She returned, Ferdie noticed, at a much faster pace. Her face, wrinkled in ecstasy, hand already outstretched. She babbled in a kind of French. The car was the one described on the paper and there was no one inside. Once the twenty was closed in her fist she thanked him prayerfully, again and again, showing no sign of moving on. Perhaps now that she’d got a taste for such easy money she fancied another assignment. Ferdie had to wave her away very decisively.
He moved quickly along the street, aware that Vallette and the boys might step out of Bellhop’s place at any moment. The sight of his car fed his resentment and spurred him on toward the entrance to Bellhop’s building, which looked even grubbier in daylight. He needed a half-decent lookout spot. When Vallette and the boys emerged, it was reasonable to assume they would hurry toward the car with scarcely a glance in any other direction. Inspired by the old beggar woman, he squatted on the ground outside a closed Chinese restaurant and placed some loose change in front of him. He dropped his head but kept his eyes focused on the entrance to 187. He had earned himself two fifty-cent coins by the time the men emerged. Oscar first, Vallette next, and Marcel last. As Ferdie had guessed, they moved quickly to the DS21. Then he heard the familiar engine start and roar away. Fucking car thieves!
The climb to the fifth floor was slow. He was embarrassed at how puny his upper arm muscles were. Luckily the rest of him was puny, too, so not too much weight to haul. His long hesitation outside the door of what he assumed was Bellhop’s apartment had more to do with his disquiet than his tired arm muscles. Finally he raised a crutch and poked. The door swung open.
Bellhop didn’t look like his sister anymore. He barely looked human. He had been left sitting on the floor propped up against a wall and didn’t seem to have any plans to move from there. It wasn’t until Ferdie leaned in very close that he could be sure the boy was even bothering to breathe. Just about. Blood-matted hair, one eye closed, broken nose, the lower lip swollen, and blood oozing and drooling from a hanging mouth. His jeans were around his ankles and there was a wet patch on the ground at his crotch. It seemed to be urine rather than blood. Seeing him in this condition didn’t make Ferdie feel any worse about shopping him than he did already. Quite a few times in his life he had had to choose his own safety over someone else’s. This was a particularly ugly example, but the principle was the same.
It was hard to tell if Bellhop was even conscious of his presence as he took out his phone and snapped a few shots. He didn’t feel good about that either, and knew it wasn’t evidence of anything really, but something told him it was better to have them than not. Then he called an ambulance, which was, after all, why he had decided to come here; to return Bellhop’s favor in kind. Sort of. The way it looked right now, he might even be saving his life.
11 AM
When she opens her eyes Nathan’s face is only inches away. It should be an enormous shock, but isn’t. He had been in her dream, on the streetcar, the streetcar where, no matter where she sat, people insisted on talking to her. Not just talking, gushing. All thrilled to see her, all wanting to reminisce. Remember seemed to start every sentence. Remember when . . . ? Remember how . . . ? People from school, from Brian’s office in Dublin, guys she didn’t even know. Mostly it was very pleasant. Her stop, Pike, approached. She saw Brian waiting, but couldn’t seem to get through the crowd to disembark, even though no one jostled or even laid a finger on her. When she turned away from one smiling face there was always someone else. Billy Corgan hugged her. Lana! Jesus! She could hardly believe how many people she saw on the streetcar. How did they all fit? It didn’t look that crowded. Sometimes she was up top, sometimes down below. Pike came around again and again, Brian was still waiting. This time he saw her and waved, but the most stressful part was that even though it was an old kind of streetcar and the back was wide open so she could hop off at any time, she kept getting distracted.
Nathan had been smiling at her in the dream, too, but now, eyes open, it’s a relief not to feel that frustrating need to get away, jump off the streetcar. Nathan’s breath has no odor.
“So, you were saying.”
She laughs. “Did I fall asleep in midsentence? I can’t remember. Or maybe I don’t really care.”
Because Nathan’s hand is resting on her hip and the slightest move might start something, because his lips only have to ease in an inch or two, Lana is somewhat surprised that he chooses to do neither.
“Oh come on, I have to hear the rest. You were in a car with two complete strangers who drove like lunatics to help you escape two other strangers, who had pretended to be police and were now in hot pursuit. And the last thing you said was, ‘The only thing I knew for sure . . .’”
Nathan lets his head slump, his eyes close, and he makes little sleeping sounds.
“Oh God, I have no idea what the end of that sentence was.”
Nathan’s eyes pop open. “Now I want you to relax. It’s daylight, we’ve slept, and it’s okay if you want to tell me now that you made it all up: that it was just a Lana Turner shaggy dog story.”
“I’d love to. Yes, that’s what it was. Just some crazy noir dream I’d had.”
She’s pleased that Nathan seems to take that at face value. His disappointment has a childlike quality. “Oh. Really?”
“No. I wish.”
He brightens again. He accompanies the words with an encouraging tickle.
“So what happened? I’m particularly interested in the mystery of the two who saved you. What was going on there? I can’t imagine it was just the kindness of passing strangers.”
“Not exactly. The guy—Guillaume he said his name was—told me he was a filmmaker—”
“Uhff! This does not breed confidence.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions. He said he was making this documentary and the young woman I’d met in the bar, and who I saw being harassed by the old naked guy, she was working for him. Like his undercover reporter. According to him they’d planned a setup. She’d gone to this sex party with a hidden camera.”
“Now you’re just making stuff up.”
“I promise. She was trying to get away when I appeared. I found out later the old guy took the camera from her, which meant they had no pictures, so I was an important witness to what had happened, according to Guillaume. He wanted me to go on camera and say what I’d seen.”
“You didn’t, I hope. You know nothing about this pair.”
“No, I didn’t, but I was tempted, especially when I found out who the old naked guy was.”
“You know?”
“Yes. Guillaume showed me him on YouTube and right away—”
“YouTube?”
“Yes. And I recognized him—”
“So is he well known?”
“For sure, I’m told. Although the name meant nothing to me—”
“Not Gerard Depardieu, then?”
“No. But I guess you’ll know him immediately.”
“I’m touched by your faith in my knowledge of pop culture, but don’t be so sure?”
“Not so much pop culture. I’m told he is a really well-known politician. You want to guess?”
For some reason Nathan pauses. He seems less amused.
“Oh. Ah . . . Tell me.”
“Jean-Luc Fournier.”
Lana had expected surprise, along with, perhaps, a cynical laugh. That would be Nathan. Instead he sighs and shakes his head.
“Oh Christ. No . . . no, no, no. . . . I don’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“No, no. Unfortunately I do believe it. You know, as soon as you said ‘politician’ his name flashed in my brain. This is terrible. I mean . . . You know he’s running for president?”
“So they told me.”
“What is he doing, is he mad? Two months before the election? He has this reputation, you know.”
“They told me that too.”
“Who are these people? Did they say who they’re working for? Everyone on the right would love t
o see Fournier destroyed.”
Lana is a little puzzled at Nathan’s attitude. Has he forgotten completely about what had happened to her?
“You mean like the way Fournier wants to see me destroyed?”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Yes, of course. I don’t know what . . . It’s incredible—sorry not incredible so much as extraordinary. These people, sure, they obviously helped you out of an awkward spot, but well, did you think, do you think they were trustworthy? I mean . . . do you believe everything they told you?”
Part of Lana wouldn’t mind admitting that she does have some kind of vague, unformed doubt about Guillaume and Pauline, but the part of her that instinctively wants to slap Nathan down for not instantly pledging his sympathy and support wins out.
“What does it matter what I think of them? I saw the guys come after us in the car. I saw the looks on their faces. They would have been happy to see us crash and die.”
“Right. Sure.”
And now he pulls her to him and holds her close.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry I’ve thrown this at you.”
“No, I’m glad. Really.”
“I just felt so abandoned last night.”
“Of course.”
Lana would have been more than happy now to curl up in a cocoon of sex and for several long seconds it seems about to happen. Then Nathan eases away.
“I should explain something. You see . . . I actually know Fournier personally. Just a little. It’s not like we go out dancing together or anything. He was teaching at Sciences Po when I started there. More than just teaching he was, well . . . he was a star. A brilliant mind. People who weren’t doing his course would sit in on his lectures, just to be able to say they had heard him. So, naturally—”
“Does that excuse his behavior in other—”
“No, of course not. I’m not saying it excuses anything. I’m just I suppose . . . trying to be honest, declaring an interest. For example, I should admit that I—it would have been my intention to vote for him as president.”
“And now?”
“Well, exactly . . . It’s a strange feeling. I mean I’ve heard so many stories about him, of course. His reputation is no secret—”
“To the in-crowd.”
“Well, yes, I suppose. But what I want to say is, your story makes me realize what a difference there is between hearing rumors at a remove, and finding out something like this from . . . well, from a primary source, I suppose.”
“Is that what I am, a primary source?”
“No, I mean that in a good way. It means I believe your story completely, even though it’s the kind of story that seems, I don’t know, not unbelievable, but . . . hard to see why . . . I mean the sex party, that’s one thing, and the girl, sure, but the part I find strange is that he’d allow you to be harmed in any way. Everything I know about him tells me he’s not that kind of man.”
“The violent kind?”
“Well, yes.”
“But how well do you know him, really?”
“Of course, absolutely. It’s just that I had never, ever formed such an impression of him. I mean in any way. You know how sometimes a person surprises you, but then it’s not a surprise really—”
“If you’d seen him last night would that change your mind?”
Nathan nods, but says nothing more.
“And what about the fake cops? What do you think they were going to do with me?”
“I don’t know, Lana. Is it at all possible it was a clumsy misguided way to bring you to meet him? They probably thought a straight-up invitation wouldn’t work.”
“Meet him? For what?”
Something about Nathan’s shrug, his tone, makes her want to turn away, get out of bed.
“I don’t know. To explain himself? One thing I can tell you for sure is that Jean-Luc has extraordinary confidence in the power of his own charm. Even more than most politicians do. That’s why it’s so hard to imagine him involved in any kind of violent response when he would probably assume that he could persuade you that what you saw was . . . harmless?”
“Harmless!”
“I’m speculating on what he thought. I’m not saying that—what I am saying is that from his point of view, the idea of causing you physical harm would just be madness. No logic to it whatsoever.”
“Unlike the logic that tells him it’s a good idea to have sex orgies in hotel suites when you’re trying to get yourself elected president?”
“Sure . . . it’s . . . it’s kinda hard to understand, all right.”
“I’m not sure I’m that interested in understanding it, Nathan.”
She turns away and sits on the bed, legs dangling. Her posture makes her feel like one of Hopper’s melancholy women. She stands and stretches.
“Mind if I shower?”
“Of course not, but listen—”
“And by the time I’m finished you might be able to explain the logic of this to me. When I came back to the hotel late last night, everything had been removed. My passport, my ticket. Luggage. These people, whoever they are, entered my room and took everything I own. If you want proof, source material, they left me a note.”
She marches to the living room. Coming back, holding the envelope, her nakedness feels very strange. She misses the ecstasy of last night and the giddy wake-up of twenty minutes ago, but once it’s gone, it’s gone.
“How charming is this?”
Nathan reads the note quickly. The haste with which he jumps out of bed and comes to her, the urgency of his embrace, feels very satisfying.
“You must have felt so alone. Nothing gives them the right to try to scare you like that.”
At last he seems to be getting it. And the smell of his skin is comforting.
“What do you want to do? Are you going to call this number?”
“No.”
“Good. I don’t think you should.”
“What do you think?”
“Well, there’s the American Embassy, but I’m not sure that they’ll see you on a Saturday. I can check it out. If it’s possible to get a temporary passport, then maybe you can sort out your ticket and still make your flight.”
“So, I should leave as planned?”
“Oh. I thought that’s what you’d want.”
“I wish I knew.”
“I suppose I’m assuming that if you leave Paris and they realize that you’re not going to make any trouble for them, then it’ll all blow over.”
“That’s also assuming I don’t want to make trouble.”
“Oh. Do you?”
“After what they’ve put me through? Maybe. I don’t know. To be perfectly honest, Nathan, I’m not so hot on making that flight tonight.”
It’s a deliberate test. The speed and sincerity of his reply is gratifying.
“Okay. Well, personally speaking, I’m glad. Monday is probably a better day to sort this out with the embassy anyway.”
“You think?”
“Definitely. I think.”
Lana is liking his smile again.
“Of course, it’s not just the passport. Remember, I have no money or phone or spare clothes.”
“I don’t see why that should be a problem at all.”
“Monday seems like a plan then.”
They kiss and somehow they’re back on the bed again. As often happens the third time around, they don’t quite get there. Well, they get there all right, but not there. Still, it feels entirely comfortable afterward lying together in a warm fuzz, as if the clock has stopped. Lost time. What she saw and all that followed, Odette, Guillaume, Pauline, Fournier and his cronies, it all seems irrelevant. And Brian? Poor Brian. Lana knows she should care more.
“You hungry?”
Nathan’s question is a welcome interruption to her thoughts.
“Starving.”
“Do you remember the market in Maubert?”
“Mhm.”
“How about, rather
than eating out, we go to the market and get some treats to bring back here? Maybe you could concoct something special?”
It’s a perfect suggestion. Lana is a little surprised Nathan doesn’t join her in the shower, but not too disappointed. When she floats back wrapped in his robe he’s at his laptop.
“As I thought, nothing doing at the embassy. They don’t make it easy: eight thirty weekdays only, with photo for biometric passport, use booth in embassy, DS-11 form, Social Security number, one hundred thirty-five dollars in cash or credit card. And a partridge in a pear tree, it seems.”
“Can we think about that stuff later?”
“Sure. But I was thinking. There’s some work I really have to finish today. So, would you mind if I do it now and we just ordered some takeout?”
“Oh. I don’t mind waiting to go to the market.”
“I’ll be an hour or more. Sorry, but best to get this over with now and I know a really good Chinese.”
Lana doesn’t want to be a spoiled whiny little bitch, but going to the market and preparing lunch had seemed such a perfect idea.
“How about I go to the market by myself? By the time I get back you’ll be finished with whatever you have to do and we can still make our own lunch.”
“Oh. That’d be fantastic. You don’t mind tootling off on your own?”
“Absolutely not. Well . . . there is just one little thing.”
“What? Oh, sorry.” He pulls out his wallet. “You’ve been cleaned out.”
“And you’ll have to remind me how to get there.”
“That’s two little things. And you’ll need to remember the code to get back in. That’s three little things.”
He gives her a fifty and his directions to the market are simple: back onto boulevard St.-Germain, then left and four hundred yards straight to Maubert. He makes her repeat the code again and again, with a kiss each time. As she strolls toward St.-Germain, a sense of ease and security begins to flow through her.
What She Saw Page 14
