He wavered, casting a glance at a lectern made of polished hardwood on which a book lay open. The reservations calendar.
‘What did you say your name was?’ The maître d’ again glanced off to the side and then hesitantly went over to the lectern.
‘Cornwall,’ I said. ‘It’s booked under the name of Cornwall. Patrick Cornwall. He’s my business partner.’
‘No, I’m afraid not. I don’t see …’ The man ran his index finger over past lunches and dinners.
‘Oh, good Lord,’ I said. ‘I guess it couldn’t have been last week.’ I clapped my hand over my mouth. ‘In that case, I really need to come up with a good excuse and contact him …’
The maître d’ kept paging through the book, and then his finger stopped abruptly.
‘A Mr Cornwall made a lunch reservation on the previous Thursday, September 11, but it was for only one person.’ He glanced up hastily and then closed the book.
What the hell was Patrick doing all alone in a luxury restaurant? I thought. Squandering our money? My hand moved involuntarily to my stomach.
‘One moment please,’ said the maître d’, and he went into the next room. I took a few steps in that direction. He stopped to speak to an older man wearing a red jacket.
‘This lady is asking about Monsieur Cornwall. Patrick Cornwall,’ he said in a low voice. ‘But then I noticed …’ The maître d’ glanced over at me. I fixed my gaze on the wall.
‘Cornwall? You mean that journalist? The American?’
The older man lowered his voice. ‘He is no longer welcome here.’
‘I know. But what do I tell the lady?’
And then they both headed towards me, with the older man in the lead.
In the few seconds before they reached me, I thought to myself that it couldn’t be possible. The men had spoken in French. I shouldn’t have been able to understand them, but the language from my childhood had resurfaced like a repressed memory. ‘I’m afraid we’re closed now, madame,’ said the older man in English.
‘What happened when Patrick Cornwall was here?’ I asked.
‘Under no circumstances do we give out any information about our customers.’
The maître d’ put his hand on my back and discreetly ushered me to the door.
‘It’s best if you leave now.’
And the doorman closed the door behind me without saying a word. The street was almost completely dark.
What on earth could Patrick have done to be refused admittance to such a place? Did he talk too loud?
I moved a short distance away from the restaurant, pulled up the hood of my jacket, and leaned against the stone wall.
Well, I’ll soon find out something, I thought. If only she shows up. That woman on the phone.
I glanced at my watch. Ten more minutes.
While I waited, I tried to conjure up some words in French. Shoe, foot, stone, street. I couldn’t do it, even though the language clearly existed somewhere in my subconscious. Those years spent in a French village were not anything I wanted to remember. I was six when we arrived there. My mother became a different person. I had faint memories of a house that echoed with silence. A man who demanded I call him Monsieur. Doors that were locked at night. Loneliness. And fear when I woke up at night and didn’t know where my mother was.
The car pulled over before I saw it. If I hadn’t been so lost in my own thoughts I might have noticed there was something wrong, that it wasn’t a Bentley or a Rolls, but a worn-out Peugeot with rust on the wheel rims. Suddenly a man was standing in front of me. He wore a hoodie and that’s all I saw. Adrenaline shot through my body, all my instincts screaming at me to flee.
‘Get in the car,’ he snarled, speaking English with an accent. He grabbed my arm. I pulled away, but he blocked my path.
‘I’m waiting for someone. They’ll be here any minute,’ I said. The street was deserted. Not a single Jaguar as far as the eye could see. Even the doorman had abandoned me. I was getting ready to kick the man in a sensitive spot and then take off running when I noticed someone sitting in the car behind him. It was dark, but I was almost certain I saw a woman in the driver’s seat. She wore a headscarf. With my heart pounding, I went over to the car. The man followed close behind.
‘Are you the one who called me?’ I said, leaning forward. The back car door was open.
‘Get in,’ she said, motioning to the back seat. I complied. The man crowded in next to me and slammed the door shut. A second later the woman started up the car and drove off. Fear surged like a hot wave through my body.
‘Where are we going?’ I said. ‘Who are you?’
‘Why are you asking about Patrick Cornwall?’ said the woman. ‘What do you know about Josef K?’
‘Nothing. I don’t know anything about Josef K. That’s why I called.’
I saw her looking at me in the rear-view mirror. Brown eyes with heavy eyeliner. The rest of her face was hidden by the scarf.
‘Where is Patrick?’ I said. ‘Do you know where he’s staying? Is that where we’re going?’
She turned onto yet another dark back street, again changing direction.
‘First I want to know who gave you my number.’ She had a deep voice with a melodic lilt to it. Aside from her accent, she spoke fluent English. ‘Who’s been talking about Josef K? Who do you work for?’
‘Who do you work for?’
The woman made a sharp turn and braked. We were on the outskirts of a park. Not a soul in sight. I was starting to feel truly scared.
She turned halfway around.
‘Was it Alain Thery who sent you?’
‘Alain who?’ I said, confused.
My instincts told me to lie. Then I’d have the upper hand, even though there were two of them.
‘I work for the same magazine as Patrick,’ I said. ‘The editor hasn’t been able to get hold of him. He was supposed to turn in a story, and the deadline is coming up. They go nuts if we don’t stick to the deadline.’
‘Let me see your press credentials,’ said the woman.
‘I’m not a journalist,’ I told her. ‘I work in the office.’
‘What’s your name?’
I don’t know where it came from, whether it was fear that cast me back to the person I used to be, or whether it was a rational decision not to tell them who I was. A lie, and yet not a lie. As close to the truth as possible.
‘My name is Alena Sarkanova,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘What’s your name?’
But the woman didn’t return the courtesy. She lit a cigarette. The smell of cheap tobacco stirred up hazy memories from my childhood. At that instant my cell rang, chirruping merrily in my bag, like an old acquaintance. I leaned down and fished it out.
‘Don’t answer,’ said the woman. The man grabbed my wrist. I managed to see Benji’s name on the display before I switched it off. It hurt to cut him off like that. Sweet little Benji, who right now was the only link to my normal life.
‘You need to stop poking around,’ said the woman. ‘Do you hear me? You need to go back home to New York.’ She met my eye in the rear-view mirror again. I swallowed hard. I hadn’t said anything about coming from New York. So she must know where Patrick lived and worked.
‘Where is he?’ I asked.
‘Go home,’ said the woman, and then she motioned to the man. He leaned across me to open the car door on my side, signalling that the conversation was over.
‘And don’t tell a fucking soul about any of this.’
The man gave me a shove and I climbed out. I drew the evening air deep into my lungs, feeling vaguely euphoric at being outside again. The car door slammed shut, and with a lurch they were gone.
I walked quickly away, heading in the direction where the city lights were brightest.
‘Good evening,’ said the desk clerk as I entered the hotel. He gave me a welcoming look through his rectangular designer glasses. There had been a shift change since I had left around lunchtime, an eternity ago.
‘Is it possible to get something to drink at this time of the evening?’ I said, running my hand through my hair. I had a feeling that I looked awful. ‘Nothing alcoholic, but anything else. Water.’
‘Of course,’ said the clerk, quickly getting to his feet. He came around the counter and disappeared up a small staircase to the dining room.
‘I’d be grateful for something to eat too,’ I called after him, and then sank down onto a sagging armchair. I’d walked at least three miles before I found a taxi. I hadn’t eaten a thing since lunch at Starbucks, and my stomach was churning with hunger. Or maybe it was the baby. My legs still felt shaky after the episode inside the car.
Facts, I told myself. That’s all that matters. The essentials.
The people in the car: a woman and a man. Age: somewhere between thirty and fifty. Definitely French.
The woman was the one in charge. Her English was grammatically correct. Well-educated. Her phone number was the last thing in Patrick’s notebook. She’d had a dual agenda: to find out who I was and what I knew, plus make sure that I left Paris.
I rubbed my forehead. Jetlag was still clamped like a helmet around my head. No matter how many times I replayed the conversation in my mind, I didn’t feel any wiser.
‘Pardon me for asking, but aren’t you Patrick Cornwall’s wife?’
The desk clerk placed a small tray in front of me. Salami and cheese. Water, and a glass of juice. It looked heavenly.
‘You don’t happen to have another one of these, do you?’ I said, my mouth full of bread roll.
I quickly drank all the juice. Then leaned my head back against the soft upholstery of the armchair.
Going home was not an option. I could always contact the police and the American embassy, get them to look for Patrick. Wait for him to get in touch.
I have a bigger responsibility now, I thought, placing my hand on my stomach. A real mother would go home. Not take any more risks. Eat regular meals and go jogging at a sensible pace, start crocheting. Put together the baby’s wardrobe. Buy a crib and buggy.
But my next thought was: the child will grow up, and one day ask about his father. And I’ll have to say: ‘He disappeared. I don’t know where. I don’t know why. I was too cowardly to stay and find out.’
‘Patrick Cornwall was a much appreciated guest when he stayed here with us,’ said the desk clerk, setting another roll on the tray. ‘He’s the first American in the last decade who didn’t think the Louvre was a murder scene.’
The clerk laughed a bit at his own joke. He spoke excellent English. According to the name badge he wore on his breast pocket, his name was Olivier.
‘Do you know the Taillevent restaurant?’ I asked between bites.
‘Absolutely,’ he said, perching on the arm of the sofa across from me. ‘It’s one of the finest. Not as well known as La Tour d’Argent, but undoubtedly better. They lost their third star in the Guide Michelin this year, but their loyal customers continue to dine there. I think the restaurant opened just after the war.’
‘Who are their customers? Who goes there?’
‘Politicians, businessmen. People who attended the right schools. The elite. It’s not a trendy place. If you’re interested in places that are hot at the moment, I would recommend Spoon. Alain Ducasse’s place.’
‘Did Patrick ever mention that he’d been to Taillevent?’
‘He asked where it was located. I remember because I had to look up the address. I’ve never been there personally. But I don’t know if he actually went there.’
Olivier straightened his glasses. He was stylishly dressed. Grey jeans, and a shirt in a darker colour. Reminiscent of Patrick’s clothing choices.
‘Did you talk much with him?’ I leaned back in the chair, trying to pretend this was an ordinary conversation about casual topics. My husband’s completely normal visit to Paris. I didn’t dare tell the clerk the truth — that Patrick had disappeared.
‘We argued a lot, mostly about the poet Rimbaud,’ said Olivier with a smile. ‘Patrick thought we should take down the plaque out there.’ He motioned towards the street.
I knew what he was talking about. I’d read on the hotel’s web page that Arthur Rimbaud had lived here during the wild year of 1872. Olivier leaned down and picked up a big book bound in red leather from a side table. Out tumbled a postcard with a greeting from Melbourne.
‘Never trust a poet,’ he read from the guestbook, which he then handed to me. My heart turned a somersault when I recognized Patrick’s handwriting. Never trust a poet. He’d added a thank-you for a marvellous stay. Dated 16 September, the day he left the hotel.
‘Were you working that day?’ I asked. ‘When he checked out?’
‘No, unfortunately I wasn’t.’ He stood up. Two women about my age came down the stairs and placed their room key on the counter. Olivier wished them a pleasant evening, and they tottered out into the night on their high heels.
‘Patrick had bought a biography of Rimbaud at one of the antiquarian bookshops down by the river,’ he went on. ‘The man with soles of wind, as Verlaine wrote. Rimbaud largely stopped writing poetry at the age of twenty, and settled in Ethiopia. He devoted himself to business instead, selling weapons and slaves.’
‘He became a slave trader?’ I was on the verge of dozing off. I really ought to go up to my room, I thought. Take a shower and go to sleep, but I was afraid of the thoughts that would descend on me once I was alone.
Olivier laughed.
‘Not everybody believes that, but Patrick thought it was logical. The slave trader was another side of the poet, a shadow, or some sort of innate soul that most people didn’t want to acknowledge, though he did exist, believing in his own superiority.’ He touched the little cross he wore around his neck, sliding it back and forth on its chain. ‘I don’t know if I’m explaining things very well.’
‘You speak fantastic English,’ I said, trying to picture Patrick sitting here having an intense discussion. Slave trade or slavery was clearly the red thread. But I realized that I was much too tired to think.
Olivier kept on talking about Patrick, praising his French pronunciation, which was unusually good for an American. Patrick had studied French in high school and continued taking classes at Columbia University. He was practically in love with the language. Whenever he had the chance, he’d bring home DVDs of French films, but I’d always fall asleep watching them.
‘Did he have any visitors while he was staying here?’ I asked.
‘Yes. It’s well known that he had a relationship with the poet Verlaine.’
‘No. I mean Patrick.’
The clerk looked away, still fingering his silver cross. ‘There are so many people coming and going …’
Suddenly I’d had enough of all this small talk. It was now or never.
‘My husband didn’t come back to New York,’ I said. ‘No one has heard from him since he checked out of this hotel. That’s why I’m here.’
Olivier stood up abruptly and stared at me. I could feel my anxiety rising. By tomorrow word would have spread through the entire hotel, and then it was just a matter of time before something appeared in the newspapers too. And the man and woman in the Peugeot would be back.
‘Please don’t say anything to anyone. He’s probably on the trail of some big story, and that’s why we haven’t heard from him.’ I lowered my voice. ‘Do you remember him getting a phone call, late at night, on a Friday, almost two weeks ago? Were you working that night?’
Olivier frowned and then nodded hesitantly. ‘Yes, I was here. And I do remember it. The man who called sounded very upset. But I don’t know what it was about. I just connected him to room 43. I thought it might have something to do with Monsieur Cornwall’s job.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve always dreamed of writing.’
‘Do you know where the man was calling from?’ I asked. ‘Could you find out?’
‘No. To do that, we’d have to contact the phone company. And I think the police would have to b
e—’
‘Never mind,’ I said. Asking the police to trace a call from one of Patrick’s sources was definitely out of the question.
‘Could you help me make a reservation at the Taillevent for tomorrow?’ I said. ‘There are a few things I want to check on at the restaurant.’
‘Certainly.’ Olivier went behind the counter, tapped the keyboard to wake up his computer, and then found the home page of the restaurant. Photographs appeared on the screen. The price of dinner was 140 euros.
‘That’s crazy,’ I said.
‘Lunch is cheaper,’ said Olivier. ‘It’s only 80 euros.’
Only, I thought. But I asked him to make a lunch reservation for the next day. On my way upstairs I happened to think of something, and turned around.
‘By the way,’ I said. ‘Make the reservation under the name Alena Sarkanova.’
The desk clerk looked up.
‘That was my maiden name,’ I told him.
Alena Sarkanova had nothing to lose. She managed fine on her own. Didn’t go begging for love. That’s who I was before Patrick. After we got married I shed my old name like a snake sheds its skin.
I got into the shower and let the hot water run down my body. Sarkanova was my mother’s surname. I had no idea what my father’s name was. I didn’t even know if he was alive. Mama had never wanted to talk about him, and by now she’d been dead for years.
On several occasions I’d rummaged through her papers, looking for a name, a photograph. Anything that might prove it was him I took after. I never found anything. She had erased him from her life. As a teenager I had fantasized that he was searching for me all over the world. One day a letter would arrive. Or I’d see a missing person notice on TV. One day he’d be standing at the front door, telling me how he’d risked his life to escape the Iron Curtain and find his beloved daughter.
‘Stop those stupid fantasies of yours,’ shouted my mother. I could still hear her voice ringing in my head. ‘He ran off. Don’t you get it? Because he didn’t want to take care of a fucking kid.’
‘That’s not true!’ I screamed back at her. ‘He ended up in prison. You told me that yourself.’
The Forgotten Dead Page 7
