Malcolm and Frances met in the morning and discussed their respective oceanic exploits. Regarding the doctor and his cadavers, Frances had little to say; she was more interested in Malcolm’s relationship with Madeleine the medium.
“You made love to her?”
“Well, yes.”
“Did you do a good job?”
“Not a very good one, no.”
“Do you normally do a good job?”
“Sometimes I do. I think the problem is that I don’t care enough.”
Frances said, “If you do one thing well, it might as well be that.”
Malcolm pondered this. He asked if the captain had done a good job and Frances said, “Don’t be tacky, pal.” Small Frank sulked in the background; Frances whispered to Malcolm, “How are we meant to get him into France?” Since their embarkation, she’d felt increasingly anxious that they were three together, not two, and that if Small Frank were left behind, then some piece of their luck would also fall away. She decided she would drug and smuggle him across the border in her purse, a seemingly simple scheme that in actuality posed disastrous potential. She had a bottleful of Valium, but how does one give Valium to a cat? And how much should be given that Small Frank would doze but not expire? After some consideration, and with the boat an hour from the port at Calais, she ground up five five-milligram pills into a portion of tuna salad and set this out for him before taking in the air abovedecks one final time. When she returned, she found him splayed on the bathroom floor and rolled him into her bag amid stacks of cash. She endeavored to think of the operation as chic in the cloak-and-dagger style, but Small Frank was snoring, the heft of the bag tantamount to manual labor, and she soon succumbed to self-pity. To combat this, and finding herself envious of the cat’s state, she also took five Valium.
It was a hazy day, and the rank air at Calais clung to the flesh. They entered the line for customs; ahead of them was Madeleine the medium. She was ducking down to avoid being seen by Malcolm, which he noticed but chose to ignore. He pushed ahead of the crowd, tapping her on the shoulder. She gave a half turn. “Hello,” she said.
“Here’s our jailbird now.”
“Here I am.”
“And you’ve paid your debt to society?”
“Yes, very funny.” She was wan and chalky and Malcolm asked if she was sick. “No, just mortified,” she said.
Malcolm nodded. Looking around, he sniffed and said, “Smells different here.”
Madeleine sniffed and shrugged.
“It’s invigorating,” Malcolm added.
Now Frances approached, on shaky legs, clutching at people as she passed them by. “Oh, your little witchy friend,” she said. “How do you do?”
“Hello,” said Madeleine. “I hope you haven’t lost that cat?”
Frances opened the purse and Madeleine peered in. “He’s having his siesta until we’re through customs.”
Madeleine asked, “Is that real money?”
“Of course. I don’t think that there’s anything so comforting as quite a lot of money, don’t you agree with me?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Try it sometime and tell me if it isn’t just the thing to chase your blues away.”
It registered with Malcolm that something was amiss with Frances. She was mumbling to herself; she was repressing laughter; twice she stepped on his toes. “Are you drunk?” he whispered. “Noooooo,” she replied. Before he could uncover what was the matter with her, they had arrived at the front of the line. Madeleine went before them and passed through; the customs agent motioned for Malcolm and Frances to come forward. He asked what the purpose of their trip was and Frances, leaning an elbow on the countertop, said, “Chasing after youthful fantasies,” then winked.
“Madame?”
“We’re vacationists. I want to see the Eiffel Tower, then die.”
“Die?” The customs agent shook his head. “But you are not so old, madame.”
She said, “I’m old enough to have received a corsage from a white-gloved West Point cadet with a pomaded ducktail and a solid silver flask of rye in the pocket of his gabardine tuxedo—that’s how old I am.”
The customs agent was flummoxed. He asked Malcolm, “She is sick, monsieur?”
“She isn’t sick.”
“She does not die?”
“Never.”
“She must not die here,” the customs agent warned Malcolm.
“She’ll die somewhere else,” Malcolm promised.
The customs agent looked back at Frances. “No dying in France.” He stamped their passports and waved them on. They purchased train tickets, Frances digging out the cash beneath Small Frank, who was yet inert. They settled into the first-class compartment and Frances slept while Malcolm read the account of the voyages of Christopher Columbus: 7 September. All Friday he was becalmed.
Madeleine approached and sat opposite him. She was eating a sandwich from the bar car, a blank look on her face. It seemed to Malcolm she wasn’t going to say a word, then she ticktocked her head, swallowed, and told him, “I couldn’t send her back to the conga line without telling her.”
“Maybe people don’t want to know.”
“Of course they want to know. Wouldn’t you want to?”
“No.”
“Well, I told her, and I don’t feel bad about it.”
Malcolm asked, “How did you know to tell her?”
“I’ve been able to see it coming since I was a little girl.”
“But how?”
“Toward the end, there’s a color.”
“What color?”
“Green.”
A ticket taker arrived and stood before them. Malcolm handed over his and his mother’s ticket and the man punched them, then asked in French for Madeleine’s.
“What’s he saying?” she asked.
“He wants your ticket,” Malcolm told her.
“I haven’t got one.”
“Madame n’a pas de billet, monsieur,” said Malcolm.
The ticket taker asked Malcolm if the young lady wished to purchase a first- or second-class ticket; if it was the latter, he said, she would have to relocate to another compartment. Malcolm interpreted for Madeleine, who said, “I don’t want to buy either. He can kick me off the train if he wants to but I’ve got five hundred dollars to my name and I’m going to need it in Paris.”
The ticket taker had his credit card reader at the ready and wore an expectant, happy expression. When Malcolm explained what Madeleine had told him, the card reader slowly dropped, and the ticket taker looked hurt. The young woman was putting him in a bad place, he said. Malcolm expressed sympathy but said that she herself was in a bad place, and that that sort of thing had a tendency to spread. The ticket taker did not disagree with this, but said he resented Madeleine for upsetting what he called the graceful balance of his work. He would not kick her off the train but said he believed she could represent herself better if she strove to do so. He moved away, down the aisle.
“What did he say?” asked Madeleine.
“He’s unimpressed with you, but he’s not going to kick you off the train.”
Madeleine finished her sandwich, balled up the trash, and dropped it on the ground at her feet. Standing, she pointed at Frances’s purse. “You could have just bought me a ticket, you know.” Malcolm told her the truth, which was that the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Madeleine turned to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“I really don’t know, Malcolm,” she said, and then she was gone.
Frances awoke minutes before the train landed at Gare du Nord. She smiled sleepily. “I never wanted to live one life,” she said. “I wanted to live three lives.” Small Frank rustled in her purse. It was nighttime in Paris, mid-December, the city made up with Christmas accents, bodies surging in all directions.