Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [73]
“My only regret will be leaving you,” Kelly said. The pain in her eyes made the words ring with sincerity and was all Patrice needed to make her throat tighten.
“I will regret that also,” Patrice said. “But I know your dream has always been to get to the States. Paris was just a pitstop, right?”
“Excuse me?”
“A stopping-off place. Your halfway point between Manila and New York.”
“Yes, that is right,” Kelly said.
“I do have one fear,” Patrice said. “Our government sets limits on how many people of any one nationality it lets in. Such as eight thousand Brazilians, two thousand Egyptians, one thousand Swedes. The Filipino quota is one of the lowest—because so many Filipinos are already there.”
“I know,” Kelly said glumly.
“That’s not to say you won’t get lucky. But you should have a backup plan. Why don’t we try to make you legal in France first?”
Kelly looked skeptical. “I don’t think …” she said.
“I’m not saying you should stay here forever,” Patrice said gently. “But French working papers could give you security. Think of them as insurance—in case Lydie’s petition falls through.”
On the bus home, Kelly felt miserable. Americans had so many ideas. It was because they knew what was possible in the world. Become legal in France, Patrice had said, and now Kelly would have to go along with it even though it was the worst idea she had ever heard. It would make her feel like a traitor to the United States. For eighteen months she had lived in Paris, refusing to learn the French language.
“Think how much easier it would be for you at the market if you knew French,” her sister Sophia would say, but Kelly did not care. She could not help learning a few words and useful phrases, but when it came to conversation, she wanted to speak English and only English.
She knew Patrice would probably move fast. One thing she had observed about Patrice and Lydie was that Patrice set her mind to something and did it right away while Lydie drifted a little. In many ways, she wished it was Patrice filing her petition for immigration to the States. That way it would be granted sooner. On the other hand, she liked Lydie more. Although she felt loyal, even sort of devoted to Patrice, she prefered Lydie’s company. She could imagine the day when she could tell Lydie true stories of the Philippines, of her dreams. With Lydie she felt like a woman; with Patrice she felt like a servant.
She disembarked at the Place de Clichy and walked quickly past the Quik-Burger and souvenir shops, turning right into the rue Biot. She ignored the men who spoke to her; she just walked straight ahead, her eyes on the ground. She stopped at the small café-tabac where Sophia was employed as a waitress.
Sophia stood behind the bar, brewing espresso into gold-rimmed green cups. Kelly went to her, wordlessly arranging the cups on a brown plastic tray.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” the café proprietor said to her. Kelly smiled and nodded. He was always friendly to her, and why not? Whenever she stopped in to see Sophia, he had her labor for free.
“What did your employer say?” Sophia asked.
“She was very angry, but she pretended to be glad for me,” Kelly said.
“Over there,” Sophia said, gesturing to a table where four tourists sat. They must have wandered off the Place de Clichy; they chattered happily, examining the souvenirs they had bought. Kelly set down the cups amid brass ashtrays stamped with the word “PARIS,” porcelain salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like the Moulin Rouge, and guidebooks.
Laborers dressed in blue overalls lined the bar, drinking café or pipperment get, arguing about everything imaginable. Sophia liked to flirt. Kelly watched her now, speaking French to a cluster of them.
“I guess you’re too busy to talk,” Kelly said to her.
“No, stay,” Sophia said. She finished telling her story in rapid French, then joined Kelly by the cash register.
“Patrice wants to get French working papers for me.”
“Good—then you’ll stay here!” Sophia said, grinning. Sophia and her illegitimate baby