Bad Marie (5 page)

This is Paris, Marie thought, staring at the congested highway. She closed her eyes, and she was transported back, again, to the prison laundry, standing on the opposite end of a bedsheet from Ruby Hart, Ruby with her broad cheeks, her thin lips, her orange uniform; Ruby taking hold of the end of the sheet as Marie brought the other end to her, halving the sheet, and taking the other end from Marie’s hand, and then they folded it in half again, and then again, until it was a small rectangle, and Ruby would fold one last time while Marie went to the stack to get the next sheet, for them to begin again. Sheet after sheet after sheet.

The walls of Lili Gaudet’s apartment were lined with books.
Apparently, she was a smart actress. Marie looked for a copy of
Virginie at Sea
and she found it, a French edition she had never seen before, next to a collection of poetry by Nathalie Doniel.

Marie took the slim paperback from the shelf. She glanced through it quickly; the poems were written in French. Marie turned to the back page for the author photo and she blinked. She wondered, for a moment, if she was looking at a picture of herself. It was true. Marie looked like Benoît Doniel’s dead sister.

Still holding the poems, Marie reached for
Virginie at Sea
. Unlike Marie’s edition, which had a black-and-white drawing of a girl and a sea lion on the cover, Lili’s book had a photograph of a desolate beach, nothing more. The title in small black letters was different, too.
Virginie à la mer
. Marie opened the book, surprised again, and somehow disturbed, to see that this, too, was written in French.

On the shelf was also a framed photo, a black-and-white print of Lili Gaudet and Benoît and Nathalie, the dead sister who was not yet dead. It had been taken when they were teenagers. The three of them were all dressed alike in blue jeans and white button-down shirts, their expressions ridiculously serious, staring into the camera.

Marie could not look away.

Benoît had never before mentioned the French actress, but they had a history, tied up with the dead sister, who Benoît seemed to idolize in death the way Marie remembered Juan José. Marie was stunned by her resemblance to the dead sister. The thick dark hair and the dark eyes. Even the amount of space between their dark eyes. The petulant stare. The substantial chest. Nathalie’s arms were crossed, as if to cover her cleavage. Marie used to do that, too, when she was a teenager. Marie was glad to be thirty years old and in command of her chest.

Marie felt more secure, knowing how much she looked like Nathalie. This man, this French writer, he was not an accident. He was not a passing fancy, a way to get back at Ellen for the inequities of her childhood. Marie was not just another woman in a long list of women. She was a reincarnation of Benoît’s dead sister. They were meant for each other. “Destiny,” that was the word that came into Marie’s mind.

Marie worried she was neglecting Caitlin, but she could hear Benoît and Lili, talking, getting settled into the apartment, taking Caitlin with them on their tour; Marie could hear drinks being poured, the infernal cheeks being kissed again, that horrible sound. She could not stop staring at the photo. At the much younger Benoît. Years younger than even his author photo. Decidedly less handsome. Awkward. His hair was short, too short. He wore a narrow necktie, a fitted jacket, cuff links. He wore a dangling earring in his right ear. His face was wide open, without secrets. He had no American wife. No dead sister. No knowledge of what was to come.

Lili walked over to Marie. She took the books out of Marie’s hands and returned them to the shelf. “I love that photo,” she said. “I also loved Nathalie. Very much. She was my best friend. Both of them, Nathalie and Benoît. My best friends in the whole world, though Benoît, he was more than that.
Comprends?
He was my very first. You don’t forget your first love. Or love again like that.
Comprends?
”

Marie stared at Lili, keeping her face blank. She did not want to be hearing this information. It was inappropriate.

“I wanted to kill him,” Lili pointed at Benoît, “when he left for America. He just disappeared. Gone. No good-bye. His grandmother tells me that he has married an American girl, but won’t give me his address, his telephone number. I begged her but she would not. She never liked me. First I lose Nathalie and then him.”

She smiled at Marie, that insane, enormous, deranged toothy smile. Since entering the apartment, she had somehow lost the clingy black T-shirt and was down to a black camisole. “Now he is back.”

She gestured toward Benoît, who stood hesitant in the doorway; he crouched down to Caitlin’s level, holding her hand.

Lili turned back to Marie, waiting for her to respond. Marie had nothing to say. She returned Lili’s gaze, perfectly prepared to outlast her.

“I don’t know what to think of this,” Lili said. “I am in, how do you say, shock.”

Marie searched for Benoît’s eyes, but he did not rescue her from his French actress. Instead, he led Caitlin to the bathroom and closed the door. Marie hoped he would change Caitlin’s diaper. Marie supposed she couldn’t fault Benoît for that. She would need help with Caitlin. Soon Caitlin was supposed to start potty training. Ellen had recently informed Marie that this next developmental stage was imminent; she had given Marie all sorts of child development books to read. Marie had never bothered, because Caitlin hadn’t been her baby. Marie stared at the closed door of the bathroom, willing them to come back.

Lili snapped her fingers.

“It’s amazing, no? That we are all on the same airplane. This is, how do you say, fate? Yes, fate. He has a child. She must look like the wife? Benoît’s wife.
Elle est très jolie?
”

Marie shook her head.

“She looks like herself. Like Caitlin.”

“Remind me to speak always in English,” Lili said. “Okay? You remind me.
Comprends?
You understand?”

“I understand.”

“Who are you?” Lili asked. “If you are not the wife? Are you the girlfriend?”

“Yes,” Marie said.

“Vraiment?
For how long?” Lili asked.

Marie did not answer.

“For how long have you been his girlfriend?”

Again, Marie did not answer.

“You look like his sister,” Lili said.

Marie nodded.

“That must be what he sees in you.”

Marie would not answer that, either.

“But you are not as beautiful as Nathalie. He might be confused. They did not have parents, you know?”

Somehow, Marie did not know this. But it was a lie, anyway, what the French actress was telling her. Everyone had parents. They might die or disappoint you, but you could not be born without them.

“This whole day,” Lili said, “has been a shock. If I seem rude.
Comprends?
”

“I understand,” Marie said. “I am his girlfriend. Do you understand?”

The word sounded inadequate next to Lili Gaudet’s black camisole. Not that the French actress had any cleavage. What she had, though, was history. He had returned her kiss on the airplane. Marie had seen that.

Benoît and Caitlin returned from the bathroom. Caitlin ran over to Marie and wrapped herself around her leg.

“I can’t believe you didn’t come see me at the festival,” Lili said to Benoît. “I was written about in the newspapers. I not only acted, I wrote the screenplay. The Americans, they are horrible, the audiences. They walked out in the middle. They ate hot dogs. You could have called me, Benoît. All this time, you could have called me. I have not moved. My telephone number has not changed.”

Benoît shrugged.

“I had to get away,” he said.

It had never once occurred to Marie that Benoît Doniel knew other people in the world outside of herself and Caitlin.

“Have you seen my movies?” Lili asked him.

Benoît shrugged again. “Oh, Lili.”

“You haven’t seen any of my movies? I have been in many movies. I always thought, Benoît, Benoît will see me in this film, and he will call me.”

“I haven’t seen them.”

“Have you?” she asked Marie.

“I think I told you. I have been in jail,” Marie said. “They didn’t show French films.”

“They do have books,” Benoît quipped.

Marie looked at Benoît and smiled.

“I am disgusted by you,” Lili said to Benoît. “
Comprends?
”

Benoît nodded. He sat down on Lili’s sofa, a leather sofa much like Ellen’s. He lit a cigarette and put his feet on the coffee table. This was a room he seemed to know and know well. He was unnervingly comfortable.

“You have read his book?” Lili asked Marie.

Again, Marie did not answer Lili’s question. She did not care if she seemed stupid. She refused to compete. She would not acknowledge this competition. She had already won. Ellen had come home from work to an empty apartment.

“She did,” Benoît said. “She read it in the American prison. I don’t want to talk about my book.”

“Did you love it?” the French actress said. “Why were you in jail? How long have you been Benoît’s girlfriend? Do you really believe he loves you? Do you? He only loves himself. He is the most selfish bastard on the planet. He doesn’t see my movies. I have won two César Awards since he left me. I am famous. He does not love you.”

Marie looked at Benoît.

He needed to control his French actress.

“I’m hungry,” Caitlin said.

They left their unpacked bags in Lili Gaudet’s apartment in
the best neighborhood in Paris and went to the restaurant down the block, where Marie ordered the first thing she recognized on the menu, the steak frites, which she loved. Marie drank the delicious red wine Benoît ordered and she ate her steak, charred on the outside, red on the inside, drizzled with a thick pepper sauce, and she marveled at herself, sitting in a restaurant in France, eating delicious steak.

Ruby Hart was still in prison. Juan José was still dead. Marie’s mother was simmering in the same old, ugly house she’d lived in for the past thirty years. Marie was in Paris. The French bread was just as good as Benoît Doniel had promised it would be.

At the restaurant, the French actress resumed talking in French, talking talking talking, but Marie did not feel jealous. In fact, she felt relieved. Marie did not want to talk. She did not want to explain herself. She did not want to understand what had once happened between Lili and Benoît or know what they were saying to each other. She did not want to know. She wanted to eat. She wanted Caitlin to eat. In a strange way, with the horrible French actress commanding all of Benoît’s attention, Marie was alone again with Caitlin. They had been happy together, before Benoît.

“Hi Caitlin,” Marie said.

“Hi Marie,” Caitlin said.

“Hi Kit Kat,” Marie said.

“Hi Marie,” Caitlin said.

“Everyone speaks French in France,” she told Caitlin.

Caitlin reached for a french fry off of Marie’s plate.

“This is called a
frite
in France,” Marie said.

“
Frite,
” Caitlin echoed.

She ate it and then she reached for another.

Marie drank her wine. Caitlin drank her milk. Instead of chocolate pudding for dessert, they ordered the chocolate mousse.

“This,” Marie said, “tastes better.”

She enjoyed her dinner, despite the fact that Benoît Doniel had abandoned them. The French actress had taken him, brought him over to the bar, introduced him to the bartender and a woman with short hair wearing a red blouse and blue jeans. Marie watched Benoît kiss the cheeks of these people.

“Daddy is over there.” Caitlin pointed.

Marie nodded.

“Mommy is at work.”

“Your Mommy works hard,” Marie said. She looked into the almost empty bowl of chocolate mousse and ate the last spoonful.

When the waiter returned, Marie ordered a whiskey and another chocolate mousse. She asked for these things in English and the waiter understood.

When the bill came, Lili Gaudet paid.

“I am very rich,” she told Marie, leaning over to get her wallet out of her purse, flashing the thin straps of her black camisole beneath a shapeless gray sweater.

Back at her apartment, while Marie got Caitlin ready for bed, the French actress continued to talk. She had Benoît Doniel cornered on the edge of the leather couch, with no choice but to listen, her skinny arms waving wildly. At some point, Marie realized she had reverted back to crying. She was, clearly, hysterical, and she was also waiting for Benoît to react. Marie wondered if Lili Gaudet might suffer from some sort of acute mental condition.

The French actress could enter a mental hospital, and they could live happily in her big apartment in the best neighborhood in Paris.

Marie recognized the fact that Benoît might need saving, but she had just saved him from his wife. His wife. Ellen Kendall. That had required heroic effort. They had been standing there, defeated, at the sea lion tank, and he had tried to find a way to say good-bye to Marie. Instead, they were together. In France.

She would rescue Benoît again, later. Before that, Marie would give Caitlin a bath. It was the same routine, in New York or in Paris. They took the bath together, Marie and Caitlin. They were more than fine on their own. Caitlin, at least, seemed fine.

“Bubbles,” she said.

Benoît had remembered Caitlin’s plastic ducks. Marie found them in the third suitcase. She took Ellen’s lavender bubble bath from her backpack. She then located a good bottle of Irish whiskey in the French actress’s kitchen and poured herself a glass. It had been a long, long day.

Caitlin was too tired to play with her ducks.

Marie would have to rouse herself, make sure to actually wash Caitlin before they got out. She lay back in the bathtub with her drink. She would not fall asleep; she would not pass out.

“I’ll wash your hair,” Marie said. “What do you say?”

Caitlin nodded her head.

Marie blinked, taking in the bathroom, remembering again where she was. In Paris. On the run. Not in a hotel, but the apartment of Benoît’s French actress. The off-white rectangular bathtub was tiny, basic—much too small for Benoît to join them. The bathroom itself was also simple, unexceptional. Lili Gaudet couldn’t have been much of a movie star.