Page 29 of One of Them

D elia stayed for dinner at Gaby’s, and because they had stayed up so late talking, Gaby invited her to spend the night.

She offered Delia her room, but Delia said she’d be fine on the sofa.

Sometime before dawn, she heard Félix calling Maman, Maman , in a sleepy, plaintive voice; a moment later, she heard Gaby shuffling in to comfort him.

Delia and Gaby were the same age, but Gaby’s life had moved on; she was someone’s mother, and that gave her a direction and purpose Delia lacked.

Maybe it was because of her own mother’s death, or the missing sculpture?

The losses were in Delia’s way, impeding her path forward.

All the more reason to find out what had become of Sophie’s work so that she too could get on with her life.

The next morning, Delia planned to go back to her hotel to change her clothes.

“Why stay in a hotel when you can stay with me?” Gaby asked.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to put you out.”

“I’m sure,” said Gaby. “You can get your things and come back tonight.”

Delia was grateful; staying here would ease her sense of dislocation and sadness.

Over the next few days, she canvassed other storage companies elsewhere in the city but these efforts were, like the first one, in vain.

Then she expanded her search to suburbs like Saint-Denis and Asnières.

Reaching the storage companies by telephone was inefficient and haphazard: someone put the phone down to check something and never returned, or she was abruptly cut off in the middle of a call.

So she decided to try an in-person visit; perhaps she would have more luck that way.

It drizzled on and off the day she went to Saint-Denis.

She picked her way through the wet streets and occasional puddle until she found the moving company, which seemed like it was kilometers away from the train station.

Delia had high hopes for this place; the woman she’d spoken with said they had acquired some lots from Mercier she imagined they might have started to walk and talk by now.

Would they remember her? Did she even want them to?

No, it was their father she wanted to remember her.

Stop it , she scolded herself. Stop it right now.

But though she could eject Ian from her waking thoughts, the nights were a different matter entirely; he was a regular presence in her dreams. In some of them, he was excoriating her, telling her what a terrible girl she was in front of a crowd of people—at Vassar?

Somewhere else? In others, she would be calling out to him and he’d ignore her completely, striding by, or even shoving her aside.

But the most painful ones were those in which they were kissing as he unbuttoned her blouse and reached under her skirt.

One Sunday afternoon she and Félix were slowly making their way back to the rue Vavin when Delia noticed a small piece of sculpture in a gallery window.

Although it first appeared be an abstract form, she saw that it was actually the body of a woman—a pregnant woman.

It was made of a gleaming, brownish-red stone that Delia wanted to touch.

Had the gallery been open, she would have gone inside for a closer look; as it was, she could only stand in front of the window until Félix tugged on her hand.

“Allons-y,” he whined. “Je dois faire pee pee.”

“Of course. We’re going right now.” She turned away from the window.

The next day Delia left the apartment early, intent on returning to the gallery.

She couldn’t stop thinking about that sculpture, its cunning shape, its lustrous surface.

It was drizzling again, but in her haste to leave she’d forgotten to take an umbrella.

Well, so what? She wasn’t going back to get one.

Her long, swift strides brought her there quickly, and the rain was tapering off. She went inside.

There was the statue, just where it had been the day before.

Up close, she could see that the stone, which was highly polished, had subtle variations in color, darker in some places and paler, with an almost milky vein running through it, in others.

It was a lovely thing, compact and unadorned yet utterly complete.

She had been so taken with it that she hadn’t even looked to see the name of the artist, but she was curious and now looked down at the label.

Sophie Rossner

Mother

Carnelian, 1946

Blood rushed to Delia’s head, and she heard a whoosh, a roaring in her ears. No wonder she had been so drawn to it. But the date—how was that possible? It was a mistake. Marie-Pierre said she thought Sophie had been shot in 1942 or 1943.

“Isn’t it a beautiful little piece?”

Delia turned to see a woman in a chic black dress and rhinestone pin.

”So simple, yet so sophisticated,” added the woman.

“Where did you get this?” The roaring in Delia’s ears had grown louder.

“Excuse me?” The woman looked slightly affronted.

“This piece of sculpture—where did it come from? How did you manage to get hold of it?” Delia was aware of how agitated she sounded.

“I’d have to look up the provenance,” said the woman. “But I can assure you it’s here legitimately. We have impeccable records and take great care to authenticate all of our pieces—”

“It’s the date. The date is wrong.”

“I highly doubt that, though as I said, I can check.” Her tone was frosty.

“It doesn’t matter what your records say. It can’t be right.”

“And why is that?”

“Because Sophie Rossner was killed during the war.”

The woman looked at Delia as if she were deranged. “I think you have been misinformed, mademoiselle. Sophie Rossner is most certainly not dead.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I’ve seen her. Recently.”

“You have? Where?” The roaring in Delia’s ears stopped all at once, replaced by an eerie, terrible quiet.

“Why, right here, mademoiselle. Right where you’re standing. She’s been to the gallery.”

“She’s been here? When?”

“I don’t remember the exact date, but not all that long ago—late last year, I think. It was in the winter.”

“Do you have an address for her? Or a telephone number?”

“She doesn’t live in Paris.”

“Then where does she live?”

“I’m not at liberty to give out that information to just anyone.”

“I’m not just anyone,” Delia said. “I’m her daughter.”

“You?” The woman seemed skeptical. “I didn’t know she had a daughter.”

“Yes. Me.”

“Mademoiselle, I don’t wish to be rude, but you seem... troubled. I think it would be best if you were to leave now.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Please.” The woman gave her a stern look. “I’d like you to leave immediately. And if you don’t, I’ll need to get someone to help me escort you out.”

“I can prove that I’m Sophie Rossner’s daughter. I’ll bring you my passport!”

“Your passport?”

“Yes, my passport.” As the woman considered the idea, Delia’s mind began exploding with questions.

How could this be possible? Had Marie-Pierre been mistaken?

Then there were the letters—they were from a few years ago.

Could there have been others that Delia never received?

Or since Delia hadn’t written back, could Sophie have stopped trying?

“Well, that might be all right...”

“I’ll go get it.” Now she had two reasons to hurry back to Gaby’s apartment—the passport and the letters. She had brought them with her and wanted to read them yet again. Maybe there was something she’d overlooked, something she hadn’t fully understood.

So chaotic were her thoughts that she barely registered the two people, a young man and woman, who had just come into the gallery, and she bumped right into them.

Oh, I beg your pardon , she was about to say, but the words never left her mouth.

Standing in front of her was Anne Bishop, the girl who’d betrayed her.