“I think what’s interesting is the way the power of chance plays such a strong role in Christ’s destiny. He doesn’t have our modern egotistical notion of self-determination. He follows a path.”
Happenstance and fate, I was learning, were among Clarence’s favorite themes. He expressed annoyance at the common assumption that we do everything for a reason, however conscious, that we are actually capable of guiding ourselves through life and therefore have most of the responsibility for our situations.
He thought that way too much power was attributed these days to psychology. As he experienced more and more of life—he was in his fifties now—he felt a growing respect for the random as well as for Greek tragedy. So much, indeed most, of what happens is beyond our control, he argued. And it is both self-aggrandizing and self-flagellating to maintain otherwise.
I agreed with him and gave an example straight from the mouth of my cousin Jacques: “Madame Bovary was such a victim of circumstance. She only committed adultery because of the limits of her situation. How can you blame her?”
“Precisely!” There was a happy camaraderie in his voice, the professor letting the student in.
“Of course,” he continued, “I’m not advocating passivity, per se. That would be preposterous. No, not passivity, but there is a wisdom to acknowledging fate, and the modern world is losing sight of it, don’t you agree? Claudia, you’re awfully quiet.”
“You know what I think,” she sighed with mock mystery. “Or at least you should.”
I told them I had never had a couscous before, that it hadn’t been in Solange’s repertoire and that it was delicious.
“I’ll teach you how to make it,” said Claudia.
The phone rang. Clarence picked up, grinned, then frowned. “No, my dear, I didn’t have the pleasure of seeing Olivier off for good, but his things are gone and he’s left the keys, thank God. I believe he’s in a hotel for a couple of days before he flies to New York, but I’m not privy to his schedule, nor do I wish to be.” His frown deepened as he listened. I could hear the higher tones of Portia’s voice. “No, Portia. I have no idea what he said. Would you like to speak to Katie? She handled it, I believe. Or else Madame Fidelio dealt with him. As I say, I wasn’t here.” He rolled his eyes in Claudia’s and my direction. The notes trickling from the receiver grew shriller. “Listen, Portia, I love and admire you and I have to tell you that boy is an idiot and you are better off without him.”
Had Olivier done it already? Had he told Portia goodbye over the phone?
Clarence grimaced. “I tell you I don’t know. Here, I’ll pass you to Katie.”
I braced myself but was saved by Portia’s shriek of “Don’t you dare!” sailing out into the kitchen.
I understood her. Why would she want to share her heartbreak and humiliation with a total stranger?
When Clarence hung up, he clucked, shook his head, sat down to his couscous. “Portia says,” he chuckled sadly, “that she senses Olivier pulling away.” He popped a chickpea into his mouth. “Rubbish, I say. Rubbish, Portia.”
“Don’t you think you should be sympathetic to your daughter if she is in pain?” asked Claudia.
“Yeah,” I echoed lamely.
“I suppose I should try,” he answered. “But it’s hard when I know the pain will seem absurd in a matter of weeks.”
Sighing, Claudia reached for his hand, which he whipped away with a significant glance at me. A tiny suspicion peaked, but I let it flow away.
“Is everyone excited to see Lydia?” I asked cheerfully, realizing as I spoke that I was testing the waters to see whether or not Claudia would stick around when Lydia finally arrived day after tomorrow.
“You’re going to be rather busy, my dear Katie,” quipped Clarence. “Lydia can be a bloody slave driver when she’s working. You ought to rest up tomorrow night.”
I reddened. I had other plans.
“I will clean up all of my papers and my affairs.” Claudia’s voice was a hiss of escaping steam.
“Perhaps you should, dear. Lydia’s a bit of a stickler for tidiness.”
As he began to hum the opening theme of the St. Matthew Passion, she rose impatiently from the table.
Once Claudia had left for Montparnasse, I teased Clarence gently that she had a schoolgirl crush on him. “She’s even worried that Lydia doesn’t appreciate you enough because she’s too American to get you. It’s classic, right? Oedipal? She’s fascinated with you.” Possessed by my own impossible infatuation, it was a relief to talk about someone else’s.
“You’re both very imaginative young women,” he said, smiling his dough-lipped smile and drumming his fingers on his wineglass.
twelve
I reached the little horseshoe bar at dusk. Olivier was there already, sipping something brown that I guessed was whiskey. As I caught his eye, I could feel my face a confusion of deep blush and the pink chill of the first really cool day of fall. The only coat I had that didn’t embarrass me was too thin for this weather. I had walked fast to stay warm. My whole body was pumping.
There were half a dozen people sprinkled around the old wooden U-shaped bar. When Olivier pulled me in for a kiss in front of all of them, I was stunned. He introduced me to the bartender, Michel, dark and foxishly thin. He said that since it might be tricky for me to get mail from him at the house, he would write to me in care of Michel. He untied the old black and white plaid scarf that had been Daddy’s. Mom had given it to me when I headed to college on the East Coast, saying she had saved it all these years because she always knew it would come in handy.
“I love this,” Olivier said, rubbing it to his cheek. “It’s so soft.”
“Thanks. It was my dad’s.”
“It is your dad’s.”
Michel asked me what I would like to drink and all I could think of was a Kir.
From the bar, Olivier walked me to the Place des Vosges, the sixteenth-century red brick square with geometric grass and black iron benches. Victor Hugo had lived here. It was Olivier’s favorite square in all of Paris. He took me to a bench under a chestnut tree where he made me promise to sit and read his letters. He wanted to picture me there.
He felt me shiver and draped his coat over mine. Then he gave me his hand. He began to massage my palm so that his chevalière pressed and rose, rose and pressed.
“Your ring is like a hint of lost treasure,” I laughed, “like the one thing that was saved from the shipwreck.”
He laughed too. “It’s all very tragicomic, isn’t it? I could have had this whole other life like you could have had a completely different childhood with your dad being some kick-ass movie director. We can’t take anything for granted, can we?”
“And Portia can?” I ventured.
“I told you she’s spoiled. She thinks she has desires, but they’re all just about acquiring more to pile on to what she already has. There’s nothing burning.”
“At least she has good taste.”
“There’s that.”
“Have you actually told her you’re breaking up with her?”
“She’s not stupid. She knows.”
When he kissed me, he whispered, “This is true. We understand one another. On