“Still so desperate to jump on anything to do with your father?” René shook his head. “You’ve got Chloé, Aimée. Think of her …”
“Like I don’t already?” But she was too distracted to argue for long: she’d had a brainwave about her father’s connection to this woman, Drina. She snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it, René. I think this Gypsy woman was my father’s informer.”
Doubts cycled through Aimée’s mind in time with the clicking of the escalator as she rode up to the exit of the Sèvres-Babylone Métro station. Nicu had insisted that his mother’s spirit couldn’t leave on its last journey unless Aimée spoke to her—but why? A guilty conscience? It was anyone’s guess, since she knew nothing of Gypsy culture.
Brisk April-evening air blew around her in gusts as she emerged onto the 7th-arrondissement pavement under the red-and-white lit Métro sign. A disruption on the line had shut the closer station at Vaneau so she had to walk. Her head cleared when she caught a whiff of a woman’s floral perfume on Boulevard Raspail. Across the intersection hulked the spotlit Art Nouveau fa?ade of H?tel Lutetia, the former Abwehr headquarters. In its famous lobby bar congregated literati who found it convenient to ignore the ghosts.
The lit rooftop letters of Le Bon Marché, the department store, shone overlooking the gated square Boucicaut. Aimée pulled up the collar of her leather jacket against the chill. Here, deep in the Left Bank, quiet reigned. She passed darkened boutiques on rue de Sèvres, emblematic of the restrained elegance of this exclusive arrondissement where the shutters rolled down early.
Boring, and lifeless on a Sunday, when hunting down an open café was nearly impossible. Not her haunt, much less that of Gypsies. Everyone who lived here had family money, a de la in their name, or a job at a ministry or embassy—sometimes all three. These streets sheltered enormous wealth, secret gardens and courtyards, the prime minister’s residence, seats of government and a few ancient convents, now home to aging nuns.
She made her way toward the seventeenth-century H?pital Laennec. A late-model brown Mercedes had pulled up at the curb, half blocking the crosswalk. Voices raised in argument faded in the echo of an evening bus whooshing by on the damp street.
Coming closer, Aimée recognized Nicu, his hood up. He was gesturing to a stocky man wearing a fedora. Climbing out of the car was an older woman in a long skirt, with grey braids emerging from under a paisley scarf. She was clutching the hand of a little girl in jeans. In her free hand, the woman held a covered cooking pot.
In the jumble of French and Romany, she overheard Drina’s name. A problem? Was she too late? Her heart sank.
“Excusez-moi, Nicu, I came as fast as I could,” she said, feeling awkward breaking into their argument. “How’s your mother?”
“Who’s this woman?” said the man, gesturing with a lit cigarette, the tip glowing orange in the dark.
“My Uncle Radu’s upset,” said Nicu. His eyes were uneasy. “He thinks your visit’s not a good idea.”
“Didn’t you say it was urgent?” said Aimée. “That she needed to tell me something?”
“Another one of your Christian do-gooders, eh, Nicu?” said the uncle. He expelled a plume of smoke, ignoring her, but he was speaking in French so that she could understand him. “Or one of your ethnologues wanting to document some gens du voyage culture? Maybe she wants to hear you recite some poetry?”
Hostile, obstructive and protective. Nicu’s uncle was threatened by her somehow. Too bad.
“Alors, did I take the trouble of finding a babysitter just to make a wasted trip?”
Nicu shook his head and turned toward his uncle, beseeching.
“How dare you bring this gadji here?” Uncle Radu said.
“I don’t have time to stand in the street and argue.” She jerked her thumb toward the entrance and said to Nicu, “Coming?”
She took off, counted on him to follow. She realized she only knew the woman’s first name, Drina.
The hospital, laid out in the form of two crosses connected by a chapel, radiated eight courtyards with gardens. Large signs informed the public that next year the hospital, which specialized in treating lung diseases, would be shut down. Aimée recalled from her one year of med school that Dr. Laennec, the nineteenth-century physician who invented the stethoscope and for whom the hospital was named, had his medical career cut short after diagnosing himself with TB too late. Ironic.
Hurrying over the worn pavers, past age-darkened courtyard walls, she reached the hospital door. The vaulted entrance—a mélange of architectural styles from several centuries—reminded her of women of a certain age, whose wrinkles and crow’s-feet hinted at their past.
Nicu, his uncle and the rest of the retinue joined her at the desk.
“Désolée, visiting time ended an hour ago,” said a nurse.
Great.
“But we’re family,” said Nicu’s uncle. “My sister needs us.”
“Come back at nine A.M. tomorrow.”
The uncle gestured to the old woman and the girl. The woman set down her pot and burst into loud wailing.
“How can you tell us to leave?” The uncle spoke over the woman’s crying. “She’s family. It’s better we bring her home. Prepare her our way.”
Aimée tried to catch Nicu’s eye. He was staring at his uncle, transfixed. She tapped his arm and saw him startle in fear and clutch the messenger bag hanging from his shoulder.
Had she broken some Gypsy taboo?
“Nicu?” she said.
His shoulder twitched. A nervous tic, stress? For a moment he looked lost, adrift. Or maybe hurt. And younger than she’d thought.
After asking René to babysit and coming all this way, she wasn’t going to leave now. She had to find out what the woman had wanted to tell her.
“Let’s not waste time,” she said, keeping her voice gentle. “Which ward, Nicu?”
Another nurse had joined the fracas at the desk.
Nicu pointed left. Made a C with his thumb and forefinger.