French Exit

  The group sat in a circle around the dining room table, staring at a candle placed at the center of their wheel. When Franklin’s voice arrived, the flame bowed; it seemed he was transmitting from the light itself:

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “My name’s Madeleine. We met on the trip over, do you remember?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Just to speak with you.”

  “What about?”

  “Yourself. I’m here with Frances and Malcolm. Maybe you’d like to say hello to them?”

  Franklin was silent.

  “Hello, Frank,” said Frances.

  “Hello.”

  “How are you?”

  “Oh, you know. You’re there with Malcolm?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Malcolm?”

  “Yeah, Dad.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “All what, Dad?”

  “The hocus-pocus.”

  “Just that you ran off, you know.”

  “Yes?”

  “And we were curious about where you’d gone to.”

  “No one place,” said Franklin. “I’m behaving nomadically.”

  “Are you in- or outdoors?”

  “Out.”

  “Aren’t you cold?”

  “I am.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “A lot of the time.”

  “What do you do all day?”

  “Not much. Walk around.”

  “You’re living by your wits,” said Mme Reynard. “I admire that.”

  Franklin paused. “Who said that?”

  “Mme Reynard is my name, and I’m so very happy to meet you. I’m a great friend of your wife and son. Honestly, they’ve had the most remarkable influence over me. I believe friendship is a greater force for good than any religion ever was, don’t you agree?”

  “I’ve never thought of it before,” Franklin said.

  “Think of it now, and I’m sure you’ll come to see it my way. And I can tell you that Frances and Malcolm have been worried sick, actually sick—worried to the point of illness—about you.”

  Franklin said, “Frances, who is this person?”

  “She just told you who she is, Frank.”

  “Reynard,” Mme Reynard repeated. “Can you not hear us well?”

  “I can hear you.”

  “Well, I want you to know that I think of you already as a friend. I have friendly feelings toward you, and I hope that we can become just as close as I already am with your fine, fine family. I find your plight ever so fascinating, and I have so many questions I want to ask you. For example: do you think cat thoughts or man thoughts?”

  “Frances,” said Franklin.

  “Have you fallen in with a mad cast of plucky, down-at-heel characters?”

  “Frances, please.”

  Frances patted Mme Reynard’s hand to quiet her, but she either didn’t comprehend the hint or chose to ignore it: “Is there love in the dingy back streets? I would imagine one’s senses become all the more acute under such duress, and romance must seem doubly significant. Think of the phenomenon of the procreation boom just after a war. It’s the human spirit standing its ground, saying, in effect: I will not be repressed. It’s actually quite moving, if you take a moment to ponder it.” She looked about the table to see what effect her words had had on her friends but there was none, or, if there was, it was subdued to the point of imperceptibility.

  Malcolm asked, “Why’d you run away, Dad?”

  “Good question. Great question. Why don’t you ask your mother why?”

  Malcolm asked Frances, “Why did Dad run away?”

  Frances said, “It’s pretty complicated.”

  Franklin said, “It’s not that complicated.”

  Frances was staring at the candle; its light was quivering in her eyes. “Where are you, Frank?” she asked.

  “I choose not to answer that,” said Franklin. “Does anyone want to know why?”

  “I do,” said Mme Reynard.

  “Me too,” said Madeleine.

  “I do and I don’t,” Malcolm said.

  Franklin said, “It’s just the small matter of Frances’s intention to kill me with her bare hands.”

  All in the room looked at Frances, whose noble bearing held for some moments, but soon toppled as she sputtered, cackling madly. The sound startled Julius, so that he spilled his wineglass onto the tablecloth. “I’m sorry! Excuse me!” He was mortified with himself; he hurried into the kitchen in search of a towel.

  “All right, who’s that?” Franklin asked.

  “Julius is his name,” said Mme Reynard. “I don’t know him very well but I have a good feeling about him. He’s been so helpful and chivalrous.” When Julius returned, towel in hand, she told him, “Say hello to Franklin.”

  “Hello,” said Julius softly, face burning as he mopped up the wine.

  Mme Reynard said, “Julius cuts a romantic figure: the man in the night, seeking. He’s after answers, information. It must be a terribly rewarding job, Julius, is it?”

  Julius bobbed his head back and forth.

  “But to have a quest,” said Mme Reynard. “That’s what I find most enviable. My life has been utterly questless. And I’m very sorry to say it, I can tell you that.”

  “Sorry, what’s his quest?” Franklin asked.

  Julius briefly explained his role in the story.

  “And Frances pays you for this? Frances?”

  “What?”

  “You pay this joker a fee?”

  “Don’t be rude, Frank.”

  “And what about this Madeleine? What’s her take?”

  “Shut up, Frank.”

  “Hey, Julius?” said Franklin.

  Julius was still working to remove the wine stain. “Yes?” he said.

  “You found this Madeleine, who’s now found me, is that right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then what are you still hanging around for? If your work’s already done?”

  Julius said, “I asked to stay . . . I wanted to see . . .” The wine wasn’t coming up at all. “Do you have any soda water?” he whispered to Frances, who shrugged.

  “Frances?” said Franklin. “Listen to me.”

  “All right.”

  “Listen to what I’m telling you, Frances.”

  “I’m listening, Frank.”

  “These people? Your new buddies? They’re charlatans. They’re pretending they don’t know each other when in fact they’re working in tandem to con you.”

  “Well, that’s just silly.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s silly. You want to know what’s silly? I’ll tell you, if you want to know.”

  “You simply don’t know what you’re talking about. Julius and Madeleine are both lovely people, and they’ve been so helpful, and I’m very happy to’ve made their acquaintance.” She raised her glass in tribute to her new friends. Mme Reynard tugged Frances’s sleeve; she too wished to be complimented. Frances said, “And you, dear.” Mme Reynard beamed.

  “Fine,” said Franklin. “Let them have it all. What do I care? But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He paused. “Why do I suddenly feel like I’m the punch line to a drinking game? What do you people want?”

  “You know what I want, Frank. I’ve gone to some length to locate you and I find your refusal to come home perfectly vulgar. I never asked you for anything in my life and now I want this one thing from you.”

  “One little thing.”

  “I’ve earned it.”

  “How?”

  “I could have done anything,” said Frances. “I could have been anything. I gave you my life and you turned it into bad television.”

  “I made you rich.”

  “I was already rich.”

  “Running on fumes when I met you.”

  “Anyway, the money’s all gone—”

  “Whose fault is that?”

  “—the money’s all gone
and I want you, I demand that you come home and accept what’s owed you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll check with my secretary and get back to you. Hey, Malcolm?”

  “Yes, Dad?”

  “What do you think of all this?”

  “All of what?”

  “Your mother wants to kill your father.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any thoughts on it?” said Franklin.

  “To be honest, I’d just as soon not get involved.”

  “Nice. That’s nice. That’s family for you.”

  Malcolm made a funny face. He cleared his throat. “I guess what I really mean to say, Dad, is: I don’t know that it’s fair for you to ask me to weigh in on something so personal as this considering the fact that I don’t know who you are, have never known who you are, and not because I didn’t want to but because you never so much as parted the curtain for me, never showed me the slightest preference or kindness, even as a child when I worshipped you and all I ever wished for was for you to take me by the hand and walk me through any motherfucking park, pat me on the fucking head, for Christ’s sake was I that repellent a creature to you?” Malcolm stood and hurled his cocktail glass against the wall. It exploded and he stalked out, slamming the door to his bedroom.

  “What’s eating him?” asked Franklin.

  “He just told you what’s eating him, Frank. He hates you.” Frances was patting her hair to sculpt it.

  “Right,” said Franklin. “Right. Well, it’s been great catching up with you, Frances, but I think I’m going to go back to starving to death, if no one objects.”

  Mme Reynard objected. She had, she said, more questions than time would apparently allow, and would have to accept that the bulk would remain unanswered, but before he rang off, she asked that Franklin humor her, and share with the assembled an overall summation of the experience of becoming a cat. Franklin sighed as he considered his answer. “On the whole it’s been frustrating, I guess is the word.”

  “How is it frustrating?”

  “Well, I have all my old thoughts and desires but I can’t do anything about them. I miss being alive, as a man. I enjoyed it.”

  “You always seemed so angry to me,” said Frances.

  “I was. But I loved being angry.”

  “You did not.”

  “I absolutely did. That’s something nonangry people never give angry people credit for. It’s fun, being mad. I loved my work. I loved the game of it. I loved money. I loved getting away with everything.”

  Frances told him, “But you didn’t get away with it, did you?”

  “I got away with a lot. More than most, anyway.”

  “Yes, but look at you now.”

  Franklin was silent for a while. The candle flame flapped, then pulled itself taut. “Fuck you,” he said, and the flame snuffed itself, and all at the table sat contemplating the drift of smoke.

  29.

  Malcolm and Frances left the apartment early the next morning. In wandering, they found themselves at the natural history museum. They took in the exhibits together, then separated to roam alone. At one point Malcolm stood on the fourth floor, leaning on the railing and watching his mother sitting at the café on the second floor. She was unaware of his spying on her. What he felt was love and fear; he was panicked to keep her close by. He went to the toilet to wash his face; written on the wall beside the mirror were the words, Caesar sees her: “Seizure, seize her.” This bothered Malcolm. He lately had been feeling that the world was showing him more than the needed amount of unpleasantness. He moved to the café and sat across from Frances.

  “I’m homesick,” she declared.

  “For the apartment?”

  “No.”

  Malcolm said, “Well, I’m ready to go back to New York if you are.”

  Frances was disturbed by this; she realized Malcolm didn’t understand what she, what they were doing in Paris. “Oh, pal,” was all she could think to say. She had given Madeleine five thousand euros for her services, and another three to Julius as a bonus. She had nine thousand euros to her name; she wondered how she might get rid of it.

  They returned home, with little said between them. As they walked through the park, Frances noticed the man who had been so courageous in the riot sitting on a bench eating an orange from a mesh sack. His face was welted and decorated with multicolored bruises, but he didn’t appear unhappy. He smiled at Frances, who, for the first time in she could not recall how long, turned away in shyness.

  Mme Reynard received them at the door. “I don’t like it when you go away without warning,” she told them. “It makes me feel so alone, so vulnerable.”

  “Take it easy—take a bus,” said Frances, and she honked Mme Reynard’s nose. She placed a chair at the window to watch the man on the bench, while Malcolm lay on the couch reading a French tabloid. Mme Reynard had made a soufflé, and this soon was served. After eating, Frances bathed, dressed, and made up her face. In her room she folded seven thousand euros into her coat pocket and left the apartment without telling Mme Reynard or Malcolm.

  The man was still sitting on the bench. Sunlight banked off his battered face; his eyes were closed. Frances sat beside him and he turned to look at her, greeting her as la femme à la fenêtre—the woman in the window. Frances nodded and he offered her an orange and she declined. He apologized for the state of his face. “Normally, I’m quite handsome, and not just my friends would say it.”

  “I’m sure that’s the truth,” she said.

  “Rest assured. And know I shall be handsome again.”

  Frances was smiling. She said, “I saw what happened last night.”

  “Is that right? Well, well. It was a big show, anyway. What did you make of it?”

  “Just that I thought you behaved very bravely.”

  The man dipped his head bashfully; but, he was also proud. He expressed a regret for the manner, the style of his violence. “But you must understand that for a man in my position, the police are the lowest forms of life, and so I afford them nothing like respect, nothing but the worst parts of me, which is all they deserve.”

  Frances explained her own dislike of police, and the man held his hand solemnly to his heart. She asked why he wasn’t in jail and he said, “They held us in a line just up the street beside the river. The man in charge of us was distracted, he kept looking away, and finally he walked off and out of sight, as though we were just going to sit there and wait for him to come back. The strange thing is that everyone did, except for me.”

  “Weren’t you handcuffed?”

  “I was, but look.” He displayed his wrists, which were wrapped in bruising and burst blood vessels. “Thick wrists. It was the same way with your Billy the Kid. You know Billy the Kid?”

  “I know him.”

  “He always got away and I always get away, too.”

  Frances said she had changed her mind about the orange, and the man became lively in his search. “Only the finest orange for you, madame,” he said. “The finest, the most delectable orange in this sack? That is the orange you will receive on this day, for you are my guest, the mysterious, the beautiful woman in the window.” He located the winning orange and peeled it on her behalf. “Hold out your hand,” he instructed, and she did, and he laid the sphere in the dell of her palm. Gravely, he asked, “May I have some of your orange, please, madame?”

  They shared the orange. It was a pleasant moment for the both of them, and they were happy to’ve met. When the orange was gone, she passed the man the seven thousand euros. He held the bills in his hand.

  “I’m very ill,” she told him.

  He studied her doubtfully. “You don’t look ill.”

  “I am. I haven’t very long to live, if you want to know the truth. So, you see, you’d be doing me a great favor to accept this. It would help me.”

  “How would it help you?”

  “It would make me happy.”

  In a clarifying tone, he said, “Is there anything you want m
e to do for this money?”

  “Not at all.”

  The man thought for a while. He peeled off a thousand euros, then handed the rest back to Frances.

  “Won’t you take it all?”

  “No.” He pointed to another immigrant sitting close by, at the base of a tree. The man was obviously very drunk, and looked to possess less than the average quantity of intelligence. “That man there? He’ll take the rest of the money.”

  The man on the bench stood and hefted his sack of oranges over his shoulder. He held out his free hand and Frances gave him hers. Bowing, he drifted away from the park and moved toward the river. After he’d gone, Frances walked over to the man sitting under the tree. She proffered the money and he took it in his fist and stood. He said nothing to Frances; he walked off in the same direction the man on the bench had.

  Frances watched the man disappear. She did not have the feeling she’d hoped for. She looked up at the apartment and saw that Malcolm was watching her. She waved; he didn’t.

  30.

  Julius returned in the morning with a discreet overnight bag and a book. Mme Reynard welcomed him in and he sat on the sofa waiting for someone to question his being there. When no one did, he opened the book and started reading. In a little while Mme Reynard set a bowl of strawberries on the coffee table and he ate them.

  Madeleine arrived before lunch, struggling under the weight of her duffel bag. “Where’s Malcolm’s room?” she asked Julius, and Julius pointed, then resumed his reading. Madeleine found Malcolm sitting up in bed, shirtless. She said, “Look, I need to stay here for a little while. Is that okay?”

  “Yes,” said Malcolm. And, “Hello, how are you?”

  “Fine. I’ll be flying home in a couple days.” She hefted her bag onto the bed. “I’m not going to fuck you, Malcolm, all right? Things are weird enough as is.”

  “Okay.”

  “Actually I think it’s pretty weird we fucked in the first place.”

  “I’m comfortable not talking about it,” Malcolm said.

  Madeleine unzipped her bag. “I need a drawer.”

  Malcolm pointed to the armoire, then put on his robe and moved to the living room to sit beside Julius. Mme Reynard emerged from the kitchen wearing a colorful cooking smock and carrying a soup-filled spoon, which she held out for Malcolm to taste. “More salt I think,” he said, and she returned to the kitchen. Joan let herself into the apartment, pale as paper, key in trembling hand. “Where’s Frances?” she demanded. “In the bath,” said Malcolm. Joan dropped her bags and hurried down the hall. Finding the bathroom door locked she frantically knocked; when Frances called out, Joan went half to pieces. Malcolm led her by the arm to the couch; over the sound of her sobbing, he asked, “How’ve you been, Joan?” Soon Frances exited the bathroom seeking to comfort her friend. Joan had been worried, now was relieved, but soon became angry, then forgiving, and at last, very jolly and glad. She and Frances began making plans for the afternoon, plans that did not include Mme Reynard, who stood nearby looking stricken, disturbed as she was by Joan’s appearance. Pulling up a chair, she asked how long Joan might be staying in Paris.