The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles Read Free

budge.
    “Well, that’s it,” he said. “I’m leaving.”
    “Fine. You can keep your keys. You’ll probably have forgotten things and you’ll need to come back for them. Warn me so I can plan to be out. It’s better that way.”
    “Good idea. I’ll keep them. What will you tell the girls?”
    “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”
    “I’d rather be here when you speak with them.”
    She turned off the faucet and leaned against the sink.
    “I’ll tell them the truth, if you don’t mind. I don’t feel like lying.”
    “But what will you tell them?”
    “The truth. That Daddy doesn’t have a job anymore. That Daddy isn’t feeling well and needs some time to himself, so he left.”
    “Time to himself?” Antoine repeated the phrase, comforted by it. “That’s good, it’s not too final. It’s good.”
    Leaning against the door frame was a mistake. He was suddenly overcome by a wave of nostalgia.
    “Just go, Antoine. There’s nothing left to say. Please go!”
    Joséphine was staring at the floor. He followed her gaze to the suitcase at his feet. He’d completely forgotten about it.
    “Okay then. Good-bye. If you need to reach me . . .”
    “You can call. Or I’ll leave a message for you at Mylène’s salon. She’ll always know where to find you, won’t she?”
    “What about the plants?”
    “The plants? Who gives a damn about them? Fuck the plants!”
    “Jo, please! Don’t get so worked up. I can stay if you want.”
    She gave him a withering look. He shrugged, picked up his bag, and headed for the door. And then he was gone.
    Gripping the edge of the sink, Joséphine began to sob so hard that her body shook. First she cried about the void Antoine would be leaving in her life after sixteen years of living together, the first man she ever slept with, the father of her two children. Then she cried thinking about the girls. Never again would they feel completely secure, knowing that they had a mother and a father who loved each other. And finally, there was the fear of being alone. Antoine had always been in charge of the finances, the taxes, and the mortgage. He chose their cars, and he un-clogged the sink. She could always count on him. She just looked after the house and the girls’ schooling.
    The phone rang, jolting her out of her despair.
    “Jo, is that you, darling?”
    It was Iris, her older sister, whose upbeat, seductive voice got to Joséphine every time.

    Iris Dupin was a tall, slim forty-four-year-old with long black hair that flowed over her shoulders like a wedding veil. She was named for her intense blue eyes.
    In her twenties, Iris had been the kind of woman who set trends while seducing every man she met. Iris didn’t live or breathe like other mortals: she reigned.
    After college, she left for New York and enrolled in the film program at Columbia University. At the end of each year, the two best graduating students were given the funding to make a thirty-minute short feature. Iris had been one of the two. The other student was her boyfriend, Gabor Minar, a tall, shaggy Hungarian. They kissed backstage at the awards ceremony. Iris’s future in movies was as plain to see as the Hollywood sign.
    And then out of the blue, she gave it all up. She was thirty years old, had just come back from the Sundance Festival, where she’d won some prize. She was planning a full-length feature that was already getting buzz. She even had a verbal commitment from a producer. And without any explanation—Iris never explained anything—she flew back to France and got married.
    It was incredibly traditional: the white veil, the church, and the priest. The place was packed, and everyone was holding their breath, half expecting Iris to whip off her dress and, stark naked, shout, “Just kidding!” Like in a movie.
    Nothing of the sort happened.
    The groom was a certain Philippe Dupin, who looked quite handsome in his morning suit. Iris said they had met on a flight to Paris,