“Maybe he was threatened.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t say anything about him. I never got to know him. It wasn’t all his fault, either. He was brought up in a very cold home. The military life his father imposed on his own family made it difficult to show emotion. Except for anger, which I was able to bring out of him like no one could. I wanted to hate him, M. It was easier for me,” she admitted.
“I don’t think he hated you, Roxy.”
“I know. One of these days, I’ll go to the cemetery and ask them both to forgive me.”
“They will.”
“Maybe they already have, through you,” she said.
We hugged, and then she turned over to go to sleep. I sat for a moment before rising to go to bed myself.
I never felt as sorry for her as I did that night, but I never loved her as much, either.
Epilogue
The next few days became a whirlwind of touring. Uncle Alain was away on business for three days, and Maurice was very busy with the restaurant. Roxy and I did get up the Eiffel Tower, and Maurice, through someone he knew, got us reservations for dinner at the Jules Verne so we could see all of Paris lit up at night.
The following day, we went to the Louvre, where I could show off my knowledge of art, and we spent a day in Montmartre shopping for a painting Roxy thought would please Uncle Alain and Maurice, and of course, we visited Sacre Coeur. We had trouble finding a painting we thought was unique until we came upon one street artist who had done an oil painting of a man looking down into the Seine. The water reflected images above him that seemed to weave in and out of one another. It was one of the most special paintings I had seen. Roxy thought so, too, and we bought it. We kept it wrapped until Uncle Alain returned.
When they were both home, we presented it, and they both loved it. We had another special dinner at the apartment. The next day, Roxy and I took a tour of Versailles and saw the opulence and the great gardens. We listened to the lectures but broke for another wonderful lunch and later enjoyed another delicious dinner in Saint-Germain. We complained that we were going to have trouble fitting into our clothes, but neither of us gained a pound.
It wasn’t the food I was excited about as much as our conversation, anyway. I let her talk as much as she would about other places she had gone and things she had done. She asked me lots of questions about Mama and Papa. Sometimes it felt as if she had been in a strange prison all these years and had just been released. If either of us got too maudlin, the other would change the subject.
One night, Uncle Alain took us to the famous Moulin Rouge. It was a wonderful show, and I saw the famous can-can dance. Afterward, Maurice joined us at a café near their apartment. The four of us talked into the early hours, but I never felt tired. I thought I could go on all night. Of course, Roxy and I had the privilege of sleeping late into the morning and then laughing about how decadent we were becoming.
Two days later, she wanted me to see the Latin Quarter, the fifth district of Paris, also on the Left Bank. It was named not for Latin people who lived there but because educated people once spoke in Latin. Here was the famous Sorbonne university.
“What a wonderful thing it would be to go to school in Paris,” Roxy said. “That’s one regret I’ll readily admit to, M. My lack of formal education.”
“It’s not too late,” I told her, and she laughed.
/> “Who knows?” she said. It was the first time she had ever suggested that she might somehow change her life.
That evening, Roxy finally admitted to being exhausted and was eager to say yes when Uncle Alain offered to take me to dinner at one of his favorite small restaurants. I didn’t want to go without her, but she insisted.
“Aren’t you feeling well?” I asked.
“I’m fine, M. Just enjoy a night with Uncle Alain. You really should get to know him better, too.”
Reluctantly, I gave in and left her behind, but Uncle Alain was too interesting and entertaining for me to worry. He was almost as knowledgeable about food as Maurice. He told me how they had met and how much they meant to each other now.
“I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable,” he began.
“Oh, no, no. Not a bit,” I said. I thought about how Papa would react, but I also thought about Mama and how she would get him to be more open-minded.
After dinner, he showed me one of his favorite places on the Left Bank, and we continued to talk about our family, our plans for me to meet the others, and how much he looked forward to showing me more of France. I thanked him and told him I was looking forward to all of that, too. We walked back to the apartment, and I listened and learned more about Mama, her sisters, and their early lives. He told me things about my great-grandparents that I never knew, especially how they had coped with the German occupation during the Second World War.
I realized I hadn’t thought about Roxy all night until we entered the apartment, and I thought I would look in on her to see how she was, even though it was late. I tiptoed to her room and opened the door slightly, expecting to find her asleep, but to my surprise, her bed was empty. It didn’t even look slept in.
Uncle Alain was in the living room talking softly with Maurice, who had just returned from the restaurant. They both looked up when I came hurrying in.
“Roxy’s not here. She must have gone out,” I said.
Neither spoke.