Chapter Two

When Jacques came home three hours later, I was long asleep. I felt him slip into the big bed next to me, and his movements woke me. Sighing contentedly, I rolled over to him; but he was snoring almost before he hit the bed. Once again the tears came, and I blinked them back angrily. After all, he had at least come back to me.

For long moments I stared into the darkness, hearing Jacques’ even breathing, yet feeling utterly alone. The night was finally still, broken only by an occasional shout or a lone car. The rain had stopped sometime while I had been sleeping, and I was fiercely glad. Now things would be all right again.

Almost unconsciously, my hand went to where my baby was growing. Sleep finally came, giving me a welcome relief from my lonely thoughts.

* * *

“Wake up, my love!” Jacques sang to me the next morning, kissing my face all over. He threw back the covers, and his hand slid down to my stomach. “Hey there, baby, wake up. Daddy wants to talk to you!” He made a show of kissing my belly noisily.

I opened one eye and then the other and held out my arms for him. The dashing man I had fallen in love with was back!

He lay next to me, our arms entwined. “I’ve brought you breakfast,” he whispered, kissing my ear. “Though we’ve slept so late it’s more like lunch!” One brown eye closed in a wink.

I smiled and sat up slowly so I wouldn’t feel nauseated; I still had morning sickness most days. While I ate, I examined Jacques carefully. His handsome face showed no signs of a hangover, though his eyes were still clouded with drugs.

“So what are we going to do today?” I asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

He raised his eyebrows a couple of times suggestively, making me laugh. Then he said seriously, “Well, I thought we could find an apartment. I’ve got a few leads to follow up. I’ve had everyone I know out looking since we decided to get married. It has to be something we can afford.”

I knew that meant a dump, but I didn’t care because we would be together. I smiled. “At least we’ll be able to pay for the first month’s rent.” I was referring to the paycheck Jacques had received just the day before our marriage.

His smile suddenly vanished. He pushed his longish hair back with a nervous hand. “I, uh, spent some of the money last night,” he said.

I wanted to scream at him, but I didn’t. More than anything, I wanted to keep the peace. Besides, getting upset would only make my morning sickness worse. “How much?”

He told me, and it wasn’t as bad as I had expected. We would still be able to get the apartment; we just wouldn’t be able to eat for more than a few days. But I knew we would manage somehow. At least he had a job, and I would look for work tomorrow.

After breakfast and a quick shower, we left the hotel. Outside, the June day was hot and sweltering, and many times I felt dizzy. Heat always seemed to do that to me since I became pregnant. But I was determined to spend as few days at the hotel as possible. We went from one old apartment building to the next, and just as I was giving up, we found an apartment. It was a real dump, but at least it was a place to put our few belongings. The real selling point was that it was available immediately.

We paid the landlord and took a second look at the apartment. The paint was peeling, and the room lacked air conditioning. The bathroom was so small that I couldn’t go in without leaving the door open or I would feel claustrophobic. The vinyl tile in both the kitchen and bathroom was loose and coming up, the grayish carpet in the living room had dark stains everywhere, and the bedroom had no carpet at all, just heavily pocked and scratched hardwood flooring. I was suddenly glad my parents wouldn’t be coming to see me in such a place, far removed from their elegant apartment on the better side of town.

We checked out of the hotel immediately. Paulette helped me move my few belongings from her mother’s apartment, and one of the guys helped Jacques move his things from his cousin’s where he’d been staying. There wasn’t much to move, but the gang had found an old bed, a worn couch, and even a small table for us.

After helping us settle in, our friends laughed, making jokes about newlyweds, and left us to our honeymoon. But Jacques and I spent the day cleaning, or at least I did. Near dinner time, Jacques kissed me and went to get something for us to eat. He didn’t come back until after eleven. By that time the apartment was liveable, though not completely clean.

I heard Jacques come in, and I glanced up at him tiredly from the kitchen floor where I was finishing up. “There must have been a long line,” I said dryly, eyeing the plastic bag he held in his hands.

He grinned the beautiful smile that always made my heart skip a beat. “I got waylaid down by the bar, but I’m back now.” He leaned down to kiss my cheek and handed me the sack. I grabbed it eagerly; I had eaten only bread since lunch and was feeling sick from the lack of good food. But all the bag held was wine, some pastries, and a few thin marijuana cigarettes.

I shook my head at him in anger. I knew that if I didn’t eat soon, I would be very sick. “Jacques, I can’t eat this junk! You heard what the doctor said when we went last week. I’m supposed to eat healthy stuff!”

But Jacques only smiled. He walked to the door and picked up another sack that he had left outside. “I know, gorgeous. That’s why I brought you this.” He handed me another sack full of yogurt, fruits, cheese, and various other healthy items I had asked him to buy. The food was still cold, so he must have just gotten it down at the new market on the corner that was open all night. “I must have mixed up the sacks,” he continued as I tore off the lid on one of the drinkable yogurts.

I drank the yogurt before I replied, needing to stave off the nausea I was feeling. “Thanks, Jacques.” I smiled and pulled my husband down to the floor to kiss him with all the passion of a young wife. He loved me so much. It would mean a lot of work and adjusting, but together we would make everything turn out right.

* * *

Morning dawned all too soon, bright, hot, and bustling. Jacques left early to go back to his job at a distribution warehouse, where he loaded boxes of clothing and other items into trucks all day. After kissing him good-bye I went back to bed, feeling sick from the late night before. But the sounds from the street and the heat that seeped in from the thin windows and poorly insulated walls made me even more ill. I made myself get out of bed and eat more of the food Jacques had brought me last night. I also spied the wine and marijuana on the counter, but, with a hand on my belly, I resisted the impulse. I was going to do right by my baby.

After breakfast, I showered and left the apartment to look for a job. Though still hot, the streets were better than the apartment because of a cool breeze that blew fresh air into my face. I set my jaw determinedly and started out. I tried nearly every supermarket and café in the area—it was the only work I was qualified for—with not even a hint of an offer. Half of the owners turned me away the minute they found out that I was expecting, so I soon stopped mentioning my condition. I didn’t feel good about it, but I needed to eat, didn’t I?

The June sun was hot on my head and back as I reluctantly started searching the bars for openings. Not even a breeze broke the afternoon heat. I didn’t like the idea of working in a bar, not appreciating the environment for my unborn child because of the smoke and the rough handling of the customers, but I felt I had no choice. Several of the workers told me there were openings and asked me to come back the next day or later in the evening to talk to the managers. I saw a glimmer of hope but was depressed nonetheless; I didn’t want to work in a bar.

On the next street, I saw two young men in white shirts and short haircuts walking toward me. With a flash, I remembered the young American with the bright red hair who had talked to me the day of Antoine’s funeral nine months before. Pain washed over me, and I hurried across the street to avoid them.

“And he said he’d pray for me,” I muttered. “Then why doesn’t his God get me a decent job?” Of course, I wouldn’t pray for myself; I didn’t believe in a God that would let Antoine die. Besides, I had done well enough without Him, hadn’t I? I had a husband and a baby—what more did I need? Certainly nothing that confused young man could have offered.

I shrugged the thoughts aside and hurried down the street to the next bar and the next. I had no luck at either. I was only two streets away from our apartment when I suddenly saw a little café squeezed in between a shoe store and a cheap clothing outlet. Above the shop, as above many shops in Paris, loomed a three-story apartment building that appeared old but well-maintained.

I sighed, almost unwilling to risk rejection again. But something urged me over to the café. “Now would be a good time for you to pray,” I murmured to the absent red-haired American boy. Again thoughts of Antoine flooded my mind, but I shoved them away. He was dead and gone forever; he couldn’t help me now.

The shop had obviously just finished with the last of the lunch crowd, for it was nearly empty. I arranged my blouse carefully over my slightly rounded stomach, though it was really not noticeable to those who didn’t know how thin I had become since Antoine’s death. Still, I felt as if a neon sign pointed to the baby inside me.

The stout woman at the counter glanced up as I entered. One hand went up to push back a piece of gray hair that had escaped from her bun. She smiled wearily. “What would you like?”

Looking down at the splendid array of sandwiches and pastries, I felt suddenly hungry. I had stopped several times during the day to nibble at the cheese and bread I carried in my purse, but it was long past time for me to eat again. Nausea rose up in my throat, and I fought it down.

“I’m—I’m looking for work,” I said as clearly as possible. “Do you have any openings?”

The lady studied me a full minute in silence before saying severely, “I don’t hire people on drugs.”

“But I’m not,” I protested as the room around me began to spin. I felt the blackness coming as it always did if I didn’t eat at least every three hours, and suddenly I knew I was going to either be sick or pass out.

I turned from the woman as quickly as I could, hoping at least to make it out the door. The room whirled faster, and the blackness ate at the edges of my consciousness. Desperately, I clutched at the nearest table to try to steady myself. Then everything went black.

The next thing I knew, someone was dabbing my face with a cool cloth. “Wake up,” said a woman’s voice. It was the woman from the counter, but this time her voice was softer.

I sat up quickly, only to feel a return of the sickness. I lay back down on the cot and looked around the small room anxiously for my purse.

“My purse,” I whispered urgently. “Where is it?”

The woman clenched her lips tightly but handed me the purse. She obviously thought that I was going to pull out some drugs. I ignored her as I fumbled through my bag, my fingers eagerly closing around my one remaining cheese sandwich. I took a big bite and began to chew while the lady watched me curiously, a puzzled expression replacing her former disgust. After swallowing the first bite, I forced myself to eat more slowly; it would make my embarrassment even worse to throw up now.

After the small sandwich was gone, I glanced up to see the woman still staring at me. I brought one hand instinctively to my stomach that jutted out, still small but tellingly from my thin body as I lay on the cot. The woman saw the gesture, and her gray eyebrows raised slightly.

A bell rang in the distance, and the woman spoke. “I’ve got customers. You rest right here a moment, and I’ll be back.” She smiled ever so briefly and disappeared through the door.

I sat up slowly and surveyed the small, windowless room. A desk, a chair, the cot, and a large bookcase took up most of the space, obviously the woman’s—or someone else’s—office. I stood up and walked to the office door, which led into a large kitchen. Through a door beyond that I could see the stout woman helping a man at the counter.

There seemed to be no way out of the shop without passing the woman—unless one of the closed doors in the kitchen was a hall leading to her living quarters and perhaps a back door. It was likely, but I didn’t want to make the situation worse by being caught snooping. I went back and sat on the cot.

The woman returned in minutes. In her hands she carried a glass of milk. “Here, drink this,” she said gruffly, handing it to me. “You should drink a lot of milk for the baby.”

I took the milk and did as she asked. “I’m sorry,” I said between sips. “I didn’t realize I had gone so long without eating. I’ve been searching for a job all morning, and I was almost home when I saw your shop. I thought it couldn’t hurt to try.” I looked down at the floor and blinked back tears. Whatever hope I had of getting a job at this particular café was long gone.

“What’s your name?”

“Ariana. Ariana Merson, I mean Ariana de Cotte—I got married recently.”

“I’m Marguerite Geoffrin,” the woman said. “My husband and I own this café and the apartment building over it. That’s where he is right now, fixing a shower in one of the apartments while we’re not too busy.” She paused, and her next words surprised me. “Business is very good, and in fact we do need someone to work the lunch and dinner shifts, Tuesday through Saturday. If you are willing to work, we’ll give you a chance.”

I looked up at her quickly, hardly daring to believe my luck. “But why?” The words came out before I had a chance to stop them. “What about when the baby comes?”

Marguerite smiled. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Ariana. First let’s see if you’re a good worker.”

I returned her smile eagerly. “Oh, I will be, I promise!”

Marguerite held up her hand. “But there is one condition.” Her expression became serious. “You will not use drugs of any kind.”

“I smoked pot for a few months,” I confessed hesitantly. “But since I found out about the baby, I quit. I want to do what’s right for it.”

“Then it’s agreed. You will earn the minimum salary plus two meals daily—or four half meals if you prefer, given your condition. Be here tomorrow at noon. I think that you already have been too long on your feet today.”

“Oh, thank you, Madame Geoffrin! And I won’t let you down, I promise!”

“I hope not, Ariana,” she said softly. Her eyes grew very sad. There was something more she wasn’t telling me, some reason why she was giving me a chance, but I didn’t want to push her. There would be time enough later to find out her secrets.

Jacques and I celebrated that night, using our last money to pay for an inexpensive dinner at a restaurant, saving just enough to buy bread until payday. Since Jacques also ate a meal at work, we would survive. After dinner, he drank a lot of wine, but I was used to his doing so. I was content to see my handsome husband enjoying himself.

The next weeks went by happily for me. The work at the café was constant but not strenuous, and the customers were nice. I had plenty of opportunities to rest my feet when business wasn’t so brisk. Marguerite, as I soon began to call Madame Geoffrin, even brought a tall stool to put behind the counter where I could sit and take the customers’ money while she filled their orders during the rushes. Together, we developed a system that efficiently took care of customers in the minimum amount of time, and this only increased our business. In the kitchen her husband, Jules, was busy preparing the foods we served to the many customers. I felt more needed than I had ever felt in my life, even when Antoine was alive. He had never needed me, only loved me.

Marguerite mothered me, and I responded to her care. She filled a void in my life that I hadn’t realized even existed. She and Jules became my closest friends besides Jacques and Paulette.

Summer turned into mid-October, and I blossomed—in more ways than one. Of course my stomach grew, and in fact I gained needed weight all over. But I also became more sure of myself and more positive about my future. The only strain on my new happiness was Jacques. Two months before the baby was due, four months after our marriage, he came home in a rage.

“I quit!” he exclaimed as he walked through the door. It was nearly noon, and I was getting ready to leave for the café.

“You what?” I asked in amazement. He had been doing well at work, and together our wages were paying nicely for our expenses. We had bought a few new things for the apartment and for the baby, and I was already dreaming about moving to a better home—someplace where the plumbing didn’t need to be repaired, where there were no cockroaches, and where the neighbors didn’t party all night long. Not that I ever complained about the parties; we were as bad as our neighbors in that respect. Many nights our friends were over very late, watching our secondhand TV and smoking pot or drinking. I didn’t mind it as long as they stayed out of my bedroom and didn’t make us pay for the liquor. But still, things would have to change once the baby was born. I wanted my child to be something, not grow up to be a junkie.

“I quit my job,” Jacques repeated. “They accused me of being on heroin, and I won’t stand to be treated that way.”

I didn’t say anything for a time, my suspicion growing by the minute. He hadn’t exactly denied taking the drug. “Well, are you?” I finally asked.

He glared at me. “It’s none of their business what I do in my off time. It isn’t affecting my work any.”

My heart began to race. Marijuana was one thing, but heroin was something quite different. I had been in the gang long enough to see what kinds of lives were led by those who were addicted.

“It’s no big deal,” Jacques said, understanding immediately my expression of horror. “Everyone in the gang has been trying it lately, even Paulette.”

“When?” I still couldn’t believe it.

He shrugged. “While you’re at work in the evenings. Sometimes here, sometimes at one of the others’ apartments. What difference does it make? The fact is, the stuff is wonderful. It makes you forget all your problems and—”

“I didn’t know being married to me was a big problem,” I blurted. Tears came to my eyes. “I thought we were moving up in the world, that we could be like normal families and leave this life behind!”

Jacques stared at me. “I don’t want to leave this life behind! I want to live, to feel, to experience life to the fullest!”

“Is that what you’re doing when you’re all drugged up?” I spat at him. “Experiencing life? That’s some reality for you!”

“I didn’t know you wanted to make us over to be like your parents!” he rejoined cruelly. “Or maybe your sainted brother!”

“How dare you!” I was crying hard now, smearing the mascara I had just applied. Jacques turned from me and stalked into our room. I followed him.

“What are you going to do now?” I asked. “What about our baby? I can’t possibly pay for the bills alone! Please, Jacques!”

He flung himself on the bed. “Don’t worry, Ari. I’ll get a new job after I take a little vacation. We’ve already paid one month’s advance rent, so I deserve a rest.” He lay back and closed his eyes.

What about me? I wanted to scream at him. What about my rest? I felt the baby inside of me move restlessly, responding to my emotion, and I forced myself to be calm. “Don’t call me Ari,” I said through gritted teeth, keeping my voice calm. “My name is Ariana.” Leaving him there on the bed, I turned and ran out the door, pausing only to snatch up my coat from the couch. The October weather was cold, but I was warm from the sparks of our fight. I almost wished I never had to see Jacques again.

I arrived at the café slightly late, but Marguerite didn’t say anything. She took one look at me and hustled me to the bathroom, leaving Jules to man the café. Working quickly, she cleaned away the streaked mascara under my eyes and gave me some powder to cover the red blotches on my face.

“What happened?” she asked softly.

“Jacques and I had our first fight.” I nearly started crying again at the words. “He lost his job, and he’s taking heroin,” I added, searching her face beseechingly. “I don’t know what to do. I thought we could make a better life for our baby, but he doesn’t seem to want to. At this moment, I wish I’d never met him!”

Marguerite listened intently. “You’ve good right to be upset. Not only is heroin addictive, but it can kill. You must not get involved with it, Ariana, no matter what!” A shadow passed quickly over her face. “You asked me once why I hired you, and I’ll tell you now. I had a daughter who hung out with a group like yours. She left home and soon got into heroin and prostitution. She ended up dead.” Marguerite paused, and tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks. “When you came here, I saw my little girl again, asking for help before she was drawn into the depths. I couldn’t help but think that if someone had been there to help her, she would still be alive today.”

The bell hanging on the outside door tinkled suddenly. Then again and again. Marguerite wiped her tears away with the back of her hand.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, suddenly understanding much more about this woman who had befriended me.

“Just don’t let me down,” was her reply. She hurried back to the counter to help Jules with the customers, leaving me to follow thoughtfully.