L'Affaire (47 page)

‘You will visit often, you have your apartment,’ Géraldine reassured her. ‘It will not be a disappointment to Victoire not to live in the château – she would not after
all have lived there. She has decided to take her husband back, I’m happy to report. Perhaps she listens to me more than I supposed.
A mon âge,
I think I do know a few things.’

Amy did not know how to feel about this news. In principle, she believed in stable social relationships like marriage. Géraldine began to air her views about marriage. ‘Somewhat conventional, I know,’ she assured Amy. ‘But the point of folk wisdom, is it not, is that there is so much experience behind it?’ She emphasized that it was Victoire to whom her strictures were directed.

Géraldine had been relieved, though somewhat baffled, that Victoire had decided to patch things up with Emile and go on leading the life she had led before. She suspected it was because Victoire had seen him in his glory at her party for Amy, handsome and surrounded by admirers, treated collegially by the rising Antoine de Persand, reverently by the grandest of her guests, and with the new prospects of earning a better living.

Géraldine had not expected to find in Amy such a glowing, changed person, someone altogether in the kind of altered state that often meant its wearer had fallen in love. At least Amy’s transformation didn’t seem to be related to real estate. Of course she wouldn’t pry, but the sight of the girl’s enhanced radiance led her to contemplate, and dilate upon, the subject of love in general. As she spoke, she watched Amy to see if Amy understood that she, too, could profit from the motherly wisdom Géraldine dispensed.

‘Victoire is so idealistic. She is so apt to neglect the very ordinary things that make love last,’ she said. ‘The
old recipes suffice – the negligee, the candlelight, should not be underestimated. Perfume – so important. Even, dare I say, a change in – sexual positions – from time to time? I wish to say, physical love is the basis of all.’ She went on discoursing about womanly wiles, and the fitful nature of Eros, so apt to displace himself when the tiniest bit bored.

Wiles did not interest Amy greatly; she disapproved of them. Anyway, Géraldine’s wisdom was no more than what any ladies’ magazine would say. Why was Géraldine telling her things like this? For a moment Amy feared she had guessed something about Emile and her, and wanted to warn Amy off with descriptions of how happy Victoire and Emile were going to be in their perfumed bed. But Géraldine didn’t appear even to know that Emile had gone to Saint-Gond, so no doubt she was speaking only as a disinterested representative of her generation, bound to convey vital information to younger women coming up.

It was occurring to Géraldine as she spoke that another plausible explanation for Amy’s changed manner and stylish shorter haircut – thank heavens she had got rid of the Heidi braid – was her relief at going back to California. Géraldine was not sure she could count Amy among her successes. Two of her real successes had involved American divorcées achieving marriages to Frenchmen, though only one of those marriages had lasted. In comparison, what had Amy accomplished, really? Still, she was intelligent and observant, and perhaps had evolved some in her few months here. She looked
smarter in her clothes now, seemed to appreciate art and food, and had referred to reading several books! Géraldine had also overheard her mention the
grisaille
French weather.

The most likely explanation for Amy’s present happiness, she decided, was that Amy had fallen in love, and it suddenly occurred to Géraldine that the lover could be Baron Otto! That must be it! They had both been in Valméri, and were both in Saint-Gond, Otto dutifully doing Géraldine’s bidding by going down there to look at the château. She certainly would not have proposed he seduce the girl. Perhaps Otto saw a ski chalet in her future? Géraldine found this idea somewhat annoying, but refrained from asking him about it later. What she did, whom she slept with, what she bought, were Amy’s concerns.

Amy’s radiance was love, it was clear to herself, but it was also relief at having settled the issue of love, found an object for her heart. She had a grateful sense of having got life’s principal drama behind her. If loneliness, misery, and unbearable pangs of desire got the better of her from time to time, well, she would fly to Paris. It was these insights that gave her a glow of inner calm. She had broken through to the raw edge of something, felt it, and would suffer – and this new intensity was after all, maybe, what she had come for.

‘I’ve never seen you look so well, Amy,’ said Géraldine. ‘Just when I’ve made a Parisienne of you – what a pity that you’re not staying longer.’

41

Amy had decided the menu for her farewell party would be tiny caviar tacos, lobster enchiladas, nachos, quesadillas, rare roast beef chili, giant prawns marinated in lime juice, champagne, and margaritas. Géraldine had tactfully added some items to the hors d’oeuvres and proposed two versions of the chili. For those – almost every French person – who weren’t fond of spices, it would be chili without chili powder, more of a
boeuf bourguignon
with beans. For the music, there would be mariachis. Amy had brought two of her tablecloths to cover the long buffet, which the waiters were spreading as she watched, their snowy perfection and distinguished monograms invoking a venerable tradition of hospitality.

The white ship
Elba
lay at anchor in the Seine, with a metal gangplank leading to it from the quay, festooned with ropes and life preservers. The feeble afternoon sun had set, but the weather was still mild. Géraldine had known whom to call to hire this
bateau-mouche,
which would leave its dock in the yacht basin Henri IV at nine-thirty and make a circuit during dinner of the splendid monuments along the Seine, fixing them in the powerful battery of lights it swept along the darkened banks. For Amy, this was almost a metaphor of her French experience – a dark and shadowy reality momentarily illumined with flashes of clarity.

At nine, her Paris acquaintance began to climb the gangplank to the
bateau
. She was surprised at how many people she had come to know in a few months, counting her singing, cooking, and other teachers, American advisors, French people who had invited her, friends of Géraldine, the whole Venn clan – for Pamela and Rupert were coming over from London again, as was now so easy on the Eurostar. Here came the Valméri contingent, Joe Daggart, the prince and
princesse
de Mawlesky, and Madame Dové-Chatigny. Perhaps Baron Otto would be in town; he wasn’t sure.

Assembled, it was a handsome, even glamorous group, which Amy mentally contrasted with her friends at home. How was she going to find them? Changed? Would they find her changed? No matter, parties were mutual aid at its sweetest, proffering pleasure, each guest acceding by his presence to the principle of human sociability. As they arrived she greeted the various American women who had helped her and their French husbands. She expected Géraldine and Eric, Victoire with them – a hundred people in all.

Posy Venn and Robin Crumley were among the first, tripping up the gangplank hand in hand, Robin almost dapper in a nautical blue blazer, Posy in a windbreaker and white trousers. They hardly noticed Amy in their absorption with each other, but were delighted when they spotted her, and rushed to her side.

‘You will be amazed,’ Robin said, kissing her on both cheeks like a Frenchman. ‘We want you to know we are going to be married! You are the first to know! It will be announced. We’ve written to
The Times
.’

They did seem to project a bridal radiance that confirmed this surprising development. Amy was as amazed as they could have wished. Surely the lunch in Saint-Jean-de-Belleville was the first time they had ever been in each other’s company? Amy asked herself whether she could imagine being married to Robin Crumley, but it seemed far from any imaginative leap she could make. She concluded that Robin and Posy had not heard of Amy’s projected purchase of the château, hence had not known the disappointment felt by Victoire and Rupert when she decided not to do it.

‘You must announce it tonight. An engagement is so much nicer than a farewell,’ Amy said as they moved happily along the deck toward Emile, who had arrived separately from Victoire and Géraldine and stood at the rail gazing solemnly down into the water. Perhaps, Amy thought, he felt as forlorn as she did. They almost didn’t dare to look at each other for fear that anyone could see their emotions.

‘Abboud, dear fellow! Providence works in wondrous ways, as one is always being told. Posy and I are to be married! All that one could wish from a romantic escapade – we’re off to Monaco tomorrow, you know, on these wondrous French trains. We’ve sent word to
The Times
. You’ll see it one of these days…’

‘Congratulations, Crumley. A very intelligent choice.’ Emile pumped Robin’s hand with hearty sincerity. He could easily see in Posy the sturdy mother of Englishmen she was destined to be, could envision the little rosy blond tots, Posy knitting woollies and making trifle, or other elements of their odd cuisine – she was perfection for
Crumley, for anyone. He embraced Robin, and kissed Posy on each cheek with an admirable detachment and genuine affection.

Victoire had come up to him and put her hand on his arm. Amy could not but notice the proprietary gesture. Victoire embraced Posy and kissed her. ‘I have a confession. Oh, you will think I am an idiot,’ she whispered to Posy. ‘I
am
an idiot.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Posy reassuringly. There was nothing idiotic about her. What was she talking about? Victoire drew her away from Robin and Emile to walk along the deck as the deckhands began to loosen the ropes, and the noise of the engines drowned their conversation from the others.

‘I know I’ve been distant and crazy, but it is over. All along I thought – you will laugh – that you and Emile felt something for each other. I was so angry! At you and Emile both, but especially Emile. I thought That’s it,
j’en ai assez
. Not even Maman could make me listen to reason. I must just tell you and clear the air – that is why I’ve been so horrible to you, darling Posy, can you forgive me?’

‘Well! there’s nothing to forgive,’ Posy said enthusiastically, after an imperceptible beat. ‘Of course, I do like Emile tremendously, but you are my sister, after all. I want you to be happy.’ She thought God would probably not strike her dead, because this was a sincere statement. Next to Robin, of all her new acquaintance it was Victoire she loved most. She would always feel a certain hardness of heart for Emile, not enough to damage family relations, just a spark of spite, but she sincerely knew she had been spared, her anguish erased, by the great good fortune of
meeting Robin. She’d narrowly escaped being in love with a two-faced North African seducer; how much better it was to marry a famous English poet, an artist, an intellectual, a man of letters with entrees everywhere, in love with her and soon to be her husband. She would get an M.A.! Even have a child! They would often come to France, where Robin had such incredible connections, and perhaps use some of her inheritance to buy something small in the Dordogne or the Midi. For somebody or other would buy the château and the money would be hers. Posy’s happiness was perfect.

Pamela Venn and Rupert had run up the gangplank just before nine-thirty when the boat was scheduled to pull away. Each had a little agenda. Rupert had come to Paris in some hope of changing Amy’s mind about buying the château, a long chance, he knew, or in case of failure to convince her, he could try to persuade her to invest in Icarus Press. Amy was surprised to see that they were followed by Kerry Venn, walking up the gangplank with a stick, bent over to one side like a leaning branch, her legs encased in metal braces, with Kip supporting her. Amy had not herself invited Kerry, though she had said to Kip that it was okay if he brought her, given that her case against Amy was being settled for a face-saving small amount.

‘She needs to get out,’ Kip had told Amy. ‘She’s at the clinic all the time, and these crazy Joan of Arc people come to see her – she’s becoming their goddess or something.’

‘Their saint,’ Amy had corrected. But who were the Joan of Arc people? Would there be a special
awkwardness, even a scene, with Pamela Venn, whose house Kerry was expropriating? When it came to the rest of her lawsuits, Kerry’s emotions had been reported to be savage; if she could not live in her own home, she had resolved to occupy Pamela Venn’s house, which now, in law, belonged to her. Amy had her own issues with Kerry – the lawsuit – but had not realized the extent to which Kerry’s appearance at the party was like that of the bad fairy at Beauty’s christening. Everyone on deck reacted, all in some way betraying their dismay, though perhaps only at seeing the poor thing so handicapped and so brave.

At the moment Kerry wore a tentative expression of resolute sociability, perhaps making an effort because of Amy’s generosity in taking Kip back to California with her. He would go back to his old school, but the great thing was that Squaw Valley was just a few hours away from Palo Alto, so they could visit each other often, and Amy would oversee Kip as a kind of sister surrogate. Kerry did not speak to anyone but was settled in a deck chair forward, eventually to behold the marvellous sights along the banks.

Rupert Venn managed to take Amy aside to ask whether he might come to see her with his business plan. He was going to invest his own inheritance in the press, which would move from the château to some other French structure; but he would need a partner. He would show her the numbers. Amy said she would very much welcome the discussion. She could imagine that Icarus Press could produce handsomely printed copies of Kropotkin’s
Mutual Aid
and no doubt other worthy titles.

Rupert and his mother had already spoken to Kerry Venn on several matters. They knew they had little hope of changing her mind about taking the London house, though Pam hadn’t given up hope, and meantime Trevor Osworthy was trying to straighten things out legally. Pamela was curious at last to see the younger Mrs Venn; so was Géraldine. They also had already raised another delicate issue with Kerry. They had brought the ashes.