The Missing Italian Girl Read online

  Twenty minutes later, Clarie emerged from the cool vestibule of the Lycée Lamartine onto the busy, steamy rue du Faubourg Poissonnière, the long street named for the fishmongers who centuries ago had traveled the road to the Paris markets. Although relieved to leave Francesca and her sorrows behind, Clarie was again struck by the ambivalence that hit her each time she stepped out of the school’s enclosed intellectual universe. Because the neighborhood was close to both the Gare du Nord and Gare de l’Est railroad stations, it was dense and growing denser by the day. Long gone were the women taking fish to market, and the fields and estates that used to line their path. Instead, the street was occupied from end to end by shops, restaurants, and sellers hawking from carts. And everywhere—beside, above, and behind the constant commerce—apartments, new and old, crowded down upon the lycée, which was housed in the one of the few mansions that had survived the transformations.

  This was not the Paris that Clarie remembered from her days at the teachers’ college in Sèvres when she and her fellow students visited the city to tour its ancient cathedrals and museums. This Paris wore all that was modern and raucous on its sleeve, or rather pasted on pillars, newspaper kiosks and the exposed walls of buildings in the form of posters promoting the latest products and the most risqué entertainments. The famous Medrano Circus, Folies-Bergère and Moulin Rouge lay just outside the quartier where the Martins lived. In the poorer districts to the north and east, Clarie knew there were countless café-concerts and dancehalls enticing exploited girls like Francesca’s daughters with the promise of fun and adventure.

  Clarie sighed as she began the ten-minute ascent to her home. Her husband, Bernard, professed to love their surroundings, which he called the “true Paris,” ever remaking itself and open to all: bourgeois and workers, artisans and merchants, Christians and Jews. More and more, she wondered if it was a good place to raise a child. Or to be a mother.

  A year ago, when they left Nancy, Bernard had pledged to find an apartment close to the school and near to the pocket parks squeezed into the fabric of the modern city. A sharp pain shot through Clarie’s chest as she remembered how one of these oases had become a bitter disappointment.

  When the weather had gotten warmer, she had asked her devoted housekeeper, Rose, to bring Jean-Luc to the Square Montholon park during her lunch hour. Clarie would run down the block, around the corner, to the head of the stairs that formed part of the rue Baudin, and look for him. She always hoped to catch him unaware, longing to see that he was happy even without her. Whether she saw him or not, she would race down the three flights of stone stairs to find and embrace him. But her leaving became too heart-breaking. He cried Maman, the very first word he had learned, over and over again. So she stopped going to play with him, feeling him, smelling him. Instead, the faithful Rose came at the appointed hour and Clarie observed from the head of the stairs, hoping to catch sight of his dear head smothered in dark curls, his chubby fingers pointing to a bird or child or toy, his sturdy legs under his gown moving forward to have his turn on the swings with the bigger boys. Oh, how she loved her son.

  I am full of good fortune, she insisted to herself as she distractedly waved away a hawker selling used pots and pans from his cart. My boy is safe at home. Unlike Francesca’s daughters. Without ever having seen them, Clarie could almost imagine what they looked like from their mother’s descriptions: Maura, dark and wild; Angela, blond, mild and obedient, so obviously the favorite. Perhaps, Clarie thought, when Francesca finished her work and crossed the outer boulevards to her neighborhood, she would find her girls safe and sound. Perhaps. Somehow Clarie doubted this and hated the doubting. No, Clarie thought, hugging her sack to her chest as she stopped to avoid the carriages and carts clattering down the rue de Maubeuge, wherever she is, she will not be safe if she is still with that brute.

  Skirting around shoppers with baskets and men in bowlers, Clarie hurried forward, even though she dreaded the moment she would have to fulfill the promise she’d made to Francesca to seek Bernard’s help. He already had so much to think about, and so many cases like Angela’s. Since his decision to step down from his judgeship, he had had to jump through countless hoops to become an avocat, to fulfill his dream of being a lawyer for those who needed justice the most. In the strict hierarchy of the Paris Bar, with all its rigid requirements for becoming a member, he was being treated as an apprentice, getting only charity cases. These paid practically nothing and often came to naught, because the courts cared little about the fate of the troublesome poor. Bernard, Clarie knew, came home to escape his frustrations, not to add to them.

  Almost without thinking, Clarie followed the inviting aroma of warm bread into the boulangerie at the corner of her street, the rue Rodier. She always picked up two baguettes for their dinner, and if she were really hungry would have bitten off the crusty narrow end of one of them by the time she reached the middle of the block. This time she slowed her steps and chewed while plotting her approach. She would remind Bernard of Rose, of the fact that they had agreed to bring their housekeeper to Paris from Nancy in part because one of her sons had beaten her (and, of course, because Rose had become indispensable, almost a grandmother to Jean-Luc). Yes, Rose, she thought triumphantly. They had performed this bit of justice for her, they could do it for others.

  Clarie paused for a moment before entering her building. Although it dated from the 1860s, a small enameled navy blue sign beside the entrance announced in blazing, white letters that the apartments had “Gas and Water on all Floors.” Clarie smiled as she recalled how Bernard had proudly insisted on finding these conveniences for her and Rose. She pushed her way into the entry between the passementerie store and the pharmacy. The Martins lived on the third floor across the small inner courtyard. One more climb. Just enough time to prepare herself before Bernard got home.

  3

  AS SOON AS CLARIE UNLOCKED the door to her apartment, she sensed that something was amiss. Her twenty-month-old did not run headlong to greet her in the foyer, and Rose was nowhere to be seen. When Clarie heard low voices from somewhere inside, her heart almost stopped. She caught her breath and smiled. She realized then, how deeply Francesca’s tale of violence and kidnapping had affected her.

  “Bernard?” she called as she went into the parlor. It must be him. She heard laughter and hurried into the kitchen, where she discovered the three of them, Rose sipping a glass of wine, and Jean-Luc in his father’s arms, pulling on Bernard’s beard. Puzzled, she put her sack on a wooden chair and lay the bread on the round table that took up most of the room.

  “Maman.” Jean-Luc thrust his arms toward Clarie as soon as he saw her.

  Her husband beamed cheerfully. “Darling,” he said. Then kissing his son, murmured “There’s your Maman, at last” and surrendered the child to Clarie.

  Still in a state of perplexity, Clarie hugged Jean-Luc to her chest and kissed him on his forehead. “Bernard, I didn’t think you would be home yet.” Clarie bit her lip. What a thing to say. She should be happy that Bernard was home early and in such a good mood. If only she didn’t have to burden him with Francesca’s troubles.

  “Let’s all go into the parlor,” he said expansively, although for someone as shy and serious as Bernard, expansiveness came with a kind of touching awkwardness.

  There was nothing to do but follow along. Even if Bernard had won a case, which he often did, he’d hardly be so elated. Clarie sat down, bouncing Jean-Luc in her lap and blowing into his neck, making his hair rise to tickle him, as if her boy and his giggling pleasure were all she was thinking about.

  “Rose, sit, please.” Bernard offered their housekeeper the other armchair across from the fireplace. Rose demurred, then acceded to his wish. “Thank you, Monsieur Martin,” she said as she glanced apologetically at Clarie, clearly embarrassed at having been found drinking and knowing something her mistress did not.

  Bernard took center stage in front of them, his suit jacket open to reveal his vest, his arms spread o
ut, as if her were about to deliver a soliloquy, or mount a brilliant defense, or, if he were another kind of man—bullish, full of himself and confident—about to declare his love. All he needed was his cue.

  “So when is your Papa going to tell me what is going on?” Clarie said in Jean-Luc’s ear, while never taking her eyes off her husband’s uncharacteristic dramatics. Suddenly she felt her very insides contract with an overwhelming love for her husband. He was so good, so modest. He always described himself as an ordinary man. And in some ways, he was: of average height and build, a thirty-eight-year-old whose light brown, close-cropped hair and beard were already flecked with gray. Yet, truly good men, Clarie knew, were quite extraordinary. And to see him so happy! She kissed Jean-Luc again, because it was not yet the moment to kiss Bernard Martin.

  “As Rose knows, my dear,” he announced, gesturing toward their housekeeper with one hand as he tucked the other at his waist and bowed to Clarie, “I have found a position.”

  Clarie’s mouth fell open as she placed Jean-Luc upright on his two sturdy legs. “A position?”

  “Yes, a salaried post.”

  This was so unexpected. “In someone’s office? Not just the cases they give you?”

  “A salary, a real salary. No more waiting around the courthouse like a serving boy to pick up what they throw at me. And it’s what I’ve always wanted to do. Help the working man get his rights.”

  As her whole body suffused with joy, Clarie rose from her chair. Bernard had worked so hard, had given up so much. She reached to embrace him, and almost stumbled over her son. She and Bernard burst out laughing.

  “Jean-Luc,” she said, kissing the toddler on his forehead, “wouldn’t you like a piece of the baguette?”

  The boy nodded, even as he held on to her skirt, his big brown eyes searching her face for clues about what was going on. Clarie ran her hand over his head, fluffing his curls. “I’m sure Rose can tear one off for you.”

  Their short, broad, grandmotherly housekeeper, undoubtedly glad to be of use, got up immediately and led the toddler into the kitchen.

  Clarie, who was almost the same height as her husband, laid her head on his shoulder and held on so tight that she could feel his heart beating. “I’m so happy for you. The Bar, the way they’ve been treating you. As if you were a novice.”

  When they broke the embrace, she urged him into his usual seat, the armchair vacated by Rose, which was divided from hers by a small, round mahogany table holding their kerosene reading lamp. She sat down and begged him to tell her everything.

  “It was unbelievable,” he explained. “I didn’t want to say anything until it really happened, because it was too good to be true. I’m working at the Bourse du Travail.”

  “For the Labor Exchange?” Clarie shook her head. “How? I thought that was a place for carpenters and bakers and butchers—”

  “They had a position for a lawyer. They were suspicious, of course, because I had been an examining magistrate. But then I convinced them that I would be their best advocate. Having been a judge, I knew all the tricks, all the rules, how the other side thinks. My greatest defense ever!” He slapped his hand on his thigh, punctuating his triumph.

  Before Clarie could formulate another question, his enthusiasm carried him further. “And just think, no more getting involved in family squabbles; no more vulgar, sordid stories to piece through. I can roll up my sleeves and do some real work against those who break the laws to make a profit.”

  The smile faded from Clarie’s face. She had heard just such a “sordid story” that very afternoon. And she had given her word to tell Bernard about it.

  “And, my dear,” Bernard continued without noticing her unease, “we are going to go out and celebrate tonight. We’re going to one of those café-concerts!”

  “Oh, no. I can’t.” Bernard’s euphoria was really taking him too far.

  “And why not?” he said as he reached for her hand.

  “You know why not. Because I teach tomorrow morning and, being a teacher, I have to be respectable at all times.”

  “Because we’ve never taken any time to have fun for ourselves since we’ve lived in Paris?” Bernard countered with a question, which, she knew, was his very reason for insisting. “We won’t stay out late, I promise. Besides,” he said, getting up, “I should get to know more about the lives of the men I’ll be working with.”

  There was that, Clarie thought, as she slumped back in her chair. How would her methodical and proper husband adjust to working at the Labor Exchange with people who were so unlike his former colleagues in the courthouses of Aix and Nancy? Yet she knew that this was what he had always wanted: to help those who were exploited by the rich and powerful.

  “I’ll let you think about it, and you’ll see I’m right. We must celebrate.” His words resounded distantly, an echo breaking through the jumble of Clarie’s thoughts. “I’ll go see to Jean-Luc’s supper, and when he is in bed….” Bernard trailed off, leaving Clarie staring at the fireplace.

  So this was going to be their life in Paris. If all worked out, it was settled. She rubbed her hand along the flowers embroidered into the lilac fabric of the worn armchair, which had traveled with them from Nancy. There were times when she longed for that place, where she had lived through the worst and best moments of her life. The death of her first infant son is what had driven them to try to leave, but then the birth of Jean-Luc had drawn her to want to stay. Yet she had accepted a new post, weaned her baby as soon as his first tooth came in, and they were gone. To Paris, where the sun did not stream in every morning, and their lives were not punctuated by the shouts and clatter of Nancy’s gayest street. Instead, they lived in the shadow of a peaceful, narrow courtyard, where only the voices and footsteps of the building’s staid inhabitants broke the quiet. A Paris apartment, crammed to the gills, paid for mostly by her salary. Now, at least, they wouldn’t have to worry about how to make ends meet every month.

  Clarie lifted her head and leaned it against the top of the curved line of the chair. This was no time for regrets. They already had good memories, right here, on the rue Rodier. Like the time the Parisian Bar committee had come on inspection to make sure that Bernard’s living quarters were respectable enough to allow him to be admitted to that austere and pretentious body. The thought of all their preparations made Clarie bite her lip to keep from laughing out loud. The big question had been, should they try to get a piano? But, of course, being a blacksmith’s daughter, she had never, like a proper young lady, learned how to play. And where would they put it if they got one: In the middle of the room?

  In front of the fireplace? Or in the far corner of the parlor beside her desk? Perhaps in Jean-Luc’s tiny bedroom with his crib on top of it. Or on their marriage bed. How she and Rose had giggled afterward at the officiousness of the three “inspectors.” Yes, she and Bernard were different, would always be different from their colleagues. Yet they had succeeded against all odds. A blacksmith’s daughter becoming a professor in a high school. A clockmaker’s son being a judge. A motherless girl and a fatherless boy falling in love, finding happiness and making a family together. Bernard, finally, finding work that matched his republican ideals.

  Clarie got up and repinned her thick black hair securely into the bun on top of her head. Bernard was right. They should celebrate. She smoothed out her navy blue skirt. With her starched white high-necked shirt, who could possibly think of her as unrespectable? And besides, if they picked the right café-concert, perhaps she would spot two girls, one blond and delicate, the other dark and bold, dancing together. Perhaps by some miracle she would see Francesca’s daughters and know they were safe. And, if not, she would have to work up the nerve to ask Bernard’s advice on the very day he had finally rid himself of “sordid cases.”

  4

  “LUCA, LUCA,” CLARIE COOED AS Jean-Luc surrendered to sleep. This peaceful moment at the end of the day always filled her with a confusion of joy and apprehension. Because she h
ad lost one child as he slept, she had to be sure that her little boy was full of life, even as his eyelids grew heavy, fluttered and finally shut her out of his world. Only then, as his mouth fell open, slowly, steadily breathing, did she know her son was safe. “Luca,” she murmured the pet name her Italian father had given her baby, then leaned over the crib to smooth away the matted curls from his brow and brush his forehead with a kiss.

  Clarie tiptoed to the parlor, where Bernard was waiting to celebrate his triumph. “I think he got caught up in our excitement,” she whispered to Rose, who stood by, Clarie’s paisley Indian shawl already in her hand. Bernard laid down his newspaper, leaped up and put on his bowler. “Ready?” he asked.

  “Yes, for an adventure and for your new life,” Clarie answered, as she tied the shawl around her shoulders. They were actually going to make a night of it.

  After thanking Rose for staying with Jean-Luc, the two of them descended the stairs and hurried through the courtyard onto the rue Rodier.

  “Which way?” Clarie suddenly realized she had no idea where they were going. The rue Rodier sloped gently up toward the outer boulevards and Montmartre with its famous cabarets in one direction, and down toward the center of the city in the other. Bernard linked his arm in hers and gently directed her downward. “Not the Moulin Rouge, my dear. A much more humble place. A workingman’s place, remember?”

  “Good,” she laughed. She wasn’t at all prepared for the raucousness and lifted skirts of the cancan.

  They descended toward the lights of Paris and a sky streaked with whispers of rose and lilac and tangerine. All around, shouts and slams signaled a bustling street closing up shop for the night. The air was filled with the smell of burnt oil, cheeses and decaying fruit, of things sold, cooked, and consumed. Seeing the delicate colors of the sunset made Clarie suddenly long for Provence, where she had grown up, where she had met Bernard, where they had strolled on grassy hills redolent with the fresh scent of lavender and thyme. How young they were then! She hugged closer to Bernard as they reached the curb of the wide rue de Maubeuge. Even as the day wound down, one needed to pay attention to the horse-drawn cabs and omnibuses clattering by.