“Try it yourself,” he said knowingly. “You’ll see.”
Claire went back to the workshop the following day and attached the bells to a strand of lapis lazuli, deep blue stones that shimmered with golden pyrites. Lapis was a primitive, powerful element, one of the first gemstones ever used for jewelry in Egypt and Persia. It was said to be the stone of truth, causing the wearer to be authentic. The deuxième Monsieur Cohen said the stone itself had unusual traits. Gem cutters could tell the depth of blue contained within a piece of lapis by the scent it gave off. The deeper the color, the richer the fragrance.
Claire found solace in the deuxième Monsieur Cohen’s attic. The women in the neighborhood were relieved. The little girls walked past her and whispered that when they were older they would have a dozen of her charms. What others might find in love or faith, she had found in work. She was so intent on her creations that she sometimes seemed to be in another world entirely. When she burned herself with solder, she didn’t notice. When she pricked her fingers, she didn’t feel the pain. This utter concentration was the mark of a true artist, but Monsieur Cohen worried about his student. Perhaps he was leading her astray? Years were passing, and it occurred to Monsieur Cohen that Claire’s youth was being wasted here in his attic apartment. At night when all the birds were quiet and the corners of the rooms were dim, Monsieur Cohen faced a mirror. He saw himself the way he’d been as a younger man. He wanted to slap that young man and tell him to go take a walk in the sunlight. Go out, he wanted to shout. Live.
He sent a letter to Madame Rosen. I’m worried about your granddaughter, he wrote. Perhaps we should talk.
Natalia went to visit him soon after. It was a Sunday and she left Claire sleeping. She brought along a cake, some fruit, salted cashews. She struggled to take the many steps up to the attic apartment. There was a great view from the hallway window, but she had to huff and puff to catch her breath. She knocked on the door and called Monsieur Cohen’s name, then listened to the strange clanging from within as he moved aside his personal alarm system of pots and pans.
“What a surprise and a pleasure,” he said when he opened the door.
They had known each other years ago, when they were much younger, and because of this they saw each other exactly as they had been then. He was a tall man with dark hair and very blue eyes. She was a woman with a gorgeous shape and auburn hair. Flustered, they laughed to see each other this way. Monsieur Cohen excused his bad manners and invited her inside. Natalia made tea and sliced the cake. “So you’re worried about my granddaughter.”
“I don’t want her to wind up like me. Alone in an attic.”
Natalia pointed to the cages of birds and to the crow that hopped down from atop the cabinet when it spied cake crumbs on the table. “Hardly alone.”
She’d been married when Samuel had met her, and so beautiful he’d been unable to speak to her anyway. He’d been shy, work obsessed. Her husband was an American and she’d soon disappeared, coming back only intermittently. The deuxième Monsieur Cohen now took her hand when she served his tea. All at once he was struck with the notion that he was now in his own future. There was no time to waste. He could hardly contain himself.
“It’s a little late for that.” Natalia laughed, although she was flattered. “Aren’t you ninety?”
When Claire came to work the next day, Monsieur Cohen was feeding his birds instead of sitting at his worktable. The next day he was shaving at the kitchen sink. The day after that, he asked if she would fix a simple dinner of salad and cheese and some steamed asparagus. He was having a guest.
Claire hated to leave the piece she was working on—Abetan had found her a heart scarab made of blue Egyptian pottery. Such scarabs were used as a weight on the body after death so the spirit world would assume the wearer’s heart was enormous, heavy with goodness, and he would then be judged kindly in the world to come. Claire was fascinated by its shape and purpose. She didn’t want to stop and clean up.
“But we always work until dark,” she protested, confused.
“Not anymore. A man has to eat.” Monsieur Cohen shrugged. “I’m sure my friend Abetan would say the same.”
Claire set the table and wished her mentor a good night. She went down the staircase two steps at a time, irritated to have time on her hands. It was still light outside. She had kept the amulet of lapis and Persian bells for herself. They were said to chime and bring the wearer true love, but she had shaken them and shaken them and there hadn’t been a sound. She thought of the women who had worn the bells before her, somewhere in a desert, and she wondered if fate had come to them, or if they had chased after fate. As she clattered into the street Claire saw a woman approaching who had auburn hair and a lovely gait. All at once Claire realized it was her grandmother, a woman in her eighties, wearing a black coat and a red scarf, walking through the summer evening on her way to a dinner appointment.
After that, Claire left work at five every day because of a tryst that was meant to be secret, though everyone in the neighborhood seemed to know. “I see your grandmother’s keeping busy,” the old women would say. “Tell the lovebirds hello,” the grocer joked. No matter how intent Claire was on her work, she had to clean up, store away the gems, set the table for supper. As the hour drew near, Monsieur Cohen became agitated, concerned with combing his hair, slipping on a clean shirt. As for Claire, she was becoming a good cook. Excellent, according to the deuxième Monsieur Cohen. When she ran out of ideas, she began to collect recipes from the old women in the neighborhood. They were only too happy to put down their heavy purses, in which they stored everything from keys to butterfly nets, and give Claire the secret of their stews, their pot-aux-feu, their potato and cheese tarts. She wrote everything down in one of the faded blue notebooks Meg had left behind. They had all seen Madame Rosen going over to the edge of the neighborhood wearing her red silk scarf. They knew who was being romanced and who ate her dinner all alone, save for the company of the old cat, Sadie. They suggested Claire herself try their recipes, perhaps they could help. Apples for love, rosemary for remembrance, twice-loved pie that melted at first taste. These dishes were clear-eyed; they aided in stamina and steadied the heartbeat, but let the pulse run wild. Old people were smarter about love. They didn’t have time to second-guess themselves. “Go on,” the neighborhood women urged. “Cook these for yourself.” But Claire didn’t see the sense in cooking for one. She took her meals standing up, allowing herself a piece of cheese, an apple, sliced tomatoes with vinegar and salt. The cat wound itself around her legs, even though they disliked each other. There was no one else at home.