“Do you regret your career?”
I’ve thought about this a great deal in the Conciergerie. If I had it all to do over again, would I have taken those lessons with Mahadevi? Do I regret touring France, and Spain, and even Germany? “Not entirely.” If I had never danced, I would not know Edouard.
“What I regret most is losing my daughter. I thought there would be time for us to reunite . . . I dreamed that we’d escape this war, that I’d bring her to live with me in New York where we would be safe.” I look him in the eye. “I’ve lived almost forty years,” I tell him, “and I’ve made enormous sums of money. A lifetime of jewels, apartments, furs. But now, in the end, what do I have left that matters? What legacy can I leave her?”
“A lock of your hair,” he says quietly. “Your memories.”
“Could you tell her how breathtaking Java is?”
“Whatever you wish.”
I tell him my best memories of that faraway place. I tell him about jungles and rare flowers and dancing with Mahadevi until the sky turned pink at dawn.
When Sister Léonide tells us that our visit is almost over, Bowtie requests a pair of scissors and she complies without question. I cut off a long lock of hair. I fold it into the envelope and give it to him. A gift for my daughter.
*
“Mama, Mama, wake up!”
“Oh, Non, liefste, it’s too early—”
“No, Mama. Something’s wrong!”
I’m jolted awake. Someone is shaking my shoulder. My God, it’s Bouchardon. It’s happening. It’s real.
“Get dressed,” he says.
Immediately I feel like I’m going to be sick.
He leaves my cell and his footsteps disappear down the hall. The other women are staring at me, their eyes haunted. One day he will come for them as well.
They watch me dress. A black hat, a black skirt, and a long dark blouse. Sister Léonide arrives and she walks me to the last car I will ever ride in. The drive to Chateau de Vincennes is a heartbeat. A group of reporters and military officers are already waiting for me. Bowtie is among them. And now I see Edouard.
Many have gathered to witness my death, yet as I walk to the field behind the chateau all is silent. Then I hear Edouard shouting my name and I run.
I embrace him until my guards force us to part.
They escort me to a wooden stake in the ground. As they tie my hands I feel as if I’m watching myself from a distance. I am offered a blindfold, but I refuse. I can hear Edouard weeping. I want to be strong for him. I want him to be the last person I see on this earth.
Twelve men take a stance across from me. They aim their rifles at my chest. I look one last time at Edouard. I remember him as he was on the day we met, tossing that rose out of his car. I conjure the day in the museum when he posed like the statue of Charles V. I appreciate for the final time how hard he labored to deliver Non home to me. I will miss him.
God, how I will miss him.
Epilogue
Customers are trying on coats, asking questions about the furs, demanding different cuts. The woman wearing the expensive rings—who’s already been here six times this week—is demanding another cup of tea, sinking back into one of the soft leather couches, expecting the staff to fetch her refreshments.
“More biscuits, madam?” Of course.
“More tea?” Yes, and be certain it’s hot this time.
It’s unlikely that Ring Woman will buy anything from Joossens today; still, the biscuits and tea have to be produced. The shop girl is on her way to refill the woman’s cup for a fourth time when she sees him, standing near the winter hats.
“Jeanne MacLeod?” he asks, startling her. He is wearing a green bow tie. It should look ridiculous, but he wears it with style—he looks to be twenty, maybe twenty-five.
She tries to place him. A friend of her father’s? A previous customer? He holds out his hand and she shakes it.
“Ancel Dupond. I was a friend of your mother’s.”
She nearly drops the teacup and saucer she’s holding. She inspects the man more closely. There are fine lines around his eyes. Now, as she studies him, she decides he’s closer to thirty-five. She realizes the implication of his words. “Was? Why do you say was?”
“I’m sorry. You don’t know?” He takes the teacup from her as it begins to rattle in its saucer. He guides her to a couch. He sets the china on a table and asks, “You’re Jeanne Louise MacLeod, am I right?”
“My mother called me Non. That’s what I prefer to be called.”
“Is there somewhere we can go to talk?”
“Miss,” her customer calls, waving bejeweled fingers. “I’m still waiting for hot tea.”