Blackie was in the intensive care unit, an awful, insensate mess. His face was mostly bandaged, the uncovered areas badly bruised and cut and having turned various shades of purple and black and red. He lay there with his eyes closed, his breathing shallow and irregular, tubes and wires running from his arm and his nose and his chest to all sorts of monitoring devices, with hanging bottles crowding the small area. I sat there quietly for a couple of hours, just watching him, waiting to see if something would happen. I held his hand and spoke to him. He tried to mutter a few things, but mostly he slept.
I saw the doctor, who explained that the facial injuries were the least of it. He said that Blackie had suffered massive internal injuries, and the specialists were worried about how his heart was going to take it. He’d had a second coronary earlier that year, and his condition was very weak.
As I’ve said, he died two days after the accident without ever regaining consciousness. We were told he had been driving alone, that his car swung out of control on the Saw Mill River Parkway, and he crashed into a tree.
I recalled the car Blackie was driving in those days, a brown Eldorado with a white convertible top. I remembered that the car showed up in the driveway a few days after we buried my father, looking as good as new, supposedly having already been repaired. I remember saying how odd it was, that the car was fixed up that quickly, but my mother never responded. She sold the car as soon as she could, explaining to us that there was as much owed on it as it was worth.
My mother never discussed the circumstances of his death again.
***
AT THE ENTRANCE TO MY BUILDING I used the house key to let myself into the lobby, took the elevator upstairs and trudged wearily down the hallway.
Somehow, before I reached my door, I began feeling more alert. It was as if I had awakened from an uneasy sleep, knowing that something was wrong. I’m not sure how I knew, I just did.
I had already inserted my key in the lock when I noticed the scratch marks on the brass. It was one of those things you see but it doesn’t register right away. Then it did. I hesitated, just before I turned the key, when it occurred to me that someone might still be inside.
I opened the door and quietly stepped inside, carefully measuring each movement. I stopped in the foyer, listening, hoping not to hear anything. There was silence, except for the sounds outside from the noisy streets of New York. I walked slowly toward the living room.
The contents of my father’s box were scattered all over the coffee table and floor. I stood there for a moment, not ready to move again just yet.
I considered turning and walking out, then felt a rush of anger that told me, no, this is my goddamned apartment, I’m not running anywhere.
Maybe it wasn’t the wisest instinct at that moment, but that was how I felt.
I turned for the bedroom, where I opened the closets, then looked in the bathroom where I pulled back the shower curtain, then moved to the kitchen. I don’t know why it all began to strike me as funny, perhaps it was the absolute absurdity of the situation, or the fact that the apartment was too small to effectively hide anyone, but I even opened the refrigerator and dishwasher, just to amuse myself. Then I returned to the mess in the living room.
I drew a deep breath and let out a long sigh—it felt like the first breath I’d taken since I opened the front door—then dropped onto the couch, in front of the box, and stared at the mess that had been left behind. As I began sorting out the papers and photos, the first name that leaped to mind was, of course, Frank. Who else had I talked to about the letter? Nicky. Gerry. Benny. None of those names made for a likely suspect. Frank was the name that kept flashing across my mind.
I re-organized my father’s papers, knowing the one thing they had not found was his letter, since I’d already hidden the original in a file at my office, the only copy still in my pocket. I assumed the note and envelope from Gilles de la Houssay went unnoticed and, when I found it, I experienced a momentary sense of relief. There was no reason for anyone to attach importance to an innocuous letter from an old friend. I put it down on the table, then went back to organizing the other papers, feeling sad and angry and lonely as hell.
CHAPTER TWELVE
That evening, shaking off the upset of the day and doing my best to dismiss the ghosts for now, I took Donna to dinner at La Cote Basque. There are some small benefits to working for a large advertising agency, one of which is the ability to get a table at a great restaurant on short notice. It was the best place I could think of and, if it was showing off, I thought what the hell. She wasn’t going to be in town for long and, the way things looked, neither was I.
This was not the time to worry about my personal budget.
Unfortunately, it is no longer with us, but back then La Cote Basque was the most romantic spot in the city, with flowers everywhere and generously sized tables set far enough apart to provide the illusion of elegant intimacy. The food was even better than the decor.
“This is beautiful,” Donna said as we were seated by the maitre’d.
The man nodded in appreciation and asked if we would like an aperitif. I ordered a bottle of champagne.
“I haven’t asked you. How was your first day back in New York?”
“I started by sleeping late,” she said. “Still on Rocky Mountain time, I guess.”
“You see any of your friends?”
“I got around a bit,” she said. “It was good to be in the city again.”
“Visit your old stomping grounds in Queens?”
“Not yet. How was work?”
“I didn’t spend much time in the office.”
“Still taking care of your family business?”
I nodded, although after lunch with Frank, my discussion with Gerry Egidio, and having my apartment vandalized, I didn’t feel I had taken care of anything.
“You manage to solve the mystery?” she asked.
“The mystery?”
“You know what I mean.” She seemed a little embarrassed to be intruding.
“Oh,” I replied, “that mystery.”
She uttered a sweet laugh. “How many mysteries you have in your life?”
“More than I would like at the moment.”
She responded with a look of concern I hoped she was faking. “Maybe I should know a little bit more about you before things go too far.”
“I think I’m fairly safe to have dinner with.”
Her deep blue eyes studied me for a moment. “I was thinking beyond dinner.”
“In that case, ask me anything.” The Laurent Perrier was served, and I watched as she took a sip, then delicately licked the champagne from her lips.
“So,” she said with a sweet smile, “figure out what the letter was about?”
Falling in love is easy. It’s the part that comes afterward that’s tough.
Look at the romances portrayed in movies—I use motion pictures as a reference point for a lot of things because I believe they form the common bond of our time. I’m partial to the old black-and-whites Blackie introduced me to, and I grew up learning from the moral examples set by Clark Gable in Test Pilot or Cary Grant in Mr. Lucky, which were the catechism of a churchless family.
The ancient Greeks shared the experiences of the Odyssey and the Iliad as if they lived those adventures themselves, grand epics that were retold from one generation to the next. Other civilizations relied on their own myths to create a unifying ethic. The Bible came later, then an assortment of other tomes dealing with principles and beliefs. I am not referring to the sort of books we read now, the kind you run through in three days on the beach and immediately forget. I mean real books, by writers like Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, Dickens and Hugo, Melville and Conrad.
Now we share a heritage fashioned in large part by motion pictures. We all know where Rick’s Café Americain was located, where Dorot
hy was going when she flew over the rainbow, and what Charles Foster Kane meant when he whispered “Rosebud.”
In romantic films—which means just about every film ever made, since even the goriest action flick has a love story in there someplace—the guy and girl seem to fall in love in the twinkle of an eye. According to Hollywood, it doesn’t take much more than a twinkle. They have the couple bumping into each other in a crowded elevator or an airplane, turn up the soundtrack, cut out the dialogue, send them walking along a beach or sharing a glass of wine as they gaze out at a sunset, and wham!, the music comes down, the actors start talking again and we know they’re madly in love.
Hello?
If that’s all it takes to fall in love—some accidental physical contact, a few shared moments and something to laugh at—then every morning at rush hour, the New York City subway system would turn into a gigantic orgy.
But we watch these films and buy into it, even though we know what’s coming. The man and woman will have issues. Then some action or tension that will pull them back together. And, in the end, we’ll see them fall in love.
But then what?
That’s where they hang us out to dry. They don’t tell us what happens next or what to do about it. Sure, there are movies where one of the lovers dies just before the credits roll or, once in a great while, where the affair ends badly. But in most films, the ones that finish with a juicy kiss or clever remark as the fadeout comes, they don’t explain how to sustain the excitement, the wonder, the enchantment of that heady experience of falling deeply and passionately in love. I suppose that’s why it’s called escapism, right? But I don’t want to escape. I want to stay right there, with the music playing and the sun setting.
I want the whole Hollywood thing.
Maybe those movie makers are right, maybe falling in love can be as easy as picking fruit from a tree, staying in love is like a grab for liquid mercury. The harder you try to get ahold of it, the more likely it is to slip away, especially for me. I’m cautious to begin with, and particularly when it comes to women. Like a lot of guys, I think I come by it honestly, through years of disappointment and doubt and even insecurity.
For instance, when Donna asked me if I figured out what the letter was about, I couldn’t recall ever mentioning anything about the letter to her.
“Where are you?” Donna asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“I lost you there for a minute.” She was studying me with those clear blue eyes, wearing her excellent smile.
I looked around the dining room. “Just thinking about what a great place this is,” I lied.
“You can do better than that.”
“I don’t know, just got wrapped up in an old memory, that’s all. It’s been a crazy couple of days.”
“Is it about the letter?”
“Yes,” I said, “the famous letter.”
“Anything new?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. Except that I’m going to France.”
“France?”
“It’s either that or start seeing a psychiatrist. I thought the trip would be cheaper in the long run.”
“Probably more fun, too.”
I agreed.
“That’s very exciting. Why France?”
Why indeed? “My dad had a friend there. He might be able to help sort this out for me.”
“You know him?”
“Never heard of him until Saturday.”
“Well then, it really is going to be exciting, isn’t it?”
“I would say so.”
The waiter came by to hand us menus and describe the specials, then left us on our own to consider the assortment of tempting offerings. After lunch with Frank and her mention of the letter, I wasn’t feeling all that hungry, but the fellow spoke with a beautiful French accent that made everything sound delicious, and after more champagne I had no trouble finding my appetite. Donna suggested I choose for both of us, so when the waiter arrived to take our order, I told him we were going with his suggestion of the tuna appetizer followed by an herb encrusted rack of lamb for two.
He gave a slight bow, then left me with the carte de vin. Without looking up from the list, I asked Donna if she’d ever been to France.
“Never.”
“It’d be a great place to start your trip to Europe.”
“Is it as beautiful as they say?”
“Paris is more beautiful than they say.”
“Have you been there many times?”
“Only once,” I said. “I’ve also been to the south.”
“The Riviera?”
“Uh huh. And Provence. And the wine country, Burgundy and Bordeaux.”
“That’s strange.”
“Strange?”
“It sounds like you’ve been all over France, but your father never mentioned he had a good friend over there.”
“Good friend?”
“I was just assuming that. They must have known each other pretty well if you’re flying off to see him.”
“You’re right,” I said, “but I took that trip after my father died.”
“Oh,” she said, as if she might have gone too far.
I looked up from the list. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Okay,” Donna said. “Tell me about Paris.”
I took my time describing what I knew of the City of Lights which, I assure you, is a whole lot less than what you’d find in a cheap guidebook. Then we talked about anything else I could think of.
It was after polishing off the champagne and a bottle of Gruaud Larose, somewhere between dessert and cognac, that I returned to the subject of my trip.
“You’re going to Europe, right? I don’t know what your plans are but why not start by coming with me?”
She looked at me like I was slightly daft.
“I don’t know where you’re heading,” I said, “but as I mentioned, France isn’t a bad place to start.”
Donna replied with a slight tilt of her head. “Is this your extravagant way of propositioning me?”
“It’s not what I meant.”
“No? Maybe I should feel insulted then.” She was smiling again, so I figured she wasn’t feeling insulted. I also thought she wasn’t taking my invitation seriously.
“I mean it,” I told her.
I know, maybe I overreacted. The dinner, the wine, her blue eyes and great smile. Her light brown hair that seemed all soft and wavy and carefree. The slinky white dress that showed off her pure, tanned skin, with the colorful silk scarf draped casually over her shoulders, not hiding the delicate curves of her neck as it plunged to her breasts.
Then, of course, there was my desperate curiosity. How did she know about the letter?
“You’re serious,” she said.
“I am,” I admitted. “Does it sound crazy?”
“Crazy? As in, I just met you? As in, I just arrived in New York yesterday? That kind of crazy, you mean?”
I paused a moment. “I’m trying to think if you left anything out.”
“Is this restaurant part of the plot? Get me in a French kind of mood?”
“Strictly coincidence, I promise you. Look, maybe it’s overkill after a couple of dinners together, but it seems like a great idea to me.”
Donna laughed. “Don’t sell our relationship short. It’s not just two dinners. Remember the plane ride here.”
“Ah, right.”
She leaned back in the comfortable chair, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I suppose you think I’ll sleep with you.”
“I hadn’t really thought about that,” I lied, “but we don’t have to rush anything.”
To my disappointment, she agreed. “No,” she said, “we don’t.”
“Although separate hotel rooms might be a hassle.”
“A
nd expensive.” We were quiet for a while. Then she said, “Sorry to state the obvious, but I barely know you. I mean, this has been fun, and it does sound like a great idea, but—”
“Got it. And I know you have your own plans. Forget the whole thing, maybe we can see each other when I get back.”
“When are you leaving?”
“I’m thinking about tomorrow night.”
“That’s fast work,” she said, then laughed a charming laugh. “How long will you be gone?”
“A few days. I don’t know. Three or four.”
She gave me a pout any Parisian woman would have been proud of. “And who am I going to have dinner with in New York, while you’re running around France?”
“You have friends in town.”
“I do. But none of them have asked me to dinner in Paris.”
“Monte Carlo,” I corrected her. “Paris on my way home. From there you can go anywhere else you were planning to go in Europe.”
She lifted her wine glass and took a sip.
“You thinking about this?”
“Don’t you want me to?”
“Of course. It’s just that, I, uh, I’m not the impulsive type, and—I mean this in a good way—I’ve never known anyone impulsive enough to do something like this.”
“You’ve never known anyone like me. Period.”
“That may be true.”
She paused for a few moments. “Well, I have to admit, it’s the most incredible invitation I’ve ever received.”
“I guess that means no.”
“Actually, it means yes.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Early the next morning I was alone in my apartment, sorting out any number of issues. Such as the improbability of Donna accepting an invitation to join me on a trip to the south of France. My decision to fly off and visit a man I’d never even heard of until a couple of days ago. The question of whether to call the police to report someone breaking into my apartment. The comments Gerry Egidio made about my father’s death. And the need to cover my responsibilities at work.
Consumed by all of this, I was startled by the unfriendly sound of someone pressing my door buzzer in three quick bursts. I was not in the mood for guests, but that was far from my main concern.
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