Lana sends it before, too late, she regrets relax at the end. It’s exactly the kind of thing Brian hates being told.
His response is more even-tempered than she feared but still persistent: Call me. Let’s talk. PLS!
Can she risk it? She is feeling a little calmer. By reassuring him she might reassure herself. Also, a little chat is probably the only way to end the texting tennis. What the hell. She dials. Brian answers halfway through the first ring. The tension in his voice is certainly not calming. “Lana, baby, what’s going on?”
Apart from seeing a young woman assaulted at a sex orgy? Apart from being locked away in her hotel room in a panic?
“Nothing, Brian, really.”
“Nothing? Okay, look, let’s not, you know, let’s not dance around this. You’re elated. You’ve been this way for a couple of weeks now. You can deny it all you like—”
“I’m not denying it, Brian.”
“Right. Okay. Well . . . So . . . When I get home and you’re not here, isn’t it . . . you know, it’s not surprising if I’m a little—call it concerned.”
Lana can tell Brian is on a roll, attackattackattack, so she steps into the bathroom, clicks him onto speaker, and places the cell on the toilet seat. She runs the tap and douses her face with cold water, telling herself to keep it steady, it’ll soon be over.
“So, I text you. No answer. I text again. And I hear nothing for nearly two hours, then I get this, this breezy ‘hey I flew out to Paris today’ TEXT! So now what? You’ve seen this exhibit and you’re alone at night in Paris and in no condition—I mean Jesus, Lana. I’m worried about you, can’t you understand that?”
After a few seconds of dead air, Lana, mopping her face with a hand towel, realizes that Brian has finally run out of words. She leans in closer to the phone.
“Okay, I know you’re worried, but you know that I’m—you know—in this certain mood right now, okay? Elated. All right. So you know what goes with that and I’m sorry, Brian, but the reality is it doesn’t matter that much to me what you’re feeling, because I know that what you’re feeling is misguided and you’ve got nothing to worry about. But I called you, didn’t I? And now you know I’m fine, everything is fine, and I’ll be home tomorrow. So there is no problem.”
“But you’re on your own over there. You are on your own, aren’t you?”
“Jesus, Brian. I’m staying in Le Chevalier, not slumming it in some pension out in the banlieue.”
“Le Chevalier? Oh. Okay.”
At last, she hears a meaningful shift in Brian’s tone. To him, an expensive hotel in a foreign city is a vaccine against unknown threats. Just like how first-class flights or Michelin-starred restaurants ward off all evil.
“Surely you figured that there’s no way I’m going to be high in Paris in a cheap hotel?”
“Oh. So you’re going to eat there? Is that the plan? Just relax in the hotel and . . .”
Relax? If only. If only her brain would slow a fraction. She slumps on the floor next to the toilet.
“That’s exactly right. I just want a little time on my own . . . to . . . to ponder, to think about what I saw today.” Yes, steer it back to Hopper. Safer ground. “Like I said, the exhibition was so amazing, a real once-in-a-lifetime kind of deal, you know—”
“Of course, and I know you’re a big Hopper fan. I understand. Really. I mean I guess I’m just a little, I don’t know, disappointed . . . You know if you’d told me about it, I could have organized something really amazing for both of us. Maybe I’d have liked to see it—”
“Let it go, Brian. Let it go now.”
“Okay. Sure, okay, honey. So . . . you’ll eat in the hotel, right? Relax. And you have your meds.”
“If I’m a good girl tonight, can I do some shopping in the morning?”
“Sorry?”
“If I stay locked up safe tonight, can I step outside the hotel before I have to go to the airport?”
“Oh come on, honey. Don’t be like that. I love you, I’m worried about you. You know you’re not . . . well. You have to work on getting better, that’s all I’m saying. Please don’t make me the bad guy.”
Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb! So near to bringing this to a nice neat end, why had she shot off her stupid mouth?
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Lana doesn’t mean this, but she needs to end this call NOW, to hop off this nerve-jangling carousel. But she’s also aware that it has to happen peacefully, so as not to alarm her husband. She stands up, grabs the phone, and clicks it off speaker, returning to the bedroom as she speaks.
“It was wrong of me to take off the way I did, but you know by now how this thing works and hey, at least I’m aware of it. I have to get myself back in balance. But believe me, baby, this little trip, the exhibition, it’s helped already. I promise. I’m feeling more . . . grounded already.”
She almost makes herself believe it. She shakes the contents of her bag onto the bed until the little prescription bottles tumble out.
“I’ll take my meds and then go eat, okay . . . okay? Listen.”
She rattles a bottle close to the phone: a thirty-day supply of Risperdal.
“I’m taking them as soon as I get off the line, yeah? And I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Well . . . okay. You want me to pick you up at the airport?”
“Why not, yes. That would be lovely. It’s the last flight.”
“What time?”
Lana’s lips tighten. What time, what time? She plucks the boarding pass from the mound on the bed.
“Oh, let me see, just finding the . . . Oh here we are. Arriving at ten forty tomorrow night. Terminal Two. And I’ll call you from Charles de Gaulle before we take off. Say . . . eight o’clock your time?”
There are a few more wearying okays and love-yous before Brian finally hangs up. Yet Lana feels better for having spoken to him. It has put some distance between her and the situation she’s found herself in. Maybe she should just get out on the streets and try to forget the whole mess. Is that possible? Is it the right thing to do?
The knock on the door answers the first question. Someone has caught up with her. A clear voice, deep notes, speaks her name.
“Madame Gibson.”
Can she hold her nerve and her silence until whoever it is goes away?
“Madame Gibson. This is the police.”
DRIVING WAS PURE AGONY AND NOT JUST BECAUSE EVERY TIME FERDIE had to touch the brake pedal it felt like someone was jabbing a knife into his instep. Generally Monsieur Fournier loved to chat, loved the sound of his own voice, though he would also occasionally fall silent, lost in thought. But this time, he maintained silence for the entire journey. Ferdie wasn’t foolish enough to break it with attempts at badinage. This did not feel like a lost-in-thought silence. It was more of a freeze-out-Ferdie silence.
He parked and limped around, wincing, hoping to garner a little sympathy, but when he opened the rear door Fournier stepped past him without a word. As he keyed in the code to his building he spoke without glancing back. “She was an adorable piece of ass, Ferdinand. Such a pity.” He stepped inside. “Now go talk to Vallette.” The door swung shut.
Alone, sore, frustrated, and scared, Ferdie wished he knew what had happened with Caramel Girl. Clearly, the blond American’s little trip in the elevator was part of whatever the problem was. Now Ferdie recalled that when he met Caramel Girl in the bar earlier he had half-noticed a woman sitting alone on a nearby barstool, but had paid little attention and could remember nothing about her, not even the color of her hair. But it could have been the blond American. Now it was clear. Vallette had made a connection between them and Ferdie . . . Oh Christ!
THROUGH THE FISH-EYE PEEPHOLE LANA CAN SEE TWO MEN. THE ONE IN the foreground, the older of the two, is presumably the one who had spoken. He’s staring straight at her as if he knows she’s watching.
“We need your help, Madame Gibson. Please open the door.”
This is spoken with ut
ter confidence that she’s inside, listening and looking. The distortion of the lens doesn’t, for some reason, make this man’s face look fatter. Instead the lines of his forehead, the haunting prominence of his cheekbones, and the weary sympathy in his eyes are magnified into something rather powerful-looking. Lana opens the door a crack. Face-to-face, the man looks mid-forties, with serious wrinkles, although the gray in his hair is only beginning to take hold. A man who compels attention.
“Pardon the intrusion, Madame. I am Detective Inspector Fichet. You would prefer if we speak like this?”
His ironic half smile and little gesture make Lana feel foolish, but even still she doesn’t open the door any farther.
“What do you want, Inspector?”
“We need your help. Pardon my English if I do not explain well. Would you prefer if we spoke in French?”
“No. My French is pretty terrible and your English sounds just fine. Just tell me how I can help you, Inspector?”
Fichet leans in closer and speaks very quietly, as if discretion is his highest priority. His cologne, Lana is surprised to notice, is just as discreet. Expensively scented cops? Only in Paris, she can’t help thinking.
“There has been an incident in the hotel. A certain gentleman has been taken into custody. We understand that you may have witnessed something . . . ah, pertinent. I am sorry. This is difficult. It is such a delicate matter.”
The detective seems genuinely embarrassed and uncomfortable standing out in the corridor. Now that she knows it’s about what she’d guessed it might be about, Lana figures it’s really not an option to conduct the conversation like this. She opens the door the rest of the way.
“Thank you, Madame.”
He turns to his large colleague and speaks rapidly. Then he smiles reassuringly at Lana.
“He will wait outside.”
He hadn’t actually been invited in, but could hardly be refused now. Inspector Fichet closes the door and strolls past her into the room. Lana can’t help feeling some loss of control already.
“Until tonight I have never been in Le Chevalier. Now in a little space of time I have seen the Suite Imperial and ah . . . well, a more, shall we say, normal room. But even the normal room is special. Art nouveau is not to my taste, but the air of opulence is necessary for a hotel such as this, yes? You arrive today? From the U.S.?”
“No.”
Fichet waits, but Lana says nothing more. Fichet laughs.
“Ah, I understand. You are not under interrogation, Madame. No, excuse me. It is my habit to ask questions. Forgive me. All right, but there are some things I must ask.”
Lana’s not sure she likes the way Fichet’s eyes flick about the room. Is it just her paranoia or have they come to rest at the bottles of pills on the bedside locker? Can he read the labels from that distance?
“Did you travel in the private elevator reserved for the Suite Imperial approximately . . . half an hour ago?”
“I did.”
“Ah, wonderful. I see you are a very direct woman. I ask a simple question, you give a simple answer. So my work will also be simple. If only more people understood this. Donc, the elevator went to the seventh floor?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell me what occurred?”
So, it’s happening. Suddenly she’s a witness.
“Of course.”
“Thank you. May I?”
Fichet gestures toward an armchair. Lana nods and it’s only when he sits down that she realizes how much closer it brings him to the bottle of pills beside the bed. But he doesn’t seem to notice them.
“Are you going to take notes?”
“Not now. I want you to be comfortable telling your story. I’m sure you will be willing to make an official statement later if necessary.”
“I see. Well . . .”
The difficulty for Lana is where to begin. In the private elevator, or at the bar with the young woman? Or even the earlier conversation with the bellhop? She decides to keep it simple. More than anything, she needs to avoid babbling. She had stepped into the elevator, it had suddenly taken off, the doors had opened at what she’d assumed was the Suite Imperial, and . . . well, she’d seen what she’d seen. The incident, if that was the right word, had lasted maybe ten seconds. Then the doors had closed and the elevator had descended to the lobby floor. Lana doesn’t see any point in mentioning her encounter with Weak Chin. Fichet nods helpfully throughout and doesn’t interrupt, although he has a curious and distracting habit of excavating his fingernails with the thumbnail of the other hand, without ever taking his eyes off her, almost as if he’s unaware of the action. The thumbnail burrows under each fingernail, slides across, and emerges with a click, one that sounds oddly sinister.
When she finishes, he says, “If you do not mind, Madame, please describe again exactly what you saw when the doors of the elevator opened on the seventh floor.”
Exactly what she saw? This time Lana becomes very conscious of precise detail and weighs her words more. She highlights the violence of the old man’s grip, the girl’s hand outstretched, the struggle for the purse. Even though Fichet’s gaze is still friendly, she feels as if it is warning, “Don’t lie to me because I will find you out.” The steady click of thumbnail on fingernail doesn’t help her feel any more at ease. When she finishes, he nods, but says nothing for what seems a very long time. Finally he stops the nail picking and stretches back in his chair looking around as if imagining himself as a guest, luxuriating in all Le Chev’ has to offer. He’d enjoy the courtesy manicure set, she smirks. Though it seems quite accidental that his little visual survey brings him to the bottle of pills, his gaze at it for what seems a very long time is deliberate.
He smiles again and says casually, “Very good. Very clear. Nothing more you want to add?”
“No.”
“Tell me. Do you think you would recognize the young lady or the man, or both if you saw them again?”
“Oh yes. Well . . .”
“Yes?”
“The man was naked so I guess that complicates things a little, but his eyes and his hair . . . yeah, I think I’d know him again.”
“Excellent. Oh, I did not ask—I should not presume, but you did not say if . . . Do you know either of them?”
“No.”
“So, you had never seen either of them before?”
For some reason Lana really notices just now how strong his face is, weary experience etched in the lines and creases, warning in the steady gaze. She suspects the question is a test or trap and Fichet already knows that she had encountered the young woman beforehand. It’s entirely possible that he had found this out, but just as possible she’s extracting meaning where there is none. It’s amazing how quickly under even the friendliest interrogation guilt starts to play a role. The question seems important to Fichet, for whatever reason. What’s clear is that, just as she’d thought the thing had been concluded in a relatively straightforward way, her story now seems more complicated.
“Well, no . . . yes. I hadn’t mentioned this because it didn’t really seem to be . . . well, I didn’t think it was important. But earlier on, I was sitting at the bar and I, ah . . . I did notice the young woman. Actually she was sitting quite close to me.”
Fichet offers no reaction to this information. He waits for more. Lana hangs on to silence.
“Oh. That is all? You saw her.”
“Yes . . . well, I said something to her actually, you know I guess I tried to make conversation, just something stupid you know but she, ah . . . well, she wasn’t interested or maybe she didn’t speak English, I don’t know. But anyway, she just . . . well, frankly, ignored me. Which was no big deal actually. And then this guy came and she left with him.”
“A guy? The same man you saw with her later?”
“No, another guy. Little thin guy, weak chin.”
It’s nothing more than a flutter across his eyes, but Lana guesses she’s just told him something of interest. Again he wa
its for more.
“She went with him to the private elevator.”
“Ah. Sorry, am I understanding you? You saw her in the bar?”
“Yeah, she was sitting at the bar, so was I.”
“But you said you saw them go in the elevator?”
Too late, Lana knows she has complicated things again, even though Fichet’s tone is no more than one of polite confusion.
“I am trying to imagine, but I don’t think it is possible to see this elevator from the bar.”
“No . . . no, you’re right. I was curious so I . . .” She really didn’t want to say “followed.” “So I suppose I stepped out after them, just to see where they were going.”
Fichet stands. He seems pleased about something.
“Ah, yes. Forgive me, but I think I understand now. I wished to ask you something, but I was not sure how to ask. I did not wish to be . . . intrusive. But it is okay.”
“What is it? I don’t understand.”
Something is nagging at her about Fichet now, something hard to frame as a sensible thought, but it’s as if his voice and his smile tell her one thing, while those steady eyes are pursuing another wholly unspoken agenda. What that might be, Lana has no idea.
“Hm? Oh. It was just my strange curiosity. Always I think why. So, when you tell me your story the first time, you do not say why you go into the elevator. Alors. Maybe the reason is not important, but I cannot help asking myself. And now I see. This young woman, she was interesting to you, and then a man comes and you follow them and you see her going in this special elevator and now she becomes more interesting, yes? I see now. You were curious, that is all.”
He says it with a kind of triumph in his tone, as if he had just solved some great puzzle in his head. Is he insinuating, or rather taking for granted, that Lana’s interest in the young woman had been sexual? Jesus! But Lana knows not to get into that with him. She’d just sound stupidly defensive. Who cares as long as he thinks he has it all figured out? Hopefully, this means the conversation is wrapping up. One thing is clear: whatever had happened up on the seventh floor the police are all over it, which is good. If what she had seen was of any value to their investigation they’d ask for a statement, tomorrow presumably. Fine. She should warn Fichet that she’ll be leaving Paris in less than twenty-four hours. But right now, it seems that she can relax and safely leave her room and the hotel. Just enjoy what’s left of the evening and eat, finally. Lana is ravenous.
What She Saw Page 5
