He smiled. “No worries. Really, I was just surprised because most peoplepretendto know stuff like that. Especially in here. A roman à clef is a book based on reality, and real people, but with all the names changed.”
“To protect the innocent?”
“And to avoid scandal, or to maintain a certain plausible deniability, I suppose. But it’s believed to have been written about his family, the family Clement.”
“Great, that’s perfect. I’m doing some research on Château Clement.”
“Then you must have this! I must warn you, though: the Nouveaux Romans are notoriously—and purposely—difficult to read, sort of like James Joyce’sUlysses.”
“Why would an author write a book that’s intentionally hard to read?”
“It was an experimental thing, to wake people up to romanticism and our implied assumptions about narrative structure. Or so my literature professor at uni told me.”
Cady flippedThe Châteauopen to the first page. Slowly, painstakingly, she made out:
Picture a château, symbol of power and privilege, lain to ruin by avarice and jealousy. Echoes of longing reverberate along its halls, their vibrations seeping into the grout, the mortar, the very stone of the walls.
Mr. Petra appears, descending the steps in a handsome brocade jacket, holding a hammered copper bowl atop which sits a strap and a shaving blade. Steam rises, an unfurling question mark looming, threatening, over his morning chocolate.
It didn’t seemtoobad.
And whether it was traditional or “Nouveau Roman,” Cady would struggle to make out the words, much less the meaning.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
2001
OAKLAND
Cady, Age 13
One day, after Cady had been working at Maxine’s Treasures after school and on weekends for more than a month to pay her back for the things she had stolen, Maxine handed Cady a set of instructions for assembling an old mantel clock.
Dread washed over her. She knew what was coming.
“Read these to me, will you?” Maxine said. “I don’t have my glasses.”
Cady slung her backpack over her shoulder. “Sorry, I really have to get going. I have a... dentist appointment.”
“I thought you just told me you wanted to help with this. You said you didn’t have anywhere to be.”
“Today’s Tuesday, right? I just remembered.”
Maxine’s eyes settled on Cady. They were near black, and so deep yet reflective that Cady sometimes wondered if they were full of sorcery, if Maxine was some sort of witch, sitting here in her enchanted store, making Cady believe life was beautiful and full of possibility when in fact every day was just the same pile of garbage and disappointment and heartbreak. Cady felt tears stinging the backs of her eyes.
Pain and humiliation fed her anger, her dragon surging up to destroy everything in a fiery burst.
She swiped her arm across the table, sending the dismantled clock to the floor with a satisfying crash. The glass face shattered, metal parts skittering along the plank floor and disappearing under a nearby bureau.
“I don’t have time to spend with you every day!” Cady shrieked. “You’re just a lonely old woman who wants me to do what she wants! You’re just like everybody else!”
Cady stormed toward the door. She didn’t know what she expected: maybe that Maxine would shout back, tell her to leave and never come back. But a tiny part of her hoped Maxine would race after her, hold her in her arms, smooth her hair and tell her everything was all right, that she was all right.
Instead, nothing but silence followed her. Cady made it to the front door, willing herself not to turn around. Still, she slowed her pace. Surely the old woman wouldn’t let her just leave, without saying a word, would she?
Her hand reached out for the brass doorknob. Turned it. Opened the door.
“Cady.”Maxine didn’t shout or cajole. Her voice was calm, firm but gentle.
