"Patsy, darling! How was the ball?" Eliza asked. "It was last Sat.u.r.day, wasn't it? I've had it on my little mental agenda..."

"Absolutely wonderful," Patrice said. "All of Paris is talking about it. How are you?"

"Oh," Eliza said and sighed. "The same-nothing much happens to me anymore."

Patrice felt her shoulders tighten. "Why don't you make make something happen, for a change?" something happen, for a change?"

"If this isn't going to be a nice nice chat," Eliza said brittlely, "I see no reason to run up your phone bill." chat," Eliza said brittlely, "I see no reason to run up your phone bill."

"I mean, why don't you go visit Aunt Jane in Cleveland? You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Jane's very busy these days," Eliza said in a tone that suggested to Patrice that perhaps her mother and aunt had had a falling-out. The thought did not entirely displease her.

"Aunt Jane and her good causes," Patrice said, inviting some gossip. "But why don't you call her? You know she'd love to hear from you."

"Well...maybe I will," Eliza said. "Tell me what you're doing, now that the ball is over."

"I'm keeping a diary," Patrice said.

"You always did, as a girl," Eliza said.

"I did, didn't I?" Patrice said, remembering the locked pink ones her aunt had given her every Christmas. She had regretted the tiny amount of s.p.a.ce allowed per day.

"I kept a diary," Eliza said. "All through my childhood. I had-oh, it must have been twenty volumes. I burned them the week I got married."

This was astonis.h.i.+ng: that Eliza could do anything as introspective as keep diaries, that she in fact had written them and and burned them. "Why did you burn them?" Patrice asked. burned them. "Why did you burn them?" Patrice asked.

"I didn't want your father to read them," Eliza said. Patrice heard a tiny giggle her mother had, perhaps, not intended for Patrice to hear.

"I don't care who reads mine," Patrice said. "I'm just jotting down observations-not really personal things."

"Many an American has traveled to France and observed it more acutely than the French," Eliza said. "Hemingway comes to mind. Henry James, Irwin Shaw..."

"Well, no one's going to read my my observations," Patrice said, laughing nervously, flattered her mother would make such a comparison. observations," Patrice said, laughing nervously, flattered her mother would make such a comparison.

After she hung up the phone, Patrice resumed her writing. A picnic was going on in the Place des Vosges, but she ignored the sounds of festivity. Three Women of the Marais Three Women of the Marais sat on her desk; every so often her gaze would light upon it. How had she come up with the perfect line with which to answer Anne Dumas? It had soothed Anne, somehow, to hear Patrice speaking the words of Madame de Sevigne. Patrice had never consciously memorized her letters, but they had a distinctive rhythm and style that Patrice had found easy to conjure. She sat there, trying to recall other lines, but without Anne prompting her, she found it impossible. The telephone rang, startling her. sat on her desk; every so often her gaze would light upon it. How had she come up with the perfect line with which to answer Anne Dumas? It had soothed Anne, somehow, to hear Patrice speaking the words of Madame de Sevigne. Patrice had never consciously memorized her letters, but they had a distinctive rhythm and style that Patrice had found easy to conjure. She sat there, trying to recall other lines, but without Anne prompting her, she found it impossible. The telephone rang, startling her.

"Hi," came Lydie's voice.

"There you are!" Patrice said. "Where have you been? Never mind-don't answer. I've missed you."

"Oh, I've missed you too," Lydie said, her voice full of happiness. "Michael and I just got back from Honfleur."

"Did you stay at that great old hotel? I forget the name..."

"Yes," Lydie said. "It was wonderful. We'd intended to stay for one night. Well, for one afternoon, to be honest."

Patrice put on her Mae West voice. "A quickie at the No-Tell Hotel," she said.

"It didn't turn out that way," Lydie said. "We stayed for two nights. It suddenly hit us-neither of us had work to do in Paris. The Salle is open, the ball is over..."

"Don't you feel let down?"

"Not yet," Lydie said. "Do you?"

"Yes," Patrice said. But she knew that was not so much because the ball was over but because it meant Lydie was about to leave. She felt her throat constrict, and she coughed.

"How is Kelly?" Lydie asked.

"Not here today," Patrice said. "I've given her a couple of days off. She seems fairly chipper, I guess. You know Kelly."

"I want to try again," Lydie said. "Michael called some lawyer he knows in New York who recommended someone who does immigration law. I'm writing a letter to him."

"I thought that lady at the emba.s.sy, what's-her-name, told you not to bother," Patrice said.

"She did, but she's a bureaucrat," Lydie said. "I want to find a way."

"You know what I'm thinking?" Patrice asked.

"That we should tell Kelly?" Lydie replied.

"You should tell her," Patrice said. "You deserve all the credit." should tell her," Patrice said. "You deserve all the credit."

"No," Lydie said. "I'll be the New York connection, you'll be the Paris connection. We're in this together." She paused. "Michael's in it too" she said after a moment. "He's been encouraging me to try again. He explained to me last night what I've been doing all along; I want to pa.s.s our luck-our 'good fortune'-on to someone else."

"I can relate to this," Patrice said. "I'm the great-great-grandchild of immigrants. Bishops on one side of the family, pirates on the other."

"So, should we visit Kelly?" Lydie asked.

"We should," Patrice said.

For the first time in her life, Kelly was taking days off from work. Since childhood she had worked every day-folding Pan Am's laundry; emptying the fish pond; gathering sh.e.l.ls; picking fruit; operating the wash cycle in the college laundry; at her first "real," respectable job, as an accountant; now as Patrice's maid. But every day of her working life she had known she was aiming toward something, a good life in the United States. What was there to work toward now? Another day, week, year doing housework, no end in sight? Her brothers and sisters could not disguise their disappointment in her; she could barely stand to pa.s.s them in the hallway.

At the ball she had done her best to avoid Patrice and Lydie; she wished she never had to see them again. She told herself this was because she knew she had failed them, having been judged unacceptable to enter the United States. Another thought kept sneaking up and she kept chasing it back: they had failed her. It was, perhaps, the worst thought she had ever had. How foolish she was, how naive, to think Americans could do everything! How unfair to Patrice and Lydie!

Kelly remembered one moment at the ball, when she was in a parade with the other servers, rus.h.i.+ng out of the kitchen with platters held before them. Spider crabs, red and spiky, balanced on her platter. That was the moment when everything turned crystal clear: she was not going to the States, then or ever. The other servers seemed so happy, hurrying past the guests who had lined up to applaud as they watched the food they would eat go by; two other servers told Kelly they had felt like stars at that moment. Stars don't carry food, Kelly had wanted to say. At the same time, she knew: this is our life's work.

Tears trickled down her cheeks. Hearing noises in the hall, Kelly started. She knew she was home alone; perhaps Paul Anka had finished his work early. A knock sounded at the door. Kelly held back, afraid to answer. It was midday: all her family and friends were at work.

Then someone broke the lock, the door opened wide, and two policemen stood there. Kelly edged toward the window. She looked over her shoulder: four flights to the street. She would dive through the gla.s.s praying. She rushed the window, but the officer caught her, clipped manacles to her wrists, speaking rough French.

"Americaine," she said. "Parlez-vous anglais?" Could she trick him into thinking she was American? Surely they wouldn't treat Americans this way, even illegal Americans. But he did not reply. He pushed her into the hallway while the other officer stayed behind, searching for other illegal Filipinos.

Kelly wished she had made it to the window. She would rather be dead on the pavement than walking through the building in handcuffs. And then the worst thing of all happened: Patrice and Lydie arrived. Patrice moved toward them like a locomotive, all iron and steam. Hands on her hips, black hair framing her face like a corona.

"Put me in the car, don't let them see me," Kelly begged the policeman.

"What's going on here?" Patrice asked, not allowing the policeman to pa.s.s.

Lydie came straight to Kelly, put her arm around Kelly's shoulders. "Everything will be fine. We'll get you out of this."

"Leave me," Kelly sobbed. "Please leave me."

Lydie's pale eyes looked so troubled, Kelly knew she understood Kelly's shame. Still, Lydie wouldn't let go. Patrice spoke to the officer in French, her voice rising and rising. Kelly began to be afraid Patrice would be arrested. She heard Patrice saying "President Mitterand," "President Bush," "Minister of Culture."

"Cool it," Lydie said to Patrice in a stern voice.

"They're saying the emba.s.sy turned her in." Patrice spoke English now. "We can't just let them take take her." her."

Kelly began to hope; she felt it growing inside her, hope that Patrice and Lydie would somehow win, prevent the police from taking her away. But then the officer shoved Patrice out of the way, pushed Kelly into the car. When Kelly turned, to try to catch one last glance of her two Americans, the policeman yanked her around. He made her face straight ahead.

This conversation lasted an hour, and it is impossible to repeat it all, but I certainly made myself very pleasant throughout this time and I can say without vanity that she was very glad to have someone to talk to, for her heart was overflowing.

-TO C COULANGES, DECEMBER 1670 "YOU'VE DONE WHAT you could," Michael said to Lydie. "You have to let her go." They stood in the living room, empty now except for their suitcases and the few cartons the movers would pack after lunch. you could," Michael said to Lydie. "You have to let her go." They stood in the living room, empty now except for their suitcases and the few cartons the movers would pack after lunch.

"'She came to Paris and learned to let go,'" Lydie said. "How's that for an epitaph?"

"No one's dying," Michael said.

"That is true," Lydie said. "It's also true that there's a difference between letting go of my father and letting go of Kelly. I'm not giving up."

"I know," Michael said. "But she's going back to the Philippines for now, and there's nothing you can do about that." He felt proud of Lydie's determination to bring Kelly Merida to the United States. She was getting ready to go to the airport with Patrice, to see Kelly off. He watched her, standing in the middle of the bare room, changing her clothes. She stripped off her dusty jeans and T-s.h.i.+rt, slipped into her black linen suit. Standing still, she faced him. Michael took her hand, led her onto the balcony.

"Our Paris year," Lydie said, gazing downriver. The Seine was blue today, glistening, reflecting a perfect October sky. Yesterday she told him that she had called Julia to tell her they were coming home-together. It had bothered Michael, that Lydie had waited so long to tell her; he had wondered whether she doubted their reunion would hold. But she had needed to put distance between herself and Julia, to keep her own vision strong.

"Can you believe we're getting ready to leave?" Michael asked.

"Can you believe I came to France and made best friends with another American and a Filipino?"

Michael smiled, slid his arm across Lydie's shoulders. The black fabric had absorbed the sun, felt warm against his bare arm. It was true, he thought: Lydie had had one foot in America when she arrived in Paris. Perhaps that was why her important friends were also foreigners. He, on the other hand, had had an entirely French experience. He had left his mark on the Louvre, found a French lover. Anne. People at the Louvre were saying that Anne had gone to Vichy, to take the waters at Madame de Sevigne's favorite spa.

"I should go," Lydie said, checking her watch. "Patrice is picking me up in five minutes."

"Bon courage," Michael said. "I love you."

"I love you too," Lydie said. She smiled, brus.h.i.+ng the hair out of his eyes. Then she walked away.

It was nice of Lydie and Patrice to come to the airport, Kelly thought, waiting to board the plane to Manila. Lydie sat on her right, the police guard sat on her left. Patrice stood in front of everyone. Kelly had told her family that she was leaving but not when, because she did not want them to see her in handcuffs. Kelly felt ashamed to wear handcuffs in public, and she felt grateful to Lydie for covering them with her coat.

"I have your address in Cavite," Lydie said. "I wish you had a phone."

"There is no phone," Kelly said, smiling a little because no one in the province had a phone.

"I'll do what I have to in New York, and I'll write to you as soon as I hear something."

"And I'll keep track from this end," Patrice said. What could Patrice do in Paris? Kelly wondered, but she smiled at Patrice, knowing that Patrice felt very bad for her. Patrice spoke harshly to the policeman; he shook his head. Kelly wished Patrice would quit asking him to take off the handcuffs.

"M.V. is reliable," Kelly said. "M.V." was her code for "Marie-Vic," who would replace Kelly as Patrice's maid. She didn't want the policeman to get wind of the fact that Patrice employed illegal aliens.

"Are you okay?" Lydie asked, squeezing Kelly's hand.

Kelly nodded: a lie. She was not okay. She wanted only to get away from Lydie and Patrice. But she couldn't let them see her true feelings. She had many things she wished to forget: their kindnesses, the nights she had spent in jail. The first one was the worst; she had lain awake all night, waiting for one of the Americans to get her out. Around midnight she had realized that was not going to happen, and she had accepted her fate.

A voice came on the loudspeaker, and in the blur of French, Kelly caught the word "Manila."

"They're calling your flight," Lydie said. She looked pale, so worried. "Be brave about this. You'll be in America in no time. I won't stop trying."

"Thank you," Kelly said, knowing that Lydie would stop trying, even if Lydie didn't know it yet. Once Kelly was out of sight, Lydie could begin to forget her. The guard took away Lydie's coat, exposing the handcuffs to all the other travelers. Two other Filipinos wore handcuffs. So, Kelly thought: the French police had a good week.

"Have a safe trip," Lydie said, throwing her arms around Kelly, pressing her face so hard into Kelly's neck that Kelly felt Lydie's tears trickle into her collar.

"Don't cry, Lydie," Kelly said. "You did all you could, and I will always be grateful."

Lydie stepped away, and there was Patrice, her face grave. Oh, this was the moment Kelly had dreaded, her last words with Patrice. Memories already filled Kelly's head. Learning the computer with Patrice, ironing Patrice's clothes, the smell of Didier's cigar, and, most special: the long talks she and Patrice had had about life in the States. Patrice took Kelly's hands. The expression in her blue eyes was soft. "My friend," Patrice said.

"I will never forget you," Kelly said.

"Let's make a promise," Patrice said, "to celebrate next Fourth of July in New York with Lydie."

Kelly found herself unable to speak, even when the guard began to pull her along. Patrice stared into her eyes and held on to Kelly's tethered hands until the last minute before letting go.

"s.h.i.+t," Patrice said, watching the plane taxi on the runway.

"Is she going to make it?" Lydie asked, gulping. She had been crying since Kelly disappeared through the door.

"Yes," Patrice said, sounding stubborn.

It would be so easy, Lydie knew, once the rawness of Kelly's arrest and deportation began to heal, once the strength of Kelly's single-minded drive began to fade, to let her become a memory. But she would refuse to let that happen. The refusal would be an act of will, of faith.

They watched the plane move forward, gathering speed. Lydie caught glimpses of the white tails of scared rabbits flas.h.i.+ng through the tall gra.s.s. Then the plane lifted off, zooming into the clouds. She closed her eyes, imagined what Kelly was seeing out the window: the patchwork fields outside Paris, brown squares of earth next to green squares, tiny forests, farmhouses and chateaux. Michael and I take off just days from now, Lydie thought, opening her eyes, looking at Patrice.

"It's a good idea," Lydie said. "You and Kelly coming to New York next summer. That leaves us until July to make her legal. Nine months."

"My mother actually has a good friend in Congress. Who knows? Maybe I can convince her to pull strings," Patrice said, shrugging. Then her blue eyes filled with tears. "She was so brave. I really thought she'd get that visa."

"So did I," Lydie said. The plane to Manila was just a speck in the sky. When it disappeared, she and Patrice walked away from the window.

"This is good-bye," Patrice said.