Alex walked up behind him. “I see you inherited another interesting job.”
Andrew sighed. “Yeah, right. Real interesting.”
“I have some news that'll cheer you up. I've got a date with Anne Turner.”
Andrew's eyebrows shot up. “How did you manage that? Everybody else in the office got the cold shoulder.”
“Must be my irresistible charm.”
“I don't believe you. Ten bucks says you're bluffing.”
“Do I get double if I score a home run?”
“You wouldn't…” Andrew's jaw dropped.
Alex laughed smugly. “You bet I will.” He picked up his briefcase and headed for the door. “See you in the morning.” He walked out whistling happily, his mind full of plans for Anne Turner. Now that he had finally gathered the courage to ask her out, he couldn’t understand why he’d waited so long.
* * *
Chapter 14
Pierre Fortune finished polishing the chrome on his Rolls Royce with the chamois, and stood back to admire the shine. “Magnifique!” he said to himself, storing the cloth into the trunk of the car. From a plastic bag, he pulled out an alcohol-soaked wash cloth and wiped his hands meticulously. Satisfied, that he was germ free, he climbed into the soft leather interior and turned the ignition key. As the motor purred to life, he glanced back at Le Gallet, the famous art gallery he had founded seventeen years before, and glowered at Cigogne's painting still in the window.
During his career as an artist's agent and gallery owner, he had enjoyed many fat years, as was testified by his ample waistline. There had been some difficult times in the beginning when no one had ever heard of Pierre Fortune, but that was a long time ago. Now, his reputation was solid and his record impressive. Why Cigogne—who was the most famous of his protégés as well as his roommate and lover—should decide to leave him and join another gallery, was beyond his understanding. “After everything I've done for him,” grumbled Fortune, conveniently forgetting that he charged Cigogne double the standard commission, even after Cigogne had long become an established name. If he wants to leave me, let him. He'll soon find out that he needs me, more than I need him. I could make a famous artist out of a monkey, if I had to. He popped open a box of breath mints and popped one into his mouth.
The Rolls Royce rounded the Arc de Triomphe and headed towards Montmartre. Today, Fortune was about to do something he had not done in years. He was on a talent hunt. It was a great idea. He could imagine the headlines in the art magazines, now. “Fortune’s new Discovery.” In actual fact, he had no need to go out of his way. In an average week, anywhere from one to a dozen hopefuls came to solicit his sponsorship, uninvited. There was something romantic about the idea of a talent hunt, though. It was the kind of story the public loved.
He remembered how Cigogne had first come to him, a disheveled young man of amazing sensuality, but limited ability. The first thing Fortune had done was steer the boy toward the shower. Then Fortune had made long and slow love to the young man, teaching him all the secret ways to please him. Cigogne had learned his lessons well. In return, Fortune had made Cigogne famous. He had encouraged the eager young artist to paint oversized, surrealist figures with black outlines. With a well coordinated campaign of advertising, public appearances, and a few exclusive showings, Cigogne's reputation was soon established. Now his paintings sold for an average hundred-thousand Francs each. Until two weeks ago, forty percent of that went directly into Fortune's pocket. Damn that Cigogne! If I was able to make that no-talent runt famous, I can do it with somebody else.
In Montmartre, he parked his car along a quiet street. He stepped out to make sure he was neither too close to the cars in front or in back, and then locked the doors. He headed for the square. It had been years since any talent had been discovered in the tourist infested area, but one just never knew.
At the square, he quickly made himself anonymous by joining a group of tourists. He hated to be recognized. The mangy artists would want to talk to him, shake his hand. They would get their filthy germs all over him. He shuddered at the thought, and pulled back a step to keep from bumping into the fat lady ahead of him. He followed the crowd around the square, glancing briefly at the tableaux on display.
“Par ici, Messieurs, Mesdames. Have your portrait painted.”
Fortune heard the voice and turned to look. Ten feet away, a young man in a poet's shirt and black bérêt was waving his arms, trying to attract the group's attention. Out of idle curiosity, he wandered closer. As expected, all he saw were a dozen or so mediocre paintings displayed along the fence.
What am I wasting my time here for? He turned away in disgust. Suddenly a flash of bright, vivid color caught his eye. He walked over for a closer look. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and with it, he picked up the oil. To his vast surprise, the painting, a modern rendition of a window with an old lace curtain and dandelions in a cracked vase, was stunning. The colors were like jewels dazzling in the sunlight. Fortune felt his pulse race. This was good. This was very good.
He snuck a peak at the artist. The scruffy young man was working furiously on a pastel of some flaccid tourist in a bright Hawaiian shirt. There was no trace of a rare talent in those strokes, and nothing appealing about the boy either. Fortune sighed. He looked down at the painting in his hands. It was signed simply and in tiny block letters, 'Dartois'. He looked at the signature on the other paintings along the same stretch of fence. They were signed, 'Julien,' in large flourishing letters. Definitely not the same artist.
Suddenly, the young man noticed him. His eyes narrowed, and then lit up. “Hey! You're Pierre Fortune aren't you?” He dropped his pastel and hurried over.
Fortune took a few steps back and put up the 'Dartois' oil as a shield. “Who did this?” he asked nervously.
“Not me. That's not mine.” Julien rummaged around and picking up one of his own painting, tried to push it onto Fortune. “This is mine. Here, take a look at this.”
“Listen to me!” ordered Fortune, still backing away. He was desperate to get away before the disheveled young man touched him. “Do you know this Dartois?”
“Sure I know Dartois. But I haven't seen her in a while.”
Her? Dartois is a girl? “Do you know where Dartois lives?” he asked suddenly less enthusiastic.
Julien shrugged his shoulders and scowled. “I don't know. She's usually here every day but I haven't seen her in weeks.”
* * *
In his office, the doctor explained the procedure to Brigitte. “What we're going to do is give David a few simple IQ tests. The hospital is conducting a study on young epileptics to find out what effect, if any, the disease has had on their intelligence.” Seeing Brigitte's look of concern, he added quickly, “If anything, victims of childhood epilepsy seem to have a higher than average IQ. There really is nothing to worry about. You can watch everything through here.” He indicated the small window across the room.
Brigitte nodded. “Will it take long?”
“No more than an hour or so.” He waited for a moment and when Brigitte nodded again, he took David by the hand. “Are you ready young man?”
David jumped off the chair. He was a beautiful three-year old. His hair was reddish gold. His green eyes were fringed with long thick lashes. His cheeks were round and covered with a multitude of freckles, and his smile was quick and friendly. “À tout à l’heure, Maman.” He waved happily to Brigitte and followed the doctor into the next room. As soon as the door was closed, Brigitte hurried to the window.
The room held nothing but a child-sized table and chairs, a few shelves with toys and picture books, and a large clock on the wall. Brigitte watched nervously as the doctor helped David into one of the chairs and set a box of wooden blocks before him. David looked at them with curiosity for a moment then turned the box upside down. Soon, he was sorting the different shapes of blocks into the corresponding holes in the board.
Meanwhile, the doctor watched and took note
s. After a few minutes, he took away the blocks and gave David a stack of large, bright pictures. Brigitte couldn't hear what was being said, but she could tell that David was answering questions about the pictures. The doctor would hold up a picture, and David would look at it and say a few words. Suddenly, David laughed and pointed at something in one of the pictures. The doctor chuckled and nodded encouragingly.
Brigitte breathed a sigh of relief. There was nothing ominous about any of this. She went back to the couch and sat down.
Brigitte was dozing when David bounded into the room. “Maman, look at what he gave me,” David exclaimed. He held up a coloring book.
Brigitte struggled awake and smiled at her son. “That was very nice of the doctor. Did you say thank you?”
David nodded vigorously. “Yes, and he said I was a nice boy.”
“He certainly is,” said the doctor. “Very nice and very energetic.” Brigitte laughed.
“Well, one thing you don't need to worry about is David's intelligence. He is a very bright little boy. As a matter of fact, in the two years I have been conducting these tests, I have never seen such a high score,” he continued, impressed. “His conversational skills are at the level of a six-year-old. His language comprehension and reading…”
Brigitte shook her head in disbelief. “David can read? I thought he only memorized the words to each illustration.”
The doctor laughed. “He can read. He scored at a high first grade or low second grade level. His mental arithmetic skills are just as advanced, as are his analytical thinking abilities. All in all, David doesn't seem to have any weaknesses.”
“Really?” said Brigitte, feeling a bit overwhelmed with all this information. “I-I didn't realize. I mean, I knew he was bright…” She stopped for a moment, remembering how David memorized rhymes and children's songs so easily. She remembered how he had astounded her by counting to one hundred when he was just a little over two. There was also the time she had taken him to the cinema. Months later, he still remembered every word of dialogue and every song from the movie. “Is there anything special I should do for him?”
“That's a very good question. Unfortunately, there are too few children like him for the government to develop a special program. Therefore, until he is five years old, he will not be eligible to start school. In any event, I'm not sure accelerated classes would be the answer. Emotionally, David is still only a little boy and he needs to experience his childhood. There will be plenty of time for serious things like school later,” he said as he tousled David’s hair.
Brigitte breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn’t imagine sending her baby off to school.
“How is he doing on his medication?” asked the doctor.
Brigitte bit her lip. “He hasn't had an episode since the first one, two months ago. I watch him all the time.”
“I can imagine how frightening that experience must have been. The best thing now is to go on with your lives as normally as possible. You must not fall into the habit of waiting for another episode to happen. David needs to lead a normal life.”
* * *
The next day, over coffee, Brigitte told Réjeanne about her decision. “I'm going back to the square tomorrow.”
“I'm so glad,” replied Réjeanne with obvious relief. “I just don't think it's healthy for you to keep following him around the way you have. It's not good for David,” she added quickly. “I think this deserves a celebration. Let's make something special for dinner. How about inviting Monsieur…”
“No!”
Réjeanne sighed. “It was just a thought.”
“I'll go out and get a small roast and a bottle of wine,” offered Brigitte. “Mon chéri, do you want to come with me to the grocer?”
The boy's eyes lit up instantly. “Can I have un nougat?”
Brigitte laughed. “How can I say no to such a face? Only if you promise not to eat it until after dinner.”
* * *
David was irritable during the shopping excursion, and Brigitte rushed through her errands to get him home fast. On the way back from the boulangerie David lagged behind.
“Hurry up sweetheart. Auntie Réjeanne is waiting for us with dinner.” Brigitte switched the heavy bag of groceries to her other arm and took hold of David's hand.
David squirmed and cried sullenly. “Ouch! You're hurting me.” He pulled away suddenly and rushed away.
“David, come here.” She tried to grab him again when suddenly David's eyes rolled up in his head. “Oh no…” She dropped the bag of groceries and reached for him. Apples rolled down the sidewalk. David let out a soft moan. His head snapped back and he fell to ground, his small body gripped by a series of convulsions.
“Oh, my God! Help! Somebody help me!” While Brigitte frantically tried to perform the simple moves the doctor had taught her, the crowd grew. Dozens of curious onlookers hovered by, whispering amongst themselves. “Somebody, help me, please,” cried Brigitte again. Nobody moved. David's little body jerked on the hard sidewalk. Then, just as suddenly as they began, the seizures stopped.
Still shaking from fright, Brigitte picked up her small son and cradled him in her arms. “Are you all right my darling?” David looked up at her, a confused expression on his sweet face.
From the crowd a single voice called out above the whispers, “The child is possessed.” There was a hush, during which Brigitte thought her heart might stop. Then murmurs of approval rose around her. An old woman moved through the crowd and stopped in front of Brigitte. She spoke again, her face contorted with hate. “Get that boy away from here. There is evil in him.”
David struggled in her arms and Brigitte looked down at him. He was staring at the old woman, his eyes full of fear. “Maman, what is that woman saying about me?”
“Nothing, mon chéri, nothing at all. She's just a crazy old woman.” She helped him up and together they hurried away, leaving the apples and groceries behind. How can anyone be so hateful to an innocent child? wondered Brigitte, sadly. People are so ignorant. Don't they know that epilepsy is a disease?
* * *
Chapter 15
The small apartment building was simple but elegant. In the mirrored lobby, Anne Turner picked up her mail, and hesitated between taking the easy way up in the old brass caged elevator and sweating it up the marble staircase. The exercise will do me good, she decided, and briskly walked up to the sixth floor. A minute later, she unlocked the thick wooden door, hurried in and turned the double bolt on her security lock.
Home at last. On her way to the kitchen, she quickly shuffled through the envelopes. Bills, bills, and more bills. The salary I get at William Brandon and Company is a joke. I can't wait to get my hands on some real money, she thought, frustrated. Just as she was about to throw the pile of envelopes on the counter, one of them caught her eye. That's Sally's handwriting. It had been ages since she had last heard from her sister. She tore open the envelope eagerly.
Dear Anne,
Well, it finally happened. Jim left me. I don't know why I'm surprised. It's just that with the baby coming in February…
She read the letter quickly and with growing anger. For the thousandth time, she asked herself the same question. What the hell is wrong with that girl?
Sometimes it seemed to Anne that her sister was just plain stupid. All of her life, Sally had made one blunder after another, and always in the name of love. Her worse mistake by far had been marrying Jim. Now, just as Anne had predicted, Sally was in yet another predicament, and this time it would not be so easy for her to get out.
I would rather die than end up like her. Sally was twenty-six, uneducated and unemployed. She, her husband, and their two children had been surviving on the meager salary he earned as a truck driver. Now she was pregnant again, and Jim had walked out on her.
I will never let that happen to me. Quickly, she crumpled up the letter and threw it into the garbage. She opened the refrigerator, pulled out a few cartons of leftover Chinese food and shoved t
hem into the oven. She slammed the oven door shut and turned on the heat. Never! I would rather die than live that way.
At twenty-two, Anne knew exactly what she wanted. More than anything else in the world, she wanted money, and lots of it. It was not impossible. All she had to do was marry the right man. She thought of sexy Alex Ivanov who had just asked her for a date and laughed. Now, there is a prime example of a long shot.
From watching a few of her friends, and now her sister's experiences, she knew that picking the right husband was the equivalent of choosing the next winner at the Triple Crown. One just never knew. She had long ago concluded that it was much safer to go for an older man, one with a ready-made fortune.
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