24

THE MEMORY SEEPED INTO HER, humming under the surface of her thoughts, hurrying her along.

Having parked a few blocks further south, she found her way to Robert’s car, then packed the foodstuffs in the cooler and shoved the gift in the trunk. This felt like an accomplishment. She was afraid that the town’s landmarks might have somehow rearranged themselves, spun into bizarre new patterns like fragments in a kaleidoscope. Thinking that she’d gotten used to the skewed perspective, she looped back to Rue Albert Briand, passing again through the centre of town.

As she approached Place du Général de Gaulle, she heard a staccato retort — a driven, insistent, click-clack, clickety-clack, trim and brisk as a soldier’s march. High heels trotting across the square, a woman’s dark hair tossed by a breeze — it was Lisette, her face half-hidden by a huge bouquet of calla lilies, anthuriums, gladiolas. They were spectacular, these enormous cut flowers, bright gold and crimson, tangerine and purple, but to Valerie they also seemed grotesque, each of them too garish and fleshy, each one a caricature of a fragile living thing.

The flowers must be for the party, she thought.

Marguerite’s sister looked like a model displaying an armload of blooms.

But how will she fit them into her apartment?

Valerie thought to stop her. She could offer to take some flowers home.

Lisette had turned to smile at an admiring man, as if he were about to take her picture.

Then she disappeared.

***

A café across the street from the fromagerie — that’s what Valerie found out at the pottery shop, but she didn’t recall a café at that location. Rue Albert Briand was two blocks away, and opposite the Fromagerie Leduc was a dress shop, a travel agency, and a bright yellow clapboard house that looked like a real estate office. Its tiny green lawn and garden distinguished it from the other businesses, yet even so, Valerie didn’t recall seeing this building earlier. She noticed a green planter full of geraniums under a lace-curtained window. The curtains were drawn. Next to the front door was a painted tile, the kind that shows either a house number or the name of a business. The white tile was edged in flowers, and in the centre was a bright blue exclamation point.

Too cute, she thought.

Valerie crossed the street, then walked a few metres in the opposite direction, thinking she might have missed the café. When she turned back again, she noticed a man and a woman coming out of the yellow house. They were each carrying moulded-plastic tables that they set up on the sidewalk. They went back for the stacking chairs, working until they’d set up four tables. On their last trip inside, the woman returned with two cups of coffee and the man came back with a laptop. Then he sat down.

“Welcome,” the woman said to Valerie. “We are Jeanne and Michel Brunet.”

“I didn’t know there was a café on this street.”

“There isn’t.” She pointed to the tile by the door. “We open on impulse.”

Like a lemonade stand, thought Valerie. Years ago, she and Karen used to sell lemonade and old comic books from a wooden crate that their mother set up in front of the house on Willow Road. Only this was different. You couldn’t just run a café when you felt like it. You needed a license and a visit from the Health Inspector. You were supposed to post a menu. The world hadn’t changed that much since this morning that these rules would be suspended.

Valerie remembered why she’d come.

“Have a seat,” said Jeanne.

“Would it be possible for me to check my email?”

Michel got up and pointed to his place. “Mon plaisir. I must attend to my other clients.”

There was no one in sight.

The man went inside. Jeanne followed him. She returned with four small vases full of chrysanthemums, one for each table.

“Would you like something to eat?” she asked.

Valerie ordered eau gazeuse.

“You are not hungry?”

“My son is missing in New York.”

“Je suis desolée.”

Jeanne brought her some sparkling water, then went inside. About to log on, Valerie glanced at the laptop, at the white, sunlit table crossed by a long shadow. Standing before her was the pilot. He looked at her with troubled eyes.

“You are busy,” he said.

“I must find my son.” Her hands rattled the keyboard. “Please sit with me.”

She was afraid to receive bad news alone.

A slow connection. She had a moment to find out who he was.

His name was Jean-Claude and he worked for Air France. He’d flown from Paris to Montreal, then booked a local flight for an excursion to Saint-Pierre before returning home. Now he was stranded, unable to fly. When Valerie told him that she was from New York, he pulled out an address book and pointed to a name.

“My sister-in-law,” he said. “I have tried calling, but I cannot reach her.”

“She’s in Brooklyn. She’s safe.”

“My brother is not safe.” His brother worked in one of the towers, he explained.

“He might have escaped.”

“Mais oui. We are so close, my brother and I. We often walk in Central Park, along the grande allée. He might have gone there.”

“He may be trying to email you.” She glanced at the screen.

“I am interrupting.”

“No. A remote connection. Much too slow.”

“Only last week, I saw my brother in France,” he said.

Anxious now, she asked him about his family. His children were grown, he said. She watched his eyes as they moved across her hand, as they paused at the ring on her finger.

“Where is your husband?” he asked.

“He’s in New York, also.”

“He is all right?”

“He’s gone looking for our son,” she said.

“Your son is missing?”

“I’m sure they’ll find him.” Her voice seemed unnatural to her, too bright. “I’m sure there’ll be email.”

“Forgive me. I mustn’t stop you—” Jean-Claude looked away, the pain in his face undisguised. “It is insanity,” he whispered.

“We’ll be all right,” she answered, unsure what she meant, or what anything meant — two fearful strangers, a sidewalk café on a deserted street, the silence wracked by a tolling bell. “If I were home, I’d be working in the garden. Keeping busy.”

“Yes, there are things we must do at times like this,” said Jean-Claude.

“What must you do?” she asked.

“I must fly,” His voice became intense, as if he meant right now. “It will make all the difference in the world.”

“Will you find—?”

“I want to answer these people back.”

She imagined fighter-planes, and the thought distressed her.

“No, I do not want revenge,” he said.

Her hands remembered the soft leaves of Marguerite’s geraniums, and again she heard her mother’s voice, her murmured benediction. Blessed plant. Yet the towers burned. She imagined him cleansing the sky of its suffering. Yet after her visit to the Peace Factory, she’d had enough strangeness for the day. She glanced at the screen.

“I’m online at last,” she said.

“When you are done, would you share lunch with me?”

She told him that she couldn’t imagine relaxing over lunch when her son was missing.

“Of course,” he said. “I understand.”

“But stay while I check my email.” Valerie looked around. The street was empty. The air felt as soft as the inside of a flower. The bells were tolling in the silence.

***

As soon as she went online, it felt as if Jean-Claude had dissolved into air.

There were two emails from her son.

The first had an attachment. Some photos from dad, read the subject line. It was sent at eight-thirty a.m. Eastern Daylight Time, just before the first attack. Dad took these yesterday. The photos included a beautiful view of the North Tower with the Hudson River in the background, the scene Gerard had described on the phone the previous night.

The second e-mail was sent at eight fifty-five a.m. local time, ten minutes after the first plane struck.

I’m safe, Andre wrote. James is waiting to be rescued. We’ve spoken. He’s bearing up.

I’m watching this unfold from the adjacent tower. I love you. Andre.

“The adjacent tower” was the one that had just collapsed.

He was out of there like a shot, I’ll bet, thought Valerie.

Pray.

Keys tapping under Valerie’s fingers.

Cher Gerard, Andre emailed me just before you spoke to him this morning, before the second plane hit his bldg. Plse keep in touch. If you can’t get through on the phone, email me, I can connect.

She logged off.

Before Jean-Claude could ask what was wrong, she got up and started running east along Rue Albert Briand. Up ahead, she saw a slight figure, her motions brisk. Click-clack, staccato of heels on the pavement, a woman carrying a huge bouquet.

Only Lisette was walking in the wrong direction. Not toward home.