As I walk on, I think of my favorite of her tales, the one in which the prince tells the princess that as long as there are stars in the sky, he will love her.
“One day,” the prince said to the princess, “I will take you across a great sea to see a queen whose torch illuminates the world, keeping all of her subjects safe and free.”
When I was a girl, I used to cling to those words, to imagine that one day, I too would find a prince who would rescue me from my mother’s coldness. I used to imagine climbing on this prince’s white horse with him—because of course in my imagination, the prince had a white horse—and going away forever to that fairy-tale kingdom with the queen who kept everyone safe.
But now I’m thirty-six, and I know better. There are no dashing, heroic princes waiting to save me. There is no magical queen to protect me. In the end, you can only rely on yourself. I wonder how old Mamie was when she learned those same truths.
Suddenly, although I have the sense I’m being cradled by my grandmother’s past, I feel more alone than ever.
Rue Visconti is dark and narrow, more a long alleyway than a proper street. The sidewalks are slender ribbons on each side, and a lone bicycle propped against a black doorway makes me think of an old-fashioned postcard. I pass a few storefronts and make my way down nearly to the end, where I finally see number 24, a pair of huge black double doors under an arch. I enter the code Carole gave me—48A51—on the keypad to the right, and when the door buzzes, I push it inward. When I make it from the cool darkness of the arched courtyard up to the second floor of the building, the door is already open. I rap lightly against the doorframe anyhow, and from the depths of the apartment, a deep, froggy voice calls, “Entrez-vous! Entrez-vous, madame!”
I walk in, close the door lightly behind me, and make my way through a narrow hallway lined by bookcases, all of which are overflowing with old, leather-bound volumes. I emerge into a sunlit room where I see a white-haired, stoop-shouldered man standing near the window, gazing out at the street below. He turns as I enter, and I’m surprised at how lined his face is; it appears as if he’s lived through hundreds of years of history, instead of just the ninety-three years Carole Didot had promised. I approach to shake his hand, and he looks at me oddly.
“Ah, an American,” are the first words he says to me. He smiles then, and I’m struck by how bright his green eyes seem; they’re the eyes of a young man and appear out of place housed in his sunken features. “Madame Didot did not tell me you are American. In Paris, we greet with deux bisous, two kisses on the cheek, my dear.” He demonstrates, leaning forward to kiss me lightly on each cheek. I can feel myself blushing.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble.
“There is nothing to be sorry about,” he says. “Your American customs are quite charming.” He gestures to a small table with two wooden chairs, which is situated near the window. “Come, sit,” he says. He waits until I’m seated, offers me a cup of tea, and when I decline, he sits down with me. “I am Olivier Berr.”
“I’m Hope McKenna-Smith. Thank you for having me here on such short notice,” I say slowly. I’m trying to be conscious of both his age and the fact that English isn’t his first language.
“It is no trouble,” he says. “It is always a pleasure to have a visit from a pretty girl.” He smiles and pats my hand. “I understand you search for some information.”
I nod and take a deep breath. “Yes, sir. My grandmother is from Paris. I just learned recently that her family may have died in the Holocaust. I think they were Jewish.”
He looks at me for a moment. “You learned this only recently?”
Embarrassed, I struggle to explain. “Well, she never spoke of it.”
“You were raised in another religion.” It is a statement, not a question.
I nod. “Catholicism.”
He nods slowly. “This is not entirely unusual. Leaving the past behind in this manner. Mais, in her heart, I suspect, your grandmother may still consider herself juive.”
I tell him briefly what happened on Rosh Hashanah, with the crusts of the Star Pie.
He smiles. “Juda?sme is not just a religion, but a state of the heart and of the soul. I suspect perhaps all religions are this way, for those who truly believe in them.” He pauses. “You have come here today for answers.”
“Yes, sir.”
“About what became of her family.”
“Yes, sir. She’d never spoken of them before.”