Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [123]
Kelly remembered one moment at the ball, when she was in a parade with the other servers, rushing out of the kitchen with platters held before them. Spider crabs, red and spiky, balanced on her platter. That was the moment when everything turned crystal clear: she was not going to the States, then or ever. The other servers seemed so happy, hurrying past the guests who had lined up to applaud as they watched the food they would eat go by; two other servers told Kelly they had felt like stars at that moment. Stars don’t carry food, Kelly had wanted to say. At the same time, she knew: this is our life’s work.
Tears trickled down her cheeks. Hearing noises in the hall, Kelly started. She knew she was home alone; perhaps Paul Anka had finished his work early. A knock sounded at the door. Kelly held back, afraid to answer. It was midday: all her family and friends were at work.
Then someone broke the lock, the door opened wide, and two policemen stood there. Kelly edged toward the window. She looked over her shoulder: four flights to the street. She would dive through the glass praying. She rushed the window, but the officer caught her, clipped manacles to her wrists, speaking rough French.
“Américaine,” she said. “Parlez-vous anglais?” Could she trick him into thinking she was American? Surely they wouldn’t treat Americans this way, even illegal Americans. But he did not reply. He pushed her into the hallway while the other officer stayed behind, searching for other illegal Filipinos.
Kelly wished she had made it to the window. She would rather be dead on the pavement than walking through the building in handcuffs. And then the worst thing of all happened: Patrice and Lydie arrived. Patrice moved toward them like a locomotive, all iron and steam. Hands on her hips, black hair framing her face like a corona.
“Put me in the car, don’t let them see me,” Kelly begged the policeman.
“What’s going on here?” Patrice asked, not allowing the policeman to pass.
Lydie came straight to Kelly, put her arm around Kelly’s shoulders. “Everything will be fine. We’ll get you out of this.”
“Leave me,” Kelly sobbed. “Please leave me.”
Lydie’s pale eyes looked so troubled, Kelly knew she understood Kelly’s shame. Still, Lydie wouldn’t let go. Patrice spoke to the officer in French, her voice rising and rising. Kelly began to be afraid Patrice would be arrested. She heard Patrice saying “President Mitterand,” “President Bush,” “Minister of Culture.”
“Cool it,” Lydie said to Patrice in a stern voice.
“They’re saying the embassy turned her in.” Patrice spoke English now. “We can’t just let them take her.”
Kelly began to hope; she felt it growing inside her, hope that Patrice and Lydie would somehow win, prevent the police from taking her away. But then the officer shoved Patrice out of the way, pushed Kelly into the car. When Kelly turned, to try to catch one last glance of her two Americans, the policeman yanked her around. He made her face straight ahead.
This conversation lasted an hour, and it is impossible to repeat it all, but I certainly made myself very pleasant throughout this time and I can say without vanity that she was very glad to have someone to talk to, for her heart was overflowing.
—TO COULANGES, DECEMBER 1670
“YOU’VE DONE WHAT you could,” Michael said to Lydie. “You have to let her go.” They stood in the living room, empty now except for their suitcases and the few cartons the movers would pack after lunch.
“ ‘She came to Paris and learned to let go,’ ” Lydie said. “How’s that for an epitaph?”
“No one’s dying,” Michael said.
“That is true,” Lydie said. “It’s also true that there’s a difference between letting go of my father and letting go of Kelly. I’m not giving up.”
“I know,” Michael said. “But she’s going back to the Philippines for now, and there’s nothing you can do about that.” He felt