The Story Sisters

  Dear Gigi, she wrote. I know exactly what I’d like this year.

  She knew she shouldn’t count on it, because sometimes things didn’t turn out the way you expected in this world, or at least that’s what her mother always told her. Still, Mimi had a feeling this would turn out just fine. She asked her gigi for what she most wanted for her birthday, and in return she had sent her something special, not her own artwork, but something better—a painting her mother had framed and let her keep in her room, one she had done when she was much younger. It was black and watery and her mother had said it was the river in Paris at night, and that it was called the Seine, and that her sister lived so very close by to it that she probably walked along the banks at night, looking for stones, watching the inky sky fall down like ashes.

  CLAIRE HAD BEEN surprised to receive that first crayoned picture that had arrived folded in two, addressed in Pete’s blocky handwriting. The next was of their house on Nightingale Lane. Their bedroom looked like a tower in a castle. On impulse, she went to the workshop and made the little gold horse charm and sent it off. She thought that would be the end of it, a single exchange, but Mimi kept sending pictures, and when she learned how to write there was no stopping her. Printed missives arrived on blue lined paper, chock-full of misspellings. She wrote about her adventures, giving each one a title. The Day I Started Kindergarten. The Day We Bought a Swing Set. The Day a Sparrow Fell Out of Its Nest and We Had to Take It to Wild Care, Which Rescues Birds. Once Pete had slipped in a photo of the child and her doll sitting under a willow tree. Claire thought that was unfair. He’d written Mimi and Miss Featherstone on the back of the photo, which made Claire smile despite herself. She kept the photo, and sometimes she took it out and gazed at it, the child with long black hair and a serious expression in her eyes, the willow tree, the doll in a white dress, the yard in North Point Harbor.

  She began to make other charms, ones for grown-ups, and these had gained her a large following. People were crazy for her one-of-a-kind amulets. There were those who swore they could help to find the lost, heal the sick, help the wearer tell the difference between a liar and an honest man. If you held one in your hand, it would point you toward your future—a decision to be made, a move to a new town, the love of your life. The charms had become a trend—for some, an obsession—and many Parisians owned at least one, while yearning for more. They were swapped at parties and clubs, like expensive and glorious trading cards. The few that had been stolen were said to have found their way back to their rightful owners, returned by post, or simply turned up at the original owner’s door, wrapped in brown paper and string.

  Many of Claire’s charms began with objects found in Monsieur Abetan’s antiquities shop, which also sold cigarettes and magazines at the counter. It was just around the corner. Claire and Monsieur Abetan often had tea in the afternoons, after she left Monsieur Cohen’s workshop. Sometimes she brought macaroons and dates or a paper bag filled with sugared almonds. She told the deuxième Monsieur Cohen all about Monsieur Abetan’s collection of relics, hidden beside the drawers of junk, just as she described Monsieur Cohen’s fabulous gemstone creations to Monsieur Abetan. In this way the two men became friends without ever meeting. They liked to hear about each other’s opinions through Claire, and they often vehemently disagreed, especially when it came to politics. Both, however, were students of human nature; that was what made for a great teacher.

  Monsieur Abetan informed Claire that the bells she had just chosen had once been used as love charms for women in Persia.

  “Try it yourself,” he said knowingly. “You’ll see.”

  Claire went back to the workshop the following day and attached the bells to a strand of lapis lazuli, deep blue stones that shimmered with golden pyrites. Lapis was a primitive, powerful element, one of the first gemstones ever used for jewelry in Egypt and Persia. It was said to be the stone of truth, causing the wearer to be authentic. The deuxième Monsieur Cohen said the stone itself had unusual traits. Gem cutters could tell the depth of blue contained within a piece of lapis by the scent it gave off. The deeper the color, the richer the fragrance.

  Claire found solace in the deuxième Monsieur Cohen’s attic. The women in the neighborhood were relieved. The little girls walked past her and whispered that when they were older they would have a dozen of her charms. What others might find in love or faith, she had found in work. She was so intent on her creations that she sometimes seemed to be in another world entirely. When she burned herself with solder, she didn’t notice. When she pricked her fingers, she didn’t feel the pain. This utter concentration was the mark of a true artist, but Monsieur Cohen worried about his student. Perhaps he was leading her astray? Years were passing, and it occurred to Monsieur Cohen that Claire’s youth was being wasted here in his attic apartment. At night when all the birds were quiet and the corners of the rooms were dim, Monsieur Cohen faced a mirror. He saw himself the way he’d been as a younger man. He wanted to slap that young man and tell him to go take a walk in the sunlight. Go out, he wanted to shout. Live.

  He sent a letter to Madame Rosen. I’m worried about your granddaughter, he wrote. Perhaps we should talk.

  Natalia went to visit him soon after. It was a Sunday and she left Claire sleeping. She brought along a cake, some fruit, salted cashews. She struggled to take the many steps up to the attic apartment. There was a great view from the hallway window, but she had to huff and puff to catch her breath. She knocked on the door and called Monsieur Cohen’s name, then listened to the strange clanging from within as he moved aside his personal alarm system of pots and pans.

  “What a surprise and a pleasure,” he said when he opened the door.

  They had known each other years ago, when they were much younger, and because of this they saw each other exactly as they had been then. He was a tall man with dark hair and very blue eyes. She was a woman with a gorgeous shape and auburn hair. Flustered, they laughed to see each other this way. Monsieur Cohen excused his bad manners and invited her inside. Natalia made tea and sliced the cake. “So you’re worried about my granddaughter.”

  “I don’t want her to wind up like me. Alone in an attic.”

  Natalia pointed to the cages of birds and to the crow that hopped down from atop the cabinet when it spied cake crumbs on the table. “Hardly alone.”

  She’d been married when Samuel had met her, and so beautiful he’d been unable to speak to her anyway. He’d been shy, work obsessed. Her husband was an American and she’d soon disappeared, coming back only intermittently. The deuxième Monsieur Cohen now took her hand when she served his tea. All at once he was struck with the notion that he was now in his own future. There was no time to waste. He could hardly contain himself.

  “It’s a little late for that.” Natalia laughed, although she was flattered. “Aren’t you ninety?”

  When Claire came to work the next day, Monsieur Cohen was feeding his birds instead of sitting at his worktable. The next day he was shaving at the kitchen sink. The day after that, he asked if she would fix a simple dinner of salad and cheese and some steamed asparagus. He was having a guest.

  Claire hated to leave the piece she was working on—Abetan had found her a heart scarab made of blue Egyptian pottery. Such scarabs were used as a weight on the body after death so the spirit world would assume the wearer’s heart was enormous, heavy with goodness, and he would then be judged kindly in the world to come. Claire was fascinated by its shape and purpose. She didn’t want to stop and clean up.

  “But we always work until dark,” she protested, confused.

  “Not anymore. A man has to eat.” Monsieur Cohen shrugged. “I’m sure my friend Abetan would say the same.”

  Claire set the table and wished her mentor a good night. She went down the staircase two steps at a time, irritated to have time on her hands. It was still light outside. She had kept the amulet of lapis and Persian bells for herself. They were said to chime and bring the wearer true love, but she had shak
en them and shaken them and there hadn’t been a sound. She thought of the women who had worn the bells before her, somewhere in a desert, and she wondered if fate had come to them, or if they had chased after fate. As she clattered into the street Claire saw a woman approaching who had auburn hair and a lovely gait. All at once Claire realized it was her grandmother, a woman in her eighties, wearing a black coat and a red scarf, walking through the summer evening on her way to a dinner appointment.

  After that, Claire left work at five every day because of a tryst that was meant to be secret, though everyone in the neighborhood seemed to know. “I see your grandmother’s keeping busy,” the old women would say. “Tell the lovebirds hello,” the grocer joked. No matter how intent Claire was on her work, she had to clean up, store away the gems, set the table for supper. As the hour drew near, Monsieur Cohen became agitated, concerned with combing his hair, slipping on a clean shirt. As for Claire, she was becoming a good cook. Excellent, according to the deuxième Monsieur Cohen. When she ran out of ideas, she began to collect recipes from the old women in the neighborhood. They were only too happy to put down their heavy purses, in which they stored everything from keys to butterfly nets, and give Claire the secret of their stews, their pot-aux-feu, their potato and cheese tarts. She wrote everything down in one of the faded blue notebooks Meg had left behind. They had all seen Madame Rosen going over to the edge of the neighborhood wearing her red silk scarf. They knew who was being romanced and who ate her dinner all alone, save for the company of the old cat, Sadie. They suggested Claire herself try their recipes, perhaps they could help. Apples for love, rosemary for remembrance, twice-loved pie that melted at first taste. These dishes were clear-eyed; they aided in stamina and steadied the heartbeat, but let the pulse run wild. Old people were smarter about love. They didn’t have time to second-guess themselves. “Go on,” the neighborhood women urged. “Cook these for yourself.” But Claire didn’t see the sense in cooking for one. She took her meals standing up, allowing herself a piece of cheese, an apple, sliced tomatoes with vinegar and salt. The cat wound itself around her legs, even though they disliked each other. There was no one else at home.

  “Did you know the deuxième Monsieur Cohen before?” Claire asked her grandmother one night when Natalia came home from her dinner engagement. Claire’s ama was untying the red scarf, humming to herself.

  “Who?” Natalia teased.

  “Ama! Your boyfriend, or whatever he is at his age. Everyone knows. Even me!”

  “Yes, but who said he’s the deuxième?”

  “Well, Madame Cohen calls him that.”

  “That’s because she met his brother first and married him. He’s the premier Monsieur Cohen to me.” Natalia had laughed then. “I knew him but I never saw him. He was like the news paper stand. You walk by every day, but you never look at who’s sitting there, collecting the change.”

  “My grandmother’s in love,” Claire told Madame Cohen when she next brought in her collection of jewelry. They were amulets designed in the shape of scarabs carved from semiprecious stones, citrine and turquoise and amethyst. They were snapped up as soon as they were delivered to the shop, as all her charms were. Madame Cohen noticed that Claire was beginning to outsell her teacher.

  “Your grandmother’s falling, all right.” Madame Cohen laughed. “Her knees aren’t too good anymore. What about your knees?” she asked.

  “They’re perfect,” Claire assured her. “I could run ten kilometers and not feel a thing.”

  IT WAS THE rainy season in Paris and the weather had turned cold. On the night the thief broke in to the workshop he left icy footprints on the kitchen floor. It was difficult to tell whether he entered through the front door and made his escape through the window and down the fire escape, or vice versa. Either way, he left all the windows wide open. The chilly night air that poured inside killed all the caged birds. Their feathers billowed on the floor and stuck fast to the wet linoleum. Any object of worth had been taken. Gems, bars of gold, envelopes of ancient coins. Everything had been ruined. Even the couch had its pillows ripped open, with more feathers floating about. The alarm system of pots and pans had been left in a heap.

  “I thought it was the rainstorm,” one of the downstairs neighbors declared when later questioned. “There was so much noise. I was certain someone was dancing,” another reported when the officials finally arrived. “He has a woman up there sometimes.”

  Claire was the one who found Monsieur Cohen. She knew something was wrong as she walked up the stairs. Usually it was possible to hear the canaries singing as soon as she reached the second-floor landing, but on this day there was only silence. When Claire pushed open the door and went inside, there were no pots and pans hanging overhead. The canaries lay at the bottom of their cages, mute, stiff, like little gold statues. Claire surveyed the disaster surrounding her. The cabinets open, the worktable in shambles, the drawers pulled out, the couch cushions slit with a butcher’s knife as the thief looked for more, more, more. A few scattered onions rolled across the kitchen floor. Claire had bought them earlier in the week. They’d been meant for a recipe called Love Is Blind Stew. One of the tenants in the building had given Claire the recipe only a few days earlier. They had stood in the hall and the old woman had whispered all of the ingredients for Claire to hastily scrawl into her notebook. A fresh chicken, a handful of apricots, red wine, oregano, a sliced pear. Claire must remember not to add garlic. She must braise, but never boil, cook until tender without overcooking. But Natalia hadn’t been feeling well, and Claire hadn’t cooked the stew. Monsieur Cohen planned to dine alone, and so he was satisfied with bread and cheese, perhaps a cup of soup.

  Claire noticed that the bedroom door was open. She felt her heart drop. She could not remember if she had closed and locked the front door the evening before. She had been preoccupied, thinking about her charms. She was about to make a series of lion amulets, for protection and bravery. She switched the light on to illuminate the bedroom. The deuxième Monsieur Cohen was sprawled on the floor. He had a cane in his hand, one he planned to use as a weapon, but he’d had a stroke before he could confront the intruder. Claire sat down on the floor beside him. He had thought to put on his slippers. She moved to close his eyes. She sat there for a long time, on the cold floor beside him. He was her teacher and had taught her everything he’d known.

  When the police arrived, Claire went into the kitchen to answer their questions. The neighbors had already been interviewed and the flat had been dusted for fingerprints, although the authorities had admitted that small-time thieves were difficult to track down. Claire found that she kept looking at the onions on the floor. She was plagued with trying to remember whether or not she’d locked the door. She went over her actions, but all she could remember was Monsieur Cohen calling out a good-bye. She picked up an onion, then held it close and began to cry. Onions did that to a person; you could fight it all you wanted, but in the end the onion was more powerful than human will. It forced you to tears.

  Madame Cohen’s grandsons came to take charge. They summoned an ambulance and made arrangements at the funeral home and the chapel. They were so tall and the attic eaves so sloping that there didn’t seem to be any breathing room in the flat. One of them coaxed the crow into a cage. The others were all on their cell phones, calling relatives, making funeral plans. The policemen spoke so quickly among themselves that Claire couldn’t understand a word. French wasn’t her first language, after all, or even her second. She had a sudden fleeting thought in Arnish: Nom brava gig. Reuna malin.

  When the police did at last question her, they had to repeat themselves over and over before she fathomed their meaning. Yes, she had worked with the deceased. Yes, he had precious jewels and gold in his possession. And finally: Yes, she might have left the door ajar when she left the evening before. It was possible that she’d forgotten to lock it.

  Claire began to hyperventilate then. She grew dizzy and needed to sit down. Anyone would have though
t that in a room full of doctors someone might have offered her a paper bag to breathe into, perhaps a Valium. Instead, one of the grandsons brought Claire a glass of vodka, which she gratefully drank.

  “Anything else?” the grandson asked. It was Philippe, the one who had carried Shiloh down the stairs. He now had the crow in a cage. When it began to squawk, he tossed a napkin over it and it quieted down.

  Claire shook her head no.

  When she left, Philippe called after her. She didn’t seem to hear, so he followed her down the twisting stairs. In fact, she had heard and had chosen to ignore him. Now she was annoyed. All she wanted was to be left alone. When she turned, Philippe stumbled, then threw up his hands to prove he had no ill intentions. “I thought you might need help getting home.”

  “Do I look like I need help?”

  Philippe had chosen a specialty in oncology, a field many doctors avoided. He was six feet tall, a workaholic. One thing he knew for certain: A diagnosis was always difficult. You could never judge by the first set of presenting facts. “Looks are deceiving,” he said.

  “I killed him. Can you tell that from looking at me? It’s all my fault.”

  Claire went out and sat in the square across from the building. Being alone felt like something sharp, something that could make a person bleed. She watched the ambulance arrive. Monsieur Cohen was carried out, and then the ambulance and the grandsons set off separately. At last the police dispersed. Sitting there under the darkening sky, Claire was bruised, inconsolable. Nothing could protect the people she loved. She saw a man walking toward her. He had a birdcage under one arm.

  “Just go,” Claire said.

  “I can’t. My grandmother insisted I take you home.” Philippe Cohen sat down beside her. “And don’t be an idiot, Claire. You didn’t kill him. He had a stroke caused by a blood clot. Uncle Samuel had been eating badly for ninety years, and he could barely move for the last ten of those years. He had hardening of the arteries. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”