“You sound as if you hate men,” I told her. I thought that was ironic for someone who was so involved with so many men.
She laughed. “I’m a fisherman who hates fish,” she replied, but then she became very quiet. I saw that she didn’t want to talk anymore, so I didn’t push her, even though my mind was under an avalanche of new questions.
Was there someone during the earlier years, someone she thought might rescue her, love her? Did Mrs. Brittany somehow prevent it in order to keep her working for her, perhaps telling her that she owed her, just as she had recently done? Or did this man simply learn too much about her and flee?
Without any formal education, how had she learned so much about people, places? How did she know how to hold a conversation with these obvious financial princes, captains of industries, wealthy entrepreneurs, and highly educated men? Was it all just sex?
She had told me it wasn’t just sex, that sometimes she was really just an escort. Well, how did she know how to compose herself and be part of a conversation with people who were s
o successful? What did they think of her? Did she meet any really interesting men, men with whom she could at least dream of having a long relationship even if that was not possible? What were her fantasies now, her goals and hopes?
How often did she come back to her apartment and just cry? How often did she cry about losing her parents and me? Did she ever consider coming back to us? What stopped her? Was it just her pride, her stubborn pride, or did she think it was too late?
All the time I had been with her, I had lived with these questions buzzing around in my head like bees in a garden. Sometimes they were so close to the tip of my tongue that I actually uttered the first word and then choked back the rest. When I was younger and she was gone and I would think about her out there in the city, I felt sorry for her. Actually, when I learned that she was living in an expensive boutique hotel, buying expensive clothes, looking so beautiful and accomplished, I became angry. After all, she had defied Papa and hurt Mama when she had run off.
I had wanted her to be a ragtag young woman panhandling in the parks or at the bus and train stations. I envisioned her sleeping under bridges, living in some hobo village, scratching and clawing her way into some safe place but always sleeping with one eye open, anticipating a drug addict or drunk taking whatever she had managed to scrounge together and maybe attacking her sexually. She wouldn’t have beautiful hair and a beautiful complexion. She would suffer from some disease, always look in desperate need of a bath, and have bleeding feet because of shoes that didn’t fit.
In short, she would be what Papa expected her to be, too, a victim of her own foolish and disruptive ways. Maybe that was why he was even more upset when he saw her that day in the limousine, flush and beautiful, healthy and enticing. She defied him and was not suffering. On the contrary, she was flourishing.
These thoughts zigzagged through my mind as we flew to Paris. Except for the times we ate together, Roxy and I rarely spent so long with each other with no one else competing for her attention as we did on the flight. She fell asleep, but I couldn’t. When she was asleep and she didn’t know I was studying her, I thought she looked even more vulnerable than I was. There was still something young and sensitive in her face. Asleep, without her guard up, she resembled me more. I saw movement under her closed eyelids and could only imagine what sort of nightmares she might have.
It was then that I realized why Roxy wanted to do what she did or how she could work for someone like Mrs. Brittany. She might never admit it to me or anyone else, but she was desperate for Papa. She threw herself at other men, luxuriated in their arms and under their kisses with her eyes closed, imagining that Papa had embraced her again. He was back. He would protect her.
These thoughts brought tears to my eyes. Without her realizing it, I laid my head softly against her shoulder and closed my eyes. I, too, fell asleep, and I was sure that if she woke up before me, she wouldn’t move. My eyes did snap open when the lights came on and the flight attendants began making preparations for our landing in Paris.
“You okay?” Roxy asked.
“Yes, fine.”
“Oui, bien,” she said, reminding me that we should rely on our French.
As soon as we retrieved our luggage and headed out, we saw Uncle Alain waving among other friends and relatives of other passengers.
“That’s Maurice,” she said, referring to the curly-light-brown-haired man beside him. He was a little taller than Uncle Alain and stouter. He had soft, almost rust-colored eyes and a smile that involved every part of his jolly round face. He looked like someone happily surprised at the sight of his own rarely seen relatives. In fact, he was waving at us as enthusiastically as Uncle Alain.
“Bienvenue,” they both shouted. Uncle Alain held out his arms, and Roxy looked to me to go to him first. Maurice kissed Roxy on both sides of her face and then embraced me and did the same while Uncle Alain kissed Roxy and took her bags. Maurice took mine.
“How was your trip?”
“Très bien,” I said.
“Oh, no,” Maurice said. “If they speak only French, how will I improve my English?”
All four of us laughed.
“Maurice has made a spectacular dinner for you tonight,” Uncle Alain said. “It is his day off today, but he’s like . . . what do you say, a busman?”
“Yes,” Roxy said. “It’s called a busman’s holiday when you do on your vacation or your day off exactly what you do when you work.”
“Making dinner for two beautiful women is not work for me,” Maurice said in perfect English. I complimented him on it, and he embraced me tighter and kissed me on my cheek. “I like her.”
“You like anyone who gives you compliments,” Uncle Alain told him, and, turning to us, he added, “He’s always looking for praise.”
“So? This is not French?” Maurice asked, and we laughed again.
How quickly I felt at home with them, and from the look on Roxy’s face, she had, too.
We all got into Uncle Alain’s Peugeot sedan and started for the Saint-Germain area of Paris, where they had their apartment. It was located on the famous Left Bank, known for its bohemian lifestyle. Their apartment was off the Boulevard Saint-Germain, a beautiful wide street that stretched for nearly two miles. There were cafés on the boulevard and near it. As we rode, Uncle Alain felt obligated to point out sights such as Saint-Germain-des-Prés, the oldest church in Paris.