The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (25 page)

His secretary rang.

“It’s a Mr. Goodfellow,” she said. “He insists on speaking to you.”

“Put him through.”

He heard a click, and John Goodfellow came on, speaking a rapid mix of English and French.

“We’ve been spotted, Philippe.”

“What do you mean, spotted?

“Someone put a private detective on my tail. So I turned around and followed him. He wasn’t very good—an amateur. I have his name and the address of his agency in Paris. We just need to figure out who he’s working for. What shall we do?”

“Wait and see. Give me his name and number, and I’ll take care of it.”

“Do we keep going or do we stop?”

“We keep going, Johnny. I’ll take care of the rest. See you next Monday at Roissy, as agreed.”

“Okay.”

Philippe hung up. So he was being followed; who would want to do that? He and Goodfellow weren’t doing anyone any harm. It was a strictly private matter. Was it a client poking into his private life so as to blackmail him? Anything was possible. The
firm’s clients were often involved in major deals where hundreds of jobs might depend on his recommendation. He looked at the detective’s name and his agency’s phone number, and decided to make the call later. He wasn’t worried.

Philippe picked up the file again but had trouble concentrating. He was tempted to just quit the law sometimes. He was forty-eight years old and had made his mark. He wanted to spend more time with his son. Alexandre was growing up and becoming a stranger to him. He was a gangly kid with headphones on his ears who would say, “Hey, Dad, what’s up?” and disappear into his room.

Anyway, who could blame him?
thought Philippe.
Most evenings I come home with a stack of files and lock myself in my study. And that isn’t counting the nights when Iris and I go out.

“I don’t want to lose touch with my son,” he said out loud.

The other day, he’d had an idea. He would write a long letter to Alexandre. Everything he couldn’t say to him in person, he’d put in writing. It wasn’t good for a boy to be around women all the time—his mother, Carmen, his cousins Hortense and Zoé. Alexandre was surrounded by females!
He’s about to turn eleven; it’s high time I sprung him from that harem. We should be going to soccer games and rugby matches, to museums. I’ve never even taken him to the Louvre, for God’s sake! And that’s not something that would ever occur to his mother.

How do you begin a letter to your son? Dear Alex? Dear Alexandre? Dear son? Maybe he would ask Joséphine; she’d know. Philippe found himself turning to her more and more. He would say things to Jo that he wouldn’t to anyone else. “I think
I’m going to close the firm and retire,” he’d told her the other day. “Lawyering bores me, the work’s getting harder, and I’m tired of my colleagues.”

“But Philippe,” she protested, “your people are the best in Paris!”

“Yes, they’re a good team, but they’re losing their edge, and as people, they’re not that interesting any more. You know what I’d love to do?”

Joséphine shook her head.

“I’d like to be a consultant. Give advice occasionally and have some real time for myself.”

“What would you do with it?” she asked.

That’s when he told her about Alexandre.

“Alex is worried,” Joséphine said. “He needs you to spend time with him. People think that what matters is spending quality time with your kid, but quantity counts, too. Kids don’t just open up when you press a button. Sometimes you can spend a whole day with them, and it’s only that evening on the way home that they suddenly open up and share a secret or a fear, or they confess something. Here you’d thought you’d wasted all this time, but it wasn’t wasted, because it was worth it for that.”

Joséphine blushed. “I don’t know if I’m making much sense.”

She’s looking tired
, Philippe thought.

“Is there anything you need, Jo?” he asked. “You sure you’re managing okay?”

She assured him she was doing just fine. Then she said, “Iris knows that I’m working for you.”

“How did she find out?”

“From Caroline Vibert. They had tea together. Iris was kind of annoyed that you hadn’t told her, so maybe you should.”

“I will, I promise. It’s stupid, but I don’t like mixing work and family. Especially since as conspirators, we’re not very good at lying.”

He’d burst out laughing. Joséphine looked at him, feeling awkward, and backed out of his office.

Philippe was jolted out of his reverie by Caroline Vibert.

“Did you come up with a strategy for that file I sent?”

“No, I’ve been daydreaming. I don’t feel like working today. It’s Wednesday; I think I’m going to take my son out to lunch.”

Caroline stared at him in disbelief as he dialed Alexandre’s cell. The boy was thrilled at the prospect of going to his favorite restaurant with his dad.

“Then I’m taking you to the movies and you get to choose what we see.”

“No, let’s go to the Bois and practice penalty kicks!” Alexandre shouted.

“All right. It’s your call.”

Caroline twirled her finger at her temple in a you’re-crazy gesture.

“The French hosiery industry can wait,” Philippe said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with my son.”

First, the sound of his footsteps in the hallway. The pale yellow tile walls with the blue trim, the big full-length mirror. The mailbox, with the card that Joséphine hadn’t changed: “M. et Mme Antoine Cortès.” The smell of the elevator. Finally, his
footsteps on their landing. He didn’t have the key, and raised his hand to knock, but Joséphine had already opened the door.

There they were, face-to-face.

Nearly a year had passed, and they studied each other with cautious curiosity and surprise.

How much has changed in a year
, thought Joséphine, observing the bags under Antoine’s eyes, the burst capillaries on his cheeks, the furrows in his forehead.
He’s taken to drinking . . .

Nothing has changed
, thought Antoine, who wished he could stroke the blond hair framing Joséphine’s face, which looked thinner and firmer.

You look beautiful, darling
, he wanted to whisper.

You look tired, dear
, she almost said.

A smell of sautéing onions wafted in from the kitchen.

“I’m making chicken with onions for dinner. The girls love it.”

“Actually, I was thinking of taking them out to eat. It’s been such a long time.”

“They’ll like that. I didn’t say anything to them, I wasn’t sure if . . .” What Joséphine didn’t say:
I wasn’t sure if you would be alone, if you were free for dinner, if she was going to be with you.

“They must have changed a lot,” said Antoine. “Are they doing okay?”

“It was a little hard at first.”

He felt like sitting down and watching her make dinner. Joséphine so often had that effect on him; she soothed him. He needed a break from the misery of the last months. Antoine had gone to see Faugeron, but the banker took three phone calls
during the scant ten minutes he’d granted him. “Please excuse me, Monsieur Cortès, this is important.” Antoine felt like yelling, “So you’re saying I’m not important?” But he held his tongue and waited for Faugeron to hang up and continue their talk.

“Your wife is handling everything just fine. There are no problems with your account, Monsieur Cortès. I think you should discuss all this with her.” Then he stood up and shook Antoine’s hand, again saying, “No problems at all, as long as your wife is around.” Antoine never got a chance to tell Faugeron about his problem with Mr. Wei.

Night was falling. Streetlights were winking on, and a soft white glow lit the dark sky. Through the kitchen window, you could see the lights of Paris. When Jo and Antoine first moved to Courbevoie, they used to look at the city and make plans. “When we live in Paris, we’ll go to the movies and out to restaurants,” they’d say. “We’ll take the Metro and drink coffee in smoky cafés.” Paris had become the repository of all their dreams.

“We never did wind up living in Paris,” Antoine said, so sadly that Joséphine felt a stab of pity for him.

“I’m perfectly happy here,” she said. “I’ve always been happy here.”

“Did you do something to the kitchen? It looks different.”

“Just more books, that’s all. Oh, and the computer. I made myself a work space.”

“That must be it.”

He remained silent, slumped in his chair. Jo noticed some gray hairs on the nape of his neck, and found herself thinking that people usually started going gray at the temples.

“Antoine, why did you take out that loan without telling me? That wasn’t right.”

“I know. Nothing I’ve been doing lately seems right. I have no excuse. When I left for Africa, I thought I’d be successful, make a lot of money, pay you back double or even triple. I figured everything was going to work out perfectly, but then . . .”

“It’s not over. Things might still work out.”

“It’s Africa, Jo! It eats people alive. It rots you from the inside. Only the big cats survive in Africa. And the crocodiles.”

I can’t let the girls see Antoine in this melancholy state
, thought Jo. Then she had a terrible suspicion. She leaned over and smelled his breath.

“Antoine, you’ve been drinking! Listen, you’re going to go take a shower and change your clothes. I still have some shirts and a jacket of yours in the closet. I want you to stand tall and be cheerful if you’re going to take the girls to a restaurant.”

“You kept my shirts?”

“They’re beautiful shirts. I certainly wasn’t about to throw them out.”

Suddenly he felt better. The old familiar ease was returning. He would shower and change, the girls would come home from study hall, and he could act as if he’d never left. The four of them would go out to dinner, the way they used to. He stood under the shower, feeling the water run down the back of his neck.

Joséphine was surprised at how painless seeing Antoine had been. The moment she opened the door, she knew: Antoine would never be a stranger; he would always be the girls’ father. The worst part of the separation had been how quietly it had
happened, without any yelling or screaming. During the time she was struggling all alone, he had simply tiptoed out of her heart.

“I’ve always thought some people are completely happy, and I’ve always wanted to be one of them,” Antoine admitted, once he was showered, shaved, and dressed. “You, for example. You seem to be one of those happy people now. Nothing scares you. Faugeron told me that you’ve been paying back the loan on your own.”

“I have a second job. I’m doing translation work for Philippe’s firm, and he pays me very well. Too well, in fact.”

“You mean Philippe Dupin, Iris’s husband?”

“Yeah. He’s changed, become more human. Something must have happened in his life. He pays attention to people now.”

I have to hold on to this moment
, Joséphine thought.
I need it to last a little longer so that it stays imprinted in my memory. The moment when Antoine stopped being the man I loved and became just a companion, not quite yet a friend. I’ve changed too. I’ve grown. I’ve suffered, but it hasn’t been in vain.

“How do they do it?” Antoine asked. “I mean, people who are successful. Are they just lucky, or do they have a secret formula?”

“I don’t think there’s any formula. Nobody succeeds all at once. You set one stone on top of another and you keep on going. When you go back to your crocodiles, try to take things as they come, one at a time.”

He was listening to her as if her words could save his life.

“It’s the same with drinking,” she went on. “Every morning
when you wake up, tell yourself, ‘I’m not having a drink until this evening.’ Take a small step every day, and you’ll get there.”

“The Chinese guy I work for isn’t paying me.”

“So what are you living on?”

“Mylène’s money. That’s why I wasn’t able to pay the loan back.”

“Oh, Antoine!”

“I wanted to discuss it with Faugeron. I hoped he’d help me find a way, but he barely listened.”

“What about the Chinese workers? Are they being paid?”

“Wei pays them peanuts, but yeah, they’re paid. From a separate budget. I’m not going to steal their pennies from them.”

Joséphine thought for a moment, tapping her teaspoon against the cup.

“Listen to me, Antoine. People like this Mr. Wei only do things if they’re forced to. If you go on working without being paid, how do you expect him to respect you? Whereas if you leave, he’ll send you a check posthaste. Think about it. He won’t risk letting thousands of crocodiles die. He’d be in a real bind.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Antoine took Joséphine’s hand and squeezed. “Thank you.”

The doorbell rang.

“Now pull yourself together. Smile and be cheerful tonight. They mustn’t know. It’s not their problem. Understood? And don’t let Hortense dominate the conversation. Get Zoé to talk. She always lets her sister overshadow her.”

He gave her a weak smile and nodded.

The reunion was joyous. The girls took turns jumping on
their father. They were about to head out the door when Antoine asked, “Aren’t you coming to dinner with us?”