by Tom Savage
There was no need to ask where the biggest attraction in the collection was; all one had to do was follow the steady stream of pilgrims. Along with the David in Florence and the Winged Victory of Samothrace and Venus de Milo in the Louvre just over a mile from here, Le Penseur was one of the world’s most famous sculptures. And there it was, in front of a wall at the end of an avenue in the hedged, rose-bedecked grounds. The fan club at the moment was fairly modest, perhaps a dozen people in a semicircle before the massive figure.
Nora stopped on the path before she got too close to the crowd, studying the faces she could see and the backs of the others. No one looked familiar, and they were all focused on the statue. People came and went, passing by her on their way to or from the building behind her. A guard stood nearby, watching for idiots who tried to approach and touch or take forbidden photos with forbidden cellphones.
She closed her eyes and made a wish. Since the moment in the hotel dining room last night, when the blond girl had slipped her the note, Nora had been hoping against hope. She had no reason to expect her rosy conclusion, but she wished for it just the same. It couldn’t hurt to wish, could it?
She was an artist of the theater, the most superstitious of all professions. No whistling in dressing rooms, no peacock feathers onstage, no uttering aloud the title of Shakespeare’s Scottish play inside any playhouse, and absolutely never wish for good luck, anywhere. The Immigration agent on the train had been correct: The accepted phrase for actors was Break a leg, on the theory that asking for good fortune was an insult to Dionysus, patron god of the stage, and the muses of comedy and tragedy, Thalia and Melpomene. One had to fool them; if she said what she wanted aloud, they would give her the opposite, but if she said the opposite aloud…
Nora became aware that someone was standing on the path just behind her. There was a presence, breathing softly, and she had an acute sensation of being watched. More than watched: studied. She heard a crunching footstep and felt the warmth of a breath on her neck. Please, she thought. Please…
“Pardonnez-moi, madame, vos gants,” a thick male voice said.
“Quoi?” She turned around. A man stood there—big, heavyset, unshaven, about her age. He was almost comically unattractive, with thick, greasy black hair and bushy eyebrows, and he wore an ill-fitting brown jacket and a dull blue shirt, both of which were none too clean. He regarded her intently through small black eyes that all but vanished in the folds of his florid, veined face. As she watched, he bent slowly down to pick something up from the ground at her feet. He was holding out a pair of white cotton gloves.
Her French escaped her, but she was a New Yorker; she knew a street con when she saw it. It was an old hustle—he’d expect her to give him money for the pretty pair of stolen gloves. She wondered how he’d managed to get into the museum, but she had to get rid of him before her contact arrived. She glared down at the delicate items in the big, stained fingers and said, “No, those aren’t mine, someone else must have—”
“Ah, but they are,” the man insisted in English with a thick French accent. He was standing too close to her, his gravelly whisper bringing with it the mingled odors of garlic and cigarettes, and he was keeping his voice low. She had to strain to hear him. “You dropped them here. They are for you.” He said this slowly, with emphasis on each word. Now he leaned even closer and whispered, “Take them, Mrs. Baron.”
Nora blinked. Then she got it. “Oh! Oh yes, thank you! Merci, monsieur!” she sang in a loud stage voice. She smiled as he handed her the gloves. He grinned, revealing crooked brown teeth, gave a little nod, and walked quickly away from her, toward the crowd by the statue. He didn’t look back.
She watched him go, unable to move. She couldn’t even think for a moment, so great was her disappointment. She looked blankly down at the gloves in her hand and then dropped them into her shoulder bag. So, this was it, this was all that was going to happen here, now, today. A pair of gloves delivered to her by a strange courier, an ugly man who smelled of garlic. She shouldn’t have even thought her wish; she might as well have shouted the name of the Thane of Cawdor. The gods had denied her.
She wanted to linger in this beautiful setting, gazing at her favorite artworks, surrounded by art lovers. This museum was so peaceful, so civilized. She was all alone on a foreign continent, unable to contact the few people she knew here, not even sure how to call her daughter in New York without her cellphone. She felt detached, isolated, as though she were the only person in the world. The smiling faces around her were carefree; no one could possibly suspect that the woman there in the garden was as close to despair as she had ever been in her pleasant, sheltered life. She didn’t know what to do.
Then she thought, There’s no time for this. I have to keep going. I have to get out of here.
With a wistful glance at her favorite statue in the distance and a troubled glance at the big man who now stood with the tourists inspecting it, Nora turned around and retraced her steps. She moved quickly through the rooms to the entrance and down the walk to the street. The little driver, Jacques, was waiting for her, grinning and waving.
Chapter 11
The folded slip of paper was inside one of the gloves, in the space where the ring finger would go, which Nora thought was very clever. This message was written in neat block capitals instead of his familiar script, but as with the first one, it was encrypted specifically for her.
GOOT!—DIX ROSES POUR GRAND-TANTE J CE SOIR
Jacques had fetched the car and collected her in front of the museum, and she’d told him to just drive. He’d asked no questions; they’d sailed back the way they’d come, across the bridge, then turned right and proceeded along the Seine on the Quai des Tuileries, past the Louvre, heading east. He hummed a little tune under his breath as he drove.
She’d waited until they were well away from Musée Rodin before pulling the gloves from her bag and inspecting them. Now, in the backseat of the car, she smoothed the paper across her thigh, studying it, thinking how bizarre it was—coded messages and weird messengers. As much as all this might have appealed to the dramatic performer in her, it wasn’t nearly as romantic as she’d assumed it would be. She was too mature to be cast as an action figure, and violence held no allure. The idea of actual physical danger nauseated her. She wasn’t a hero; she was a wife, a mother, an actor who now taught her craft to bright young people. Well, the life she knew was obviously on hold for the time being. She forced herself to concentrate on the note.
GOOT! was easy, thanks to her daughter’s incessant texting: Get out of town! It was meant as a joke, for emphasis, the equivalent of I don’t believe you. Their daughter used it so much that even Jeff had taken to putting it in his emails. Occasionally, Dana would also burst out with a heartfelt Shut up! which meant roughly the same thing. But not this time; Nora was certain of it. This time, the slangy acronym obviously meant precisely what it stated. She was being told to leave Paris. She knew where to go, and when: Dix roses pour Grand-tante J ce soir. Very well, she thought. So be it.
“Jacques,” she said, “which train do I take to Besançon?”
The little man regarded her in the rearview mirror. “Besançon, mademoiselle? When would you wish to go?”
“Now. Immediately. I’ve—I’ve received a message from a friend asking me to go there. Well, not there, exactly, but nearby. A village in the Jura mountains, south of the city. I’ll need a train to Besançon, and then I suppose I can rent a car—”
“Un moment, mademoiselle.”
Nora stopped talking, aware of the urgency that had come into his voice. She watched him as he accelerated, glancing in the rearview mirror from time to time, though now he wasn’t looking at her but at something behind them. The car sped along the river, faster and faster, and Jacques suddenly turned the steering wheel, throwing the car sharply into the left lane, cutting off a taxi with only inches to spare. The cab driver blared his horn and shouted, but Jacques paid no attention. With another fierce twist o
f the wheel, he swerved into a full turn, across the lanes of oncoming traffic and into an avenue heading north, away from the waterfront.
The screech of brakes and the shrieks of a variety of horns let her know just how close they’d come to a collision with any number of cars heading west. She cringed at the sound, even as the car made yet another sharp turn, this time to the right, into the Rue de Rivoli. More horns and angry shouts. What on earth—
Nora slid over toward the door and grabbed the seatbelt, fastening it across her waist as Jacques drove even faster. Buildings and people flew by outside, and the Rue de Rivoli became Rue Saint-Antoine. A familiar blur on her right was the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville; she’d dined in a restaurant near it once with Jeff, years ago. Now she knew where they were, but it didn’t allay her sudden fear. This man had seemed so polite, so friendly. Was he abducting her? Was he part of this? Was that even possible?
Lonny had made her reservation on his own personal laptop, and early this morning he’d spirited her out a back door of the Byron Hotel and bundled her into a waiting taxi in the next street. No one had followed her to the train station; she was certain of it. How could Jacques—or anyone else—possibly have expected her arrival in France? No. Whatever was happening here, her driver couldn’t be involved. Or could he? He was definitely racing her away from—or toward—something.
She twisted around to look out the rear window, but she couldn’t see anything extraordinary, merely cars and crowds going about their business. She looked forward, through the windshield. The big intersection ahead of them was the Place de la Bastille, the site of the 1789 uprising, outside the long-gone prison for which the place was named. It was a virtual wagon wheel of streets with spokes that extended out in every direction.
“What?” she finally managed to say. “What is it, Jacques?”
“Je ne sais pas,” he muttered, still checking the mirrors. “Give me the moment, mademoiselle.”
At the roundabout, he turned the car sharply and shot up Boulevard Beaumarchais, into the arrondissement known as the Marais. This had always been a favorite part of the city for her, reminding her of Greenwich Village with its jazzy shops and restaurants. If they continued north through this sector, they would arrive at the Place de la République, not far from the famous Conservatoire where the Immigration girl from this morning would soon be studying.
Jacques apparently had no intention of going that far. He slowed the car to a crawl, and his head bobbed back and forth as he searched the crowded side streets. He turned abruptly into one of them, which was actually an alley, and drove swiftly down its length toward the next street. There was no one about and nothing here in this dark place but back doors of buildings and rows of garbage cans. He pulled over between two large trash receptacles and stopped the car.
In the abrupt silence and stillness that followed, Nora’s heart gave a sickening lurch. She was in a deserted alley, cut off from the main streets, with a man she didn’t know at all. What if he were to turn around now, and aim a gun at her? Or suddenly throw open the door and leap from the car, run away while his unseen confederates closed in to finish the job? The actress in her had a sudden vision of Faye Dunaway in the car in those final moments of Bonnie and Clyde, that slow-motion dance of death as she was riddled with a hundred bullets…
Jacques didn’t pull a weapon or make a sudden break for cover. He didn’t move at all. He stared into the rearview mirror for several breathless seconds before finally nodding to himself and turning around in his seat to face her. His happy grin was no longer in evidence; he looked worried.
“Pardon, mademoiselle, but I must ask you a thing. Is mademoiselle in some kind of trouble?”
She regarded him evenly. “Trouble? What do you mean?”
“I mean there is a car, une Citroën gris, I see before we arrive at the musée this morning and again when I am waiting outside for you, coming through the street where I am standing more times than one. I do not think about it until I see for sure it follows us from the musée. It is a man in the Citroën, with the dark skin. Not black, but brun. Un Arabe, peut-être? I have, how you say, gived him the slap.”
“The slip,” she whispered. “You gave him the slip.”
“Yes, I gave him the slip, but I don’t know how long for I do this. I lose him back on the Quai de Tuileries, but he may search for us. For you, mademoiselle.” Now he softened his voice, and the expression on his weathered face was one of concern. “Is there people here in Paris who look for you? Is there the husband, or the man who is not your husband? It is not the business of Jacques, but perhaps I can be of service if I am told—”
Nora raised a hand to silence him. This was too much; she had to think. She had to absorb this new information and fit it into the scenario. A dark-skinned man was trailing her, and she thought of the man in the plane and the park yesterday. How on earth could he possibly—
She shut her eyes and took in a long, deep breath. Calm down, she commanded herself. First things first. It was nearly one o’clock, and she needed food. Her last full meal had been lunch at home two days ago, before the phone call. Oddly, this sudden infusion of fear caused her to realize just how hungry she was.
“Jacques, I must leave Paris now,” she said in as steady a voice as she could manage, “and I don’t want anyone to know about it. Can you get me to the train to Besançon?”
He peered at her across the seat. “So, you are in the trouble…”
“Yes, I am, but I can’t discuss it now. I must go to the Franche-Comté. How do I do that?”
He thought a moment. “Tay-zhay-vay.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Tay-zhay-vay—this is the train that leaves from Gare de Lyon to Dijon and Besançon.”
“Oh.” She suppressed a smile. TGV, France’s supersonic train system. “Gare de Lyon is not far from here, south of Place de la Bastille, where we just were—is that right?”
“Yes, but no. You do not go in the tay-zhay-vay. I take you there.”
“What, drive me to the Jura mountains? I couldn’t ask you to do that. You must have other things to—”
“I take you there,” he repeated. “I have no other things. You have already paid for me for the whole of the day, and that is what you shall get. This is my final foot down!”
Despite her misgivings, Nora couldn’t help but smile at the man’s dedication to his job. And it would certainly make things easier for her. She nodded, accepting his offer, and decided to add a generous bonus for him when this day was over.
“Thank you, Jacques,” she said.
“De rien, mademoiselle. It is, how you say, no bigness.”
Nora laughed. “No biggie.”
He nodded. “Oui, no biggie. Now, mademoiselle, if people look for you, they will look in the trains and the avions, yes? You wish to disappear? Jacques will help you disappear. I take you to the village in the Jura where you wish to go. It is four hours with some minutes, five hours in the tops. No biggie! But they have seen this car, so this car is not good. We go otherwise. Come, it is time for the déjeuner.”
Yes, she thought, it is. She said no more, merely followed him meekly when he got out of the car and opened the door for her. He led her only a few yards, toward the end of the alley, and in through a small doorway. They were in a hot, aromatic restaurant kitchen where an older woman and a young man were busy preparing dishes. The woman smiled at them.
“Jacques!” she cried, delighted. She ran over from the stove to greet him. There followed a conversation in French, from which Nora gathered that Jacques and the woman, Felicia, were old friends; he ate there all the time with his wife, Marianne; he lived just down the street; he must attend to some business; and would Felicia serve his client, Mlle. Hugs, an excellent lunch while she waited for him? Mais oui! Jacques slipped back through the side door into the alley, and the woman named Felicia proudly led the rich American touriste out into the tiny dining room, which fronted on the street.
In that simple room, which definitely was not listed in Frommer’s, Nora enjoyed the finest meal she’d ever been served in Paris. In a city that boasted the best food in the world, it was quite a discovery. It was called Chez Felicia, naturellement, and the fact that the woman herself was serving the American lady in the corner clearly impressed the locals, who were attended by the young man. Nora inhaled everything placed before her, blissfully refusing to think about her predicament.
Felicia would not sit at the table, but she hovered, chatting as Nora ate, and Nora was able to practice her rusty French. Felicia was a widow of six months. She’d been the chef here since they’d opened the restaurant thirty-eight years ago, and her late husband had handled the dining room. Now her son, André, did the honors, and his wife—pregnant with Felicia’s third grandchild—helped out on weekends. Nora admired everything and complimented the food, the décor, and the handsome son, but she didn’t go so far as to claim to be a fellow widow. That she simply could not do; it would be an insult to this woman, whose bereavement was genuine.
