“You can do this?” Jaime asked.
He laughed. “What, drive?”
“No, go out by yourself.”
He was wearing a black cap and sunglasses. “I do it all the time. People look for the trappings of Shepard, not so much the person.”
“Where are we headed? Sorry to ask, but I’ve got to check in and let my crew know where I’ll be, in case they need me.”
“We’re heading for a small restaurant in Laret, which isn’t far. The proprietors know me. They have a back room with a separate entrance, so no one will even know we’re there.”
Jaime typed this into her handheld. It was only seconds before Eddie’s reply flashed across the screen: We’ve successfully removed your package from play. You’re off duty. Man, you don’t let grass grow, do you? Have fun discussing economics!
And on the screen flashed a photo of Shepard wearing a radio mic, singing in a stadium above hordes of screaming fans.
“You good?” asked Mark.
“Laret it is,” she replied. “And what kind of car is this? It’s not exactly what I expected.”
“It’s the new HDi hybrid. Not technically on the market until 2010, but they asked if I’d show it around. Gets sixty-nine miles per gallon, using electricity and diesel.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Mark smiled, and skirted around a cluster of people who paid no attention to the unmarked sedan at all. “So,” he said, “are you going to tell me what you’re doing here? What all this hubbub is about?”
“You’re a fine one to ask me about hubbub!”
“Hey! I wasn’t hiding in some bloke’s limo with Andrea Farmer!”
“Touché. Although–wait, how did you know who she was? I never introduced you.”
“Dr. Farmer was probably the most buzzed-about participant of the year; give me some credit. She’s known by her hair–plus I saw you with her last night in the lobby bar. Wasn’t hard to get background. So why were you with her?”
Jaime did a mental calculation of what information would come out concerning their day’s activities, and realized if Eddie had distributed the footage, it would probably be in tomorrow’s papers, if it wasn’t already on CNN.
“Woodbury had hatched a scheme to manipulate international currency. He’d brought in high-stakes players. Dr. Farmer was able to expose the plan. Needless to say, there are some very powerful folks with whom she’s not very popular at the moment.”
“You were here with a famous reclusive economist foiling a plan by J. Aldrich Woodbury?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
He shook his head. “Okay. I admit that wasn’t my first guess.”
“How about you? I was sorry I couldn’t hear your presentation. I was off with Dr. Farmer…not that I could have gotten in, anyway.”
The lanky musician beeped his way through another knot of pedestrians and expelled a long breath. “Aw, Jaime,” he said. “I know that most of the people in that room were there because I’m a freaking musician. Probably most of them weren’t even listening to what I said–or, if they were, it was with disdain, or perhaps sympathy, for the well-meaning rocker who likes to dabble in economics.
“But what I’m talking about–what we're talking about, it’s not just me!–is so damn important. Worldwide economic theory needs to stem from an entirely new premise, and before it’s too late! The whole idea that markets should not be regulated, that they’re always self-correcting, made sense in a time when the goal was to get every individual more, more, more! But now that we’ve run smack into the fact that the Earth does not have unlimited exploitable resources–the fact that a global consumer culture will spell the death of humanity sooner rather than later has got to be put into the mix.
“They’re all talking about bringing the second- and third-world countries up to par with the first-world countries in manufacturing and per capita income. But supposing China does catch up to us. If the Chinese owned and drove automobiles at the rate we Americans do, the amount of carbon dioxide emitted would multiply fifty times over. The planet would be dead within a decade.
“We’ve got to stop thinking more is better! Instead of bringing China and India up to par with the U.S., we’ve got to say, Enough! to ourselves. Instead of letting the markets go on unchecked, exacerbating the growing rift between haves and have-nots, we’ve got to begin to find a sustainable middle ground for all of us.”
His voice had risen, and he looked chagrined. “I’m sorry. You just heard my stump speech. As you can tell, I tend to get emotionally involved in this. It’s not always helpful.”
Jaime smiled. “How can you not get emotionally involved, when the fate of Earth and of several billion people is at stake? Especially when our own country is at the epicenter of the problem, refusing to regulate markets or even sign the Kyoto Protocol because it would keep corporations from earning unchecked profits? Why not kill our grandchildren to sustain a fossil fuel–based economy?”
To say that Mark looked at her with surprise was an understatement.
She continued, “Even those who worship at the altar of Adam Smith, if they actually read Smith’s theories, will see that he talked about unregulated markets in the context of a community-based economy.”
“Good God, Jaime, you’ve read Adam Smith?”
“He is the theorist at the base of the self-correcting market models. We are at the World Economic Forum. Give me some credit,” she said.
This time he laughed. “Paul would be proud of you.”
“And Ondine would definitely be so very proud of you.”
Somehow those simple sentiments were enough to make them both lapse into silence as they drove north out of Davos.
January 25, 2007, 1:40 p.m.
(1 day, 20 hours, 50 minutes until end of auction)
Bayt Lahm, West Bank, Israel
* * *
“You will do as I say, woman!”
Abihu el-Musaq shook with anger as he gestured at the furniture in his mother’s apartment. “All of this, the rent, the clothes, the furniture, all of this have I given to you. And this is how you show your gratitude? By refusing to accompany me to a wedding?”
“But Abihu, they are so primitive. I do not want to wear the burqa or sleep on the floor.”
“You did so when you were young.”
“Yes, and I swore I never would again.”
They had been arguing since he had arrived a few hours before. When el-Musaq surprised his mother with this sudden visit, she was not particularly happy to see him on her doorstep. Then when he asked for one simple little favor, to accompany him to the Bedouin camp, she responded with whining and excuses. “I have other plans…,” then…“I have nothing to wear”…and finally…“I am too old for this.”
“Enough!” The man waved away all her excuses. “It’s only for a few days. I have a job, you will help me, or I will cut you off from all future income. You can make your way as a whore on the street for all I care.”
The older woman looked at the burqa her son now held out to her. As she took it, silent tears slid down her cheeks.
January 25, 2007, 2:35 p.m.
(1 day, 18 hours, 55 minutes until end of auction)
Highway 28
Heading toward Laret, Switzerland
* * *
”So, are you still military?” Mark asked Jaime as they headed away from the craziness of Davos.
“Yes. In fact, right now I’m on my mid-tour leave.”
“Mid-tour leave?”
“It’s the two weeks you get in the midst of your deployment in Iraq, to allegedly give you some touch with reality, or at least a little breathing room.”
“Wait–you’re deployed to Iraq?”
“I was there yesterday morning.”
“In Iraq. Yesterday morning.”
In response to her nod, he said, “So now that you’ve temporarily derailed Woodbury’s life and plans, what are you up to next? How long do you have?”<
br />
“I–I don’t know, really. I’ve been so focused on getting here with Dr. Farmer that I hadn’t really planned past that. I really didn’t expect to be done so quickly.” As she spoke, she wondered briefly just who had Andrea, where they were taking her, and how they’d get her back for the appropriate door opening into Eden.
Mark was quiet for a minute; then he said, “Jaime. Instead of going to lunch, let’s go to my place, in France, for a few days. I’d love for you to see it, how we’re working toward making it a sustainable community. I don’t think you and Paul ever saw the manor we restored there, did you? It’s the first place Ondine and I bought together. Now, though I get back to Chicago whenever I can, Lac-Argent feels like home to me. Let me show it to you. And let me pamper you, if only for a few short days.”
If this was anyone but Mark, she thought, I’d assume an offer like that has to come with a catch. There’d have to be a clause about selling my soul in there somewhere.
“Jaime. Come on. I haven’t seen you since Paul’s funeral. And we swore we’d keep in touch.”
“But wait–you’re at the World Economic Forum, convincing people to rethink the current market model of economics. How could I take you away from that?”
“I’ve already made my presentation. I’ve had private meetings with the people who top my list. What would I miss? The Google party?”
“I’ve heard it’s a hot ticket. And–I know the password,” she teased. It was a local joke, because everyone knew the password.
“Seriously. Even if I went, what are the odds of having a meaningful conversation with anyone in the press of a thousand people?”
“But–”
“Kiddo. I’m coming off a world tour with the band. I just presented on a panel at the World Economic Forum and had a series of private meetings with hard-asses who have no intention of giving up their chance to make mega-bucks, no matter what the cost to future generations. Just what does it take to earn a few days off? I’m beat. Not as beat as you, I’m sure, but come on. Let’s give each other a break.”
“Oh, man, Mark, that sounds so good. Where in France is Lac-Argent? And how would we get there?”
“It’s in the north. In the Champagne region. And to get there…well, this is embarrassing, for someone who is preaching environmental responsibility…but we’d take my plane from Zurich to Reims.”
“Why is that embarrassing?”
“That monstrosity of a stretch limo wasn’t mine. The private plane, and all its wicked fuel consumption, is. I just haven’t figured out another way to travel that makes sense…given my current circumstances.”
Jaime said, “Actually, I’m working on getting my pilot’s license, and I’d love to fly to France with you.”
“So you’ll come?”
She laughed. “Let’s just say you had me at Champagne.”
January 25, 2007, 9:35 p.m.
(1 day, 11 hours, 55 minutes until end of auction)
Lac-Argent, France
* * *
This has to be a dream, Jaime thought. Any second now, I’m going to be awakened by a phone call to my hooch in Anaconda, giving me news I don’t want to hear. This can’t possibly be real.
The last few hours had been magical. They’d arrived at the airport in Zurich to find one of Shepard’s assistants waiting with a bag lunch, which they’d eaten in the hangar while the plane was being fueled. While on the road, Shepard had asked what size clothes Jaime wore, and the assistant also handed Jaime a small suitcase packed with a comfortable pantsuit, a dark skirt, two sweaters, a gray sweatshirt that said Zurich, underwear, toiletries, makeup, a pair of jeans, and three different autumnal colors of Henleys in a soft combed cotton. She found it ironic that more men had shopped for her in the last twenty-four hours than had in the previous thirty years.
No one at Shepard’s manor house in France had known to expect him, but a single call had set well-oiled cogs in motion. They’d arrived with enough remaining daylight for Mark to give her a walking tour of the land surrounding the twelfth-century manor house. They’d strolled the vineyards, the farmland, and visited the sheep meadow and the horse pasture. He’d shown her the state-of-the-art recording studio in one of the outbuildings, which not only helped him record close to home but also brought a steady stream of income to the village.
Mark’s eyes lit up as he promised to show her around the village and the surrounding countryside the next day. “It’s easier for this corner of the country to decide to become sustainable, because there’s so much open land and agriculture to begin with. But as far as supplying our own renewable energy sources, that’s worked out for an unexpected reason. Like everywhere else in the world, local families have trouble keeping their children ‘down on the farm,’ in such a ‘boring’ place as this–unless there’s something radical and subversive they can be a part of. We have a whole young generation here, actively working at making this a model of a sustainable community.”
He’d given her a wink and continued, “Of course, it also helps that most of them help run the studio and mix it up with some of the top bands in the world.”
His cook/housekeeper, Mrs. Halpern, had been happily flustered to show up and whip up a succulent meal of trout amandine and local root vegetables for them.
It was as they ate in the kitchen at the farm table by the stone hearth, chatting with Mrs. Halpern and catching up on the local news, that Jaime let herself think–for the first time in a long time–a world without Yani could still, possibly, hold some delight.
Then Mark had invited Jaime upstairs into the half of the house that constituted his private quarters. He’d shown her to a guest room, told her to choose from one of the swimsuits in the drawer and meet him in the bathroom of his suite. The bathroom itself had an ancient working fireplace, and a Jacuzzi by a large window, overlooking the countryside. They sat, in the warm bubbling water, sipping wine and watching the moon rise over the small river that ran through the backyard.
It was all so overwhelmingly unexpected that Jaime had gone for the only way she could think of to tease him. “Okay, so how many women can I assume have come through here, if you stock a choice of swimsuits?”
He looked discomfited, like he would have expected that from anyone but her, and she felt bad that she’d given in to her own insecurities and acted like…well, like an insecure woman in a hot tub with a great-looking guy who undoubtedly had his choice of partners.
“Jaime, I…,” he started.
“I’m sorry, Mark. Really. You don’t have to explain anything to me.”
“There was a time, in my younger days, when it was exciting to cut a swath through a sea of beautiful girls, I won’t lie,” he said. “The boys and I…we had our fun. By the time I met Ondine, though, I’d had my fill of adoring fans, sixty percent of whom thought that a one-night stand meant you were committing to them and forty percent of whom had nasty diseases. It’s not that much fun to have to throw a well-meaning young thing out of your room every morning, especially when you have a raging hangover.
“When I met Ondine, I was ready to put that behind me.”
“She was special,” Jaime said softly. “Again, Mark, I’m sorry.”
“No, I haven’t really talked about this…but, after she died, I decided no one would blame me if I had a few lost months of indulgence. You know, to bury the pain. So I tried to. And I couldn’t. I had a few nights of groupie sex, but it was…awful. Seriously awful. I couldn’t feel anything for those girls. It scared the hell out of me.”
“But it’s understandable, given what you’d been through. You know that, right?”
“The good news is, it made me realize I couldn’t go back in time. Nor did I want to. Since then, I’ve tried to keep up my rock star image…but the fact is, I’ve had a couple of semi-serious relationships, but that’s it. I can’t say not any sex, otherwise. But…it’s been a while.
“Oh, shit, Jaime. That sounds like a come-on if ever I’ve said one. But it wasn
’t meant to be.”
Jaime took another sip of the Shiraz. “Mark, relax; it’s me. Your old friend. You can say what you want. I’ll keep it safe.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ve needed an old friend for a while.”
“Me, too,” she said.
“So, do you want to talk about Iraq?”
“Hell, no. I mean, not right now. This is all too wonderful. What I really need is to have my head in a totally different place for a little while–if that’s all right.”
And then, he’d done the last thing she’d expected. He’d started humming. She didn’t recognize the tune, but it was simple and melodic, and the rich timbre of his voice was obvious. Jaime leaned her head against his shoulder and enjoyed feeling the song rumbling inside him.
He put his hand on top of her head, and stroked her hair, gently.
“Old friend,” he said.
“Old friend,” she replied. And she thought, If only Yani could see me now.
They’d relaxed for a while before he picked up his watch. “Oops, it’s time,” he said.
“Time?”
“Our masseuse and masseur await.”
“You’re joking.”
“I said I wanted to pamper you,” he said. “Let me do this, Jaime. I’ve owed you so much for so long. And I’ve always felt guilty toward you…”
“Guilty? Toward me? Why? I can’t think of one reason!”
“What you–and Paul–did for me, for Ondine and me…during her final illness. The strength and support you gave us. It’s what made it all bearable. And I swore I’d be there for you after Paul was killed. But then–Jaime, it was so hard. Losing such a friend of my heart, so soon after losing my wife. Losing Paul just about did me in. I didn’t feel like I had anything left to give to you. But I’ve always felt bad. Like I let Paul down. Like I let you down.”
Jaime held the soft nap of the towel around her with one hand, and with the other gently stroked Mark’s face. “It must have been tough for you. Paul was so special. I should have realized what his death did to you. But I was overwhelmed by loss, too. We both did what we needed to do to get through. No recriminations on either side, okay?”
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