The Third Grace (14 page)

Aglaia leaned on the plane window, the glass cool against her forehead. If she focused on the reflection of the cabin interior she saw Lou, who at last slept beside her after keeping furtive watch on her page turning from the time they left La Guardia. The vigil had unnerved Aglaia; she felt Lou reading along as she sought out François's notations, one by one, in the Bible's margins. But Lou couldn't read her mind, after all, where the real action was taking place.

Aglaia turned her gaze into the night sky, even cupping her eyes against the glow inside so that the exterior gloom consumed her full view. They were flying over a sea of moon-washed mist, too high up to cast a shadow. The wing of the 767 was her point of reference, its metal the only real substance between the earth below and the stars above. She was disembodied, belonging to neither earth nor sky, hurtling through the stratosphere like Pegasus ridden by the goddess of dawn or like an archangel dispatched from heaven's throne.

Or maybe like a driblet of lukewarm spittle expelled from the mouth of God.

Aglaia closed her eyes, disoriented by the obfuscation of the black night, the throbbing of the plane's wing strobe, and the labyrinth of her thoughts. She had vertigo of the soul.

Each page of the Bible read during the past hours had taken her to another memory, and her recollections of that summer were now lining up chronologically—François's notes reminding her, chapter after chapter, of the events that surged towards a climax neither of them knew at the time of his writing. She ignored the formal English terms he'd copied from the minister's outline, not concerning herself with the theme for more than its ability to guide her understanding of François's perspective and her own responses. His words punctuated the Word of God in a sort of progressive revelation, layering meaning upon meaning in an allegory that didn't fit with a literal reading of Scripture.

In the first book of the Bible, Aglaia had found herself again in the genesis of that paradisal summer, when François first walked and talked with her and showed her the enchantment of the Three Graces and breathed into her the consciousness of her own enchanting womanhood. Her exodus from an unquestioning childhood faith into the arid wilderness of confusion was marked by his notations in the margins of the second book—
Mount Olympus
written beside Mount Sinai,
Minotaur
beside the golden calf. By the time the youth group had reached the end of the Pentateuch several weeks into François's stay, like Moses she, too, was standing on a precipice overlooking the River Jordan—or perhaps the River Styx—into a new land but not yet entering it.

When Jericho, city of the moon god, came tumbling down in the pages of the Bible, her own walls of resistance to François's charm had begun to collapse in that summer of her love.

When Samson perished in the rubble over Delilah's betrayal, she longed for François's fingers to unbraid her own hair, as Odysseus might have done to Penelope.

When David slung his fatal pebble towards Goliath's forehead, the spirit of chastity was dying within Aglaia and, although the shepherd beseeched her from his book—
Who is the Rock except our God? The Lord is my Rock, in whom I take refuge, my Rock and my Redeemer
—yet David's poetry was muted by the overriding voice of François, who'd written
Atlas
on the page and said so long ago with his mouth: “He carries the great rock of the universe on his shoulders.”

The building of the Great Temple out of the cedars of Lebanon, carved with cherubim and palm trees and flowers overlaid with gold, brought to Aglaia's mind the ringing of hammers as the boys constructed new corrals behind the barn, François's arms cording up as he reached for another rough-cut slab and pounded it into place.

Then, while Manasseh bowed down to the starry hosts, she was idolizing François but still kept herself from him though the fire burned in her, the convention of decorum holding her to at least some morality.

As Job scraped his itching, running sores with pottery shards, the Lord was speaking to her out of the maelstrom of her own suffering:
Where were you when I laid the earth's foundation, when the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy?
She, too, had shouted for joy with her friends—with François—during the overnight retreat down at the lake, as the fervent youth leader urged them on and they sang unto the Lord a new song, sang of the mercies of the Lord, sang with their mouths making known His faithfulness:
Praise Him, sun and moon, praise Him, all you shining stars… The heavens declare the glory of God!
But her desire at the moment she sang His praises had not been not for the One above, the One within. Her desire was for the one who drew her apart to sit by the lake in the reflection of the midnight skies, and filled her senses with his presence and her imagination with his tales. While the other teens, studious around the campfire, read in Isaiah about the coming king of righteousness—
Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace
—François was identifying the planets for Aglaia and whispering to her about Chaos, the original dark nothingness from which all else sprang. He spoke of Gaia, the mother earth who gave birth to the starry heavens as an eternal home for the blessed and bestial gods, and then gave birth to Tartarus as the lowest level of the underworld and a wretched pit of blackness reserved for interminable punishment, and then gave birth to Eros as erotic love. Heaven, hell, and sex all born out of one womb.

In retrospect, that was the beginning of the end for her, there in the Prophets where God weighed her on the scales and found her wanting—or where she weighed God and found Him wanting. God had declared, “Let there be light,” but François reawakened in her the mysteries of darkness with his convoluted theories, and she liked the danger hiding in his shadowy innuendo. By that time, her field of vision was limited to the glory of François, and there was no longer refuge in the voice of the Scriptures crying in the desert of her heart, for she was withering like sand-blasted grass and falling like overblown flowers at the end of a drought-ridden summer. There was no longer refuge even in her brother, Joel rejecting any mention of myths and chastising her for having her head turned by stories, chastising her for not reading her Bible anymore.

And now hours into their second leg of the flight, Aglaia dozed with the Bible still open on her lap.

The night sounds seep through the window screen like berry juice through a cheesecloth bag—gentle cricketsong, the humming breeze, the faraway groan of a calf calling
maa-maa.
Everyone else is in bed, but how can Mary Grace sleep when François is lying a room away? How can she restrain her whirling thoughts and calm the twisting in her gut and alleviate the misery? She sits alone in the unlit kitchen with her elbows on the checkered oilcloth, cheeks cupped in hands.

François finds her like this. The floorboards creak beneath his bare feet, and she's aware of him before he touches her. She feels his body heat close to her right side without looking up at him. She doesn't need to look up at him—she has his image burned into her subconscious as surely as Argos, the giant with one hundred eyes, could never shut away his visions even in sleep until he was crushed beneath a great stone and beheaded and his eyes transplanted to the tail of the peacock.

“You're crying.”

“I'm sad,” she says. She wants him to ask her why, but he doesn't. If he'd only ask her, she'd be forced to tell him that her fear is he'll forget her, and he'd be forced to say that would never happen.

“Sad?” is all he asks. “I'll make you happy.” And he leans down to her so that a curl of his hair tangles in with her lashes as he kisses her with his sweet, moist mouth.

Aglaia woke up with a start, burning with thirst and not a flight attendant in view. The cabin lights were dim. Someone a few rows up coughed but otherwise everything was quiet. She tried to suck up some saliva to moisten her mouth but hesitated to creep across Lou and risk rousing her.

Soft light illumined Lou's patrician profile and Aglaia took some solace from its flinty angles. Lou was strong and sure-footed, even if she did march over others in her way. Following behind her was safer than pressing on ahead. Yet Lou invited Aglaia to reach out beyond self-imposed boundaries, going as far as to endorse her for the position at PRU. Maybe Lou might understand some of her torment if only Aglaia would open up, explain why she was driven to find François. It wasn't just about seeing him again, or at least Aglaia hoped that was so. It was about making an end to her fantastical story of love and death and God. Naomi wouldn't get it, even if Aglaia came clean with her. Maybe she should talk to Lou.

But she was so thirsty! Eventually she sank back into dreams about the burning, unquenchable torment of Tartarus until the captain announced their descent into Paris.

A
glaia's fingers wrapped around the demitasse from which she had taken two delectable sips. She hated to polish it off with a final gulp but Lou, watching her from across the table, had already finished hers. Aglaia wanted to sit here forever.

The streets of Paris fulfilled her every expectation. This moment of lounging at her first sidewalk café was a condensation of all of her long-held expectations—the pungent coffee and chocolate-drizzled pastry, the wafting perfume of passers-by, the music pulled from a violin by a gypsy-busker in the shade of the boulevard's trees. Ignoring Lou's surveillance, she dipped into her bag to hook out her sketchpad and, with a few deft strokes of her graphite, captured the swing of the violinist's skirt, the strain at the sleeve seam as the girl propelled her bow across willing strings.

She recalled her first crude drawing for Eb—of a princess in costume. It had been a cartoonish figure with each eyelash delineated, the gown outlandishly puffy and the tiara decorated with curlicues. “Don't design from some preconception of prettiness,” he'd instructed. He taught her the value of copy work, how to first see the essence of what was actually there and record it with accuracy before embellishing. The original was a pattern, a type foreshadowing what it would become in its fullness, like mirroring like. “Be intentional, not fanciful,” Eb had said, pointing out the drape of a gown in the textbook illustration on her table. “The bias of the fabric will dictate how this garment hangs. I see a waywardness in you, lass.” He clucked. “Save the creativity for later.”

“
Plus de café
,” Lou called out to the waiter.

“
Oui, madame,
” he answered, taking a quick swipe with his damp cloth at their table in passing.

Aglaia turned the page to draft another hasty contour of the musician. It was Tuesday morning, eighteen hours since landing, and the first time Aglaia had consciously absorbed the aura of the city. She was in a daze upon arrival at the airport yesterday and almost nodded off during the M
é
tro ride to the Hôtel du Caillou, where she and Lou dropped off their baggage, freshened up, and set out on a walking tour of the Montmartre neighborhood stretched prostrate below the great white basilica of Sacré-Coeur. They read the grave markers of famous poets as they took a shortcut through a cemetery. They raced through a Monet show, Lou stopping long enough to instruct her on the Impressionist's conveyance of light, although she had no use for the portrait artists in the square who called to them for a sitting. They spotted the red windmill of the Moulin Rouge from a distance as they marched along the avenues till Aglaia's ankle could take no more. She didn't get a chance to practice her French, since Lou was so quick to speak—to purchase entrance tickets to a gallery or to order a bottle of
vin blanc
. And she didn't get a chance to check out a Paris phone book either, Lou yanking her past at least two booths. The day's heat was unbearable, and after an early supper at an elegant restaurant, Aglaia fell into a deep sleep on her first night in the hotel.

So now she sat beneath the red awning of a Parisian café on a sunny morning with her sketchpad, and she only half listened as Lou began to outline their sightseeing agenda without once asking for her input. For the moment, Aglaia didn't care. She was immersing herself in the whole luxurious encounter—the tastes and scents and sounds—like she might slide into her bath after a long day of work.

“Bach,” Lou said.

“Pardon?” Aglaia dragged her vision back to Lou.

“The busker.” Lou tipped her head towards the street. “She's playing a sonata of Bach's, as you'll know with your training in music.”

“I haven't studied music,” Aglaia said without thinking, then pinched her leg under the table for not having phrased it more subtly. She should have replied that she loved classical music, always a genteel put-off. But then Lou might have asked her for a favorite composer, and who might come to mind but Newton or Watts or some other name from the pages of the church hymnal?

“But you sing. I heard you on your friend's balcony,” Lou said pleasantly though Aglaia listened for the sarcasm, suspecting guile. There'd been no song on her tongue for a long time; what Lou heard on the balcony was Naomi's song. “Come now, Aglaia,” Lou coaxed. “Admit that you sing. You hummed in your sleep last night—unless that was a moan of desire. Were you dreaming about your boyfriend?”

The woman was too much! Stalling, Aglaia filled her mouth with the last of the croissant. For all Lou's show of elegance, she was a vulgar person. Having to share the room with her in the hotel, Aglaia was discomfited last night with Lou's unabashed disrobing, and turned away. But maybe the problem was with
her
and not Lou, who likely had a lot healthier view of the human body than the modesty she herself inherited. This morning upon awakening, she noted Lou's expensive bra and panties tossed on the floor, and a small nautical star tattooed high on the thigh of her uncovered leg. From her bed Lou caught Aglaia's glance and leered at her—actually leered!

Well, Aglaia's love life was no business of Lou's, whose prying was ruining her first taste of Paris.

“There are some things I prefer to keep to myself,” she said. Was that a challenge? She added, “Not secret, you understand.”

“Right.”

“I don't have anything to be ashamed of,” Aglaia said.

“I'm sure you don't, but that doesn't mean you live free from a misplaced sense of culpability.” Lou sipped from the
demitasse
.

Was it that obvious? “I don't have a guilty conscience,” she said.

“Why else do you refuse to talk about your mystery man, this François Vivier? You dread admitting your passion.”

“It's not like that,” Aglaia countered. Lou had it all wrong. Then, weighing her words with no intention of disclosing any more family circumstance than necessary, Aglaia decided to explain the minimum, since maintaining silence would only draw more of Lou's probing. “François is unfinished business. At a critical point in my life he took off suddenly, before he was scheduled to leave.” Her eyes stung. “If only I could meet him just once more, maybe I could figure it out. Every time I look up since we've stepped off the plane, I see him crossing the street or disappearing into a shop. See that guy walking in front of the
boulangerie
? He could be François—same black curly hair, same long stride.”

“You've got it bad.”

Aglaia straightened up on the chair and ran her thumb over the grain of the wood on the tabletop. How could she make this sound saner than it was coming across without telling Lou the whole story?

“If I can locate him, even if it's just to give him the Bible Mom sent along, it'll help put an unfortunate string of events behind me so I can get on with living.”

“And?”

“That's it.”

Lou observed her through hooded eyes but Aglaia held her chin high. Likely Lou was as dissatisfied with the incomplete explanation as she was. So much for hoping she might get some respite by talking about it. Under the pretense of a dripping nose, Aglaia reached for her bag and unfurled a tissue like a flag of surrender. She was no match for Lou's steely disposition but Lou, for some reason, didn't take advantage of the opportunity to interrogate her further about François. She didn't know how close Aglaia was to confessing it all.

Paper crackling, Lou unfolded the Métro map, subway being the preferred mode of transportation around Paris for tourists and residents alike. She said, “Well, come on. Let's be intentional about our day.” She had all their options for the entire stay figured out, with time set aside for her own research at the university and for Aglaia's appointment tomorrow morning at the costume museum. Relieved to be off the subject of François, Aglaia became more animated with every turn of the
Fodor's
page.

Lou went on about the parks and galleries and bridges. “We'll fly by the Opéra Garnier, make reservations for a boat trip down the Seine, and take in the Rodin museum.” Lou ran her fingertip along their intended path on the map. “I'll show you Victor Hugo's setting for
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
, where the movie was filmed, and then we'll stop for some cherry sorbet from Berthillon.”

But Aglaia's
joie de vivre
dissolved when she remembered her mission.

“I need to find François first.” It was out before she had time to pad the words with reason.

Lou snorted. “You can't refrain from stalking your prey.”

“I know locating him is a long shot. I thought if I could give it one serious attempt, maybe telephone around for any Vivier listed in Paris, I'd enjoy the rest of our vacation a lot more.” She was making excuses; this trip to her was now, first and foremost, about finding François.

“If that's what it takes for you to let go of that bulky book, I promise to help you make the calls. We can't have you lugging the Bible around Paris for the rest of the week only to take it home again.” Lou pushed the wrought-iron chair back from the café table and said, “There's a
tabac
on the corner where you can buy a phone card, and sometime soon we'll find an hour to do the calling. So, for the love of God, forget about the man and attend to more pressing matters.”

Aglaia pitched into tourist mode for the rest of the day. She admired the architecture, nodded along to Lou's overview of French rationalism, and shuddered through a demonstration of a guillotine. She gasped at the fiendish ferocity of the 384 masks carved on the oldest bridge in the city, glaring down at her from their height like some ill-tempered gods, and she recognized another bridge—when Lou pointed it out to her—that Marlon Brando stood upon in
Last Tango in Paris
. She trudged through several cathedrals to appreciate their historic significance and even put up with a lecture on Lou's view about the socio-cultural impact of Joan of Arc upon the women of late mediaeval France.

But they didn't pause to taste the
crêpes
sizzling on a curbside griddle, drenched in butter and folded up in a cone of waxed paper but discounted by Lou as peasant fare. They didn't inspect the bolts of lace stacked up on a vendor's table in the flea market. And they dashed past the dead chickens that hung from their twine-wrapped claws beneath canopies blowing in the wind, and brown blocks of Marseillaise soap, and round goat cheeses powdered with ash.

When they did sit for a few minutes on a park bench, shaded from the burning sun, to rest Aglaia's ankle and watch a cluster of middle-aged men who played
pétanque
on the grass, Lou couldn't explain to her the rules of the game.

It was almost seven o'clock by the time they got off the Métro at the Saint-Georges stop, and the phone calls to any existing Vivier households still hadn't been made. As they walked into their hotel, Lou asked the concierge to book a table at a nearby seafood restaurant.

“It's superb, Aglaia.
Bouillabaisse
as it was meant to be supped and
Coquilles Saint-Jacques
that trumps any you've eaten at home.”

Aglaia hadn't ever eaten either dish at home, and she was intimidated by her culinary ignorance—though she could bet Lou had never tasted really superb
Kjielkje
noodles rolled out, boiled, and fried in bacon drippings by an old Mennonite cook. She felt herself grin at that, and salivate just a little.

Lou continued, “Later we can tour the Latin Quarter and drop in somewhere for a nightcap.”

“I shouldn't stay out too late,” Aglaia said. “My appointment tomorrow morning is at ten.” Tonight she still needed to see that the costume had no wrinkles and that her own outfit was pressed and smart, that her notes for the interview were in order, and that she clearly understood the subway route to the Musée de l'Histoire du Costume—no matter that Lou always bullied her way into the lead on their forays.

“You worry too much, Aglaia. It's time to kick up your heels. I promise I'll get you to your meeting on time.”

Aglaia figured this promise was about as good as Lou's promise to begin calling around for François today. But she didn't disturb the other woman's mood by saying it aloud. Lou was bound to get around to the phone call tomorrow.

Lou Chapman needed a drink. It'd been a hellish day of leading Aglaia from one tourist site to another and of trying to deliver a rudimentary French history to someone constantly distracted by frivolous details. But it was a necessary procedure, Lou thought. Anyone who came to Paris the first time needed to get the basics out of the way in order to appreciate all the city had to offer. She hoped her efforts wouldn't be lost on Aglaia who, if she interpreted Lou's self-sacrifice as true friendship, would only come to depend further on her.