by Mark Levin
With a sigh, Benji quickened his pace. But then he stopped short. Could it be? Suddenly thoughts of his parents’ potential marital problems were replaced by a more immediate fear. Crouching behind a lamppost was the Elevator Man, his pierced eyebrow glinting in the afternoon sun. Worse, he was pointing a camera straight at the family—taking pictures! Heart thumping, Benji turned to his family.
“It’s him,” he whispered.
“What?” Maddy said.
“The Elevator Man!”
“Who?” Roger asked.
“From the building. I could’ve sworn he was looking at us funny when we went up to the apartment. Look!”
Benji pointed. “There!”
But what was this? The Elevator Man was gone. Instead, a young girl was helping an elderly lady into a cab. Benji looked around, breathless and confused. His mother placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Sweetie, you’ve been reading too many spy novels.”
“I don’t read spy novels, Mom,” Benji said. “The Elevator Man from the building was following us—snapping pictures.”
“OK, fine,” Maddy said. “But where is he then?”
Benji wheeled around, surveying the entire area. He felt the blood rush from his face. Was he seeing things? The Elevator Man had been standing by a lamppost. Now he was gone. But didn’t international spies appear and disappear like magic?
“It’s been a long, long day, sport. Come on. In the cab.”
“Dad. He was there!”
“Well, he’s gone now. Let’s go home.”
“Wait!”
He was many things, but crazy wasn’t one of them. Why was the Elevator Man following them? What did he want? Worse, why didn’t his family believe him?
Benji took a final desperate look. Nothing. Only then did he let his father lead him to the taxi.
Chapter Eight
Not only couldn’t Roger Hitchcock stop his wife from swooning into the arms of an attractive stranger, but he soon discovered that he was powerless in the face of an even more cunning opponent: the jet lag monster. After an early dinner at a corner bistro, the family stumbled back to the Vadims’ with one thing on their collective minds: sleep.
“I am wiped,” Maddy said, and flopped, spread-eagled, facedown on the sofa.
“Me, too,” Rebecca said. “Catch ya later.”
She craned her neck and yawned, stumbling blindly toward the Vadims’ master bedroom.
To Roger’s horror, even Benji’s eyes were closing. “Off to the Batmobile. Even if it’s too small,” he murmured. “Need. Shut. Eye.”
“But it’s only six-thirty,” Roger said. “We have to stay up at least another two hours.”
It was too late. As he lurched toward the sofa to shake Maddy awake, Roger was stopped cold by a yawn of his own. A weariness enveloped him like a warm bath. Wandering blindly into his own room, he fell asleep next to his wife. Even on vacation, Roger and Rebecca slept back-to-back.
Exhausted, the Hitchcocks remained dead to the world all the way through the night and into midmorning. In fact, the family might have slept straight on through until noon had it not been for a series of insistent raps on the door around ten. Roger stirred first. Still clothed, he roused himself from bed and lurched to the foyer.
“Monsieur Vadim?” a voice said. “Monsieur Vadim!”
Roger scratched his head and reached for the door. To his surprise, standing before him was a messenger in a blue coat and cap.
“Um . . . oui?”
The messenger handed him an envelope. “Pour vous, monsieur.”
Roger took the envelope, and the messenger retreated back down the stairs.
“What’s that?”
Roger looked over his shoulder. It was Benji, clothes rumpled and glasses off. Clearly, he had just woken up, too. Without waiting for an answer, the boy grabbed the envelope and ripped it open.
“Hmmm, tickets. Four of ’em.” He held one close to his eyes and squinted. “For tonight, too. L’opéra.”
“An opera?” Roger said. He laughed. “I’m sort of embarrassed to admit this, but I’ve never been to one.”
“Well here’s our chance, Dad.” Then Benji had a thought. He sidled closer to his father. “And you know what? I hear operas are, you know . . . ”
“What, buddy?”
“Well, romantic.”
Roger grinned. “Romantic, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Despite his sister’s so-called proof, Benji still hadn’t given up on getting his parents back on track. The way he saw it, his father just needed to be a little more proactive. Benji didn’t know much, but he had seen plenty of men woo plenty of women on TV.
“So here’s what you do, OK? I hear that people bring bottles of wine to the opera in Paris. So you sneak in a bottle. I’ll help you with that. Then, during the first big aria, you pour her a glass, right? Then you whisper something soft and sweet like, ‘To a lady more beautiful than the most stunning monuments of Europe.’”
Roger gave his son a funny look.
“Have you been reading romance novels?”
Benji shook his head. “No, Dad. I just think it could be a fun way to spice things up tonight.”
“What’s tonight?”
It was Maddy, entering with a towel wrapped around her body and another wrapped around her head. She had been so tired she hadn’t even had time to get back into Veronique’s diary.
“Yo, Sis!” Benji said. “We’re going to the opera!”
“The opera?” She shrugged. “Cool, I guess.”
“So what’s the etiquette on this anyway?” Roger asked. “Do we call the Vadims in Chicago to see if it’s OK?”
“Why?” Maddy said. “They can’t use them.”
“Use what?”
Now Rebecca entered, wearing a nightgown.
“Opera tickets, Mom!” Benji said. “A messenger dropped them off for the Vadims.”
Rebecca frowned. “Well, if they aren’t ours, we can’t use them.”
Roger felt a flash of irritation. Why did his wife always take the dim view of things? Yes, he had wondered if they should call the Vadims for permission, but after the little pep talk from Benji, he had never really considered not going.
“Of course we use them. The vacation gods are smiling!”
“They’re free, Mom,” Maddy said. “Dad’s favorite price.”
“But what if the seats are with the Vadims’ friends?” Rebecca asked.
“We’ll wow them with our French,” Roger said.
“Then what about clothes?”
“Rebecca!” Roger said. “Look around. The Vadims live like kings. Their closets are swimming with high-class duds. What we borrow and return won’t hurt them.”
And so it was decided. And once Rebecca accepted the unexpected gift, the trip took a turn for the better. Looking forward to a night on the town, the family rallied. That afternoon, they walked through Saint-Germain-des-Prés, toured Notre Dame, and visited the Rodin Museum. For dinner, Roger splurged at a local restaurant, where Maddy surprised everyone—and herself—by ordering her main course in French.
“See what you can do if you apply yourself?” Rebecca said.
When Maddy saw her mother grin, she allowed herself a half smile in return.
Then, on the way home before the opera, Roger snuck into a liquor store and bought a bottle of what the shopkeeper called un Merlot très excellent. Strolling across the Seine, Benji sidled up to his father.
“You got the wine?”
Roger patted the package. “I do.”
“Glasses?”
“I’ll take two from the Vadims’.”
“Bottle opener?”
Roger scowled. He had forgotten. What would he do? Break the bottle over the seat?
“No worries, Dad,” Benji said. “I’ve got your back.”
He reached into his pocket and handed his father a corkscrew.
“Thanks, wingman.”
“I’m on i
t, Dad. By the way, sorry to be so freaked yesterday afternoon about that elevator guy. Must have been the jet lag. It’s astonishing how sleep deprivation can affect the human mind. I read a study.”
“Don’t worry about it, sport. We’ve all been a bit stressed lately.”
“Hey, you two,” Rebecca shouted from the other side of the bridge. “Hurry up! It’s almost dress-up time!”
Benji smiled. Over the course of the day, things had seemed to warm up between his parents. Then it got better. The moment the family pushed through the front door to the Vadim apartment, Rebecca all but sprinted down the hall to Beatrix Vadim’s immense closets. Roger ran behind. Best yet, they were both laughing.
“I’ve been waiting for this all day,” Rebecca said.
“Me, too!”
Looking down the hall, Benji saw his father do something he hadn’t attempted in years: the fireman’s carry! He lifted Rebecca into the air and spun her around the room.
Benji turned excitedly to his sister. “Hey, Maddy!”
“What?” she said. She had run for her room, too, hoping to catch a few minutes with Veronique’s diary before leaving for the theater.
“Mads!” Benji called again. “Check this out!”
“This better be good,” Maddy whispered to herself.
It was, but not for the reason Benji had hoped. The minute Maddy and Benji got down the hall to their parents’ room, they saw Roger catch his foot on the carpet. Stepping onto the hardwood floor, he slipped, then fell.
“Roger!” Rebecca called.
“Dad!” Benji cried.
Thankfully, Rebecca landed on the bed. As for Roger, he hit the floor hard on his rear end.
“Ouch,” Maddy said. “Nice one, Dad.”
Rebecca smiled. “Either I’m heavier than I used to be or you’re out of shape.”
Roger forced a laugh. “Just out of shape, sweets.”
Benji looked from his parents to his sister. Maddy met his eyes with a sad shrug. She had been happy to see her father trying to rekindle the old spark, but it felt like too little too late.
“So what now?” Benji said.
Never one to admit defeat, Roger rose promptly to his feet and helped Rebecca off the bed.
“What next?” he said. “Dress-up time.”
By the time the family Hitchcock stepped onto the street a short time later, they were utterly transformed. Rebecca was in one of Beatrix Vadim’s most elegant gowns, a blue velvet. Roger was wearing one of Xavier Vadim’s tuxedos as though it had been custom made just for him, along with a light overcoat large enough to hide the bottle of wine and glasses in the interior pockets. Maddy had searched through Veronique’s closets and found a trim-fitting black dress and red heels, while Benji strutted down the sidewalk in a black beret and a black cape.
Maddy laughed. “I can’t believe you really wore a Batman cape.”
“My options were limited, OK? I’m sharing rooms with a three-year-old, remember?”
“Quiet,” Rebecca said with a smile. “Benji looks very handsome.”
The boy blushed. He was used to receiving compliments about his brains, not his looks.
“Oh, whatever,” he said, but then caught his reflection in a storefront window and tipped his beret at a jaunty angle. Handsome? Why not.
“Taxi!” Roger called.
It was a quick trip through the city to the opera house. And when the family got out of the cab, a good day got even better. The Paris Opera was performed in a building that more closely resembled a palace than a theater.
“Oh my lord,” Rebecca said. “I had no idea.”
“This thing took over twenty years to build,” Benji said. “The architect was a guy named Charles Garnier.”
“How do you know that?” Maddy asked.
“I snuck into an internet café and Googled it.”
“You would,” Maddy said with a sigh.
“It’s also got seventeen floors,” Benji went on.
Rebecca waved toward the doors. “Then we better get going. It might take us a while to find our seats.”
The family moved across a wide open plaza toward the entrance. By that point, Benji had put aside all thoughts of the Elevator Man. Roger had forgotten about Harry Huberman. Rebecca had blocked out the memory of their long trip. For the time being, Maddy had even forgotten about Veronique’s diary.
By the standards of a typical overworked, stressed-out American family, the Hitchcocks were relaxed. Enjoying each other’s company, they had no idea whatsoever that they were being watched—and not by the Elevator Man. As the family made their way into the thick of the crowd, an unusually tall man in a light yellow suit with an orange tie stepped out from behind a street vendor, enjoying the final bites of a baguette. When the Hitchcocks disappeared inside the building, the man wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and followed. A moment later he slipped behind a column and watched the Hitchcocks admire the lavish lobby, an absolutely enormous space complete with a sweeping marble stairway, elaborately carved columns that rose to the ceiling, and chandeliers that blazed like burning torches.
“My gosh,” Rebecca said. “The inside is even more stunning than the outside.”
Roger grinned. All that mattered to him was that his wife was happy. Suddenly a house swap to Paris seemed like a stroke of rare genius.
“Ah, oui,” the usher said, taking Roger’s tickets. “En haut d’escalier e tournez-vous à droite.”
“What did he say?” Rebecca whispered to Maddy.
“I think we go up and right.”
Maddy was correct. As the family ascended the wide-open staircase, the tall stranger gave his own ticket to the usher and followed behind, close enough not to lose track but far enough away not to be seen. At the top of the stairs, the man watched another usher show the Hitchcocks through a door shrouded with red velvet curtains. He then went to the bar for a drink. He’d bide his time for a while.
Inside the curtains, the Hitchcocks found themselves in a box that held four seats. Directly below lay the orchestra section. Straight ahead was the stage, now covered by a blue curtain.
“What seats!” Rebecca said.
While his wife was focused on the spectacle around her, Roger carefully slipped the wine, glasses, and corkscrew out of his coat and placed them under his seat. He then screwed up his courage and slipped his arm around his wife’s waist.
“This is the Paris I promised you.”
She squeezed his hand. “This is so much better than decent.”
“La Bohème is by Puccini,” Benji told his sister as she took her seat beside him. “It’s the most performed opera in the world.”
Maddy smiled. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to pepper me with opera facts for the rest of the night.”
“I was considering it.”
“De-consider it, OK?”
The children continued to bicker, but Roger and Rebecca were too caught up in the splendor of the evening to intercede. Their focus was on the stage. Soon enough, the chandelier dimmed, the curtain opened, and the show began. Though never an opera fan in particular, Roger found himself being swept up by the music. But what mattered more was Rebecca. During the first act, Roger spent as much time looking at her as at the stage. Every time she smiled, he felt vindicated. And then, the pièce de résistance. During a loud orchestral passage, Roger quietly opened the bottle of wine. As the cork popped out, Benji held out the glasses. Roger poured.
“Thanks, wingman,” he whispered, then turned to his wife. “May I offer you a fine Merlot?”
Roger didn’t recall her ever being so surprised—not even when he had proposed. A look of pure joy lit up her face. Roger poured his own glass and put the bottle down at his side.
“Nice, Daddy-o,” Benji whispered.
Benji smiled as he watched his parents hold hands again. Everything seemed perfect. Benji was going to prod his sister to show her what was happening a row ahead, but she had fallen asleep. For his part, Benji was en
thralled by the opera. Never before had he heard so many beautiful voices sing together in such perfect harmony with such a stirring orchestra. He wasn’t sure of the plot, but men and women were declaring undying love. And at the end, so he heard, someone died. Not bad.
In fact, Benji was so engrossed in the opera that he didn’t hear the man in the yellow suit and orange tie enter their box and clear his throat. Clearly, his father hadn’t either. When the man tapped him on the shoulder, he said, “Quiet, sport. It’s almost intermission.”
Benji swallowed hard. The man in the suit was leaning over him now, whispering to his father.
“Bonjour, Monsieur.”
Roger looked up, then exchanged a glance with Benji. Who was this man? Benji immediately thought he was an usher coming to throw them out for stealing tickets.
“Xavier Vadim?” the man went on.
Benji felt his heart begin to thump in perfect rhythm with the fast-paced music onstage. Would his father tell the truth?
“Uh, yes?” he said. “I mean, uh, oui.”
“Venez avec moi. Allons-y.”
The man stood. He motioned toward the door. Roger looked at Rebecca.
“What’s going on?” his wife asked.
“Not sure,” Roger said nervously. “I’ll handle it.”
“Are we in trouble?” Benji asked.
Roger forced a smile. “Of course not. Leave it to me. It’s all good.”
Benji watched his father follow the man through the curtains to the upper lobby. If he were an usher, maybe his dad could offer him a little money to look the other way? Benji knew he shouldn’t listen in, but this was too strange to sit out. Besides, hadn’t Maddy already looked in Veronique’s diary? Why should she get all the fun? With his sister asleep and his mother already focused back on the stage, Benji slipped quietly out of the box. Through the curtain he could see his father and the man standing ten feet away in the upper lobby by the stairway.
“Listen,” Roger was saying. He was wearing his most ingratiating smile. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
To Benji’s dismay, the man was all business.
“L’avion attend,” he said.
Roger blinked. “Um . . . excuse . . . moi?”
