplace where the plumbing didn’t need to be repaired, where there were no cockroaches, and where the neighbors didn’t party all night long. Not that I ever complained about the parties; we were as bad as our neighbors in that respect. Many nights our friends were over very late, watching our secondhand TV and smoking pot or drinking. I didn’t mind it as long as they stayed out of my bedroom and didn’t make us pay for the liquor. But still, things would have to change once the baby was born
. I wanted my child to be something, not grow up to be a junkie.
“I quit my job,” Jacques repeated. “They accused me of being on heroin, and I won’t stand to be treated that way.”
I didn’t say anything for a time, my suspicion growing by the minute. He hadn’t exactly denied taking the drug. “Well, are you?” I finally asked.
He glared at me. “It’s none of their business what I do in my off time. It isn’t affecting my work any.”
My heart began to race. Marijuana was one thing, but heroin was something quite different. I had been in the gang long enough to see what kinds of lives were led by those who were addicted.
“It’s no big deal,” Jacques said, understanding immediately my expression of horror. “Everyone in the gang has been trying it lately, even Paulette.”
“When?” I still couldn’t believe it.
He shrugged. “While you’re at work in the evenings. Sometimes here, sometimes at one of the others’ apartments. What difference does it make? The fact is, the stuff is wonderful. It makes you forget all your problems and—”
“I didn’t know being married to me was a big problem,” I blurted. Tears came to my eyes. “I thought we were moving up in the world, that we could be like normal families and leave this life behind!”
Jacques stared at me. “I don’t want to leave this life behind! I want to live, to feel, to experience life to the fullest!”
“Is that what you’re doing when you’re all drugged up?” I spat at him. “Experiencing life? That’s some reality for you!”
“I didn’t know you wanted to make us over to be like your parents!” he rejoined cruelly. “Or maybe your sainted brother!”
“How dare you!” I was crying hard now, smearing the mascara I had just applied. Jacques turned from me and stalked into our room. I followed him.
“What are you going to do now?” I asked. “What about our baby? I can’t possibly pay for the bills alone! Please, Jacques!”
He flung himself on the bed. “Don’t worry, Ari. I’ll get a new job after I take a little vacation. We’ve already paid one month’s advance rent, so I deserve a rest.” He lay back and closed his eyes.
What about me? I wanted to scream at him. What about my rest? I felt the baby inside of me move restlessly, responding to my emotion, and I forced myself to be calm. “Don’t call me Ari,” I said through gritted teeth, keeping my voice calm. “My name is Ariana.” Leaving him there on the bed, I turned and ran out the door, pausing only to snatch up my coat from the couch. The October weather was cold, but I was warm from the sparks of our fight. I almost wished I never had to see Jacques again.
I arrived at the café slightly late, but Marguerite didn’t say anything. She took one look at me and hustled me to the bathroom, leaving Jules to man the café. Working quickly, she cleaned away the streaked mascara under my eyes and gave me some powder to cover the red blotches on my face.
“What happened?” she asked softly.
“Jacques and I had our first fight.” I nearly started crying again at the words. “He lost his job, and he’s taking heroin,” I added, searching her face beseechingly. “I don’t know what to do. I thought we could make a better life for our baby, but he doesn’t seem to want to. At this moment, I wish I’d never met him!”
Marguerite listened intently. “You’ve good right to be upset. Not only is heroin addictive, but it can kill. You must not get involved with it, Ariana, no matter what!” A shadow passed quickly over her face. “You asked me once why I hired you, and I’ll tell you now. I had a daughter who hung out with a group like yours. She left home and soon got into heroin and prostitution. She ended up dead.” Marguerite paused, and tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks. “When you came here, I saw my little girl again, asking for help before she was drawn into the depths. I couldn’t help but think that if someone had been there to help her, she would still be alive today.”
The bell hanging on the outside door tinkled suddenly. Then again and again. Marguerite wiped her tears away with the back of her hand.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, suddenly understanding much more about this woman who had befriended me.
“Just don’t let me down,” was her reply. She hurried back to the counter to help Jules with the customers, leaving me to follow thoughtfully.
Chapter Three
October went by in a rush of work—for me, anyway. Jacques mostly moped around the apartment in the mornings and complained because I wasn’t spending enough time with him. I kept urging him to find a job, but it was a month before he did. During the first few weeks he didn’t even try to find a job but would spend hours with his friends, drinking and shooting up. I knew he was still using heroin, though I didn’t know where he got the money. As soon as I got my check, I paid the bills and bought groceries. After that, there was nothing left. Jacques murmured several times that it wasn’t right for us to live in such poverty while my parents lived in luxury. He wanted me to ask them for money. “You could say it was for the baby,” he suggested several times.
“But I don’t want their help!” I told him finally. “Besides, they never loved or wanted me; why would they want to give me money?” But even as I said it, happier times when Antoine was alive came to mind. I could see now that they probably had once loved me in their own way. And as for money, the large check they had sent me for my wedding—something I was now grateful I had never told Jacques about—showed they at least felt some responsibility toward me.
“They’d pay just to get you off their backs,” he insisted, his sensitivity clouded by his habit.
I sighed. “Jacques, I will not ask my parents for money. You’re perfectly healthy, and there’s no reason you can’t find a job.” I wanted to add that even if my parents gave me money, I certainly wouldn’t give it to him to spend on drugs. I tried to encourage him but carefully, so as not to offend his already bruised ego. “You’re a good-looking, smart guy,” I said, reaching to wrap my arms around his neck and get as close as my huge belly would let me. “There must be a hundred companies out there looking for someone like you.” I kissed him tenderly and left for work, hours before I should have, bundled up against the increasing November cold.
I went down the sidewalk, not noticing where I was wandering, and thought about Jacques. Today he hadn’t gotten mad at my suggestion that he find work, like he had all the other times. That was a very good sign. Maybe things would work out after all.
I made my way mindlessly to the subway and from there to the Seine River, where I sat on a stone bench and watched the boats pass by. From where I was, I could see the Cité—one of the islands that rose in the middle of the Seine. I walked along the parapets next to the river, pausing at several bookstalls without buying anything. Their prices were never low; they sold more to the tourists than to the natives. At the moment, business was very slow because of the off-season, and many of the vendors had simply packed up and left, waiting for spring to return again.
An old woman was selling hot chestnuts from a cart and I eagerly bought some, holding them close to my chest for their warmth. Then I turned back to the Cité, where I could see the tall spires of the Cathédrale de Notre-Dame de Paris standing out majestically against the more modern lines of the hotel next to it. A feeling of longing overwhelmed me, and I knew that it was for Antoine.
I shrugged off the feeling and began walking, peeling and eating the warm chestnuts as I went. Soon I could see the Palais de Justice. I paused as I always did when seeing it. Somewhere among the buildings lay La Conciergerie, where prisoners like Marie-Antoinette had been held and later beheaded during the French Revolution.
Antoine and I had always loved to hear about the Revolution—how Marie-Antoinette’s children had been taken from her and adopted by others and how Mme. Roland, on the scaffold, had uttered the famous words, “Oh, Liberty—what crimes are committed in thy name!” We had acted out the parts with passion. But it had all been a game, for neither of us had yet felt t
he touch of death.
I turned my head quickly from the memories. Realizing the hour was growing late, I raced down the street at a rate quite unbecoming a woman eight months pregnant. Against the cold, I scrunched my neck and head down in the thick coat that didn’t quite reach around my belly—a remnant left over from the easy days with my parents.
I literally ran into them before I even saw them . . . two young men in dark suits and overcoats. For a moment I was scared, until I looked up into their innocent faces filled with concern.
“Uh, excuse me,” I said, disengaging myself. Futilely, I tried to pull my coat lapels together to hide my stomach and laughed self-consciously when I saw them watching me.
“Well, it’s just as well we ran into you,” the tallest said in accented French. “I’m Elder Walton, and this is my companion, Elder Fredric. We’re missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and we have a message to share with you. Do you have a family?”
“Yes,” I said, not bothering to hide my reluctance at answering. I knew without a doubt that they were going to start that foolishness about families being forever like the red-haired boy had done over a year ago, the day of Antoine’s funeral. His words had never stopped haunting me, and I didn’t want to hear anything else from his friends. I would put a stop to it right now. “But he’s dead and gone, and you can’t bring him back. It’s over—now, leave me alone!” I skirted around them quickly and continued my wild flight to the subway, resenting them for talking about something that I still so desperately wished could be true.
I made it to the café barely on time, throwing myself into my work so as not to think about Jacques, Antoine, or anything serious. But I still felt restless and unhappy. Marguerite eyed me strangely but didn’t say anything, letting me work out my own problems. I was grateful for her patience.
The Ariana Trilogy Page 3
