Everything Under the Sky Read Online Free PDF Page A

brimming with tears.
    Fernanda joined me for breakfast. Her habitual sullenness had abated somewhat, and she was eager to know our plans before M. Favez came to pick me up at twelve-thirty. I told her I had personal matters to discuss with Rémy's lawyer and was going out on my own. She asked whether she could use the morning to look for a Catholic church in the French Concession where she could attend Mass while we were in Shanghai. I agreed, on the condition that Mrs. Zhong or one of the other trusted servants go with her. I also recommended she read something from Rémy's library. I hadn't seen her so much as touch a book since we met (missal and prayer book aside). Her reaction was outrageous.
    “French books!”
    “French, English, Spanish, German—what does it matter! Just read. You're old enough to appreciate the works and thoughts of people who've seen the world from a different point of view. It's important to taste life, Fernanda, or you'll lose out on so many enjoyable, interesting things.”
    Surprisingly, my words seemed to truly affect her, as if she'd never heard anything like that before. Truth be told, the poor thing had grown up in a very narrow-minded, shortsighted environment. Perhaps she just needed to be taught to appreciate freedom. “I must be off,” I remarked, pushing my chair back and standing up. “My meeting's in half an hour. Good luck finding the church. You can tell me all about it later.”
    I was wearing a light cotton skirt, a sleeveless summer blouse, and a white picture hat to protect me from the bright sun beating down on Shanghai. As I crossed the garden on my way to the street, I could see a small rickshaw through the open gates. Mrs. Zhong stood next to it, speaking to the barefoot coolie in Chinese. As soon as they saw me, Mrs. Zhong's voice became shrill and hurried. The coolie rushed to take his place, ready to transport me to rue Millot, where Rémy's lawyer and executor, André Julliard, had his office.
    I said good-bye to Mrs. Zhong and asked her to please look after Fernanda until I returned. As we set out on that frenetic trip through the streets of the French Concession, I stared at the coolie's sweaty, skeletal back, his head shaven except for a ring of spiky hair—likely what was left of a queue—listening to his labored breathing and the slapping of his bare soles on pavement. Cars, rickshaws, bicycles, and buses wove in and out around one another as the occupants delighted—in spite of the lovely smell of Shanghai—in the sights of pretty villas and little shops lining both sides of the street.
    Short, narrow rue Millot was next to the old Chinese city of Nantao, and M. Julliard's office was located in a dark building that smelled of musty paper and rotting wood. The lawyer, who appeared to be about fifty and was wearing the wrinkliest linen jacket in the world, kindly met me at the door and led me into his office, asking his secretary to bring us tea. It was a small, glassed-in room from which you could see the other offices, the desks where his typists sat, and young Chinese clerks milling about. In his strong accent from the south of France (exaggerating the r 's, like they do in Spanish), he offered me a seat and walked behind a large desk covered in cigarette burns. Without further ado he pulled a thick file from a drawer and opened it somberly.
    “Mme De Poulain,” he began, “I'm afraid the news is not good.”
    He smoothed his gray mustache, yellowed by nicotine, and set on the bridge of his nose a pair of small, round, wire-rimmed glasses that had surely seen better days. My heart pounded in my chest.
    “Here's a copy of the will,” he said, handing me a sheaf of papers that I took and began to flip through. “Your late husband, madame, was a dear friend of mine. It pains me to tell you that he was not a prudent man. I repeatedly told him to put his finances in order, but you know how things are. Moreover, you know what Rémy was like.”
    “What