Mira's Diary (16 page)

I started to say thank you again. I tried to get the words out. But space had collapsed around me, and time whirled by. Zola's grave was a touchstone.

I was still in the Montmartre Cemetery, but the grave was gone, because, of course, Zola was still alive. I had to be back in the nineteenth century; one gulp of air told me that. But when exactly? And did that mean I still had a job to do? Could I find Mom at last?

“There you are!” I heard a screech. It was Madame Lefoutre. She leaped out from behind a stone angel as if she'd just time-traveled herself. Was that possible? Could she chase me through time? I wasn't about to ask. I gathered my skirts (yes, I was in that dress again) and sprinted away from her, not caring where I went so long as it was far from her.

I zigzagged through the streets, turning corners, trying to lose her in the narrow, winding neighborhood. A carriage almost jolted into me; I jostled a bristle-mustached man and nearly ran straight into an old woman walking her poodle. The streets were more crowded now, and I felt safer, like I could stop and catch my breath.

That's when I saw her again. Her back was to me and she hadn't seen me yet, but it was definitely Madame. I turned back around another corner and found myself across the street from Degas's home.

Why not? I thought. At least I'd be safe from Madame. I rang the bell, and the same old servant let me in.

“I'm so sorry to intrude, Monsieur Degas, but I happened to be in the neighborhood…” I tried to smooth my dress into looking decent, and I wiped the sweat off my forehead. At least for once I wasn't lying. I really did just happen to be here.

“Come in, come in. Have a seat. You look like you could use a good cup of tea. Or perhaps something stronger?” Degas was his old, welcoming self. Maybe he was done with measuring everything according to the Dreyfus Affair, yes or no. He'd been without his friends for a long time by now. Whenever now was. Which was actually a good question.

“Thank you, I'd love some tea. And please forgive me my confusion, but I've forgotten today's date.”

“You have an appointment you've forgotten?”

“No, I mean I don't remember what day it is.”

“Tuesday. Today is Tuesday. You're a bit young to have these lapses, aren't you? It's the kind of thing you'd expect from me.” Degas chuckled. “I often forget what hour it is.” He took his watch out of his vest pocket and peered at it. “Almost four, so time for tea indeed.”

This wasn't helping at all. I tried a different tactic. “Do you have today's newspaper? I haven't had a chance to read it yet.”

“Of course.” Degas reached for a folded-up journal on the table next to his chair and handed it to me. “You're still interested in that Dreyfus, I imagine. You can see the results of his second trial—guilty again. No surprise there. But that spineless president pardoned the traitor. All the bad press France has been getting intimidated the fool. Bah! Who cares at this point! I'm tired of it all, aren't you?”

I listened with half an ear, trying to read and pay attention at the same time. The date, I noticed, was June 11, 1899, and as Degas had said, the new court had upheld the earlier verdict. Zola had written something about the trial: “There will exist no more detestable monument to human infamy…the ignorance, folly, madness, cruelty, deceit, and crime of the trial will lead tomorrow's generations to tremble with shame.” Such stirring words! It was strange to think I'd just been at his tomb. Was he back in France or still in London?

“Aren't you?” Degas repeated, shoving a teacup at me.

“Oh, yes, sorry. I'm a bit distracted.” I took a warming sip. “I wish this whole affair would be over. It's gone on for such a long time now.”

“Yes, far too long. Weakening the entire government, it is.”

“And you, how are you doing? Still collecting art? Still painting?” What a dumb thing to say. Of course he was still doing both, but I didn't want to talk about Dreyfus, not with Degas. What I really wanted to ask was whether he was friends with the Halévys again, whether he'd seen Claude.

“Are we doomed to small talk, my girl? I thought we were far beyond that.” Degas gave me a piercing look, and I swear he knew who I really was. But how? That was impossible.

I plastered on a smile, as simpering as I could make it. “I've never been much for deep discussions. You know that. I was just wondering how dear Claude is. Have you seen him lately?”

“He can't be that dear to you, the way you treated him,” Degas snapped.

“The way I treated him?” My fingers trembled holding the delicate saucer.

“He was in love with you, and you left him without a word.”

My mind went blank, empty of a single plausible lie to explain my sudden disappearances. And I couldn't bear to think of how much I must have hurt Claude.

“I really must be going.” I set down my cup, trying to sound calm. Was it really true? Had Claude loved me? What difference did it make? He hated me now. And was married with a nice wife, probably several kids too. And what could I have done to stop that? Absolutely nothing.

“Yes,” drawled Degas. “I suppose you must. Always going. It's what you do.”

I blushed, miserable. So that was what I was known for—running away. Leaving. And it was true.

“Thank you for the tea. It's good to see you so well.” I acted composed while inside every nerve was shaking. I had to get out of there, away from Degas's sharp scrutiny, his harsh judgment, even if it meant running into Madame again.

But the street was empty when I came out. I didn't see her or anybody else I knew all the way to Zola's. Not Mom, not Claude, not anybody.

I had no real reason to go to Zola's except that I didn't know where else to go. He wasn't home, but the maid said she expected him back soon, so I decided to wait. I was poking through the bookshelf when the door opened. It wasn't Zola, though.

It was Madame.

I grabbed an ivory-capped walking stick that was leaning in the corner. Maybe it was one of those kinds that had a blade hidden inside, but even if it wasn't, I could hit her with the stick.

“Calm down, child,” Madame Lefoutre commanded. “I'm not going to hurt you. I'm helping you.”

“I bet!” I snarled, raising the stick over my head threateningly.

“I'm setting things right. You don't understand what's really going on here. Because of you, poor Mr. Zola here will die. Can you live with that on your conscience?”

“You're lying!”

“Am I? Am I really?” She tilted her chin up, proud and defiant and dangerously beautiful, like some poisonous flower. “Ask your mother. Maybe for once she'll tell you the truth. You have it all wrong. She's the one interfering. I'm cleaning up her messes.”

Before I could answer, she turned and left, leaving me with the walking stick over my head when Zola walked in. I quickly leaned it back against the wall. Lucky for me, Zola was much older than the last time I'd seen him, and with his stooped-over, slow shuffle, he didn't notice anything strange. His face was creased with wrinkles, his gray beard chiseled to a point on his chin.

“Ah, Serena, so good to see you again.” He kissed the air next to my cheeks. He must have thought I was my mom. I'd always thought we didn't look at all alike, but there had to be some resemblance for Zola to make that mistake.

“I'm sorry, Monsieur Zola, but I'm not Serena. I'm Mira, the American journalist who interviewed you several years ago.”

“Of course!” Zola said. “Now sit, please. Colette will bring us something splendid, I'm sure.”

“How was London?” I asked.

“Horrible, as you can imagine. Terrible weather, worse food. The only saving grace was that I met Oscar Wilde, just released from jail himself. He told me I should take comfort in my guilty verdict since it's always a mistake to be innocent, while being a criminal takes imagination and courage. And for him, the halo of sin has made him all the more popular in London fashion. He's invited out every night and dines on his witty stories of prison life.”

“And you? Are you more popular for your guilty verdict?”

“Alas, no. Only the English appreciate crime that way. The French, it seems, are repulsed by it. Or perhaps it is the nature of our crimes. If I had seduced a young earl like Oscar, that could be forgiven, but to criticize the Grand Army, no, never!”

“If it is hard for you here, perhaps it's best to leave again,” I said. Maybe if he left France he wouldn't die as Madame had said he would. I didn't think I would be directly responsible for any harm that might come to him, but since he'd written “J'Accuse,” Zola had received plenty of ugly threats from people who considered themselves good patriots. “Italy would be pleasant. Sunny, and you'd eat well.”

“I'm too old and tired to be chased out of my home again,” Zola grumped.

Looking around at all the Chinese porcelain, the statuettes, including some by Degas, the piles of books and papers, I could understand why the thought of moving was exhausting.

My gaze dropped from the mantelpiece full of precious objects to the fireplace itself. It was caked with soot, and suddenly I remembered that the last time I'd been here, I'd seen Madame talking to a chimney sweep. Had she paid off the chimney sweep to somehow clog the chimney so that Zola would suffocate? When she talked about Zola dying, she meant because of her, not because of me. Anyway, the chimney didn't look safe and I said so to Zola.

“It's fine. Don't worry. The chimney has been cleaned already this year, as it is every year,” said Zola. “Forget about some old soot—I want to know what Americans are saying about Dreyfus, what they think of us French. I fear we are despised as brutes by everyone now.” Zola shook his head sadly. “Hard to believe that the country that enshrined the Rights of Man so publicly after the French Revolution could have fallen so low.”

We talked about Dreyfus, the press, the furious mobs, the future of France, but no more mention was made of moving. Or of the chimney.

The light was dimming through the windows. It was time to go, but I was afraid to leave Zola. “I know it's been difficult,” I said, “but I want to thank you—for Dreyfus, for France, for all of us. You've spoken out against a monstrous injustice and changed how people think about human rights. You've shown how one person can make a difference.”

“You exaggerate!” Zola waved away my words.

“No, it's true. I admire your courage and convictions.” I took his hand. “I hope we'll meet again.”

“I'm sure we will.”

But I was just as certain we wouldn't. Somehow this visit felt final. And really, what more was there to do? Finally, thanks to “J'Accuse,” there was broad public support for tolerance and fairness against prejudice and corruption. Wasn't that the change Mom wanted? It was definitely a change I wanted, and I was proud I'd had even a small part in it.