When I found her, she was sitting on the edge of the river Seine, her legs dangling over the embankment and her head tilted to the sun. She wore a wide-brimmed hat and big tortoiseshell sunglasses, a long summer dress, golden sandals, and a light-gray sweater that had slipped off one shoulder to reveal translucent skin polka-dotted with freckles.
The red cooler was to her right. A picnic basket to her left.
She pretended not to notice me when I sat down, the picnic basket between us. I cleared my throat. She looked over her shoulder at me and then back again at some fixed spot on the opposite bank. A dinner cruise floated by, floodlights blazing.
“Looks like an alien spaceship,” I said.
“Maybe it is,” she said, “here to conquer the earth.”
“Or maybe just on vacation,” I said, “visiting the most beautiful city in the universe.”
“You don’t think they have beautiful cities where they come from?” she asked.
“Maybe they do,” I said, “but there’s something romantic about Paris. Maybe it’s all the movies.”
“They watch our movies on other planets?” she asked.
“Oh sure,” I said. “We make the best movies in the universe. Have you ever seen a Martian film?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Complete garbage,” I said. “Even worse than German expressionism.”
She let out a little puff of air that I thought might be something like a laugh. I was encouraged.
“You brought a picnic,” I said.
“Have it if you want,” she replied, pushing the basket toward me.
“Are you as hungry as I am?” I asked.
She didn’t respond. I rummaged through the basket.
“Wine, strawberries, cheese,” I said, listing the contents.
“Rosé,” she said. “From Provence.”
“This is for us?”
“For you,” she said, “since you’re always so hungry.”
Then she started to stand.
“Wait!” I said. “Aren’t you at least going to have a glass of rosé with me?”
“I don’t think so.”
“One glass,” I begged.
“I have somewhere to be.”
“But there are two glasses here,” I protested. “Why would you pack two glasses if you weren’t planning on staying?”
She stared into the water and didn’t say anything for a while. The sun was setting over La Défense. The last rays of light skipped over the lazy water.
“I saw you at the Jardin des Plantes,” she said finally.
“What?”
“Last time you were here,” she said, “I saw you.”
I didn’t respond. My hands were sweating. I fumbled with the bottle of rosé, popped the cork, and poured us each a glass.
“After that, Rowan wanted to meet you himself,” she continued.
“Yeah,” I said, “I saw him.”
“He says you’ve been in this business a long time and you’ve never asked any questions.”
“I’ve always thought we were trafficking drugs or organs or something,” I said.
“And you wouldn’t have cared,” she asked, “if we were trafficking drugs or organs?”
“I just didn’t want to know,” I replied sheepishly.
“Interesting rationale.”
I sipped my wine.
“So what’s really in the coolers?” I asked.
“Sandwiches.”
“Come on,” I said. “If it’s not drugs or organs, then why can’t you tell me?”
“Part of the plan, Stan,” she said, feigning an American accent.
“What do you do at the Jardin des Plantes?” I asked.
“Research.”
“Could you be a little more specific?”
“No,” she said, “not until Rowan gives you clearance.”
She was sipping delicately at the rosé.
“What does that mean?” I demanded.
“Never mind,” she said, “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
All along the bank of the river, other small groups were gathering with bottles of beer and wine. A few teenagers had brought bongo drums, and they set a steady beat as a few of their friends chanted along.
Greta offered me a strawberry.
“Thanks,” I said.
“So is this your only job,” she asked, “working for Rowan?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re happy?”
I shrugged.
“So what do you do in the meantime?” she asked.
“I dunno,” I said. “Hang out. Invest in stocks.”
“You have a girlfriend?” she asked.
“No.”
There was a long pause.
“Can I give you a pointer?” she said.
“Sure.”
“I prefer champagne.” And, with that, she got up and walked away.
We were married a year later, after a sum total of eleven dates, if that’s what you want to call our little meet-ups along the Seine. It was sort of a shotgun wedding. Greta had to get out of Paris for a while, keep a low profile. Rowan offered her a job in the States. Our marriage license expedited the whole visa process considerably.
By that time I knew all of her little secrets. I knew she was forced to resign from her position at the Jardin des Plantes in March 2012 for the suspected misuse of state-funded resources. Fortunately, the administration didn’t order an investigation; they accepted Greta’s resignation and hinted that her career in state-funded research was dead in the water.
I also knew she was on some sort of security watch list in North and South Korea for trespassing and the trafficking of goods across the North-South border. A friend of hers in the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs alluded to the fact that her name had surfaced in a file that was circulating around the ministry, and that she had better get out of the country tout de suite.
We were married on April 20, 2012. We left for the United States the following day. The next time I returned to France was in 2039 for the Lambert-Keaton trials, where I testified against my then-deceased wife.
Yes, I would tell the prosecutor, Greta admitted to trespassing onto North Korean territory a handful of times.
No, she was not a communist spy.
No, she did not have any contact with anyone in the Kim Jong-il administration. As far as I know, she did not have contact with anyone at all.
Yes, a biologist.
To study indigenous plant species, I think.
I’m sure she was aware of the risks.
Yes, the date rings a bell.
She said she was delayed for a number of days.
Yes, in North Korea.
Apparently there was a warrant out for her arrest. At least that’s what she told me.
Not technically. I believe she was detained by the South Korean authorities at the border.
No, they let her go.
I think a bribe.
I’m just telling you what she told me.
I have no reason to disbelieve it.
Yes, she brought back a few things.
Sandwiches, I think.
Well, if you already know what else, then—
Fine. Yes. That, too.
If you say so, but I’m pretty sure that isn’t a crime.
Have I ever been to North Korea? Well…
CHAPTER 27
I HAVE JUST gotten off the phone with Eliza. Duncan has died. I am taking the train to Belgium tomorrow. There will be somebody there to go over the specifics of his will. The farm and all that precious water underneath has been left to me. Good gracious.
They’re going to cremate Duncan’s body and spread it over the farm, just like we did with Greta. Spencer is going with me, and Eugene is going to stay in Paris with the girls. We’ll only be a few days. Then we’ll let the attorneys handle the rest.
It was peaceful, whatever it was. A neighbor to whom Duncan regularly dealt vegetables stopped by yes
terday afternoon and found him in his old sofa chair with an almanac in his lap.
Somebody will have to take care of his cat.
He didn’t have a microchip.
“A shame,” Eliza says, “a real shame.”
She took advantage of the occasion to remind me about my appointment next week with Dr. Pierre Lavoie on rue Etienne Marcel.
“Have you been taking a muscle relaxant?” she demanded.
“Yes, yes,” I said.
“And you’re walking every day? Remember, exercise is important.”
“I know.”
“A tragedy. A real tragedy.”
“He was old,” I said. “At least he died peacefully.”
“But he didn’t have a microchip. No one will ever know his story.”
“Not every story needs to be told.”
“Says the man writing his memoir.”
“I’m writing it for your mother,” I said. “She never got to tell her story.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
Then, after a long pause, “I don’t believe you’re writing it for Mom.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no.”
CHAPTER 28
THINGS GOT PRETTY INTERESTING after that first date on the riverbank with Greta. I didn’t know then that her decision to stick around for a glass of rosé wasn’t an attempt at flirtation; it was a reconnaissance mission. Rowan Krasimir wanted me for a special operation.
I arrived at the mailbox outside the San Francisco Public Library with the most recent red cooler, which contained, to the best of my knowledge, a tuna sandwich and nothing more, and waited for my contact to show.
It was the kid, Dustin, again. He pulled up on his motorbike at half past ten.
“Get on,” he said and tossed me a helmet.
“Are you kidding?”
“No, Rowan wants to meet you,” he said. “Hurry, we’re late.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you on that thing.”
“Come on,” Dustin said, cracking a devilish smile. “You scared?”
I shrugged.
He revved the engine menacingly.
“Fine,” I said and climbed aboard. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” he said and slammed on the gas.
We went hurtling toward Market Street, and I clung to the kid’s jacket for dear life. The cooler was in one hand. My other arm was thrown around his waist. He wasn’t big, maybe 125 pounds, and I felt like any grip I got on his slight frame wasn’t enough.
“Rowan’s cool,” the kid yelled over his shoulder.
The wind was rushing by, making it almost impossible to hear.
“Apparently you did something right,” he continued. “He’s giving you clearance.”
“Keep your eyes on the road,” I said.
The kid laughed, “Okay, boss.”
We zoomed down Eighth Street, dodging cars and darting around buses. Then we were on the Bay Bridge, humming along with the rest of the trans-bay commuters.
“See that?” Dustin said. “They’re almost done with the new bridge.”
“Yeah,” I managed.
We didn’t speak again for some time. He took Interstate 580 south for a while, through Oakland and San Leandro. Then he veered east, following the snaking track of BART, which zipped alongside the freeway, taunting me with its brightly lit cabins and indoor seating.
Somewhere just outside Livermore, we pulled off the freeway, onto a quiet country road that wound through the canyons of the east hills. The city had fallen away to grassy hummocks spotted with grazing cattle and large white wind turbines that stood like giant sentinels along the ridge.
“Most of our power comes from those turbines,” the kid said. “In case something happens, we’ll always have wind.”
In case something happens?
I hadn’t seen another vehicle on the road for some time when finally we pulled off onto a dirt track that led to a barbwire fence policed by a little industrial guardhouse.
A young guard greeted us at the gate. Dustin presented a badge and then added, “He should be on the list,” then to me, “Give him your license.”
I fumbled through my pockets for my wallet.
The guard scrolled through a computer, found my name, glanced at my license, and then printed out a yellow pass with my name, the date, and time.
“Your pass is good ’til six o’clock,” the guard said. “Then all visitors must vacate the premises.”
“Yeah,” Dustin said, “we know the drill.”
The gate slid back, and Dustin motored through. Then he pressed the throttle and raced up a steep hill, atop of which sat a low, squat building surrounded by several small bunkers and what looked like two or three glass domes.
“Is this InfraGen Tech?” I asked as we dismounted.
“Not quite,” said the kid. “Welcome to the SHEM Project.”
CHAPTER 29
TODAY WE WENT through Duncan’s things. There are a few items of notable value, a sterling silver pocket watch, a gold wedding band that must have been his father’s, and an enameled music box from the nineteenth century. Those he bequeathed to Eliza, Spencer, and Kendra Ann, respectively. The rest of his belongings are up for grabs, and anything that doesn’t find a new home with us will be donated to the Salvation Army offices in Antwerp.
Spencer was fascinated by some of Duncan’s gardening tools, which have outlasted a century and remain in working order. The instruments have been kept in mint condition, no doubt by Duncan, who was a notorious miser and never bought anything new unless he had no other choice. Most of the relics in his house hail back to the 1940s, when his father modernized the farm after the war.
Spencer intends to take up gardening, so the yard tools were of particular interest to him. I don’t see how he plans to get them all through customs without raising hell.
I’m going to raise a few eyebrows myself trying to get Bentley the Stuffed Crow across the border. Bentley wasn’t always stuffed. Once he was a real crow filled with blood and guts and sinew. Greta used to tell stories about Bentley: how as children she and Duncan found him wounded in the yard, how they took him in and fed him and nursed him back to health, how he learned to curse in Dutch and French, how he used to get into the pantry and sneak marshmallows, how the neighbor’s cat lost an eye in an epic battle of feline versus fowl.
To Greta, Bentley was a legend. A hero! I think that’s what Bentley was to Duncan, too.
When Bentley died, they stuffed him with wool and wire and put him on the mantel for display. I promised to take care of Bentley after Duncan died, which makes me the legal custodian of no less than two resurrected corpses: a taxidermied crow and a sister in a glass coffin.
Go figure.
Tomorrow we will scatter Duncan’s ashes on the farm. Today we took a walk around the property so Spencer could see precisely where his mother’s ashes wound up. Incidentally, the house and surrounding gardens are precisely as they were thirty-one years ago when I first visited Duncan in 2025. The cottage is still a museum; the garden is flourishing.
However, there was an important addition that caught me quite by surprise, even though I should have expected it. Dr. Elijah Mitzner is buried out there now. He has a simple granite tombstone under the old chestnut tree, just as Duncan described.
Spencer remembers Dr. Mitzner. When we stumbled upon his grave, we stood there for some time, pondering. The sky was gloomy and gray. The world was quiet. There were crows perched all along the telephone wires, and, naturally, I wondered if any of them was any relation to Bentley the Stuffed Crow.
“What do you think?” I asked Spencer after some time had passed.
“Seems as good a place as any to be buried,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind spending eternity here. It’s so peaceful, you know? Way out here, away from the hustle and bustle of the everyday.”
“And yet this was Duncan’s everyday,” I said.
We stood there awhile longer. I th
ought maybe Spencer was feeling a little of what I felt the first time I came to this faraway place: an immediate sense of my own mortality. Here in the garden, where one thing grows out of the remains of another. How many of these plants, these trees sprang from Greta’s ashes?
We went back inside to finish packing up. There I found another surprise. In the kitchen, on the windowsill, was the urn, Greta’s urn. It was the same urn I had carried all the way from San Francisco to Antwerp, the same urn Duncan promised to bury in the garden when the ground thawed.
But it was not buried in the garden. It was sitting plainly on the windowsill. It had not moved an inch in all the thirty-one years I’d been away, not an inch since Duncan had rinsed it with water and left it on the windowsill to dry. It looked like it had never been touched.
“It was your mother’s,” I said to Spencer, who lifted it quite unceremoniously from its resting place and peered inside.
“It’s empty,” he said.
“What did you expect?”
He shrugged and replaced the lid.
“Should we bring it with us?” he asked.
“I don’t know if I want to,” I said.
“Eliza will kill us if we don’t.”
“Are you planning on telling her about it?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“We have some time to think about it,” I said. “What do you feel like for dinner?”
“Do they deliver pizza out here?”
CHAPTER 30
MY AGENT, Sam Getz, says I have to get my word count up.
“People don’t like to pay a lot of money for a small book,” he says. “You can’t expect people to take it seriously if you’re under eighty thousand words. And for a memoir? Forget it!”
What does it mean that the story of my life doesn’t meet the minimum word count?
Ah well. Magnum Opus.
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