Unwritten

by Charles Martin

  A shipping container filled to the brim with disconnected pieces. Somebody’s discards. All traveling to a new home to be handled by a stranger.

  It was a good image and I made a note of it.

  Following brunch, then lunch, then another coffee, we stopped outside the Hermès store in the late afternoon. She pulled up next to the curb, eyeing the window displays. “One of my favorite places.” She raised a hand. “And before you butcher the name, it’s not ‘her-meez.’ It’s pronounced, ‘air-may.’ ”

  “Glad you clarified that.”

  She surveyed the window displays.

  I said, “Go ahead.”

  “They used to open at night. Just for me. No one else. I have, or had, about two hundred and fifty of their scarves.” She shook her head. “Beautiful.”

  “How much are they?”

  “The inexpensive ones are about three hundred euros.”

  I did the math. “Four hundred and fifty dollars?”

  She nodded.

  “And it’s just a scarf.”

  “It’s not just ‘a’ scarf. It’s ‘the’ scarf.”

  I glanced through the window. “Does it come with a TV or something?”

  She chuckled. “You should come in off the water some time. There’s a whole world out here just waiting to be seen.” With that, she flicked her wrist. Within seconds, she’d become a speck in the distance.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  At sundown we found a café beneath the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. She returned from the bathroom with a scarf covering her ears and forehead and large sunglasses covering the top half of her face. She topped it off with a second scarf around her neck. She blended in seamlessly—Patricia the Parisian painter. She ordered dinner, conversing with the server. Between the wig, scarves, and sunglasses he had no idea. I listened, watching her mouth. The way she formed the words. Unlike English, her heart was connected to these words. Hearing it reminded me of melting ice cream. Her mouth made the words but the transformation was in her body. Her facial expressions. She was in midsentence. She was excited, happy, and smiling. She waved her hand across the scenery. “You know how Tim McGraw sings that song about how you should live like you were dying?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he should write one that talks about how to live like you were dead. It’s much better.” She was chatty. The excitement of the city had settled in her. “I like it here. People sit at cafés, drink beer, smoke cigarettes, eat desserts and taste them, like really taste them. They watch the afternoon go by.” She shook her head. “Americans never watch the afternoon go by. It’s silly to us. We think, ‘Why would we do that?’ We are always in a hurry, always on to the next minute and never enjoying the one we are in, and no one is a worse offender than me. I am, or was, always on to the next thing, never on this thing, never this right now. I used to send somewhere between a hundred and two hundred texts a day—and most were me telling somebody to do something. Giving orders. Success here is a bottle of wine, fresh flowers, or a loaf of bread just out of the oven. Sweet cream butter and a plate of olives. They get six weeks’ vacation and work thirty-five-hour workweeks. They don’t need three closets of clothes and four cars. They need right now. They live right now. Not tomorrow.” She stood, walked to a corner vendor, bought a package of cigarettes, returned, packed them on her leg, and lit one, inhaling deeply. When she’d filled her lungs, she laid her head back and blew the smoke up and out.

  “You smoke?” I said.

  Another inhale followed by a smile. The smoke trailed up and out the corner of her mouth. “Only in Paris.”

  I whispered, “In your—” I looked over my shoulder. “Did you play many French roles?”

  She stamped the cigarette and shook her head. “None.”

  “Why?”

  She stared up at the tower, now lit with a million lights. The memory rising to the surface. “My father used to bring me here.” The full moon above the Eiffel Tower had her attention. “We rode the train.”

  The pieces fell together. “You’re French?”

  A sip of wine. “Oui.”

  “That means ‘yes,’ right?”

  The red wine colored the tip of her lips. She let the taste linger. “Oui.”

  I paused. “Who else knows this?”

  “Just you.”

  “What about that Richard Thomas guy?”

  “I told him a few of my secrets, but not this one.”

  “Steady?”

  She shook her head. “English was one of my favorite subjects in school, and I was able to speak it with very little accent by the time I met him.” She spoke without giving it much thought. “About forty percent of English is actually of French origin.”

  “Get out of town.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  She shrugged. The phrases rattled off her tongue like letters of the alphabet. “Déjà vu, à la mode, pièce de résistance, bon appétit, à la carte, en masse, art deco, nouveau riche, au contraire, au naturel, au pair, au revoir, je ne sais quoi, fait accompli…” She counted on her fingers as she made her point. Each finger popping up in unison with the words as she spoke them. “Avant garde, bon voyage, RSVP, chaise longue, crème de la crème, café au lait, potpourri, carte blanche, laissez-faire, grand prix, cordon bleu, coup d’état, esprit de corps, crème brûlée, cul-de-sac, faux pas, double entendre, en route, art nouveau, film noir, Mardi Gras, nom de plume, papier-mâché, c’est la vie, raison d’être, tour de force, vis-à-vis…”

  She was still rattling when I cut her off. “Okay, okay. You made your point. You lost me about fifty words ago.” I didn’t say it but I loved the way the words rolled off her tongue. The way she made and formed the words. So much of the French language slipped by my ear before I had a chance to catch the slightest hint of a word, but the entirety of it, the way it all ran together seamlessly—it just worked. I’m no linguist but in my limited book, whoever said it was right, the French language has got the hands-down monopoly on the beauty of the spoken word.

  Across from us, a bookstore sat facing the café. Given the foot traffic in and out, they experienced a brisk business. Thomas’s book, The Ice Queen, filled the display—a newly translated French version with never-before-seen photos from his personal collection. His smug enlarged picture stared at us. He was milking this for every cent. A banner above the stacks of copies announced #1 BEST SELLER. She glanced at it, shook her head, and said, “It keeps following me. And so little of it is true.”

  “You read it?” The fact surprised me.

  Her eyes fell on the arc and the traffic circling it. The index finger on her right hand unconsciously began tracing the lines of the scar on her left wrist. “Yeah, I read it.” She nodded over her shoulder without eyeing the book. “He’s made the rounds of the late-night tell-alls, earned millions in royalties, and on what? My coattails and just enough truth to make it plausible.” She looked at me. “You want to know the truth?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “The truth is that in the first hundred pages, he tells more than twenty-seven outright, bold-faced lies and he knows they are lies because he asked me and I told him they were. In many cases, I gave him the evidence proving they were.” She smacked the palm of her hand. “I showed him in black and white.” She shooed the idea of him like she was getting rid of a dog or a pigeon. “His book is nothing more than a tabloid cut-and-paste.” She waved her hand across the bookstore. “What’s amazing is that people read that crap.” A shake of her head. “Number one! Who in their right mind bought that thing?” A shake of her head. “Somebody told me when I first got in the business that people believe what they read until somebody prints something that contradicts it. Then they believe both.” She shrugged it off. Something she was good at. Maybe that comes with lots of practice.

  I paid the tab and we began walking. I tried to make light of the book. “I don’t like him.”

  “Who?”

  “Queequeg.”

  She looked confused.
“Who?”

  “Thomas.”

  She smiled. “Good one. Wish I’d thought of it.” After a shrug, she said, “On n’apprend pas aux vieux singes à faire des grimaces.”

  “I need a little help with that one.”

  “You cannot teach old monkeys to make faces.”

  Whatever I’d thought of Katie Quinn when I’d first met her was untrue. I’d jumped to wrong conclusions. And many at that. The last few days had proven that. What I was learning now, in these last few hours, was telling me I hadn’t even scratched the surface.

  Our path took us by the store. Once closer, we were able to see that a tabloid magazine had been placed in a plastic stand below the books. The cover of the magazine showed the book along with a not-so-flattering picture of Katie. The caption quoted an unnamed source as saying, “She was a monster. Anyone who knew her, knew this.”

  Katie didn’t speak for several minutes. When she did, her voice was quiet, as she stared through the window. “I don’t even know that person. How do they know what I am?” Another moment. A nod. Crossed arms. She turned, looking at me through dark glasses. A tear fell from beneath her right eye. Despite her critics, Katie was human. Her tough veneer was paper thin. “But I am a monster, all right. Just not the kind he talks about in that book.” She spoke almost to herself. “He hasn’t got a clue.”

  Her ability to deflect was uncanny. She eyed the tower, hooked her arm in mine, and said, “Let’s go up.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  We bought two tickets and rode the elevator up while I marveled at her ability to shake off what sought to bring her down. One second she’s talking about a man who betrayed her, and deeply, and the next she’s marveling at the Eiffel Tower. We exited at the second floor, then took a second elevator to the top. When we stepped off, the wind pressed against us. Gentle, then a gust, finally calming. The Seine River stretched out from one end of the earth to the other. Paris lay all around us like a glowing landscape, electric sunshine poking through the carpet of the earth’s floor, pinholes of light streaking through the weak places where the fabric had worn thin. “That red dot over there is Moulin Rouge.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You didn’t see the movie?”

  I just stared at her.

  “How about the paintings by Toulouse-Lautrec?”

  “Lady, I live on a boat.”

  She mimicked a few dance moves involving her hips that were actually quite good. “You’ve heard the song, right, ‘Lady Marmalade’?”

  “Lady what?”

  A frown. “Honey, you need to come out from underneath your rock.” More dance moves. She sang quietly beneath her breath. “ ‘Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?’ ”

  “I should probably know what that means, right?”

  She shook her head, placed her index finger on her lips like she was reconsidering. “On second thought, probably not.” A slight chuckle. Laughter at my expense.

  “You’re laughing at me, right?”

  “Pretty much, but the fact that you don’t know is cute so—” She leaned on the railing. “Moulin Rouge means ‘red mill.’ What it is, is the world-renowned Parisian cabaret. Home of the cancan. They put on quite a show. Many of the greats have performed there: Ella Fitzgerald, Liza Minelli, Ol’ Blue Eyes.”

  “That little thing you did with your hips, where’d you get all the rhythm?”

  A laugh. “Like everything else…” Her eyes wandered out across the city. “… I paid for it.”

  A pause. A slight breeze. “This your favorite city?”

  She weighed this. “Close, but no.”

  “What is?”

  She pointed southwest. “That way. A few hours. Town called Langeais.” She pronounced it “lon-jay.”

  People milled around us. Taking photos. A kid next to her leaned against the railing and waited for the flash. Her friend backed up a few feet and held the camera to include as much of Paris in the background as she could. Ever cognizant of those around her, Katie turned slightly toward me, allowing the shadow to fall across her face. Incognito. She said, “Ever been to Paris before?”

  “Once. Long time ago.”

  “Business? Work?”

  Another gust. “Something like that. Although I loved what I did, so I wouldn’t really call it ‘work.’ ” I changed the subject. “I’m no linguist, and I can’t speak a lick of French, but yours is very good.”

  “It should be.” Her eyes wandered across the landscape below. “I used to get so homesick, even when I was filming, that I’d come here—even if I only had twenty-four hours, just to hear people speak, smell the bakeries, sip the coffee.”

  “Seems like it would have helped you to use it in a lot of movies?”

  “When I moved to the U.S., and started over in—” She laughed. “Miami—”

  “Why Miami?” I interrupted.

  “It was where the plane stopped on the way to Kansas.”

  “What in the world would take you from Paris to Kansas?”

  “Judy Garland.”

  “I’m not tracking with—”

  “The Wizard of Oz.” A shrug. “For some reason, I thought my future started in Kansas. Worked for Dorothy. Why not me?”

  “So, why didn’t you get past Miami?”

  Another easy laugh, as if the memory was no longer painful. “Ran out of money when I got off the plane, so I went in search of a safe place to sleep. Exited the bus in front of this gigantic Catholic church, started wandering the sidewalks, and then I saw this man in flowing white robes smoking a pipe. I guess I did look a little lost. Steady took me in, found me a place to sleep with some of his parishioners, and then walked me to the theater. Introduced me. I auditioned, put my talents to work, and made a few bucks. I was saving money for a plane ticket when things started taking off and Kansas became irrelevant.”

  “And all because of The Wizard of Oz.”

  She spoke without looking at me. “A story can be a powerful thing.”

  I waited. Said nothing.

  She continued. “I didn’t want folks to know I was from here. Didn’t want to—” She shook it off. Glanced at her watch. “Come on, we don’t want to miss our train.”

  I watched her move. Listened to her talk. Felt the easy, measured rhythm of her breathing. If anyone was ever in their element it was her, here.

  We returned the scooters to their garage home, where she packed a backpack with a few items of clothing and then transformed back into another of her unrecognizable selves. We rode the metro to the train station to catch an 11:10 p.m. train to Langeais. Unlike almost anything America, it was exactly on time. We climbed on. The train was mostly empty. A couple of sleeping passengers dotted the seats. She glanced around, whispering, “I love the train at night.”

  We found our seats. Facing each other. Separated by a table. She stretched her legs out and sort of through mine. We had the entire car to ourselves.

  The doors shut and the train left the station, gradually increasing speed to somewhere above a hundred miles an hour. Didn’t take us long to leave town and enter rolling hillsides. The moon had risen higher, grown larger, and shone brighter since we left the Eiffel Tower, throwing long shadows across the French landscape. She stared out the glass and, from what I could tell, was watching old memories more than French countryside.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  We slept a few hours on the train. Off and on. Me more than Katie. At three a.m., the train pulled to a stop at the Langeais station and the door slid open. We exited onto the platform next to a bright red wooden train car that looked to be a hundred years old. Freshly painted, brass plaques; a star of David covered one side. She ran her fingers alongside the edge, finally dipping her fingers into the brass letters, tracing the words. She read out loud. “ ‘This car ferried more than a hundred and forty thousand “prisoners” to the death camps.’ ”

  We crossed the street and began the walk through town. Two main streets. Shops on either side. Cafés.
Bakeries. Butcher shops. A shoe store. Hair salon. Candy maker. Several bars. She almost skipped as she walked. “About twenty-five hundred people live here.”

  She stopped at the end of Main Street. “In World War II, the Gestapo occupied this area.” She pointed to an enormous castle rising up, over, and out of the town like the rock of Gibraltar. Château de Langeais. Lit from every angle. “French resisters were hung from those walls.”

  “You like history?”

  She weighed this, choosing her words. “I value it.”

  I shouldered my backpack and offered to take hers, but she waved me off. “No, I’m okay.” We began walking through the medieval town, winding through the narrow streets. She walked slowly. A sailor on dry ground after months at sea.

  I said, “Is it far?”

  She smiled, jumping over the cracks in the sidewalk. “Is what far?”

  I pointed into the darkness. “Wherever we’re going.”

  She shook her head. “A mile. A little less.”

  The cobblestone road serpentined and rose upward slightly. Shops gave way to a small creek, a cemetery, a church. She pointed to the last. “That’s more than a thousand years old.”

  The road had been carved next to the church so the doors of the church literally poured out onto the street. We stopped and she ran her fingers through the intricate carving on the thick, twelve-foot doors, darkened by exhaust.

  “How old were you when you left here?”

  “Just shy of sixteen.”

  “Why ‘Katie Quinn’?”

  A shrug. “Has a good ring. Rolls off your tongue.”

  “You picked a name because it has a good ring and rolls off your tongue.”

  A nod. “And because it was nothing like the name my father gave me.”

  “Which is?”

  “Isabella.”

  “Isabella is your real name? I thought it was just the name of the woman you’re pretending to be right now.”

  “Well, it’s both. When I was sixteen, I left Isabella behind, only to dig her back up when fame and fortune drove me to resurrect her. So now, Isabella is the woman you see and the one that allows me to fly back and forth unnoticed.” A long silence. “My father said it was his mother’s name. Said she held me once before she died. Whispered my name in my ear. In public, he called me ‘Bella.’ It means ‘beauty.’ ” She shook her head. “Which I needed to hear because, despite what you and others see, and what I’ve spent a small fortune obtaining, I wasn’t.”