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On Marie’s eight visit, Raymond met her at the airport with a skinny woman he said was his wife. She had dark-blond hair and one of those unset permanents, all corkscrews. Marie looked at her, and looked away. Raymond explained that he had moved back to Hollywood North. Marie said she didn’t care, as long as she had somewhere to lay her head.They left the terminal in silence. Outside, she said, “What’s this car? Japanese? Your father liked a Buick.””It belongs to Mimi,” he said.Marie got in front, next to Raymond, and the skinny woman climbed in behind. Marie said to Raymond, in French, “You haven’t told me her name.””Well, I have, of course. I introduced you. Mimi.””Mimi isn’t a name.””It’s her’s,” he said.”It can’t be. It’s always short for something – for Michele. Did you ever hear of a Saint Mimi? She’s not a divorced woman, is she? You were married in church?””In a kind of church,” he said. “She belongs to a Christian movement.”Marie knew what that meant: pagan rites.
