34.

They found themselves on the border of the Tuileries garden. “Look where we are,” said Joan. “Do you want to go to the Louvre?”

“Fuck the Louvre.”

“D’Orsay?”

Frances nodded, though she didn’t much care to go. Taxiing back over the Seine, she felt a magnet pull in her stomach. It was as if the water wanted her, and she waited in dread for the feeling to pass, and it did pass once the taxi cleared the river. Joan paid the driver and then the museum admission. The Musée d’Orsay was nearly empty. From the moment they entered, Joan’s mood changed; she became sullen and withdrawn. Frances asked her what was the matter and after a stuttering start Joan expressed contempt for the suicide note, the idea of suicide from a woman such as Frances, the cliché of someone so bright and promising killing herself once the glamour has passed.

“Well, for one,” said Frances, “that’s an extremely shitty thing to say to me. Two, the glamour passed a long time ago, and you know very well that it did. And third, three, yes, my life is riddled by clichés, but do you know what a cliché is? It’s a story so fine and thrilling that it’s grown old in its hopeful retelling.”

Joan couldn’t help but smile at this.

“People tell it,” Frances said. “Not so many live it.”