Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [66]
Lydie laughed along. “I’m going to file you as an H1—an alien of distinguished merit and ability,” Lydie said.
Kelly smiled, suspicious. “What do you mean?”
“The other categories cover unskilled laborers, and there are already plenty of those in the United States. If we want to succeed, we must be creative. I have to file an affidavit stating why you have distinguished merit and ability, why you are the only person suitable for this job. Otherwise, the government will tell me to hire an American. I have to swear to it under penalty of perjury.”
“You could go to jail. Are the jails bad in the United States?”
“Not as bad as some places, but I don’t want to go to jail anywhere,” Lydie said. “Besides, by the time we complete the petition, we won’t be lying. We must discover your specialty, the thing no one else can do as well. Something that I would be willing to pay you for.”
“I know fish,” Kelly said seriously.
“Unfortunately, I don’t So we’ll say you are indispensable to me. You’ll have to learn my tastes. When a magazine editor gives me an assignment, I send you out looking for props. You’ll have to learn what I like.”
“How will I do that?”
“I’ll give you some clippings, of pieces I did in the past. And maybe you can help me with the ball for Didier.”
“Patrice will return to Paris soon,” Kelly said sadly. “She is my only worry.”
“Well …” Lydie said. “I’ll talk to her.”
After she finished her Coke, Kelly stood to go. Her eyes darted from the vicinity of Lydie’s head to the ground. Could she be waiting to be dismissed? Sometimes she acted like a servant; other times she seemed comfortable as Lydie’s equal. It bothered Lydie to think Kelly would play a subservient role in order to get what she wanted. Or did she really believe that her manner pleased people?
“What is it?” Lydie asked.
“May I go now?”
“You don’t need my permission to leave,” Lydie said. She wanted disappointment to come through in her voice; she wanted Kelly to drop the act.
Kelly’s face went white. “I’m sorry … I didn’t mean …”
“That’s okay,” Lydie said quickly. “I didn’t mean it to come out that way. ’Bye, Kelly.”
“ ’Bye, Lydie.” Kelly took a few steps backwards, then turned toward the Métro.
Lydie was going haywire. She chewed an ice cube, watching a turbo Saab back into a parking spot. She replayed the last scene in her mind, listening to her own cold, haughty words: “You don’t need my permission to leave.” Ten minutes ago she had been on the verge of weeping for Kelly and her hardships, seconds ago she had practically accused her of manipulating Lydie to get what she wanted.
After her father died, people kept telling her she should cry more. Michael, her mother, her aunts. Lydie had listened to them, numb. “Don’t you feel like it?” her mother had asked. “No,” Lydie had replied. Then, “What will happen if I don’t?” Her mother had had no answer for that; no one had. But now Lydie knew. All the sadness she should have felt for her father, whom she had loved, was now coming out of her in a torrent. For her marriage, for the image of Kelly in the trunk of a car, for Patrice, who would be lonely in Paris after Lydie and Kelly moved away.
Sadness overshadowed her anger. The fury she had felt toward Kelly as she left had already evaporated, leaving her with only the vaguest sense that she was really angry at Michael and her father for leaving—not Kelly. It hurt to breathe. She had never felt so sad in her life. Sitting at the edge of a Paris square on a brilliant August afternoon, Lydie didn’t think it possible to feel lonelier.
As if she had forgotten how to live on her own, Lydie tried to envision what Patrice would do in her situation. She certainly wouldn’t sit idle, feeling sorry for herself. She might very possibly focus some attention on Kelly, helping her get to the United States. She would also try to fix her marriage.
But Lydie couldn’t see Patrice and Didier falling apart the way