“Oh, Libby,” said her mother. “These stories. Everyone has these stories.”
“I know, Mom,” she said, taking another sip of wine, exhaling a mournful sigh. “Hey…wasn’t Bubbe’s mother from France?”
“Mm-hm. My grandmother. Ma grand-mère.”
“You didn’t call her Bubbe?”
“No. We called our other grandmother Bubbe. My mother’s mother was Grand-mère.”
“I wish I’d known her.”
“Not much to know,” said her mother. “She was a quiet lady. But she loved art. Just like you, Libby.”
“You never heard her speak it? French?”
“No,” said her mother. “She didn’t like to speak it. Learned English as soon as she got here and never spoke French again…well, until she was dying, poor thing.”
“And then she did?” asked Libitz.
“Bubbe says she did. She’d get confused and speak French now and then, but my mother didn’t understand a word of it.”
“Do you know when she came over, Mom?”
“Late thirties, I guess. Before the war, but I’m not sure of the exact date.”
Libitz sighed. She’d had a fleeting, ridiculous fantasy that maybe her great-grandmother had known the mystery model…whether she’d realized it or not, Libitz had hoped that maybe her mother could say something that would shed more light on the model’s life.
“What was her name?” asked Libitz.
“Ummm. Camille.”
C, thought Libitz, a rush of excitement making her fingers cold. “Camille what?”
“Lévy.”
“No,” said Libitz, rolling her eyes. “Her maiden name.”
“All these questions! Libby, I have no idea. I doubt even your bubele knows her birth name. You have to understand: she turned her back on France—shut down whenever any of us asked her about it. I think it broke her heart.”
“France? France broke her heart?”
“Mm-hm. It felt like that.”
“But she came to New York before the war?”
“Yes, I think so.”
Libitz sighed. The war started a few days after Les Bijoux Jolis was painted. She shook her head, annoyed with herself. She had an emotional connection to the painting, and it was making her fantasize about having a personal connection to the dead model.
“Are you all right, Libitz?”
“Mm-hm. Just wish I could figure out what happened to the model in the painting.”
“Better not to know,” said her mother, sneezing again three times in a row.
“Gesundheit,” she murmured reflexively.
“Libby,” said her mother, her tone changing from normal to slightly wheedling. “I had the nicest chat with Shana Leibowitz. Things are going well for you and Neil? You know me, I try not to pry.”
Like hell.
“He’s very nice, Mom, but—”
“So we’ll see you both at Shabbat this Friday? Shana’s making brisket.”
“I can’t make it, Mom.”
“What are you—Myron, she can’t make it to Shabbat at the Leibowitz’s! What are you talking about, Libitz? It’ll be very awkward without you there.”
Oh, God. Did she have the strength to explain about Neil and J.C. tonight?
No. No, she did not.
“It’s a work thing, Mom.”
“Get out of it. What’s the use of being the boss if you can’t take off early when you want to?”
“You sound like Neil.”
“What’s wrong with Neil?”
“Mom, please.”
“Please what? Please make me a grandmother before I die?” She sneezed again before answering her own question. “Yes, thank you.”
“Maybe Neil and I aren’t meant to be.”
“Meant to be,” muttered her mother. “Who’s meant to be? You like Neil.”
“I do, Mom. He’s a great person…but I have to follow my heart.”
Her mother sighed. “Follow your heart by all means, Libby, but you’re not getting any younger.”
Libitz finished her wine in a single gulp and poured another glass. “I love you, Mom. Maybe give Mrs. Leibowitz your regrets, huh? Stay home and nurse your cold.”
“Now, Lib—”
“Tell Dad I love him too. Talk soon.”
Before her mother could say anything else, she pressed the “End” button, and then, knowing her mother as well as she did, she powered down the phone completely. It’d be ringing all night if she didn’t.
In the dim quiet of her apartment, she snuggled back into the couch and closed her eyes. Before long, she was asleep, her dreams mixed up yet vibrant—tangled musings about C.T., the model, and Camille, her mother’s grand-mère. Jean-Christian cameoed in the role of Pierre Montferrat, and she saw herself, as a teenager, wearing emeralds and a yellow star as she ate brisket, vowing, in perfect French, never to speak it again for as long as she lived.
***