“Take me outside,” I said, drawing a deep breath. “That’s all the mirror I need.”
She waited a moment, but nodded. “Good,” she said. Again that quick hand to her mouth. “I can see how the colors hold in the sunlight.”
I let Clare lead me down the stairs and out into the light of Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs.
Between the sun and the opening for my left eye, I couldn’t see much. It was like a single horse blinder. My cheek sweated beneath the metal, then itched. I reached up to scratch underneath, but she pulled my hand down. I stumbled on the cobbles.
“Stop worrying,” she whispered. “You’re counting your steps.”
“It’s like being in a cave. I can’t see the sky on that side.” My arm tensed beneath her fingers.
“Then tip your head up.”
And so I did. I stopped, and turned my face up to the sky. Cool air dipped beneath the mask. Above me, clear blue.
“Luc,” she said softly, “look.”
The narrow streets of the Left Bank were busy with people coming home from work or the day’s shopping. Smartly dressed shopgirls, women in long striped aprons and wooden sabots, students in faded black jackets, vendors in dark smocks. Women in flowered straw hats, some with books or music cases tucked under their arms, brushed past shabbily dressed men with ink on their fingertips. Everyone was so brisk and sure. But, most important, they didn’t give me a second glance.
What would they see if they did? Smooth metal and a false smile hiding a man with shaking knees, who clung desperately to the woman next to him. A perfect face on an imperfect man.
I scrabbled at the edges of the mask. The metal bit into the pads of my fingers.
“No, no, Luc!”
“I can’t see,” I said, though my mind was still filled with blue sky. “I can’t breathe anymore.”
“You can.” She took my hands, took my whole weight as I sagged. “Remember…remember when we’d pick grapes down near the pasture? We found a beehive and you were stung twice.” She was trying to do what she’d done that day in the studio, when she held my hands and brought me back to Mille Mots with her. When she tried to make me forget my fears. “And remember when you’d bring me bread and jam from the kitchen when Marthe wasn’t looking?” My breathing had slowed. It almost matched the rhythm in hers. “You’d spread your jacket out on the lawn and arrange the treats just so, like a little picnic only for me.”
It was only for her. Always.
“And remember when I followed you to the caves? We ate so many oranges the air smelled like happiness. I ducked into the cave and you waited right outside for me, worrying the whole time. You know, that day was the first time I wished you’d kiss me.”
I let go of her hands. “Stop trying to make me remember.” I stumbled backwards into the street. “Stop trying to make me hope.”
“Hope?” She straightened. “If nothing else, I wished to give you hope.”
I ran a finger beneath the edge of the mask to wipe away sweat. “I thought you wanted to give me a future.”
“Exactly,” she said, her eyes too bright. “With a mask, think of what you could do.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Remember the pamphlet I mentioned? The Institut National?”
“You think I can just pick a new future from a pamphlet?”
“See it as a new beginning.” Through the narrow eyehole, I could see her, standing straight and cold on the pavement. She’d forgotten her jacket. “Whatever skill you want, whatever job you’re hoping for, you can have it.”
“Men like me, we take what we’re offered. We can’t afford to expect anything more.” I touched my metal cheek. “A man like me can’t hope.”
Arms wrapped around myself, I left her standing on the pavement in her sweater.
—
When I got back to the apartment, I needed to wash away Clare.
Demetrius whistled “Mademoiselle from Armentières,” so I shushed him. Lysander, ever the fretter, took up my shushing. I poured out a pitcher of water and splashed a handful their way, until they bristled with outraged squawks. Lysander smoothed down his feathers; Demetrius swore in English.
I took off my new mask and scrubbed with icy water until my arms and face were red. I stripped off all my clothes—the outfit I’d picked out with such care that morning for the studio. The pressed suit, the shirt the color of cornflowers, all neat and all new, like I was setting off for a wedding. I changed into a soft pair of old pants. Dripping, shirtless, I stared down at the enameled face on the washstand. I wondered what Clare saw.
But when a knock sounded on the door, my heart gave a funny leap. I threw a towel over the parrots’ cage. I fastened my mask over my wet face and pulled a clean shirt from the hook.
It was her.
“What are you doing here?” I nudged open the door, enough to see the pale curve of Clare’s face beneath the brim of her red hat. “How did you find me?” Behind the door I buttoned my shirt one-handed.
“Mrs. Ladd gave me your address.” She hesitated. “Are you angry?”
I ran a hand through my damp hair. “No.” A cold drop slid down the back of my neck. “But I’ve been home for an hour at least.”
“And I’ve been standing across the street for an hour at least.”
I leaned against the door, waiting, ignoring those funny little leaps in my chest.
“I just…” She twisted the cuff of her jacket. “Luc, you said back there that a man like you can’t hope.” She barely breathed the next words. “But you can.”
I hadn’t heard her right. “Do you—”
“May I come in?”
I glanced back over my shoulder, at the stained and threadbare rug, the unmade bed, the foul-mouthed parrots, the cracked, dirt-streaked window I kept open because the latch was busted. “No,” I began, but she pushed through anyway. And stopped.
