Jean-Marc left the house, and I felt utterly alone. Shaking myself, I cleaned the kitchen vigorously, until the heat of action released some of my tension. Afterward, I went to the cemetery for my regular semimonthly visit: the second and fourth Wednesday of each month. I wondered if my father would be there as he had been so often in the past; I thought I could use some of his sage advice.
I used the subway; it would take longer but was decidedly cheaper than spending the gas for the trip. Gasoline prices, like unemployment, had risen drastically. It was cold in the train and even colder in the streets. I couldn’t remember it ever being so wintry in Paris. Of course that meant higher bills; we had central heating, a must with little Pauline being so susceptible to illness. Many in Paris and the surrounding cities were not so lucky, especially in the older areas. I knew there would be deaths because of the cold. If it became worse, I wouldn’t let Pauline out, even to go to school.
I blew on my cold hands and then fished my gloves out of my coat pocket. Signs of Christmas were everywhere: nativities and decorations in store windows and in the streets, even strings of lights announcing the Lord’s birth. Usually the season brought a rush of joy to my heart but not now. Though Christmas no longer brought the unspeakable delight to my children that it had when they were small, I knew they would be disappointed this year. Why did I always wait until the last minute to buy their few gifts? Why couldn’t I be like many of the sisters in my ward who were finished with their Christmas purchases before October? Perhaps because money had never before been a problem.
After leaving the underground train, I had a healthy walk to the graveyard. I drew my coat tightly about my body and wrapped a wool scarf around my head and neck, but the freezing air crept in despite my efforts. Staring at the cement sidewalk, I tucked my chin inside the scarf, warming myself with my breath. At long last I saw the cast-iron gates and the cobblestone path leading inside.
There were actually three paths winding through the cemetery, dotted every so often by stone benches. Upon entering, I took the middle one which ran through the center of the graveyard and joined again with the others on the far side. Paulette and Pierre’s graves were off this path, allowing me to stop a while before walking to the end and curving onto the path leading back to where Nette and Antoine were buried. I didn’t mind the extra steps this cost me, because I enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere in the cemetery. The headstones were varied, from small plaques to statues and the occasional small building erected by rich families long ago. These had vaults plunging into the earth where the dead slept, with small chapels overhead where relatives had once prayed.
Some might think graveyards eerie, macabre, or even evil, associating them with strange or supernatural occurrences. I knew better. I saw them not only as the serene resting places they were but as the glorious sites of happy family reunions they would become. It wasn’t difficult to imagine these people’s joyful faces at the Resurrection, when at last loved ones would be forever joined. Mental images of the hugs and expressions of affection that would be exchanged—all in the light of our Savior’s great love—brought tears to my eyes. Not the searing, painful kind but the ones that came when joy knew no bounds. I had earned this view from my past trials, and now this place was my refuge, my place of security.
But when I reached Nette’s grave, I was not alone. A man sat on the stone bench opposite her grave, staring into space. From a distance I thought it was my father, and my step quickened, but I slowed when I recognized Jacques. I knew I should leave and return after he had gone, but I pushed aside the thought. I had come a long way to visit my daughter; his presence should make no difference.
At the base of Nette’s grave stood a huge bouquet of white roses. I was grateful, as I had no money to take flowers myself. Heat seeped into my blood—heat that came from within. I welcomed its warmth, while not looking too closely at its source.
“Hello.” I had to remove my chin from my scarf to speak, and the skin, damp from my breath, seemed to freeze instantly. Gasping slightly as the air pierced my lungs with its sharp fingers, I quickly shoved my chin and mouth back into the folds of my scarf.
Jacques looked up, feigning surprise. But I knew he had been expecting me. Perhaps he had seen me through the trees or when I had entered the gates. “Hello, Ariana. What brings you here today?” A cloud of warm breath filled the space between us, hovering slightly before mixing with the colder air.
I very nearly told him that my visits were regular but bit my tongue instead. He was a stranger to me now, not a friend. “What a coincidence that we should visit again on the same day,” I said instead. This time the cold on my uncovered face wasn’t such a shock.
“Isn’t it?” he agreed, shifting to one side of the bench to allow me to sit.
I settled as far away from him as possible. He looked much as he had two and a half weeks earlier at our first meeting, yet there was a melancholy about his eyes and his full lips that I hadn’t noticed before. And today his face, tinged red by the cold, was unshaven; I could see the hairs, a darker blond than those on his head, giving him an even more rugged appearance. During our brief marriage, I had always loved it when he left it like that. After three days it would be soft, and I would rub my cheek against his repeatedly. Then it would grow too long and he would shave it; but always after a few weeks he would let it grow again, just for me. The long-forgotten memory provoked a tenderness I didn’t know I could feel toward him.
“As to what brings me here, nothing really, just a little peace and quiet,” I said quickly to rid myself of the unwanted emotion.
“My father died.” Jacques’ voice held regret.
My eyes met his. “I’m sorry. When?”
“Last week. He’d been sick, but I wasn’t expecting it this soon. He was all the family I had left.”
We sat in silence for long minutes. Jacques was obviously grieving, but I didn’t know how to comfort him. I couldn’t even reassure my own husband.
“You’re sad, Ariana,” Jacques said. “I didn’t mean to make you so.”
“It’s not you.” I blinked back a stray tear. “I’ve just had a few problems of my own these past few weeks.”
He sat up straighter. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked almost eagerly.
“No.”
His eyes probed my face, what little of it was open to the frosty air. “You can’t hide it from me. Your eyes are so large and sad, I could fall into them and never find my way out. What is wrong, Ariana? Tell me.”
While often wanting in originality, Jacques had never lacked passion. I wasn’t fooled, of course, but something in me longed to tell him my troubles—whether because of his own confession of his father’s death or the way he complimented me, I couldn’t say. But there it was. He was warm, friendly, romantic, and his emotions did not cut into me the way Jean-Marc’s were doing. If only my husband could find a job and redeem his broken self-esteem!
“I’m fine,” I said. “And you’re still the charmer, aren’t you? Though your grammar is better now.”
“I went to school. There was nothing else to do in prison, and then my father insisted I finish. He was right; you were both right. But I am serious about helping you.”
“What makes you think I need help?”
He cocked his head and smiled at me, a lazy sort of grin I once loved. “Instinct.” The word was loaded with animal magnetism and innuendos I didn’t want to understand.
“Come on,” he continued. “I read the papers. I know what’s going on. Besides, I owe you. I’ll always owe you . . . for Nette.”
“Talk about something else.” I turned away stiffly. His words made me angry.
He stood. “I really must be going. I have a company to run.” He rotated on his heel, pulling gloved hands from his pockets. “Good-bye.”
Something had fallen out of his coat, and I bent to retrieve a small roll of large bills. Enough to pay the insurance for another month. Enough to pay the bills and buy groceries. A
nd maybe enough to buy a present for each child. Never had I been so tempted to take what wasn’t mine. Jacques did owe me in some way, my mind rationalized, and he had as much as told me to take it.
“Wait!” I called before the temptation could sink deeper. “You dropped this.” I held out the bills on my open palm.
He stared at me for a full minute before crossing to where I still sat on the bench. “I don’t think it’s mine,” he said, fingering the cash. His touch seemed to go right through my glove to my flesh. “Why don’t you keep it?”
“I saw it fall out of your pocket,” I said. “Please take it.” I didn’t need or want help from him. Besides, how would I explain such a thing to my husband?
He took the cash with one hand, the other coming up to stroke my cheek. I pulled away as if touched by fire. Was that longing in his eyes or simply my imagination? His smile faltered. “You’re a strong woman, Ariana. You never cease to amaze me. I think I still love you.” Without another word, he turned and sauntered down the pathway, leaving me staring after his lean frame.
I cried. I didn’t really know why. Perhaps because I didn’t want to feel anything for Jacques, and I couldn’t deny there was something in my heart. He was the picture of understanding, of confidence, while Jean-Marc seemed only to push me away.
“Nonsense,” I said aloud. “It’s this crisis, that’s all.” Logically, I knew I loved Jean-Marc more than I had ever imagined I could love anyone, including Jacques. It was the timing of the situation that confused the issue.
Before leaving the cemetery, I bent at Nette’s stone and withdrew a rose, sniffing its sweet fragrance. Its whiteness seemed to stand as a symbol of purity, of young love untroubled by adult miseries.
“I’ll just take one,” I told Nette, “to remember you by.” But in that I deceived only myself.
* * *
Upon leaving the graveyard, I went to visit Marguerite Geoffrin, my longtime friend and fellow member of the Church. She and her husband, Jules, owned two cafés and an apartment building in Paris. In my youth, I had worked for them. The café they still worked in was located on the main floor of their apartment building, sharing the space with their living quarters. It was a small café but warm and cheery, despite the large windows facing the cold street. Their well-kept building was situated in a run-down area of town, and at night the streets were unsafe. The threat, however, had diminished over the years because of the large numbers of Church youth who had adopted the café as their hangout.
Marguerite was at the counter, and she looked up as I entered. She was helping a customer, but it was obvious the lunch rush was over. For the first time, I noticed that the indomitable Marguerite was growing older. Her once gray-speckled hair was white, and her skin decidedly wrinkled. Her thick arms and strong fingers had seen much work, and a weariness seemed to exude from her.
“You work too much, Marguerite,” I said.
She smiled, the fatigue vanishing almost instantly. “How good to see you. How are you holding up?”
I grimaced. “Not too well, to tell the truth. Jean-Marc still hasn’t found work, and he stubbornly refuses to let me try.”
“You could work here. Not at the counter but at the books. Jules isn’t as sharp as he used to be.”
“Could I? I mean if . . .” I trailed off, not wanting to think the worst. “What is it about Jean-Marc? I don’t understand him.”
“He wants to take care of you. That’s not so bad.”
“But I feel so helpless. I want to do something to help him, to help our family. Sometimes I think he’s more old-fashioned than my father!” As I spoke, I eyed one of the meat pastries inside the glass counter. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that it needed more than the hot chocolate and toast I’d eaten for breakfast.
Marguerite pulled out a pastry and set it before me on a small plate. “On the house.” She watched me for a moment before adding, “What else is wrong?” She had been my friend for too many years for me to hide anything from her.
I laid the white rose on the counter; it was now turning brown from the cold it had endured outside, or perhaps from the abrupt change of temperature inside the warm café. “I saw Jacques at the cemetery.”
She took in a sharp breath. “Him!” Marguerite sounded angry and offended all at once.
The pastry made my mouth water, and I bit into the flaky crust before replying. “He’s changed some. Do you believe he’s the president of the most successful carpet company in France? Hard to accept, I know.”
“Could it really be true?” Marguerite’s doubts brought my own to the surface.
I shrugged, popping the rest of the pastry in my mouth. “It doesn’t really matter. He has nothing to do with us.”
“Good. My, but you’re hungry! Haven’t you been eating? You’ve lost weight, haven’t you?” The hefty Marguerite thought nearly everyone was underweight, but this time she was right. I didn’t know if not eating as much as usual came from stress or from instinctively wanting to save food for my children.
Marguerite began pulling out a variety of meat pastries and cakes from the counter and packing them into a carry-out sack. When I opened my mouth to protest, she cut me off with a wave of her hand. “I know you say you don’t need help yet, but that’s nonsense. With no income for three weeks and nothing in the bank—”
“But—”
“No buts.” She grabbed my hands where they rested on the counter and stared into my eyes. “Ariana, it’s time to let your friends and family help. You don’t have to face this alone. We want to do something. Please let us.”
“Thank you.”
She smiled and handed me the bag. “There will be more. Count on it.”
I kissed her cheeks gratefully and walked out into the streets. A thick blanket of swirling fog had risen while I was in the café; now it grew heavier by the minute, giving me the odd feeling of walking in a dream world. People on the streets appeared as if out of nowhere and then disappeared behind me just as quickly, fading from both sight and memory. For long moments I was alone in the white expanse as I tried to find the opening to the subway. At these times, an ominous feeling overtook me. I could walk forever and never find my way back into the real world. The thought was unsettling, but real fear came when I felt unseen eyes on me, just out of sight. I could almost feel someone’s breath on the back of my neck, but when I turned, no one was there.
I gave a sigh of relief when the dark opening of the subway beckoned. Taking the steps in twos, I ran down the stairs, leaving much of the fog behind. As I waited for the train, I noticed the rose in my hand was very dark now and held none of its former beauty. The fragrance was gone as well, or my nose was too cold to do its job. Either way, the rose was of no use to me. Spying a large square garbage can, I threw it in.
Lights from the darkened tunnel signaled the train’s approach. It came to a stop, and the doors slid open. Before entering, I scanned the strangers next to me on the long cement platform, but none of the faces were familiar.
Even so, I couldn’t help the feeling that the unseen eyes continued to watch me. Shivering, I took my seat and pulled my coat and scarf more tightly about my cold body, hugging the warm pastries to my chest for what little heat they had to offer.
Chapter Five
That evening as Jean-Marc arrived home, the bishop stopped by. He was carrying a ten-kilo sack of rice and a check for a substantial amount of money. “I know you say you don’t want help,” he said. “But people in the ward have anonymously donated funds.”
“Thank you.” I took the money before Jean-Marc could refuse. As the mother of five growing children, I couldn’t be overly concerned with pride. I turned to my husband. “All these years we’ve paid our fast offerings and helped others. Did we regret donating that money? Of course not. And neither do they.”
“Exactly,” the bishop said. “This is the way the Lord has of taking care of His children.” He turned to go. “You’ll let me know how things go?”
&
nbsp; Jean-Marc inclined his head. “Thank you.”
When the bishop had gone, Jean-Marc turned to me with a defeated air. “No luck again. I guess it’s just as well he came by.” He stopped and then added quickly, “I did get a lead from one of the men I talked to today. He’s got a company in Bordeaux. I think I should go there and see. I can stay with some old friends.”
I didn’t want him to go, but the despair in his eyes begged for my support. “All right,” I said calmly. “If that’s what you need to do. We’ll be here waiting for you when you come back.”
“I’m not running, Ari.”
“I know.” But I wondered if he was trying to escape from our troubles. Then I decided that even if he was, maybe it wasn’t so bad. He had been under extreme pressure. “Everything’s going to be okay,” I told him.
His green-brown eyes met mine. “I know it will. I just don’t know how long it will take.”
The next day Jean-Marc left Paris, heading for his home city of Bordeaux in our family van. Before leaving, he kissed each of us. “You obey your mother,” he said to the children. “And help out all you can.”
I hugged him tightly. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too.” He kissed me, but it was quick and unsatisfying, as all our kisses had been in the last weeks.
“Check in every now and then,” I called after him. “I have to know you’re all right, money or no.” He had a cell phone, but I didn’t know how much longer we could afford that luxury.
“I’ll be fine.” The elevators clanged shut behind him, and the hallway seemed empty and forbidding. I sighed and shut the apartment door.
“It’s raining, Mom,” André said. “Maybe Pauline should stay home from school.”
I glanced out the window and frowned. “I think you’re right.”
“Oh, please let me go, Mom. I’ll promise not to play in the puddles.”
The Ariana Trilogy Page 49
