by Leslie Meier
Lucy decided that Elizabeth had a point. Here she was, at one of the most famous cultural achievements in the world, and her mind was in the gutter, mired in a sordid tale of sex and murder. It was time to put that aside, she resolved, determined to stay focused on the moment.
She followed Elizabeth through the door, inhaling the familiar church scent of old stone and dust, and wandered through the aisles. The famous labyrinth on the floor was covered by chairs, but a sign stated that it was cleared once a month, so those interested in this ancient spiritual exercise could follow the twists and turns marked by the tiles, praying as they paced the same path pilgrims had followed for centuries.
Neither Lucy nor Elizabeth believed the tale about the Virgin’s camisole, which was supposedly preserved as a sacred relic in the church. “It would have had to be eleven hundred years old when the church was built,” said Elizabeth. “It’s hard to believe a poor woman’s shift would have been preserved for that long.”
“I sure hope nobody tries to save my underwear after I’m gone,” said Lucy, thinking of her rather tired collection of cotton high-cuts and stretched-out bras. “I don’t even want them to look. Just throw it all away.”
“Believe me, Mom, nobody’s going to want your underwear,” said Elizabeth, pausing before a series of stone carvings depicting scenes from everyday medieval life.
“These are charming,” said Lucy, captivated. “They’re like photographs from long, long ago.”
Leaving the church, they explored the quaint town, wandering through narrow streets, past ancient houses with steep tiled roofs that tilted this way and that. All the windows were carefully screened, many with lace curtains, and Lucy wished she could glimpse the interiors. Eventually, they found themselves at a park along a river, and they sat for a while, resting and enjoying the peaceful atmosphere, so different from Paris.
“I wish we could have walked the labyrinth,” said Lucy, watching a couple of ducks paddling by.
“Really?” Elizabeth was surprised. “I’ve never thought of you as being religious.”
“I go to church every Christmas, and sometimes at Easter, and I never miss a funeral,” said Lucy, defending herself. “I know quite a few hymns by heart.”
“But do you pray?” asked Elizabeth.
“Only as a last resort,” admitted Lucy. “I thought it was worth trying the labyrinth, since nothing else has worked. I thought I might get some insight, some answers.”
“Well, we have to walk back, so you can meditate as we go.”
Lucy’s stomach growled, reminding her it was past noon. “I have a feeling I’ll be meditating on lunch,” she said. “Crepes or panini, that is the question.”
Chapter Seventeen
“What did you think of Sylvie’s mother?” asked Lucy when they were back on the train to Paris.
“Pretty typical Frenchwoman,” replied Elizabeth. “I read somewhere that if you want to marry an accountant, you should marry a Frenchwoman.” She paused. “I bet Madame is the one who actually runs the tabac. There’s a long history of women entrepreneurs in France.”
“But women got the vote here only in . . . when?”
“Something like nineteen forty-four, I think,” said Elizabeth. “I imagine the theory was that they didn’t need it, because they were in charge of everything, anyway.”
“It’s a love-hate thing, isn’t it?” mused Lucy. “They glorify women at the same time they tear them down.”
“They punish them if they’re powerful,” said Elizabeth. “There were really terrible attacks on Madame de Pompadour, for example, and Marie Antoinette. They printed up these awful pamphlets full of lies and insults. And there’s Marianne, the symbol of France. She’s always bare-breasted, a national sex symbol.”
“And Renoir,” added Lucy. “He painted all those beautiful nudes, but they say he treated his models very badly.”
“You know, I’m glad I’m not a Frenchwoman,” said Elizabeth. “They’re supposed to be fortunate to have this wonderful government that provides child care and health care and everything, but there’s so much pressure on them to be perfect. They’re supposed to always be in control, always do things beautifully, always look beautiful. Their children are expected to be perfectly behaved, and if their husbands have mistresses, they’re not supposed to mind. It’s completely unrealistic. It would make me crazy.”
“You know what really gets my goat?” said Lucy. “It’s all these articles for American tourists advising us on how we can look French. Like there’s something wrong with being American. Don’t wear sneakers, don’t wear T-shirts, dress up, and don’t forget to wear a scarf. I mean, what is ‘Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité’ supposed to mean?”
Elizabeth smiled, checking out her mother’s orange plaid coat, Mom jeans, and running shoes, to which she’d added a blue scarf, as if it would fool any French person.
“It’s a slogan,” replied Elizabeth. “Like ‘liberty and justice for all.’ Something we say but don’t necessarily do.”
Lucy fell quiet, thinking about being American and being French, and how the two seemed very different but perhaps weren’t. Of course you liked your country best. It was what you knew, what you were taught in school. America was the greatest, unless you were French or Chinese or Indian, in which case she supposed France, China, or India was best. Though there were some countries where even the most fervent patriot had to admit things weren’t so great, like Afghanistan or Syria or seemingly most of the countries in Africa. In those cases, people tended to identify with their tribe or sect, believing it was superior to the others.
“There must be some connection between Sylvie, and Adil and Malik because of Egypt, don’t you think?” she asked Elizabeth, suddenly breaking the silence. “There was that photo of her grandfather in Egypt.”
“Yeah, that photo with the pyramid,” mused Elizabeth.
“Yeah. Maybe Sylvie was holding the money for them. Maybe she was doing a favor for them, for old times’ sake.”
“This is Sylvie we’re talking about, remember? She was not the least bit sentimental,” said Elizabeth.
“I know, but just bear with me for a minute. Adil’s and Malik’s parents, maybe grandparents, left Egypt with King Farouk when there was a revolution or something. We know Adil and Malik are part of that royalist faction that’s trying to put Farouk’s son back in charge. At that party they were talking about how awful things are in Egypt.”
“Okay, I can see that Adil and Malik might be involved in something like that, but Sylvie?”
“Some of Farouk’s followers came to France. That means the French government accommodated them. And if Sylvie’s grandfather was a legionnaire, he may have been involved. He might even have been part of the evacuation, maybe developed some sort of connection. A love affair or a friendship. I’m talking a couple of generations back, but these ties endure, especially if you’re in an alien culture. Then the kids are part of the same circle. You know what I mean. When you were a kid, you played with my friends’ kids, right?”
Elizabeth smiled. “But Richie Goodman and Tim Stillings haven’t tried to break into my apartment,” she said.
“And they certainly wouldn’t ever harm you,” said Lucy, her mind a confusing whirl of possible motives. “They would protect you.”
“So it’s some other faction, some rival faction, that killed Sylvie,” said Elizabeth.
“Unless,” said Lucy, thinking out loud, “unless her grandfather did something against their families.”
“A love affair, that would do it,” said Elizabeth. “They’re all crazy about honor.”
“Then it could be a revenge killing,” said Lucy.
“Well, I’m glad we’ve cleared this up,” said Elizabeth as the train glided into the Montparnasse station.
“Clear as mud,” said Lucy, remembering Richard’s assertion that the Arab Spring had created a huge power vacuum as dictatorships were toppled in some countries and civil war broke out in othe
rs. He’d said there were numerous factions, including Al-Qaeda and the Muslim Brotherhood, busy raising money in Paris. These groups didn’t go door-to-door, begging for donations. They went into the much more profitable drug trade or the black market. It was possible that Chef Larry and Sylvie had run afoul of somebody’s scheme, but whose?
They were making their way through the crowded Montparnasse train station to the Métro platform, which was busy with jostling commuters and noisy from the arriving trains and occasional loudspeaker announcements, when Elizabeth suddenly exclaimed, “Merde!”
“What is it?” asked Lucy.
“Oh, just one more reason why I hate France,” fumed Elizabeth. “The transit workers are having yet another slowdown. They just announced it. They’re désolés, of course, which is one word I’ve really come to despise. They’re not the least bit sorry, much less seriously grieved at all. They’re pleased as punch to cause a lot of trouble for everybody.”
“They must have their reasons,” said Lucy.
“Oh, sure. Maybe they can have only twenty-nine instead of thirty sick days a year, or they won’t be able to retire until they’re fifty instead of forty-five, or their vacations have been cut back from six weeks to five.”
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” said Lucy.
“Not as much as you’d think,” growled Elizabeth as they descended the steps to a very crowded Métro platform.
They slowly wove their way through the throng, Elizabeth in the lead, to the far rear of the platform. As they went, Lucy noticed that very few people seemed the least bit upset, unlike Elizabeth. They seemed to accept that this was the way things were. Normal. C’est normal. The workers had every right to take action if their livelihood was threatened. So different, she thought, from the United States, where the least inconvenience was greeted with outrage.
It was very crowded at the rear end of the platform, though not as crowded as the middle, and Lucy leaned against the tunnel wall, resting her back. She could feel the vibration produced by an approaching train, which slid smoothly into the station, already full of people. She wanted to wait for the next train, but Elizabeth shook her head.
“It’s now or never, believe me. It will only get worse.”
Together they joined the crowd squeezing into the car and just made it, the doors sliding shut behind them. Lucy had never been in such a tight situation before. She could barely breathe because of the number of people packed into the car. She looked at the faces of the people around her, none of which showed any signs of discomfort or anger. They were blank. And the people carefully avoided eye contact, if not actual physical contact, with their fellow passengers.
Although their expressions were identical, Lucy was struck by the diversity of the crowd. Old and young, male and female, Asian, Middle Eastern, black and white, they were all there, crammed together in the speeding train. And if a terrorist were to attack the train, the attack would kill not only the hated Westerners, but many of the terrorists’ own people, as well. That was how it was in the 9/11 attacks, how it would be in any cosmopolitan city. It all seemed so crazy.
As the train proceeded toward the center of Paris, there was a slight release of the pressure at the stations, when some people struggled through the crowd and got off, and before others got on. It was during the pauses at the stations that Lucy and Elizabeth were able to worm their way into the interior of the car and eventually were able to hang on to a pole, which made it easier for them to keep their balance, so they weren’t constantly banging into their neighbors when the train swerved as it sped through the underground tunnel. Lucy counted down the stations to Châtelet, where they would change to another line: Saint-Sulpice, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Saint-Michel, Cité, and finally Châtelet. At their stop the struggle to exit caused them to pop onto the platform, where they had to fight their way against the press of people intent on getting on the train.
Châtelet was a major junction point, and even more crowded than Montparnasse had been, and Lucy and Elizabeth found themselves buffeted from every direction as they made their way to the platform for the number 1 line, which would take them to Bastille, near the place des Vosges. At one point Elizabeth was knocked backward into her mother, who saved her from falling by grabbing her arms. It was then that Lucy realized Elizabeth’s shoulder bag was missing.
“Your bag!” she exclaimed. “Didn’t you have a bag?”
Elizabeth patted her chest, discovering her shoulder bag was indeed gone. “Pickpockets!” she wailed. “Bastards! I hate Paris! I want to go home!”
Battered and exhausted, Lucy could see her point. “Were you carrying anything valuable?”
“No, just stuff. I’ve learned to keep my money and ID and credit cards in a pouch I tuck into my waistband. I don’t keep any cash in my bag, but, damn it, that thief got my new Chanel mascara!”
“How did it happen? I never saw anything suspicious.”
“In that crowd anything could happen. They use knives and cut the strap. I should’ve been more careful.”
It was difficult to carry on a conversation in the noisy station, and Lucy was at the end of her rope. The station was so crowded, she felt the beginning of a panic attack and decided she had to get away from all the people and get some air as quickly as possible. “Let’s get a taxi,” she said, grabbing Elizabeth’s hand and pulling her toward the exit.
Once they were on the street, however, Elizabeth delivered some bad news. “I’m pretty sure the taxi drivers will be protesting in sympathy with the transit workers.”
“No taxis?”
“Probably not. It’s back in the Métro, or else we’ll have to walk.”
“Well, I’m not going back,” declared Lucy. “The exercise will do us good.”
Mother and daughter decided to take a break in a café, where they had glasses of lemonade and used the facilities before beginning the long trek to the Marais. There was plenty to see in the streets, where they observed grand-mères walking along with their adorable grandchildren, couples holding hands, funny little Smart cars, and always the beautifully decorated shop windows. In addition to the pedestrians, the sidewalks were filled with café tables and chairs, and the displays of fruits, vegetables, and flowers that spilled from the stores. Before long Lucy found herself in familiar territory and paused at one shop to buy a bunch of bright yellow daffodils. She buried her nose in the petals as they continued on their way, inhaling the musky, springlike scent.
“Pretty,” said Elizabeth. “I missed the changing seasons when I was in Florida.”
“Well, spring’s rather disappointing in Maine, but fall is pretty spectacular,” said Lucy. “What with the leaves turning colors and apple picking and the pumpkin festival.”
Tinker’s Cove was one of a number of Maine towns that held pumpkin festivals in October in hopes of extending the tourist season. All sorts of pumpkin-themed events were planned, including giant pumpkin-growing contests, bake-offs, pumpkin boat regattas and even pumpkin tosses, all accompanied by large amounts of locally brewed pumpkin beer. The pumpkin toss, in which contestants vied to catapult a pumpkin the greatest distance, was quite controversial since some residents feared damage from pumpkins landing on their property.
“I can’t say I miss the pumpkin fest,” said Elizabeth.
Lucy thought this might be a good time to pose a question she’d wanted to ask for quite some time. “Do you miss Chris Kennedy?” she asked, referring to the young man Elizabeth had been dating in Florida.
“I knew this was coming,” said Elizabeth, her cheeks dimpling.
“You have to give me points for waiting this long,” claimed Lucy, examining the flowers.
“You’ve been quite restrained,” admitted Elizabeth. “Especially since you’re so fond of Chris yourself.”
“He’s a nice fellow,” said Lucy, “but you haven’t mentioned him lately.”
“I haven’t heard from him lately,” said Elizabeth.
Lucy didn’t thin
k this was a good sign. “Really?” She plucked a leaf that had turned brown from the bouquet. “Do you think he’s met somebody else?”
“No. Well, maybe. It’s hard to know. He joined the Secret Service.” Elizabeth paused. “He’s in some training program, and it’s all very hush-hush.”
“He’s going to be protecting the president?” asked Lucy, somewhat dismayed. “That’s very dangerous. He could get killed.”
“It’s been a lifelong dream of his,” said Elizabeth. “They do a lot more than protect the president, you know. They’re actually part of the Treasury Department, and they investigate currency violations, stuff like that.”
“I had no idea,” admitted Lucy as they crossed the rue Saint-Antoine to cut through the Hôtel de Sully courtyard to the place des Vosges. The grand mansion was a favorite with architecture buffs, but Lucy couldn’t care less. She saw it simply as a shortcut to the apartment. “But even if this program is very demanding, he must have some time off. Enough for a quick call. Or a text.”
“I don’t really know, Mom. He could have gone straight from training into some undercover mission.”
Lucy couldn’t understand her daughter’s attitude. She had thought they were a perfect couple and had been hopefully expecting an engagement announcement. “Aren’t you concerned?”
“What can I do?” asked Elizabeth as they ducked through the porch separating the courtyard from the formal garden, where little brown sparrows fluttered constantly from the ivy-covered walls, pecking at the bread crumbs people left for them. “We were just dating. It was very casual. We agreed our careers had to come first.”
Lucy felt off balance as she took the steps down to the arcade that ran on all four sides of the place des Vosges, unsure whether it was the unevenly worn stone steps or Elizabeth’s startling statement. “Your careers come first?” she asked, incredulous. “Before love and marriage?”
