A Bouquet of Rue

by Wendy Hornsby

  Eventually, I mustered the energy to turn on my computer with the intention of doing some basic research on the issue of schoolyard harassment beyond France. In the film we planned to make, I wanted to use Nabi’s situation as a personal hook that would lead to a broader inquiry. I didn’t get very far because in the process of saving an article about a trial in Germany, my hand began to itch and that made me think about rue. I looked up rue so I would know what to look for so I could avoid it. When it wasn’t in bloom, rue looked like a lot of things. Brushing against it could cause a nasty rash and blisters, especially if the rash was exposed to the sun. The plant attracts butterflies, flavors grappa, and was used historically as an abortifacient. A link to that last nugget of information led to the possible meanings of rue in Ophelia’s speech in Hamlet.

  I made a note to self: stay out of the woods, and then out of curiosity because of Nabi’s comments to Ophelia about rue in Hamlet, I downloaded the play. I had never read Hamlet or seen it performed, though, like just about everyone, I can quote some bits that have become part of the idiom: “Get thee to a nunnery”; “Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him” (said while holding a skull, or, in the case of a certain pompous college friend, every time she held a head of lettuce); or “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”

  I managed to stay awake through act 1, scene 3, where Ophelia’s brother, Laertes, warns her about Hamlet’s impulsiveness and unclear intentions and cautions her not to “…lose your heart or your chaste treasure open to his unmaster’d importunity.” By then, I knew why the nuns at my convent high school had never assigned Hamlet to their assemblage of supposed virgins: too much talk about sex. Before the end of act 1, I did exactly what I would have done if that difficult play had been assigned by the nuns; I found the cheater version.

  Hamlet is a strange and lurid tale, with the ghost of cruel Prince Hamlet’s father floating about the castle scaring everyone. And poor Ophelia, caught between a controlling, scheming father and rapacious Hamlet who has apparently deflowered her and maybe impregnated her, insulted her for giving in to him, and abandoned her. So she throws herself into a brook and sings until she drowns. That last part was worrisome.

  I closed the computer, leaned back, and tried to sort the bits I knew about the flesh-and-blood Ophelia into a cohesive story. Lulled by the soft chuh-chuh-chuh of the painter’s sandpaper in the background, the mother bird back-and-forth, back-and-forth overhead, I fell asleep.

  “Madame?” A soft voice broke through the fog. “So sorry to disturb you, Madame, but I have finished.”

  I opened my eyes enough to see the painter perched at the very edge of the stone-paved terrace, giving me a tentative little wave. I took a deep breath, opened my eyes all the way, and got to my feet. Trying not to weave back and forth, I said, “You’re finished?”

  “Ouais.” He took a step back, bowed slightly as he swept an arm toward the gate. He had it propped open until the paint dried. Across the opening he strung tape and wet paint signs to keep people away. “Please come and see.”

  I followed him over to admire his handiwork, the stone pavement hot under my bare feet. “Wonderful job, Monsieur. Thank you so much.”

  “You are satisfied, Madame?”

  “Yes, perfectly satisfied, Monsieur. A work of true craftsmanship. We can’t thank you enough for coming out on Saturday.”

  He smiled and gave me a very gallant full bow from the waist. “Always a pleasure to be of service to Monsieur Bernard, Madame.”

  The painter gathered his neatly folded drop cloth and his bucket of tools and presented me with the nearly empty paint can just in case we needed to do touch-ups. I saw him out the front door. I had only just set the paint can on the garage shelf with other nearly empty paint cans when the doorbell rang. I padded out in still-bare feet, expecting the painter to be there saying he had forgotten something.

  “Bonjour, Madame—” It was Claire Fouchet, with her arms full of bright peonies loosely wrapped in newspaper. “MacGee?”

  “Bonjour, Madame,” I said. “What beautiful flowers. Please come in. And please, call me Maggie.”

  “Merci, Maggie. And I am Claire.” She unloaded the flowers into my arms. “Forgive the intrusion, but you said last night that you are interested in planting peonies. I took a chance that you were home so that I could get a look at your garden and see where the plants will do best. I hope I haven’t interrupted something.”

  “Not at all. Let me put these wonderful flowers in the kitchen and we’ll go have a look.”

  When I came back she was already outside, studying the yard beyond the paved terrace.

  “So, Claire, what do you think?”

  “Peonies want four or five hours of full sun, so I think that over there by the side of the guest house would be your best choice. It will help if you have that linden tree trimmed back to allow more morning sun. Whether you plant peonies or not, all three of your lindens could benefit from a good pruning next winter.”

  “I’ll mention it to Jean-Paul.”

  “That’s right, he’s been away,” she said. “Marian loved this garden. She and Jean-Paul gave the most wonderful parties out here. Of course, you’ll want to make it your own. Marian always said she didn’t have the courage for peonies. Maybe that will be your signature planting here, Maggie.”

  My phone buzzed with an incoming text and, while Claire went on with instructions for planting peonies, I pulled it out of my pocket only far enough to see what it was. I didn’t recognize the number, but the signature made my heart race. “Let’s talk. Where? When? Signed Déchaînée.” Déchaînée was the moniker on the letter to the editor commenting on Roni Pascal’s April article. The woman who said she called the wife. I fairly itched to get back to her, but while the wife of the man in question was standing beside me that would hardly be wise. Instead, I tried to find my way back into Claire’s peony tutorial.

  “I didn’t realize peonies were so temperamental.”

  “Not once they get established. Getting them to establish, however, requires diligence and patience.” Without shifting her focus from the yard, she shifted the topic. “You seem to have taken quite an interest in my daughter.”

  “I have, yes. You know that her friend Ahmad Nabi is staying here with us for the time being. Her disappearance has been very hard on him.”

  “I had heard that, yes.” She turned her head just enough to look at me. “Why is he staying here?”

  “For several reasons, but primarily because he and his grandmother have nowhere else to go right now. They are lovely people, and we are enjoying them.”

  “I never understood what my daughter saw in him.”

  “I hope you’ll have the chance to ask her very soon.”

  Finally, her eyes filled. I don’t know that I had ever before met a person whose emotions were kept so firmly under control. She must have had a lot of practice.

  “Is the boy here now?” she asked.

  “No. He’s at a violin lesson.”

  “I’ve never met him. I saw him play in a school concert, but we weren’t introduced. My fault. Do you think he would speak to me?”

  “I’ll ask him if you wish.”

  She relaxed just a little. “Please, if you would, Maggie. Tell him it would be just me. Ophelia’s father is too upset for rational conversation; you saw him last night. The doctor has given him a sedative, hoping he’ll sleep before he collapses. The poor man doesn’t know what to do when he can’t snap his fingers and get what he wants. Right now, he wants his Ophelia.”

  “I don’t know how you manage to put one foot in front of the other.”

  “Hah!” With a sad little laugh she said, “I just sleepwalk through the day.”

  “Maggie?”

  I turned and found Diba out on the foot path looking into the yard over the wet paint tape. She had a little girl by the hand.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, smiling, seeming quite happy, and speaking to me in English, of course. �
�But, if you don’t mind, may I bring Madison over for a swim?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Are you lifeguarding for her?”

  “Oh yes. Nabi will be home soon and he’ll swim with Madison, too. He’s more fun than I am, but I can manage fine until he arrives; I am a good swimmer. We’ll just go get Madison’s things and be right over.”

  “Paint on the gate is still wet, Diba, so please come through the front.”

  “Thank you. Say bye for now, Madison.”

  “À bientôt, Madame,” Madison chirped, and skipped off toward her house next door.

  Claire had watched the exchange with puzzlement.

  “Diba is Nabi’s grandmother,” I said. “Would you like to meet her?”

  “Oh my! What would I say?”

  “What do you want to say?”

  “Give me time to think about it.”

  “Nabi will be home soon. I’ll ask him if he wants to meet with you. Does Jean-Paul have your number?”

  “I’ll write it down.” After she did, I thanked her for the flowers again, and she shot out the front door in a great rush. Was she afraid for some reason that she would run into Diba? Or perhaps Nabi? I hadn’t mentioned that if she wanted a conversation with Diba she would have to speak either English or Pashto, unless she had a translator handy.

  In the short time gap before Claire Fouchet’s fast exit and Diba’s arrival, I returned Déchaînée’s text: “This afternoon? Tomorrow? Somewhere in Paris? Name the time and place.” The answer came right back. “Today, 3:00, Van Gogh’s ear, d’Orsay.” I told her it was a date just as the happy swimmers walked through the front door.

  While Diba changed into her swimsuit upstairs, I busied Madison putting cookies on a plate and counting plastic pool cups for fizzy lemonade. We had the snacks and a large vase of peonies set out on a table by the pool when Diba came down again wrapped modestly in a big terry robe. She and Madison were in the pool practicing swimming underwater when Nabi came home. After asking him about his lesson, I asked him if he was willing to speak with Ophelia’s mother. He said he wouldn’t mind, but only if Ari was there, too. And maybe, he added, Louis.

  I was still thinking over that last one when he said, “Would it be okay if Louis came over to swim now? He’s pretty bored stuck at home all the time.”

  “Ask your grandmother,” I said. “I was just leaving. If she says it’s okay, tell Louis to use the front door, please. The paint on the gate is still wet.”

  No one mentioned the reason we had to paint the gate in the first place. I wondered if Louis would have something to say.

  It was noon, and I was hungry. I also wanted out of the house and away from the backyard noise, as happy as it was. I texted Jean-Paul to see how the suit project was going. He said they had the suit and they were now at the tailor. Did I want to join them for lunch? Of course, I did. I went upstairs, combed my hair and put on more presentable weekend clothes, and shoes, told Diba I was leaving, and drove to the train station.

  We were to meet at a halal Lebanese restaurant, Noura Marceau, on the Right Bank, directly across the Seine from the Eiffel Tower. Before going inside the restaurant, eternally the tourist, I stopped to gawk at the view. Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed of one day living in Paris, and somehow, now I was. At least, I was living Paris-adjacent. The realization that I was there, with my charming prince, still seemed like a dream.

  Jean-Paul was already seated at a table, drinking tea. Before he looked up and saw me, I caught him covering a little belch behind his hand; my prince was the more charming for it. Ari arrived right behind me, loaded with shopping bags: shoes, dress shirts, ties. The suit would be ready for a fitting on Tuesday. I didn’t know whether Jean-Paul subsidized this spree or not, but Ari announced before we ordered that lunch was his treat. I asked for chicken shawarma, a favorite, and when the waiter went away, told Ari and Jean-Paul about Claire’s visit.

  “What does she want from Nabi?” Ari asked, clearly suspicious about her motives.

  I shrugged. “I’m guessing that she wants Nabi to tell her everything he knows about Ophelia. The only surprise for me is that she didn’t race over to grill him last week as soon as she heard he was back in town. She must have questions.”

  “Her reaction has been odd from the beginning,” Jean-Paul said. “I remember her being the sort of mother that Americans call a helicopter parent, always hovering over their kids. But other than passing out posters with an outdated photo, what has Claire done to help locate her daughter?”

  “Stayed at home near the telephone?” Ari said.

  “I’m sure she has a mobile phone,” Jean-Paul said. “And I am very sure that her daughter knows the number.”

  “Yvan, on the other hand, seems to be out looking for her all the time.” I broke off a piece of pita and used it to scoop some hummus from the bowl set in front of us. “Claire told me the doctor gave him a sedative. When we saw him last night at the restaurant he couldn’t stop shaking. Why did she dress him up and take him out?”

  Jean-Paul lifted one speculative shoulder. “After a week, it may be time for them to accept a new reality.”

  “You mean that Ophelia isn’t coming home?” I asked.

  “Something like that.”

  I took a deep breath. “Time for a different topic. Ari, we need to have a party to celebrate your re-entry into your chosen profession. Who shall we invite?”

  Ari blushed. “Let’s keep it just family.”

  “Does family include Diba and Nabi?”

  “By now, yes, I suppose it does.”

  “Good, because I’ll need Diba’s help with food,” I said. “But are there friends or people you work with at the community center you want to include?”

  He dropped his head and chuckled. When he looked up again, he said, “The community center? Where would we put them all?”

  Jean-Paul looked from him to me. “What if we give a party at the cultural center? A caterer, music. A real party. What do you think, both of you?”

  “It’s up to Ari,” I said.

  He shook his head. “If word got out there was food, I guarantee that a thousand people would show up. And maybe more. What if, instead, we make it a surprise during my regular Wednesday shift? We bring in some juice and some sweets, and I let them know that I will be leaving soon.”

  “Good-bye and congratulations all at once,” Jean-Paul said. “Very nice.”

  Ari suddenly grew serious. “I will miss my students and associates, of course. But most of all, Jean-Paul, I will miss you. You have been mother hen and Father Christmas to me for the last two years. It is only because of your friendship and your kindness that I am ready to move on with my life.”

  “You give me too much credit,” Jean-Paul said, coloring a bit. “I think the best thing I did for you was stay out of your way. Most of the time, I was in America falling in love with Maggie and you were here mowing the lawn. If you found that helpful, then wonderful.”

  Ari laughed. I kissed Jean-Paul’s cheek. And we ate our lunch.

  “Plans for the rest of the day?” Jean-Paul asked while we lingered over tiny cups of Lebanese coffee, something like espresso shots with just a hint of cardamom. One cup was enough caffeine to keep me awake until Tuesday. Ari had seconds.

  “I have a mystery date,” I told them. “What does Déchaînée mean?”

  Jean-Paul did that little French shrug that I had decided was the equivalent of the American “Uh” when someone wanted just a moment to think. “Literally, it means unchained, in the sense that you’ve unchained the beast. Think ‘enraged.’”

  “Well, then, I’m off to the Musée d’Orsay to meet Enraged at three o’clock.”

  Ari glanced at his watch. “It’s Saturday. You’ll never make it past the ticket queue by three.”

  “Merde,” I muttered, pulling out my phone to text the woman I was to meet in front of Van Gogh’s severed ear.

  “No problem,” Jean-Paul said. “I’m a member. We
can skip the queue and go in the members’ entrance.”

  I looked at Ari and raised my palms, the gesture that meant, I hoped, No problem here. He laughed, because of course Jean-Paul would have a solution. I said, “We?”

  “I haven’t been to the d’Orsay for a while, so if it’s all right with you, while you’re meeting your mystery person, I’ll just wander. Where are you meeting?”

  “Van Gogh.”

  “Then I’ll be communing with Daumier. Text me when your meeting is over.”

  The museum, as Ari warned, was crowded. Van Gogh’s self-portrait with bandaged ear was a popular attraction. People jockeyed for position to see the little painting—“Not even as big as the Mona Lisa, is it, Alf?”—that somehow seemed to vibrate in its frame. I milled around the edges, searching for a stranger who seemed to be doing the same.

  “Maggie?”

  I turned, feeling unusually wary. There was a crowd, after all. Maybe the coffee left me edgy. Or the expectation of the next random bomb. The woman who said my name was attractive because of the intelligence on her face. That, and like so many French women, there was a simple elegance about her clothes and the way she moved. I had never seen her before, but she looked like the cadres of professional women I commuted with. I said, “How did you know me?”

  “I looked you up before I decided to talk to you. You’re a filmmaker.” She hooked her arm through mine; anyone seeing us would think we were old friends the way she bent her head close to mine. “Let’s go upstairs where it’s quieter.”

  “Thank you for meeting me,” I said as we headed into a side stairwell.