Parisian Promises

by Cecilia Velástegui

  “Serge, we were not expecting any visitors. Who is the man with you?”

  Serge scrambled to his feet. “This gentleman is a friend of the younger Marquis Tremblay de Lambert, and––”

  “And he came here unannounced?” Her practiced haughtiness was evident in her curt question.

  Jean-Michel walked up to her, smiling. “Madame la Vicomtesse, please accept my apologies for showing up unannounced, but I––”

  “Who are you? And what do you want?”

  Serge still felt warmth towards Jean-Michel, because of the interest the young gentleman had shown in his life, so he attempted to intercede.

  “But Madame la Vicomtesse,” he said, “this young sir is also a friend of Madame Caron de Pichet. He is a … a well-known author.”

  “I’m not much of a reader, though I did inherit an exquisite library. If I were to read, I would not read a contemporary author. So, what does Marcelle want now?”

  “She sends her regards, and––”

  Madame la Vicomtesse laughed. “You are no friend of Marcelle, just a simple acquaintance. Otherwise you would know that she would never send me her regards. Again, what is it that she wants? My late husband is dead and she can’t blackmail him any longer.”

  She directed her horse to approach the uninvited guest until she hovered above him, uncomfortably close and intimidating. Jean-Michel’s hands tightened into closed fists, but he attempted to reply in a casual voice.

  “I am writing a book on the French Résistance, and Madame Caron de Pichet has been instrumental in providing me with valuable insight––”

  “Enough, please!” She burst out laughing. “Marcelle has been peddling her tales and her ass for centuries. I’ve had enough of her blackmail, her insinuation that my late husband was a collaborator or that they had an affair.” She nudged her horse even closer to Jean-Michel, forcing him to step back.

  Jean-Michel heard the silent cry of a woman scorned. He said softly, “She has been most discreet about your late husband. May I speak with you about––”

  “Get the hell off my property,” she hissed.

  Serge threw himself in front of her horse. “Please, Madame la Vicomtesse, this young sir is a friend of the young Marquis, and he is also a––”

  Madame held her riding crop up high. “You will escort this intruder off my land. I never forget a face. And I can tell that this man is an ordinary flâneur who idles the entire day from café to café in Paris.” She snorted as if she had just smelled manure. “I’ve seen him and his cohorts under the red awning, drinking all day long, attended by the same insolent waiter who tried to ingratiate himself to me by lifting my suitcases at the train station. Stay away from me and my land!”

  She rode away, leaving a cloud of dust, disappointment, and the hunger for revenge in her wake.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Indelible Mark

  The bile churning inside Jean-Michel turned increasingly toxic as he lurked behind the trees across the narrow country road from Les Charmilles. He was hiding in a thicket of trees, waiting for Monica to return with Christophe––he’d been able to extract information about their whereabouts from the sealed lips of old Serge. The bitter green poison of jealousy and revenge clouded Jean-Michel’s thoughts, and he stomped on the delicate yellow wildflowers carpeting the berm. One minute he envisioned himself stabbing both lovers as they frolicked back home; the next minute he wanted to strangle Madame La Vicomtesse for summarily dismissing him like some common trespasser who had wandered aimlessly onto her property. From her high perch on her champion horse, she had looked down her nose at him as if he were not her peer, not her social equal, but a sneaky horse thief trying to pass himself off as an acquaintance.

  Jean-Michel had not yet ascertained whether Madame Caron de Pichet and Madame La Vicomtesse were long-term adversaries, but he was gravely disappointed that his fact-finding abilities had led him to the erroneous conclusion that the women were long-time friends. He was tired of these bumbling mistakes––the accidental bomb in the Bordeaux wine cellar, the obvious evidence left behind in the form of Bertrand’s foot, and now Madame La Vicomtesse recognizing him as an associate of the waiter. He could not afford any more mistakes. Otherwise he would never have the opportunity to make his mark, to take a bite out of the rapidly evolving world of first-generation European terrorist groups. He would be brushed off by the other clandestine groups now launching their ball-of-fire attacks. Just recently, the Baader-Meinhof gang had continued its anti-imperialist struggle by raising money through bank robberies––and received the support of every armchair liberal in Germany in the process. In contrast to Baader-Meinhof’s calculated and well-executed acts, Jean-Michel’s weak and ineffective actions thus far would make him a laughingstock, not only to the groups he was trying to impress but also to the ruling class he was trying to destroy.

  Jean-Michel slumped against the trunk of a tree. Anger and envy crawled on his skin, like thousands of fire ants, at the thought of so many of the European militant groups attributing their revolutionary techniques to the actions of Che Guevara and the Uruguayan Tupumaros movement. This new wave of revolutionary leaders were his people––or, at the very least, they were fellow South Americans––and he’d wanted his own subversive group to be the first to employ Latin American maneuvers in the European arena.

  But instead it was Italy’s Brigate Rosse that openly acknowledged the influence of the Tupumaros on its own actions, particularly bank robberies and kidnappings. Instead of Jean-Michel’s squad being the first militant group to rob banks, Robin Hood style, and give a portion of the money to the poor, the Italians had beaten him to the punch. And now, here he was––hiding and waiting to recapture Monica once again, to fine-tune his “California Girl” mind-control method, and then to release her to do his bidding.

  What Jean-Michel could not admit to himself was that he lacked a compelling reason for his supposed revolutionary zeal. No government had forced him to forget his mother tongue; no fascist tyrant had shut him up with the butt of a rifle; and his inherited wealth cancelled out any complaints about economic imperialism. Yet he and his ever-diminishing squad were self-described revolutionaries, and their minor gun-running and document-forging expertise gave them some credibility. As Jean-Michel lay in wait along the country road, he decided that he had to be a trailblazer. He would be a hired gun, not quite in the style of a mercenary, but a silent and mysterious hatchet man who would use his frail-but-obedient agents of terror. And he would start with Monica, whose mind he once controlled, albeit briefly––and who he was determined to dominate again.

  In the darkness among the trees, Jean-Michel felt for the handle of his German stainless steel switchblade, which he kept tucked in the pocket of his corduroy pants. He imagined slashing Madame La Vicomtesse’s prize horse or, better yet, surprising her with a midnight attack. He would slash her throat in the style of a Colombian gangster necktie, pulling her long vicious tongue straight through the open wound. That wagging tongue would no longer insult anyone.

  These cruel visions agitated him, and he paced back and forth across the damp ground, crushed flowers sticking in a muddy mess to his shoes and pant legs. Only the constant sound of the river placated him, reminding him of the demands of the Amazon River. He thought of how one Frenchman had compelled his petite Ecuadorian wife, Isabel, to sail its hazardous currents simply because after twenty years of neglect, he’d commanded her to join him in French Guiana. Isabel had complied, a solitary figure among the boas and jaguars. She’d trudged forward––despite the flesh-eating insects and jagged-tooth caimans of its muddy waters––with only one goal: to obey her husband’s wishes and be back in his arms again. Similarly, Jean-Michel’s mission in Europe was of immense importance to him. It was certainly bigger than one deceitful girl, her simpering, entitled boyfriend, and his fire-breathing dragon of a mother.

  The gravel driveway rasped with the weight of the rolling bicycle tires, but Serge did
not come out to investigate who was arriving at Les Charmilles. He was liquored up at the village café, complaining to no one in particular about how Madame La Vicomtesse threw out a well-known author who had come to interview him for a book about the war.

  “She’s turned quite evil as of late, wouldn’t you agree?” Serge asked, and no one answered. He raised his voice. “Let her face intruders to her property all by herself!”

  But the bicycles entering noisily weren’t those of new intruders: they belonged to Christophe and Monica.

  “Let me put the bicycles away, while you go and rest in the pool house.” Christophe kissed Monica on the cheek and took control of her bike. Monica didn’t answer, and this worried Christophe. The last thing he wanted to do was to upset her again. “I’ll check on Mother in the main house and then I’ll bring us a light supper. Will that be fine with you, ma petite? Will you be alright alone for a half-hour or so?”

  “I’ll take a bath,” Monica told him, and she scampered towards the pool house before he could kiss her again.

  Jean-Michel took advantage of the ruckus by the gravel driveway to run onto Les Charmilles. He circled the main house once he saw Monica enter the pool house, and waited in the shadows by the windows. After he saw the lights turn on in one room and then another in the main house, he tapped on the pool house shutters and whistled the same three-note musical code with which he’d tormented Monica that night at his late great-uncles’ apartment in Paris.

  He could hear Monica turning off the bathtub faucet and letting out a lost-puppy whimper. Jean-Michel snorted with satisfaction at her predictable tremulous reaction. His version of Pavlovian conditioning was working its fearful and hypnotic magic. After a couple of minutes, he moved to the other side of the pool house, tapped once again on the wooden shutter, and whistled the eerie three-note code. Monica turned off the lights in the pool house and remained silent for a few seconds, and he heard another of her plaintive whimpers.

  When Jean-Michel opened the pool house door, he didn’t immediately see her. He locked the door behind him and gazed around the apparently empty room. But when he opened the door of the huge Louis XV-style mirrored armoire, he discovered Monica sitting naked and shivering in the corner, partially hidden by hanging clothes.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, my love,” Jean-Michel cried, tears in his eyes. “I can’t live without you.”

  Monica sat gazing up at him from the corner of the armoire, unable to budge. She was totally mystified as to how Jean-Michel could sense that she longed for him, and how he’d been able to find her in this minute corner of the world. She’d known ranch dogs that had been given away who subsequently traveled long distances back to their former owners, their return not always welcome. But every time these dogs were left at another home, their profound allegiance to their owners compelled them to return time and time again.

  Monica’s relationship with Jean-Michel had been a sixth-sense journey. She allowed him to draw her out of the armoire, reacting with animal instinct to his every touch. Jean-Michel kissed and nibbled her chest, then moved his lips down her stomach, lowering her to the floor. When he parted her legs he said, “But you’ve already erased my mark. We must rectify that!”

  Monica moaned and bit down on his palm, and as she climaxed she felt his piercing bite on her inner thigh. Jean-Michel lifted her off the floor and set her down on the bed.

  “Please meet me tomorrow morning––eight a.m. mass at St. Martin in Tours,” he whispered. “It’s not far. Promise me you’ll be there. You are mine, aren’t you?”

  Monica nodded and Jean-Michel slunk away.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Inside the Cave

  Follow me,” Jean-Michel told Monica. It was Sunday morning, and they were leaving mass at St. Martin’s Church. He was dressed in tailored navy blue and charcoal gray, and none of the old parishioners bothered to look up from their supplications to notice either Jean-Michel or the slight woman who walked out after him.

  He walked briskly, and Monica understood that she should follow a few meters behind. She thought that perhaps he was helping her cover up her tracks, just in case Christophe had asked Serge to keep an eye on her. Actually, when Monica told Christophe that she wanted to attend church alone, and then go on to her art lecture, Christophe ordered Serge to drive her to church and then to return to Les Charmilles. Preoccupied with business matters of his estate, Christophe had handled himself like a curt business owner.

  “Please telephone Serge when you are ready to return, so he can pick you up,” he said to Monica.

  “But I may stay with Lola in Tours. We … we have a joint project to complete.” Monica quickly fabricated a believable story, hoping that her voice wouldn’t betray her excitement about spending time with Jean-Michel again. She avoided his gaze, throwing a few items of clothing and her art supplies into her small duffel bag.

  Christophe kissed her like a bored husband. “Of course, you should focus on your studies. And I must get ready for the extra workers we take on during the vendange, the grape harvest. You understand, ma petite?” He went back to his paperwork, not even looking up when Monica skulked away. In their few days together, Monica had taken for granted that she was a priority in Christophe’s life, but the previous night she had refused to make love to him, certain he would notice the bite marks on her thigh. Apparently he still held a grudge about being rebuffed.

  A nondescript car and male driver waited a block away from the church for Jean-Michel and Monica. They both climbed into the back seat, and Jean-Michel let Monica rest her head on his lap until they were on the outskirts of Tours. “You’re in for a unique surprise,” he told her, and then he said something in French to the driver. After a few kilometers, the driver crossed a bridge and followed a narrow road wending along the river. He made a number of left and right turns before pulling up to a stone wall with a locked wood gate.

  Jean-Michel waved goodbye to the driver and led Monica down along the lower sections of the rocky bluffs parallel to the river, walking until they found another gate, this one small and also made of wood. He lifted a weathered wine cask filled with geraniums and pulled out a key from its underside.

  “Welcome to a troglodyte dwelling,” he said, opening the gate.

  “A what?”

  “Come inside, you’ll see.”

  It took a couple of minutes for Monica to adjust to the darkness inside the cave. Jean-Michel walked towards the back of the cave and turned on a lone electric bulb.

  “Can you see how charming this wine cave is?”

  “It’s right out of The Flintstones,” giggled Monica. “But surely people don’t live in this cave, do they?”

  “Sometimes. There are hundreds of caves like this all over the Loire Valley. Throughout history, people have lived in these caves. Nearby there’s even a former monastery built right into the caves on the cliff.”

  “But why would people live somewhere like this?” Monica sniffed at the stale air and squinted into the cave’s dark recesses.

  “Sometimes they were hiding from religious persecution. Other times they were just poor peasants trying to keep dry in the winter and cool in the summer.”

  Monica walked around the cave, her footsteps echoing. She noticed that one section was set up as sleeping quarters, while other sections clearly served as a wine cellar. “So do you know the owner of this wine cellar? That’s what this place is, right?”

  “Your lack of creativity amazes me,” Jean-Michel snapped. “Why must it be this or that? Why can’t you see this is a place where we can be alone and in love?”

  Monica was startled at how quickly he could grow angry––cruel, even. In a flash she recalled being abandoned alone in the Paris apartment after one of his outbursts. Although she’d been able to look down on the street below, and could have called out for help, Monica had waited in terror for Jean-Michel to return. She didn’t want to face the possibility that he would abandon her in this cave as well. Mo
nica started to hyperventilate, dizzy and shivering with cold sweat. She looked so dazed that Jean-Michel saw the opportunity to continue his assault on her identity.

  He had planned to isolate Monica in this tenebrous cave, but he was satisfied at how rapidly she exhibited outward signs of her stress. Jean-Michel knew it was the perfect moment to jumpstart his accelerated refresher course, a systematic attack on her sense of self––before he sent her out on a mission. He had to exhaust Monica, to weaken her resolve, so he began by shouting at her at close range.

  “Do you think that there are no longer poor starving people in the world?” he screamed. “Do you think that the pitiful man who slept in the same cot you’re sitting on would not die from a lung infection contracted from microscopic fungi borne from decomposing biological fluids?”

  Monica sprang from the cot, horror written all over her pale face.

  “That’s right!” Jean-Michel yelled. “He died from exposure and contact with human excretions like urine, vomit, and feces that are still lingering in caves like these! You and I are probably inhaling those spores right now, but perhaps this risk to your health will make you appreciate the destitute lives of those less fortunate. Don’t you want to help the world’s disenfranchised people?”

  He strode towards a quivering Monica and she fell into his arms. Jean-Michel pushed her back down on the cot, and held her firmly by her shoulders.

  “Don’t tell me that there are no poor people in California?” he asked in his most mocking tone.

  “Yes, of course there are,” Monica whimpered. “But what does that have to do with me?”

  “Precisely. You don’t recognize how your financial support of imperialist corporations helps drive thousands more working people into nameless graves.” He squeezed her shoulders.