by Marc Levy
“I’m nobody,” she insisted to a cameraman, but he didn’t speak a word of English. At the entrance, the doorman nodded in approval at Julia’s incredible gown before being blinded by the bright lights of the TV crew swarming around to get footage of her entry; he didn’t even bother to ask for her invitation.
The hall was immense. Julia’s eyes scanned the faces of the crowd. Cocktails in hand, the guests mingled beneath gigantic photographs lining the walls. Julia smiled as she was greeted warmly by complete strangers at every turn. Farther on, a harpist was playing Mozart on a slightly elevated platform. Weaving her way through the surreal ballet, Julia stalked closer to her prey.
A ten-foot-high photograph caught her eye. The shot could have easily been taken in the mountains of Kandahar or Tajikistan, or even in the border region of Pakistan. The uniform of the soldier lying facedown in a ditch bore no clues. The barefoot child at his side looked like all of the lost children of the world.
Julia jumped as a hand landed on her shoulder.
“Why, you haven’t changed a bit,” Knapp declared. “What in the world are you doing here? I don’t recall seeing your name on the invitation list. Are you in town for long? I certainly didn’t expect to see you.”
“I could say the same for you. I thought you were traveling until the end of the month. At least, that’s what I was told when I came to your office today. Didn’t you get my message?”
“I came back from my trip early. Came straight here from the airport.”
“Well, you haven’t changed either, Knapp. Still a terrible liar. And I know from experience. I’ve gained a certain amount of expertise these past few days.”
“Come on, you can’t really expect me to have guessed that was you who came today. It’s been twenty years!”
“Eighteen. Do you know another Julia Walsh?”
“I barely knew your last name, Julia. Trust me, I just didn’t put two and two together. There’s an endless stream of people who come to pitch useless stories at me, so I’m in the habit of screening my calls for crazy people.”
“Well, isn’t that sweet.”
“You still haven’t told me what brings you to Berlin.”
Her eyes returned to the photograph. It was signed T. Ullmann.
“That’s exactly the type of photo Thomas would take. It reminds me of his work,” said Julia sadly.
“Except for the fact that Thomas hasn’t touched a camera in years. He doesn’t even live in Germany anymore. He left all that behind him.”
The news hit Julia like a slap in the face, but she forced herself to keep her reaction under wraps.
“Where did he go?”
“He moved to Italy, with his wife. We don’t talk very often. Once a year maybe, and that’s in a good year.”
“Did the two of you have a falling-out?”
“No, nothing like that. Our lives just went in different directions. I did my best to help him live out his dream of becoming a journalist, but after Afghanistan, he was a changed man. He decided to move on, do something else with his life. I’m sure you, of all people, could understand that.”
“No. I can’t say I do,” retorted Julia, her jaw tightening.
“The last I heard, he was in Rome running a restaurant with his wife. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really should attend to some of the other guests. It’s been nice seeing you, and hopefully next time it can be a bit longer. How long are you here for?”
“Until Saturday morning,” replied Julia.
“You still haven’t told me why you’re here. Business?”
“Goodbye, Knapp.”
Julia left without looking back. As soon as she made it past the glass doors, she quickened her pace and ended up breaking into a full-on sprint down the red carpet toward the waiting car.
Back at the hotel, Julia made a beeline across the lobby toward the unmarked door into the storage room. She slipped out of the gown, put it back on its hanger, and pulled on her jeans and sweater. She heard the concierge clear his throat from the shadows behind her.
“Are you decent?” he asked, covering his eyes with one hand and holding out a box of Kleenex with the other.
“No,” sobbed Julia.
The concierge pulled out a tissue and waved it blindly.
“Thank you,” Julia said as she took the Kleenex.
“I thought that your mascara looked a bit runny when you flew past me just now. So the evening didn’t quite live up to your expectations.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Julia replied between sniffles.
“It happens to the best of us. Some nights just take an unexpected turn for the worse.”
“My God, my whole life has become one big unexpected turn for the worse. This trip, this hotel, this city, and all this useless running around. Everything was perfect before. I wouldn’t have changed a thing. And now . . .”
The concierge took a step closer, and that was all it took for Julia to throw herself into his arms, drying her tears on his shoulder. He delicately patted her back and did his best to console her.
“I don’t know what happened to make you so sad tonight, but if you’d allow me to make a suggestion, perhaps you should go talk to your father about it. I’m sure it would do you a world of good. The two of you seem so close. You’re quite lucky to still have him in your life.”
“That couldn’t be further from the truth. The two of us, close? We must not be talking about the same person.”
“I’ve had the pleasure of serving your father on many occasions, Miss Walsh, and I can assure you he has always been a perfect gentleman.”
“My father is anything but a gentleman! He’s the most self-centered person I’ve ever met.”
“In that case, you’re right, it must not be the same person. The man I know has shown nothing but kindness. And, I should add, I’ve heard him describe you as his one success in life.”
This left Julia speechless.
“Go on, go see your father. I’m sure he’s waiting with open arms.”
“Right. Nothing in my life is what it once seemed. Anyway, he’s sleeping. He was exhausted.”
“Maybe he got a second wind, because he just ordered room service.”
“Wait—my father ordered food?”
“That’s what I said, Miss.”
Julia slid back on her espadrilles and thanked the concierge warmly, going as far as to plant another kiss on his cheek.
“I can count on you to keep all this a secret, can’t I?” he asked.
“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” said Julia with a straight face.
“And I can put that gown back in its bag without checking for stains?”
Julia flashed the Scout’s honor sign and smiled at the concierge, who told her to hurry along.
She went back across the lobby and took the elevator to the sixth floor, but didn’t exit. She hesitated for a moment before pushing the button to go see her father.
Julia could hear the faint sound of the television from the hall. She knocked, and her father swung the door open immediately.
“Julia. Might I say you looked stunning in that gown,” he said, lying back down on the bed.
Julia saw that the evening news was playing highlights from the exhibition opening.
“You left the others in the dust—the very image of elegance. I hope you’ve finally outgrown your days of wearing those ripped jeans. If I had known what you had cooking, I would have asked to come along. It would have been an honor to walk you down that red carpet.”
“None of it was planned. I was watching TV, just like you, and I saw Knapp on the red carpet, so I knew I had to go.”
“Intriguing,” said Anthony, standing back up. “For somebody who was allegedly out of town until the end of the month . . . Unless he’s developed the ability to be in two places at once, I’d wager the man was lying intentionally. However, judging by that look on your face, your reunion wasn’t exactly what you were hoping for?”
/> “I was right about Thomas being married. And you were right about him not being a journalist anymore,” Julia explained, crumbling down into an armchair. She eyed the meal tray on the coffee table.
“Can I ask why you would—”
“I ordered it for you.”
“You knew I would come knocking at your door?”
“Let’s just say I know a bit more than you think, dear. The moment I saw you on TV—knowing full well you don’t exactly have a penchant for glitzy affairs—I had a hunch something was happening. I even suspected your Thomas might have reappeared, for you to run off in the night like that. At least, that’s what was going through my head when the concierge called to check with me about ordering you a limo. So I thought I’d provide a room service contingency plan, in case the evening went south. Go on, eat up. It’s only pancakes, nothing fancy. A little bit of maple syrup can’t exactly mend a broken heart, but it can work wonders for your mood.”
In the suite next door, a certain countess was also watching the same news program. She asked her husband to remind her to call Karl the next day. After congratulating him on his stunning creation, she would warn him there’d be hell to pay the next time he promised her an exclusive design, only to find her one-of-a-kind gown gracing the gorgeous form of a woman half her age. Of course, it would come as no shock to Karl that she was sending the gown back. Sumptuous as it was, she simply had no use for it now.
Julia told her father all about her misadventure that evening: the unexpected departure for the cursed exhibition, the conversation with Knapp, and her pathetic return to the hotel. What she left out was any explanation—or confession—as to her meltdown upon hearing Knapp’s news. Learning Thomas had moved on with his life should have come as no surprise. She had suspected that from the beginning—how could he do otherwise? For reasons she couldn’t possibly comprehend, the worst part was hearing that Thomas had given up journalism. Anthony listened to Julia without interrupting or adding even the slightest commentary. Swallowing her last forkful of pancake, she thanked her father for the surprise snack, which had been delicious, even if all the added calories hadn’t given her much peace of mind.
There was no point in staying in Berlin. Signs or no signs, there was nothing left for her here. She just wanted to put her life back in order. She decided to pack her bags before going to bed, and the two of them could fly out first thing tomorrow morning. This time, it was Julia who felt a sense of déjà vu—and not at all to her liking.
In the hall, she kicked off her shoes and took the service stairs back down to her room.
The moment Julia exited the room, Anthony picked up the telephone. 4:00 p.m. in San Francisco. Perfect. The person on the other end of the line picked up after the first ring.
“Pilguez speaking.”
“It’s Anthony Walsh. Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
“No such thing for old friends, especially one I haven’t heard from in ages. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Actually, I have a favor to ask, a little investigation, if you’re still up for that type of thing.”
“Up for it? I’ve been so goddamn bored since I retired, you could have called me to say you’d lost your keys, and I’d be on the case.”
“Do you still have contacts with Homeland Security? Somebody with access, who could provide me with some intel?”
“I think it’s fair to say a couple of folks over there should still remember me.”
“Well, let’s just hope they remember you fondly. Here’s what I need . . .”
The conversation between old friends lasted a good half hour. Former detective Pilguez promised to get Anthony the information he was seeking as soon as humanly possible.
It was 8:00 p.m. in New York. A little sign on the door announced that the antique shop was closed for the night. Inside, Stanley was touching up the shelves on a late nineteenth-century bookcase he had acquired that afternoon. Adam knocked on the window.
“God, not him again!” Stanley muttered, scrambling to hide behind a sideboard buffet.
“Stanley! It’s me, Adam! I know you’re in there.”
Stanley crouched down, nearly on all fours. He barely breathed.
“Stanley? I’ve got this . . . Château-Lafite?”
Stanley’s ears perked up, and he started rising off the ground, almost against his will.
“They’re 1989! Two whole bottles!” cried Adam from the street.
Suddenly Stanley was at the door, swinging it open quickly.
“I’m sorry, I was working and couldn’t hear you,” he said, ushering Adam inside. “Hungry?”
18.
Thomas stretched and slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Marina, who was sleeping beside him. He went down the spiral staircase and crossed the living room of the duplex. Behind the counter of the bar, he grabbed an espresso cup and slid it into the machine, using a towel to muffle the noise before pressing the button. Thomas carefully opened the sliding doors and stepped onto the patio, soaking in the first gentle rays of sunlight pouring out across the rooftops of Rome. He glanced over the railing and down into the street, where a deliveryman was unloading cases of fruits and vegetables in front of the little grocery store across the street from Marina’s building.
He soon picked up the strong odor of burning toast coming from inside the apartment, followed by a volley of Italian cursing. Marina appeared, wearing nothing but a bathrobe and a sullen frown.
“Two things,” she said. “First off, quit flashing your bare ass on my patio. I doubt my neighbors really care for that kind of entertainment during breakfast.”
“And the second?” asked Thomas without turning around.
“As for us, we’ll be having breakfast at the café downstairs. There’s nothing here to eat.”
“That’s funny. I seem to recall us buying bread last night . . . ,” Thomas teased.
“Put some clothes on,” responded Marina, returning inside.
“Good morning to you, too!” grumbled Thomas.
An old woman watering her plants gave Thomas a friendly wave from her balcony on the other side of the narrow street. Thomas smiled at her and left the terrace.
It wasn’t even eight, but the air was already sticky and hot. The owner of the trattoria downstairs was setting up his terrace, and Thomas gave him a hand bringing the umbrellas out onto the sidewalk. Marina sat down and grabbed a croissant from a basket full of pastries.
“What do you plan on doing with your day?” asked Thomas, helping himself to a pastry. “Are you mad because I’m leaving?”
“No. You want to know what gets me, Thomas? The way you always manage to say the worst things at just the right moment.”
The trattoria owner set two piping-hot cappuccinos on their table. He looked at the sky, calling out desperately for a storm to break the heat, and complimented Marina on her early-morning beauty. He winked at Thomas and went back inside.
“How about we try not to ruin this morning?” continued Thomas.
“Perfect. Finish your croissant. We’ll go upstairs, and you can jump my bones. Then you can hop in the shower while I play maid and pack your bags for you. A quick kiss goodbye on my doorstep, and then nothing, for two or three months, maybe forever. Don’t bother saying anything; there’s no point.”
“You could come with me!”
“I’m a writer, not a reporter.”
“No, listen. Come to Berlin, we’ll spend the night together, then tomorrow I’m off to Mogadishu, and you can come back here to Rome.”
Marina turned to signal the café owner for another cappuccino.
“Wonderful idea. And as a bonus, we get to say our goodbyes at the airport. You know I’m a sucker for melodrama.”
“Come on. It wouldn’t hurt for you to show your face in the newsroom in Berlin for once,” Thomas added.
“Drink your coffee while it’s hot.”
“If you stop moping long enough to say yes, I can call and book you
a ticket.”
An envelope appeared underneath the hotel room door. Anthony winced as he bent to pick it up. He ripped it open and read the fax.
Nothing yet, sorry to say. I’m a long way from giving up. I hope to have more to tell you soon.
The message was signed GP, for George Pilguez.
Anthony Walsh sat down at the desk in his suite and scribbled a note to Julia. He called the concierge and ordered a car and driver, then left his room and made a quick stop at the sixth floor. Tiptoeing over to his daughter’s bedroom, he slid the note under the door and crept off quickly.
“Thirty-one Karl-Liebknecht-Strasse, please,” he told his chauffeur as he climbed into the backseat.
The sedan pulled away from the curb and into the flow of traffic.
After a quick cup of tea, Julia grabbed her bag from the closet and began folding her clothes, but soon found herself throwing everything into the suitcase in a sloppy heap. She stopped midway through and walked over to the window. A misty rain was falling over Berlin. Down on the street below, a sedan had just driven away from the hotel.
“Bring me your shaving kit, if you want it in your bag,” called Marina from the bedroom.
Thomas stuck his head out of the bathroom.
“I can pack my own bag, you know.”
“You certainly can. And you do a poor job of it. And I won’t be there in Somalia to iron all of your clothes for you.”
“Marina, you didn’t actually . . . ?” asked Thomas with a note of concern.
“Of course not. But I could have!”
“Have you made a decision?”
“About whether I should dump your sorry ass today or tomorrow? Good news; you got lucky this time, you bastard. I decided I should say a little hello to our future editorial director, for the good of my career, of course. Although there’s absolutely no correlation with your departure from Berlin, it does mean you’ll get to spend a bonus evening enjoying my company.”
“That is great news. I’m thrilled,” he said with a smile.
