Excerpt
I
I tell it all to Lucien. Hes stretched to the max on the furry white couch in his mothers red apartment, looking like something youd want to paint. Low-slung jeans and the black-on-black kimono, open and almost falling off, so I see the whole smooth front of him all the way down to his poutylooking outie and the blue tattoo of the Algiz rune. Hes drawing in his sketchbookscratch, scratch, scratchbut I know that he is listening as he murmurs Nazi under his breath in his French so-sexy accent, his nostrils flaring, wide and black.
Dads not that bad, Im about to say, but Esmes back, dangling a pair of shoes. Shes been foraging through Luciens mothers closet again. Im going to borrow these, she says. Silvery snakeskin. Four-inch heels.
Lucien yawns. Asks if shes put the others back. My mother noticed them gone, you know.
I didnt take them. Mitra did.
Not a likely story. Esme lies like others breathe. And Mitras more into boots.
Well, somebody has to put them back. Also, Maman requests that you all stay out of her private realm. Shes going to put on a lock.
Blah, blah, blah, says Esme. Her skirts so tight, the V of her thong shows through in back as she bends to put on the shoes. Your mum just loves that we raid her stuff. It makes her feel very cool.
Lucien twirls his pencil. Tessas fatherdad, I meansays she cant see me anymore. What do you think of that?
Esme jumps like someones stuck her with a pin. The bangles clang on her bony wrists.
I dont get it. What do you mean? Shes tall as a tree in the spiky heels.
Tes . . . sas dad . . . does . . . not . . . want . . . He drags it out as if Esmes deaf and a hundred years old.
Can someone really do that? I never heard of such a thing.
Lucien laughs. Isnt she precious, Tess? he says. Youd think she was raised by wolves.
I dont see your mummy here too much. Esmes English. Says mummy a lot. She rolls her eyes at Lucien. She doesnt even notice when the clothes in her closet disappear.
You take her clothes? This is news to Lucien, who up till now thought it was only shoes. He goes back to the subject of my dad and tries to explain to Esme that certain parents in the world do, in fact, tell their kids who to see or not. This doesnt compute in Esmes brain. She sinks to the white alpaca next to my boyfriends feet. Boyfriend, Ive just begun to say.
Bizarre, she comments, mystified, and fiddles with his toes. This I hate. Her bony fingers are limp with rings. Peridot and turquoise. Some great big diamond with a crack. Luciens toes are beautiful. The bottoms of his feet are smooth. Petal soft, the color of a flower tea. Why dont they like poor Lucien? Hes a sweet little boy. Wouldnt hurt a fly.
That tickles, Esme. Get the hell off.
But why? she coos. Just tell me why. Its hard to look at Esme. Her beauty messes up my head. Her china-blue eyes dont match the darkness of her skin. Her mums Malaysian, so she says. But no ones ever seen her mum, so the storys probably bogus too. Her height comes from her father (this part Lucien says is true), a red-faced Brit, thin as a flagpole and just as stiff. Esmes hair is long and white. Cornsilk strands that fly in her face. I bought some bleach, but Lucien said Dont touch your hair. He loves my looks, he tells me. So fresh and squeaky American-clean.
Her father thinks I bring the marijuana. Marie Juan, it sounds like, like the name of an exotic girl.
So what. Who cares.
Well, it isnt me. I wouldnt share my stash like that.
Dont put yourself down. Youre very kind.
Try to stay focused, Esme sweet.
Well, who made it up, this rumor, when everyone knows its Wid?
They talk on Sunday at the church.
What church? says Esme, wide-eyed.
All the Americans go to church. And when its over they have caf
And doughnuts? says Esme brightly. I had an American doughnut once
Hopeless, says Lucien close to my ear.
You Americans always hate the French. And I know why, says Esme. Youre jealous because they speak so nice and they make souffls and those chilly little aspic things.
What chilly little aspic things?
Those things with the tomatoes. Lucien knows the things I mean. Esme stretches out her legs and stares at the snakeskin shoes. Then flashing back to me again:
Cant you just tell them it isnt true? That the little Dutch boy sells the weed?
You really want her to rat on Wid? Lucien intervenes for me. Hes stippling with his pencil now, putting angry eyebrows on my dad. Esme shrugs.
Will your dad try to have him ganked, you think?
Vous tes tres drle, says Lucien, which means you are very funny, though Esme is not laughing, not even a smile on her spaced-out face.
Doesnt he work for the CIA?
Lucien whispers, FBI. Id asked him to keep this to himself. My dad doesnt advertise that fact; people in the Bureau dont. Not that its some big secret. For three months now, since we moved to Argentina, hes been stationed at the embassythe legal attach, hes calledwith his weird little dweeb assistant, Jer, formally known as Jerry. Were supposed to say he works for Justice if anyone asks. Thats Department of Justice, by the way, not the whole ideal.
Esme springs up. Does he have a gun?
Go home, said Lucien, waving her off.
No, really, does he? I bet he does. She clomps back and forth across the room, testing out the shoes. Anyway, I guess Ill go. I know you really want me to. Plus Gash is taking me out tonight.
How can you stand that scary old scag? Gash is gross, but Im glad weve stopped talking about my dad.
Gash is an icon. An icon, love. He changed the world of rock.
Hes a dirty old man, is what he is.
He isnt dirty. He bathes a lot. Sometimes several times a day and with soap thats made by monks. Anyway, who cares. Gash and I have fun. We play this gameI call him Daddy when we go out. At Christmastime, hes taking me to Italy.
If you live to be twenty, Esme, it will be a miracle. Arrivederci. Blow a kiss. Esme smiles, teetering slightly in the heels. She opens the door and tosses puffs of air at us.
Find who has my mothers clothes! Lucien hollers after her. Her footsteps clatter in the hall. It sounds like shes walking back and forth, breaking in the shoes. Seconds pass and we hear the elevator doors and the fading hum as the big brass cage lowers from the penthouse floor.
I turn to look at Lucien to ask him again not to mention my fathers job. But then I dont, because hes put down the pad and pencil with the portrait of my Nazi dad. Hes smiling too, thedimples dark at the ends of his mouth. Thats what I fell in love with firstthose shady wounds at the corners there. He was standing in front of a painting by Michelangeloa poster, that is, on the wall of the art room at our school. His full-lipped mouth looked just like the painted angels, and I knew I was going to kiss it soon. That was just two weeks agowell, sixteen days and a couple of hoursyet I feel like Ive always known that mouth, tilting now in the slow, faint smile thats only meant for me.
What are we going to do? I ask.
Its so sexy when youre serious. Everything dire and ter-ee-bul.
My dad isnt kidding, Lucien. We really have to make a plan.
Tessa. Belle. Ma Tessa. His voice is soft and sibilant. And already I feel the slow, hot dip just hearing the way he says my name with the belle in between, which in French, you know, means beautiful. Well work it out. Well sneak around.
You dont know my dad
Well make up stories. Little lies. Youll say that youre at Esmes house. Or Mitras place. Who cares? Your father cant come to school with you or follow you around all day.
He knows when Im lying. He has a gift.
Dont worry, Tess. Ill teach you how to do it. How to lie so good that nobody sees it in your eyes. He reaches out and takes my hand. I forget about Dad as he draws me down on top of him. The silk kimono slips away, my face falling into the warm, dark slot beside his own. He talks in French against my hair as if what he needs to say to me can only be said in the language that came first to him.
So we make our plan: Well lie and fake. Well make up stories and sneak around. It might be fun, he whispers. Like Esme pretending shes Gashs daughter, calling him Daddy wherever they go, playing their game in the secret dark of clubs and bars. We could go to Alibi Alice too. Shes a girl at school who, for money, will fix up everything. Shes an entrepreneur, says Lucien. Before I leave we drink some port. I dont really like the taste of it, but I love to hold the tiny cut-glass thimbles he takes from the Chinese cabinet. Solange, Luciens mother, is a cultural attach and has things from all around the world. We sit on the floor on the Turkish rug.
He signs the drawing of my dad. He tears it out and I put it in my sketchbook, in between the pages, the way youd press a flower.
Drawings, whispers Lucien, are more intense than photographs. Theyre the actual lines that the person has made. With the impulse of his nerves and touch. When I look at this drawing years from nowwhen Im old, he says, an old, old girl in a red wool capIll remember this afternoon.
The drawing doesnt look like Dad. It doesnt look like anyone. But already I know the other parts true. The part about remembering.
