“You have been busy the last few days, Maggie,” she said, a sardonic smile lifting one corner of her mouth. “You sent footage from a car bomb on Wednesday and alerted us to a murder scene on Thursday. What should we expect from you today?”
I laughed. “Nothing newsworthy, I hope.”
“With all that has been going on, have you had time to consider what project you want to do next?” Diane asked.
“I have. As the new kid on the block I’m open to your suggestions,” I said. I heard the undertones; she was miffed with me for some reason. “But unless you have something else in mind, I’d like to follow the Normandy sequence with the saga of the convent library that was discovered during the renovation of my mother’s building. I confess that I’m concerned about the tight production schedule and we have a head start on this one.”
“A convent library in Paris?” Her tone was rife with skepticism. “I thought we agreed to go after more hard-hitting topics. Where’s the hard-hitting part of a story about a convent library?”
“The part that involves Russian oligarchs, international money laundering, mercenaries for hire, the attempt on my partner’s life, the murder of a young Swedish nurse in Greece, and a decades-long argument between the local diocese, the Louvre, and the pope over very old and extremely valuable texts.”
She wasn’t sold, yet. “How personal are you going to get with it?”
“That’s a variable. The story began before I entered the picture and it was, it is, far larger than me alone.”
“I remember the news coverage,” she said. “By your partner, do you mean Guido, or Jean-Paul Bernard?”
“Jean-Paul.”
“He is notoriously camera shy. Will he co-operate?”
“I’ll ask, but whether he will or not is his to decide.”
“It is your project, of course, and I am confident that you will give us something wonderful.” She made a note, just a few quick taps, on the laptop within her reach. “And, as you said, you have a head start. But I hope that you will decide to focus on the extreme efforts of various players to claim the library and in doing that you will keep yourself in the background as much as the story will allow. All right, then, have you a plan for the film after?”
“After that, bullying,” I said, wondering what her issue was, because I knew, after she essentially pushed me offscreen on the library project, that something was up. “I want to go beyond workplace harassment and look at le harcèlement scolaire—schoolyard bullying—because the issue has been quite neglected by the media. Incidents of Islamophobia and anti-Semitism, harassment of immigrants generally in European schools has become more blatant, more violent, and more pervasive. The abusers, the bullies, often feel confident that they are justified; they are rarely punished. It’s frightening.”
“You said European schools. You want to take the topic beyond France?”
“I do, if you’ll give me crew and travel support.”
“Of course, yes. Good. Get with Bruno to work out the logistical details when you’re ready to schedule shooting.” When she tapped another quick note into her computer I wondered if she was checking off another talking point on a list. When she finished, she leaned forward as if to confide something. “Maggie, you should know that we had some blowback after your appearance on Jimmy Jardine’s show. The issue, of course, is one that came up during the taping: Why have we hired an outsider to examine French society for a French audience? You gave Jimmy a very good answer, but the reaction of the public is an emotional one, void of logic. Your work will sit better with French viewers if they are reassured that the problem of harassment is a global one and that you are not picking on your new host country.”
“I’m not surprised that I am an issue for some people,” I said.
“Blowback blows itself out. The audience will warm to you, Maggie. Give them time.”
“I hope you’re right.”
She closed the laptop and sat back again. “Harassment in the school is a perfect topic for you to tackle. But I’m surprised. I thought you would do something with the missing girl you’ve been so interested in.”
“The girl is where my interest began,” I said, leaning back as I realized how nervous I had been about this meeting. “By protecting a Muslim refugee from schoolmates she may have set herself up as a target. Her disappearance may also be her response to abuse at home, or her perception of abuse. If she’s found alive, she’ll have an important story to tell. And if she isn’t, well, her story still needs to be told.”
I told her about Nabi and all he’d been put through, and she liked the idea of using him as the human-interest hook that we wrapped the story around.
“But be careful, Maggie. You have already seen how dangerous the haters are.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon pulling up articles about the issue of harassment across the eurozone. The biggest challenge for me before we began to film would be winnowing the mass of material to fit our allotted air time. I was lost in reportage about the recent disappearance of Jews from Germany when Diane tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Don’t forget to have a life. Go home.”
While I waited for the five-twenty, I texted Jean-Paul and told him I was out on the loose. Instead of texting back, he called; he was already at home.
“Tell me there were huzzahs all around when you screened your film,” he said.
“Not even one huzzah,” I said. “But Diane is happy enough with us that she greenlighted our proposition to look at the harassment issue across the eurozone.”
“When do you begin working on it?”
“Right away,” I said. “In about six weeks people will start disappearing for the summer holiday. Most of our time until then will be eaten up by research and logistics, but with luck we’ll squeeze in a couple of good shoots by mid-June and pick it up again in September. Having a full crew will help.”
“An all-union crew, I suppose.”
“Most likely,” I said. “There is one position, though, that is up to me to hire. Diane asked who I want for hair and makeup. I don’t know anyone except the woman who takes care of Jimmy Jardine. Do you want the gig?”
“Bien sûr,” he said, trying not to laugh. “I’ll go out right now and get some of those magazines—you know the sort, Tips for This Season’s Hot Looks—and start studying.”
“A fine idea,” I said. And maybe it wasn’t a bad idea at all.
He had two pieces of news, one very good, he said, and one he hoped wasn’t bad news. The first was that Ari was notified that he had passed all the required exams and interviews, his Cambridge medical school transcripts had been certified, and he was now licensed to practice medicine in France. On Saturday, Jean-Paul was taking him to shop for a new suit for job interviews. The second bit of news was that the living arrangements Ari had been working on for Nabi and Diba had fallen through.
“Maggie, how do you feel about Nabi and Diba staying on a while longer?”
“I have no problem with that,” I said. “Nabi needs us right now, if us includes Ari. I wish that Diba didn’t feel she has to keep herself invisible. She is quite delightful to be around. I think we should celebrate Ari’s good news with a little party. Shall we ask Diba to plan the food?”
He chuckled. “I remember saying to you one time that you are the peanut butter to my jelly. Maggie, je t’adore. Yes, let’s ask Diba to plan the menu.”
“I love you, too.” I remembered that when he told me I was his peanut butter I was wiping juice that squirted from a fresh tomato off his chin with my shirttail. He meant that we were comfortable together. If anyone wanted to be my jelly, I was happy it was Jean-Paul. “My train is here. See you soon.”
I merged into the tide of evening commuters as they sorted themselves into various train cars and then into seats when they got inside. As I looked for a place to sit, the clutch of people directly in front of me found seats leaving me directly behind a very large man. He heaved a familiar-sounding sigh and dropped
into the first open aisle seat.
I asked, “The window taken, Monsieur Roussel?”
“You?” he said, managing a sheepish little smile. He moved his bulk over and conceded the aisle to me. “You want to sit next to me?”
“Why not?” I said. “You’re the only person I know on the train.”
“Why not, eh?” He took a deep breath, and when he looked over at me, he said, “Should I list all the reasons why not?”
I shook my head. “How was Louis this morning?”
A shrug while he assembled an answer. “Better than he deserves. I had him checked out at the clinic first thing this morning. The doctor said there was nothing more to be done for the nose, but he arranged for us to start counseling. Together.”
“I hope that works out,” I said.
“That makes two of us. I wish I could find some way to engage Louis.”
“He is quite a talented artist,” I said. “We didn’t show you the gate he decorated last night. Though the subject matter was repugnant, the drawing was very skillful.”
“The boy is always scribbling,” he said, dismissing the compliment. “Wasting time when he should be studying. And about the gate: I will pay for any repairs. Please just tell me what it will take to make that right.”
“Ask Jean-Paul. I don’t know that he’s as concerned about the cost as he is making the graffiti go away. It is offensive.”
“What did my son draw?”
I pulled out my phone and showed him a shot I had taken before I covered the gate.
“Imbécile,” Roussel muttered as if to himself. He turned his attention to the passing scenery and I thought that meant our conversation was over, maybe unwelcome; the man had a lot to contend with. But, with his face still averted from me, he said, “You know, Madame, your Muslim friend, Doctor Massarani, is the most Christian man I have ever encountered.”
“My Muslim friend is a good Christian? Would you explain that please?”
“He didn’t just turn the other cheek, he opened his arms and welcomed Louis in.” Roussel, brow furrowed when he looked at me again, seemed to be puzzling through yet another of the great mysteries of humankind that had walked up and hit him unawares. “After everything Louis has done to hurt Ahmad Nabi, Doctor Massarani offered to help him with his schoolwork. I dropped him off at your house this morning at ten, as arranged. There was tension, yes, but also courtesy. When I went back at noon to pick up Louis, I found the two boys in the swimming pool, laughing and playing some sort of ball game. A woman was putting out lunch on the terrace and your doctor asked if Louis could stay to eat. I didn’t know what to say.”
“What did you say?” I asked.
“Nothing. Louis said it all for me. He said that after lunch they were going to have a second chemistry lesson.” He raised his palms and shoulders, the go-figure gesture. “My Louis volunteered to sit down with his books. How is that possible?”
“Monsieur Roussel,” I said.
“Please call me Guy. After all we’ve been through, oui?”
“Guy,” I repeated. “Doctor Massarani is a well-trained pediatrician. He has dedicated his life’s work to caring for children. The tragic reality is, his own little ones, and his wife, were killed during a bombing raid before he could get them out of Aleppo.”
“I didn’t know,” he said, face full of sincere sadness. “I didn’t know.”
“Clearly he sees something in Louis that he can help. Or maybe it’s Nabi he’s helping. If you want my advice, which is worth everything you paid for it, I think you should let him.”
The sound he made was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “If only he could help me, too, eh? Where do I sign up?”
“I think you already have,” I said. “Tell me, how is your wife?”
“You said once that at some point your husband refused further cancer treatment, and that he was at peace at the end. Do you remember?”
“I do.”
“Adèle has reached that point. She wants to go home.”
I put my hand over his on the armrest between us, he gave it a squeeze, and we traveled the rest of the way in silence.
Jean-Paul was waiting for me on the platform at the Vaucresson station. I asked Guy Roussel if we could drop him, but he said he had a car, so after exchanging friendly bises we said our good-byes. Jean-Paul watched this with a very confused look on his face as he walked toward us. He and Guy exchanged a quick handshake, and Guy continued on his way.
After witnessing that chaste exchange of cheek kisses, Jean-Paul said, “I have no words.”
“Poor man is going through hell,” I said, moving in for a more interesting round of les bises. “The whole family is. Has Louis gone home yet?”
“No. The boys are playing video games on the terrace until Louis’s father comes for him. So, Madame, have you invited the Roussels to dinner tonight?”
“I have not. But someone should. If my mom were here she would have all her friends organized into a dinner tree so that someone was taking a hot meal to that family every night.”
“Is that what people do in California?”
“Some people do. Which reminds me, I haven’t spoken with Mom all week. I’d better call her.” Even though she had not given birth to me, the woman who raised me was every bit my mom. “What are we doing for dinner?”
“Taking cheese and bread and a bottle of wine up to our room and hiding?”
“Lovely idea,” I said. But of course, we did not. Instead, we met Dom at the neighborhood restaurant owned by his friend Nathalie’s parents.
It was Friday night and the small restaurant was crowded with locals, some of them fresh off the train and still carrying briefcases. I received many wide-eyed glances because here, sitting next to Jean-Paul Bernard, was the woman many of them had been curious about and about whom no small number had gossiped even though they knew nothing about me except that I had moved into the home vacated by the lovely, late Marian Bernard. I had to smile at the number of them who subtly checked out my chest, expecting to see the Hollywood boob job Monsieur Gomes went on and on about. More than one gawker was clearly disappointed at the rather ordinary-sized bumps pushing out the front of my cotton shirt.
The conversation at our table, between breaks for introductions to yet more people who stopped by to greet the Messieurs Bernard, and snoop, was about where we were going to go for our summer holiday. As was French custom, we would take off for the entire month of August. I proposed that we spend at least a week in Southern California with Mom. I wanted to see her, check on the tenants in my house, and take care of various loose ends. Dom could visit with his Los Angeles school friends, and we would still have time for exploring. After that, we would come back to France and straight into the middle of a tug-of-war between Jean-Paul’s mother, who had a beach house in Villierville west of Le Havre, and my grandmother who would be in residence at the family farm in the Camembert region on the Cotentin Peninsula. Dom, of course, would also be expected to join his maternal grandparents for at least a week wherever they were during August. My daughter, Casey, had to be included in the mix. She would arrive after finals in mid-June and stay until early October when she would go home to begin her senior year. My grandmother wanted her to work with the family’s cheesemaker and I wanted her with me, wherever that might be. Casey wanted to stay in Paris, in Isabelle’s apartment, unless we took off for somewhere interesting.
“My God,” I said. “The summer holiday sounds like a month-long version of the battle over who goes where for Christmas dinner. What if we rent a house on some faraway island and tell folks that if they can get themselves to us, they’re welcome. In the meantime, we’re lying on a beach with margaritas balanced on our bellies.”
They chuckled their oddly similar chuckles. Jean-Paul took my hand and kissed it. “Bonne idée. Who do you tell first? Your mom, mine? Your grandmother? Dom’s grandparents? Casey?”
The answer to that was the arrival of our entrées. That is, the islan
d idea, nice as it was, went no further.
Fabienne Simon came in with her husband and children. They stopped to say hello on the way to their table. Fabienne also greeted the woman seated directly behind me. I heard the sibilant edges of a brief whispered exchange between them. I made out, “Yes, she’s the one.” So did Dom, who covered his mouth with his napkin to keep from spewing his mouthful of pickled haricots. His father, trying not to laugh, flicked his son’s hand as a warning. I looked from one to the other, both of them holding back giggles, and gave them a queenly wave because, apparently, I am the one. Dom had to leave the table but Jean-Paul, like a good trained diplomat, with a last snort and a deep breath, regained composure. And the meal continued.
That Friday marked the beginning of the second week without Ophelia. As we ate, I kept expecting to hear her name among the bits of conversation that rose above the general welter of voices and dishes and chairs scraping on the floor. But it did not, until her parents walked in the front door.
The room fell silent for a moment, every conversation, every fork and knife stilled. And then, a bit at a time, the susurrus of voices began to build again as the Fouchets crossed the room and were seated. A few people greeted them, quietly, as you would greet members of the family at a funeral. Claire Fouchet looked coldly, stiffly composed, and Yvan, though he wore a crisp white dress shirt and a beautifully tailored, perfectly pressed suit, was a wreck. His hands shook as he stared unseeing at the menu card placed in them.
Jean-Paul tapped my arm to get my attention and I realized that I had been staring, transfixed. I looked down at my plate, embarrassed to be caught. He said, “Like passing a collision in the road, it is difficult not to look, yes?”
“Yes. Exactly like that.”
Dom had paled. “Papa, do something.”
“What do you suggest, my dear son?”
“I don’t know. No one is talking to them.” He leaned toward his father. “It isn’t normal.”
“No, it isn’t. Nothing for the Fouchets is normal right now, Dom. Do you want me to go speak with them?”
A Bouquet of Rue Page 20
