The Resistance Girl. Jina BacarrЧитать онлайн книгу.
She grabs me by the shoulders. ‘No… is that true?’
‘Yes.’ I show her his card. Guilt floods me. ‘Will you ever forgive me, Sister Vincent? I wanted to stop and tell you… but Monsieur de Ville said you’d talk me out of leaving with him.’
‘As well I should.’ She smooths down her skirts, then speaks to me with such tenderness in her voice, my heart tugs. ‘I’m not surprised you attracted the gentleman’s attention.’ She giggles like a schoolgirl and clasps her hands across her chest. ‘I saw you on stage at the cinema… I was so proud of you, Sylvie, how you stood up to those awful hecklers, but most of all, the fervent words that came straight from your heart.’
My eyes widen. ‘You were there?’
‘I went to find you… I’m not so blind behind these spectacles I can’t see what you’re up to.’ She sighs. ‘Ah, ma petite, you do have an uncanny talent for charming everyone you meet.’
‘Not Sister Ursula. She hates me. She locked me in my cell, but I… I escaped.’
Sister Vincent shakes her head and chuckles. She’ll keep my secret. ‘I understand your desire to leave the cloistered life, Sylvie, but what do you know about this man?’
‘Monsieur Durand speaks highly of him and his work in films.’ I lie, then I embellish my plea with, ‘He… he said I should I go with him to Paris.’
Sister Vincent isn’t buying it. ‘No, you must stay here at the convent until I make inquiries about this Monsieur de Ville and his promises. Then, if the Lord gives His blessing and the director is a good man, I will speak to Reverend Mother about sending you to Paris—’
‘No, you can’t!’ I rail, my voice cracking. ‘She’ll never let me go.’
She puts her hand up to her cheek in surprise. ‘Good heavens, Sylvie, we must do things in proper fashion. If we don’t, Reverend Mother will have both our heads.’
‘I can’t do as you ask, Sister Vincent… Monsieur de Ville will leave for Paris without me if I’m not at the gate in time.’
I start to turn, to run, but the sister is quicker on her feet than I imagined. She cuts me off and grabs my arm, my lace veil falling off my head and revealing my bruised and battered face.
A loud gasp escapes from her throat. ‘Oh, dear Lord, you didn’t me tell me that man hurt you!’
I bow my head, ashamed. ‘No… Monsieur de Ville didn’t touch me.’
‘Then who did this horrible thing to you?’ I wince when she touches my bruised cheek and soothes my swollen eyelid with her soft fingers.
‘It’s nothing, Sister, honest. I have to go. Please don’t try to stop me.’
I try to brush past her, but again she blocks me. Her brows arch, her chin lifts. ‘I admire your spunk, Sylvie, but your silence tells me who the culprit is. I should have known Sister Ursula would lash out at you when you gave her the opportunity. She despises any girl she can’t bend to her will.’ She blesses herself. ‘As God is my witness, I would never disobey a direct order from the Mother Superior, but I won’t stand by and remain silent. Punishing you for her lack of self-control goes against everything I believe in, everything in the Lord’s teachings. I can’t stand by and let her shame the veil we swore to serve.’
‘Then you will help me?’
She nods. ‘I can stall the Mother Superior, tell her I had difficulty getting all the supplies, and ask her to meet with me after prayers. I don’t know for how long.’
Then she does something I will never forget, something I will hold dear for the rest of my life. She folds me into her arms and hugs me tight to her bosom, stroking my hair and mumbling prayers for my safe journey. ‘Go, child, before Sister Ursula gets suspicious and returns to the novice quarters to check on you. May God keep you safe.’
‘I’ll never forget your kindness, Sister Vincent… I promise.’
‘Someday you can repay me.’ She smiles. ‘Au revoir, ma petite.’
She turns and walks swiftly toward the chapel, her step lighter than before as if a great weight has been lifted from her shoulders.
I don’t look back as I rush toward the gate, my heart skipping when I spot the yellow Citroën waiting for me outside near the tall chestnut tree. The man in the Panama hat pokes his head out the driver’s window and waves me on when he sees me running toward him.
I don’t stop. Not now or ever.
I feel deep in my bones that going to Paris is my destiny as clearly as the moment I stood on that stage and proclaimed I was an actress.
I keep running, never looking back, my hair undone, my lace veil blowing behind me. I taste freedom on my lips, washing away the blood, its coppery taste replaced by a sweetness seducing me, the elixir I’ve searched for but never found till now.
I’m either going to that place Sister Ursula says bad girls go to… or, God willing, I’m going to be an actress.
5
Juliana
Unraveling the fairy tale
Los Angeles
Present Day
I never should have gone looking for my roots because now I’m obsessed. I take stock of what I found in the boxes I went through earlier from my mother’s apartment sent by a kindly neighbor. Gold-rimmed, white Limoges dishes and demitasse teacups with pink roses. Textbooks in English and French, calendars – nothing dated before the eighties – and a box of photos from my childhood I haven’t seen in years.
I put Maman’s clothes aside for donation to the abused women’s shelter run by the Sisters of the Good Shepherd as she wished. I handle each piece with care, lingering on the memories – the green wool dress she wore during the holidays, the soft, pink chenille robe she loved to get cozy in on Sunday mornings. I take longer to fold the smart, black silk box suit she wore to my college graduation, remembering how worried she was about me making a living in show business. I’ve had good years then dry spells. I love my work, sketching the characters and coming up with wardrobe details that define them. I’ve worked on numerous TV shows, first as an assistant costume designer or wardrobe stylist then designer, though for years I worked in the business ‘washing out pantyhose’.
I didn’t tell my mother that.
I heave out a long sigh. I don’t find anything else significant that links to our family other than the photo of the glamorous woman in the slinky gown. And the heart-shaped, diamond pin with the arrow through it. I won’t rest until I find out the truth about this woman, my grandmother… first, I must identify her.
I keep checking my phone as I await a call from Ridge. I left him a detailed voicemail about how I found something troubling when I went through my mother’s belongings and I need to talk about it. Most likely, when I called he was holed up in a cold storage vault hoisting vintage film reel canisters. Going through Maman’s things reminded me how Ridge and I almost got together one night when I was feeling awfully low and knew the end was coming with Maman and I could do nothing about it.
I heave out a sigh. God knows the man is a heartbreaker with that finely tuned body and dark, bad-boy looks. But like I told Maman, why mess up a good thing between us? The last thing I need is for Ridge to feel sorry for me.
The grey California day is a subtle accent to my mood, where nothing is black or white, simply a shade somewhere in between. I spend the next half hour looking through another box, find nothing important… put on a pot of coffee… look at my unfinished