A Woman Like Her

by Marc Levy

  “Aren’t you going to ask me how I can afford it?”

  Deepak glanced at his watch and gave him a smug smile.

  “I thought you would hold out for at least five minutes. I’m going to blame this on your medication.”

  “I have a secret to tell you, but this is just between you and me—will you promise?”

  “Isn’t that the idea of a secret?”

  “I told you it was an inside job—”

  “That’s your big secret?” Deepak interrupted with a sigh.

  “Let me finish! The necklace was never stolen. She wanted the insurance money. She took that risk for me, and I want to devote myself entirely to her.”

  “Thanks for sharing, but I figured that out a long time ago.”

  “Sure you did!” Mr. Rivera scoffed. “Always so proud.”

  “There’s an old Indian proverb: ‘Whoever steals an egg won’t wait long to eat the chicken.’ Want to hear a real secret? Your lady friend is also the one who sabotaged the equipment, Miss Chloe was her accomplice, and I erased the evidence.”

  Leaving his colleague with an astounded look on his face, Deepak retrieved the newspaper from the floor and stood up.

  “A little subway reading. I’ll leave you to your detective novels—I’m going home to my wife.”

  Sanji waited until midnight to lock the front door of the building. He had taken Mr. Morrison upstairs a few minutes before. Though the inebriated gentleman had tried to start a conversation, Sanji took no risks, and shouted in his ear to prevent any inconvenient and cumbersome drowsiness in the elevator.

  He went up to the ninth floor and rang Chloe’s bell three times, but the door remained closed. Disappointed, he figured he had taken too long to close up and she had fallen asleep. Feeling a bit sad that she hadn’t texted him, he went downstairs to spend the night in the lobby.

  When Deepak arrived the next morning, Sanji rushed off to his first meeting. As he left the building, he looked up toward the ninth-floor windows, hoping to see the silhouette of a woman he was already missing far too much.

  Mr. Woolward was waiting for him at a deli near his office to share what he thought to be excellent news.

  “Your uncles wasted no time in replying to the e-mail I sent. They’re so afraid of having you on the board of directors of the Mumbai Palace Hotel that they’re offering you a deal: five percent of your shares, and they’re prepared to finance your projects in the US.”

  “Tell them I refuse,” replied Sanji.

  “Don’t you want to at least consider it?”

  “It’s no use. They wanted war, and I’ll give them two fronts to fight on. What they’re afraid of now is the lawsuit I filed in India for my aunt to get her rightful share of the inheritance. When that happens in a few months, we’ll have equal ownership with those old crooks.”

  Sanji thanked Woolward and hurried off to Spanish Harlem for his second appointment of the day.

  His third meeting was with a real estate agent in Soho.

  Sanji wanted to rent a loft with a view of the Hudson.

  His final appointment took him back to 12 5th Avenue.

  “What’s this? You’re early!” exclaimed Deepak upon seeing his nephew.

  “You’re never satisfied. I didn’t come to start my shift. I’m going up to the ninth floor.”

  “She’s not there,” Deepak replied.

  “No problem, I’ll wait.”

  Deepak cleared his throat and opened his desk drawer.

  “Miss Chloe asked me to give you this,” he said, handing him a letter.

  “Better late than never! It’s a bit old, and I already know what’s in it.”

  “I doubt it.” Deepak sighed. “She gave it to me this morning.”

  Sanji grabbed the envelope and slipped outside to stand under the awning.

  Sanji,

  Of the two of us, I’m the selfish one; I never asked you about your past or what brought you to New York. I didn’t know anything about your childhood or the path you’ve traveled. Sam came to see me this morning. Don’t blame him for doing what real friends do. This crazy idea you had would have been entirely to his advantage, and it took an honest heart to tell me about it.

  We’ve never talked about what happened to me, and I’ve liked it that way. I didn’t want to talk about it to anyone, not even the therapist who mentored me. The essential thing was to put my life back together again. But ever since I ran into you in the park, I’ve been living in this interlude of happiness, and I think that means I should confide in you. Yes, I liked you as soon as you sat down on that bench. Otherwise, do you really think I would have spoken to you out of nowhere like that? I was right—there’s always some melody playing when two people meet. So here is the story of the day my watch stopped.

  There were thousands of us on the starting line. And just imagine—a few weeks earlier, I was supposed to be on my way to Florence. But life had other plans. The morning started off beautifully: the sky was a dazzling blue, and a light breeze was on my side. Some people were running for organizations, others to make their families proud, or, like me, to prove they could beat their own records, not just beat other runners. That’s the spirit of a marathon.

  2:47: Commonwealth Avenue. A right turn onto Hereford Street, and then a left.

  2:48: I finally got to Boylston Street, the home stretch. Flags from all countries fluttered in the breeze. Behind the barriers, people cheered us on: “Yeeeeah!” “Only a hundred yards!” “Only fifty yards!” “You can do it!” “You’re almost there!” “We’re rooting for you!”

  2:49: I was running clumsily along, completely exhausted, like a broken puppet being pulled by sheer willpower. But I was determined not to give up so close to the finish line. I went over to the barriers to catch my breath, without worrying about the people behind me, and suddenly …

  2:50: A bomb exploded, lifting me off the ground.

  Acrid smoke floated above the sidewalk where the blast had thrown me. For a few seconds, I didn’t believe the blood I was soaked in was my own, and then a man rushed over to me and took off his belt. I didn’t understand what he wanted with me. His mouth was forming words, but I couldn’t make them out. I only heard a piercing whistle. I sat up and saw him put a tourniquet above my knees. He was yelling to someone to press as hard as possible on my shredded flesh. The blood spurted out to the rhythm of my heartbeat. I turned my head away and saw dismembered bodies and burning clothing, I heard shouting and moaning, I thought that I would die and never get to go to Florence. And then I could only watch the others, not because I was brave but because watching the horror around me made me believe that none of this was real, and that was what kept me alive. They put me onto a stretcher as people were running in every direction, and a woman said that my lips were turning blue, I had lost too much blood. A dark veil drifted over me, I felt a sucking inside my body, and then nothing.

  It’s strange, but the most memorable part of it all was seeing my parents together when I woke up in the hospital, and my father’s tears.

  Sanji, just as I didn’t want to give up on that race, I can’t let you give up on what you have built.

  It only takes a short while to realize the value of a man like you. You challenged me once to tell you if the distance between us was an ocean or nine floors. It’s much bigger than that: exactly sixteen inches.

  It is time for me to visit Florence. When you read this letter, I will be on my way to Italy. There are so many things I promised myself I’d do. It’s thanks to you—or it’s your fault—because in your room in the Plaza where we made love, you gave me back my freedom and you granted me wings.

  There are so many people who miss out on each other for stupid reasons. You’re the one who taught me this. But that didn’t happen to us, and the moments of happiness you were talking about have been ours. I will hold them in my heart, right where I will always keep a part of you.

  Forgive me for writing instead of telling you this in person. I’
m no good at goodbyes.

  One day, I’ll go for a stroll in the streets of Mumbai, we’ll breathe the same air, and I already know that will make me happy. Who knows—maybe we’ll run into each other in a park.

  With love,

  Chloe

  “She left this morning with a suitcase. She made me swear not to call you,” explained Deepak as he joined Sanji under the awning.

  Sanji folded the letter and put it in his pocket.

  “I’ve been an idiot.”

  “Three rules. I asked you to follow three little rules. Was it really so hard?”

  “Yes,” Sanji replied.

  “Wait for me here—I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Deepak reappeared in his street clothes.

  “Come on, Lali expects us for dinner. Since Miss Chloe doesn’t need my services anymore, the others can just take the stairs.”

  Sanji hailed a cab, but as Deepak was a man of habit, they took the subway to Spanish Harlem.

  Lali had set three places and prepared her husband’s favorite dish.

  The beginning of the meal was silent, but facing his aunt’s probing look, Sanji ended up telling her everything.

  “You should have talked to her, not Sam!” Lali protested. “You should have told her that you wanted to be with her more than anything.”

  “What difference would it have made?”

  “All the difference in the world, you idiot. Did you listen to anything I told you?”

  “May I inquire what you told him?” Deepak asked innocently.

  Lali ignored him and continued speaking directly to Sanji.

  “And why should it always be a one-way street—why should we always be the ones who have to leave everything to go live in another country?” she protested.

  “Lali, mind your own business,” Deepak interrupted.

  “My nephew’s fate isn’t my business? When we were his age, wouldn’t we have wanted a family member to help us?”

  “How big is Florence?” Sanji asked.

  Lali turned toward her husband and stared at him intently.

  “Under no circumstances,” said Deepak.

  “I give you one minute!” she ordered, taking his plate.

  Deepak wiped his mouth, angrily placed his napkin on the table, and for the first time in his thirty-nine-year career, broke the most sacred of his three rules.

  “Miss Chloe is at her mother’s in Connecticut. Just so you know, soon after telling your aunt to live her life without me, I changed my mind and told her we should go start a new life together. But what’s the advice of an old elevator operator worth? And since everything has gone to hell around here, I’m going to bed!”

  26

  Day was breaking over the Merritt Parkway.

  When the car reached Greenwich, the pale-pink light of dawn and the glare of headlights were all that illuminated the road.

  At the end of a long street, a house built of light-colored wood appeared behind silvery pines.

  Mrs. Bronstein opened the door and studied Sanji standing at the threshold. He apologized for arriving so early. She took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her robe and asked if he had a light before locating her own lighter.

  She inhaled and looked him up and down once more.

  “It’s not that early—we spent all night talking in the living room. You can go in. I’m staying out here. My daughter doesn’t let me smoke inside.”

  The embers were glowing in the hearth. Sanji asked Chloe if she wanted him to put on another log. She preferred that he come and sit next to her.

  No one overheard their conversation, although Mrs. Bronstein showed up a short while later and suggested that her daughter go visit Mumbai for a few weeks instead of moping around on her couch.

  Two or three weeks of happiness—what did she have to lose?

  And as Mrs. Bronstein was a cultured woman, she quoted an Indian proverb before going off to bed: “In love, beggar and king are equal.”

  Epilogue

  Lali and Deepak left Spanish Harlem. Lali is on the board of directors of the Mumbai Palace Hotel. Deepak took charge of a team of elevator operators in the hotel and oversees the flawless maintenance of three manual elevators. He accomplished his goal six months after his arrival and is now dreaming of Kangchenjunga, which measures 8,586 meters.

  Mr. Rivera moved to a more modest altitude on the sixth floor of 12 5th Avenue. Wishing to make their relationship official, Mrs. Collins told Mrs. Zeldoff about it in confidence.

  When Mr. Rivera’s neighbors meet him in the elevator, they all wait respectfully for him to press the button.

  As for Chloe and Sanji …

  Mumbai, May 24, 2020

  Your father held my hand as I gave birth to you.

  I awoke in a hospital bed where, for the second time, my life was transformed.

  Each of our paths in life has its ups and downs, as your great-uncle Deepak reminds us every morning.

  I’ve learned something that I never would have guessed. When we reach the point we think is the lowest, life has an unsuspected wonder in store for us: life itself. And you are the proof.

  This diary is for you.

  Love,

  Your mother

  P.S. Monday, April 15, at 2:50 p.m… . I will never understand why.

  But Boston Strong.

  Acknowledgments

  Pauline, Louis, Georges, and Cléa.

  Raymond, Danièle, and Lorraine.

  Susanna Lea.

  Emmanuelle Hardouin.

  Kate Deimling.

  Elizabeth DeNoma and the Amazon Crossing team.

  Cécile Boyer-Runge, Antoine Caro.

  Caroline Babulle, Elisabeth Villeneuve, Lætitia Beauvillain, Sylvie Bardeau, Lydie Leroy, Joël Renaudat, Céline Chiflet, and the entire team at Éditions Robert Laffont.

  Pauline Normand, Marie-Eve Provost, Jean Bouchard.

  Léonard Anthony, Sébastien Canot, Danielle Melconian.

  Mark Kessler, Xavière Jarty, Julien Saltet de Sablet d’Estières, Carole Delmon.

  Laura Mamelok, Noa Rosen, Devon Halliday, Kerry Glencorse.

  Brigitte Forissier, Sarah Altenloh.

  Tom Haugomat.

  And Mimi’s, the marvelous restaurant where I sat and observed so many New Yorkers.

  About the Author

  With more than forty million books sold, Marc Levy is the most-read French author alive today. He’s written twenty novels to date, including The Strange Journey of Alice Pendelbury, The Last of the Stanfields, P.S. from Paris, Children of Freedom, and Replay.

  Originally written for his son, his first novel, If Only It Were True, was later adapted into the film Just Like Heaven, starring Reese Witherspoon and Mark Ruffalo. Since then, Levy has won the hearts of not only European readers; he’s won over audiences around the globe. More than one and a half million copies of his books have been sold in China alone, and his novels have been published in forty-nine languages. He lives in New York City. Readers can learn more about him and follow his work at www.marclevy.info.

  About the Translator

  Photo © 2018 Julian Deimling

  Kate Deimling translates fiction and nonfiction from French. She holds a PhD in French literature from Columbia University and wrote her dissertation on eighteenth-century libertine novels. Kate is a member of the PEN America Translation Committee and currently serves as vice president and mentoring program director of the New York Circle of Translators. She lives in Brooklyn with her family.

 

 

 
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