“La…Juif?”
“Oui,” said Jean-Christian, nodding his head. “La modèle de portrait juive.”
“La…,” she sighed, her eyes nodding closed. “La Juif.”
“Now he asks about a, ah, a Jewish girl? She model for a portrait?”
Libitz nodded but kept her eyes on Jean-Christian.
Jean-Christian looked up at Lizette and Libitz, his eyes widening like he had an idea. “Lib,” he said, gesturing to her to come closer. “Let her see you.”
Libitz lowered herself to the floor, kneeling down directly before the wheelchair beside Jean-Christian, her face turned up to the old woman, who drooled from her pale lips and stared blankly down at her lap.
He leaned closer until his lips grazed her ear. “Say this. Say: Bonjour, Sylvia.”
Libitz swallowed, focusing on his accent. “B-bonjour, Sylvia.”
Madame Comtois’ lips moved as though she wanted to say “bon jour,” but no sound came out.
“I am, hm, désolée,” said Lizette, hovering over them. “But she is very, hm, very sleep now. You can come back?”
Jean-Christian shot a glance to Libitz, ignoring Lizette. “Say, Je vais être le modèle pour Monsieur Montferrat aujourd’hui. Tell her you have a modeling job today. She has to look at you.”
She nodded. “Tell me the words again.”
He did, and she repeated them as best she could.
When Madame Comtois didn’t respond, Libitz tried them again. About to give up, she braced her hands on the floor to stand up when the old woman opened her eyes. Though they were ancient and faded to an almost white-blue, they sparkled as her lips twitched, like she wanted to smile.
“Monsieur Mont…ferrat,” she murmured. “Il est…trés…leste.”
Behind her, Lizette gasped, then chuckled, clapping a hand over her mouth. Libitz looked up at her in question.
“She say he is…hm, ah, dirty? Dirty old man?” She giggled. “I think madame have secrets.”
Libitz grinned at the young nurse, then turned back to Madame Comtois, surprised to find her eyes focused on Libitz with more clarity and awareness than she’d thought the old woman capable of.
“C-Camille?” she whispered, staring at Libitz like she was looking at a ghost. “Camille…Trigére?”
“Who?” murmured Libitz.
“Est-ce…toi? Camille…Trigére?”
Camille Trigére. C.T.
She heard her sharp inhalation of breath in her ears, but otherwise the entire world floated away, and all Libitz processed was the fact that Madame Comtois had just recognized Libitz as the model and given them the name they were so desperately hoping to find. And that name just happened to be the same as her great-grandmother: Camille.
Jean-Christian’s voice in her ear grounded her. “Say, Oui, Sylvia. C’est bon de te revoir. It’s good to see you again.”
“Oui, Sylvia. C’est bon de te revoir.”
Madame Comtois reached out her hand, which shook like a lone brown leaf at the bitter end of autumn, and touched Libitz’s cheek. “Es-tu C-Camille...la jolie...juive.” After expending such effort, her eyes fluttered closed and her head fell softly forward, her limp hand dropping to her lap.
“What did she say?” asked Libitz.
Jean-Christian whispered, “She says it’s good to see you too, Camille…She called you ‘the pretty Jew.’”
A small noise issued from Libitz’s mouth as she braced her hands on the floor and slowly stood up.
“Now she sleep,” chirped Lizette, pulling a blanket around Madame Comtois’ shoulders and smiling warmly at Libitz. “Oui?”
“Oui,” said Libitz, vaguely aware that Jean-Christian had also risen and had his arm around her shoulder. “Merci, Lizette.”
“De rien.” She nodded, taking her place behind Madame Comtois’ chair, waving as she pushed the older lady back to her bed.
“Lib?” said Jean-Christian. “Are you okay?”
“My…my great-grandmother’s name was Camille.”
“I know,” he said, searching her eyes, his expression warning her to be cautious.
“Camille Trigére,” she repeated softly, wishing that her mother had known her great-grandmother’s maiden name.
Camille. Camille like my great-grandmother.
“Hey,” he said, guiding her toward the exit of the nursing home, “do synagogues keep records? Like, birth records?”
Libitz looked up at him and nodded. “Sure. Some of them keep meticulous records.”
“Well, now that we have a first and last name…” he said.
“Yes!” she cried, her footsteps speeding up with anticipation. “Of course. Let’s go!”
As Jean-Christian hailed a cab, she rolled the name over and over again in her head.
It’s just a coincidence, she told herself, and yet her stubborn heart insisted it knew better, insisted that it was far more than mere coincidence.
Jean-Christian told the cabbie that they wanted to go to the Grande Synagogue de Marseille, and Libitz tried to steady her breathing.