Page 98 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
“Bonjour, ma petite chou,” I say, pressing my cheek again to Helene’s stomach. “Yourmamanwants you to know all about me and her. ButIwant you to know all about how impressive she is. So I’m going to tell you a story abouther.”
“Thank you,” Helene whispers as she lies back down on the chaise.
“Once upon a time—in 1764—there was a French woman named Florence Gagné. In an era when women were meant only to become wives, she wrote and directed plays. As a child, she’d grown up in Theatre Gagné, her father’s playhouse in Lyon, raised on a steady education of theatrical works. As a teenager, she helped her father with bookkeeping during the day and began penning her own plays by candlelight.
“Florence was ahead of her time. In the decades following her, other female playwrights would make names for themselves, although usually under pseudonyms. But Florence—aided by a father who cared as little for social mores as she did—wrote under her own name, and instead of getting married when she turned eighteen, she published her first play.
“At twenty-seven, she made her directorial debut, scandalously wearing a man’s coat and breeches on opening night. She made the front page of every newspaper from Nice to Paris to Calais. That’s when Pierre Montague saw her photograph in theMercure de France,and he fell instantly in love with the remarkable woman.
“From that moment, Pierre made it his singular goal to work in Theatre Gagné. Without even packing his bags, he hopped on the next train to Lyon and, when he arrived, went straight from the station to the playhouse and applied for a job as a stagehand.
“Every day, Pierre was the first one on set, and he would anonymously set a chocolate hazelnut cornetto on Florence’s director’s chair. Every morning, from the catwalk above the stage, he watched her face light up when she saw the pastry, and she would look around to see if there was any indication who’d left it.
“Finally, there came a day—two months later—when he didnotleave her a pastry. That morning, when Florence arrived at her empty director’s chair, she let out an audible murmur of disappointment. It was then that Pierre climbed down from the catwalk and approached her, with a cornetto in hand. And that’s how a lowly stagehand won the heart of one of the most awe-inspiring women in history.”
I leave out the ending, the part about the gunman who killed Florence. He, like many of that time, believed that allowing women outside the home—and allowing them a voice—would lead to the collapse of civilized society.
“That was a lovely story,” Helene says, almost asleep now.
I nod against her skin and curl up against her, stroking her belly and feeling both her and the baby close. For a brief moment, joy swells in my chest.
But the knowledge that this is all ephemeral is a constant undercurrent, and I hate that I can’t have pure happiness, that Helene and I can’t love each other with abandon. And so I press myself closer until we have no space between us, as if I can somehow smash our souls together and keep us this way forever.
Soon, she drifts asleep, and I feel the rise and fall of Helene’s chest against me. Its rhythm melds with the sound of the ocean in the distance, shushing against the French Riviera’s shore. Iimagine our baby’s heartbeat keeps the same pace, too, and I try to match the cadence with my own breath.
Perhaps it’s better this way. Perhaps the best course is living in the present, while collecting each moment to save like seashells that I can look back upon when the present is gone.
And they lived happily ever after,I say to myself, trying it on for size.
But no matter how many times I repeat it, it still feels like a lie.
HELENE
The more money there is,the wilder the parties, and Cannes is extravagant beyond anything I’ve ever seen. One night, the hottest DJ in France works turntables on the sand. Another night, ten blocks’ worth of roads are closed off, and Michelin-starred chefs set up stands and cook the world’s tastiest street food.
During daylight hours, we watch movies at the film festival (Sebastien somehow got us passes, even though we don’t have press credentials), watch buskers on the streets more talented than many professionals, and acquire some new friends. Sebastien bonds with Irikefe Oluwa, a restaurant mogul in town for the film festival; he and Irikefe share a common gastronomic language. I get to know a group of tourists from Australia, teachers from a performing arts school in Japan, and a rugby team from Wales that came for the topless beaches by sunlight and the nonstop parties by moonlight.
Tonight, Irikefe has invited us to a fete in his “petit café,” which is actually located within sprawling gardens and currently the hardest table to book in all of France. Rumor has it some of the actors and actresses in town are going to ditch their own events to attend Irikefe’s.
“How do I look?” I ask Sebastien as I twirl in front of the mirror in our hotel room. The floor-length sequined gown glimmers as I move, and the little crystal flowers woven through my hair twinkle, too.
He fastens his tuxedo jacket as he admires me. “You look like a queen.”
“An elegant fairy queen? Or a disco queen?”
Sebastien laughs. “Definitely the former.”
“Good. And you,” I say, coming over to adjust the blue silk square in his jacket pocket, “look like James Bond.”
When we arrive at the restaurant, a European pop band is performing among a menagerie of topiaries, and several dozen people dance under strings of lights. Caterers circulate with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres, and roulette and poker tables have been set up on the far side of the courtyard.
Irikefe weaves through the crowd and makes a beeline for us. He’s wearing an impeccably tailored purple suit. “Sebastien! Who knew a fisherman could clean up so well?” Then he turns to me and says, “Helene, I ought to kick you out of my café. You’re so beautiful you’ll steal the spotlight from me.”
“You’re too smooth for your own good, Irikefe.” I air-kiss him on each cheek, as I’ve learned to do since arriving in Cannes.
Irikefe leads us to the bar and gets us nonalcoholic cocktails. A couple of minutes later, though, he sees another new arrival. “Ah, excuse me, I must go say hello to Penélope and Javier.”
“As in, Penélope Cruz and Javier Bardem?” My head whips around so fast it’s a wonder my neck doesn’t snap. And indeed, itisthe famous Spanish actors.
