Chapter 4
Marc lounged on the terrace of a café on the boulevard St. Germain, enjoying his second espresso of the morning. He sat with his back to the full length glass windows, observing the growing weekend crowd of tourists taking advantage of the sunny day. A newspaper lay neglected on the table in front of him and he appeared to be just another man out enjoying the morning, dressed casually in jeans and a slim fitting leather jacket. Completely unremarkable, as he’d planned to be.
He drained his cup, and at his nod, the waiter brought him another. A glance at his watch confirmed his suspicions. Girard was late. He’d left Sera sleeping in his bed and she should be waking to his touch. Instead, she’d wake alone and he wouldn’t have the satisfaction he’d had last night, far beyond any of the other women he’d had in the past few months. If only he could have her every night. Even Madelaine, delectable as she might be, was no Sera. Winning their wager would give him three months, but that wasn’t enough. He should have forced her to accept the full six.
“Bonjour, monsieur.”
Claude Girard drew up a chair and sat down, motioning for the man with him to do the same.
“I didn’t expect you to bring company,” Marc said, lighting a cigarette. “Also, you’re late.”
“This is my brother, Michel. He’s going to help me out. And the traffic was hell trying to get over here.”
Marc looked him over. Like Claude, Michel was of average height and build, his brown hair falling over the collar of his hooded jacket. They looked like any of thousands of young Parisian men. Unlike Claude, who bore the censure and inspection with a bored air, Michel fidgeted, picking at his thumbnail.
“I’m not paying extra,” Marc warned.
“Of course not,” Claude replied. “But it’ll be easier for the two of us. In the weekend crowds, we’ll be less noticeable.”
“Next weekend should be sufficient,” Marc replied.
“We don’t need to wait that long.”
“Really? Why is that?”
Claude leaned his elbows on the table. “We cased the place last week; we could do the job today.”
Marc frowned. “Do you routinely waste your time before you know there’s a job?”
Claude shrugged. “We’d heard hints of something from our mutual acquaintance, so it seemed worth the effort.”
Marc weighed his options. He didn’t like that Royale had known so far ahead and had prepared Girard, even though the action fell in his favour. He was tempted to call off the whole job, but for the fact that Royale obviously wanted it to succeed. What had first seemed simple now appeared complex. Did Royale want to impress Bates? Or was it Bates’ client he was after? He had the money, and to back out at this stage would mean a loss.
“Do it today then, if you must, but if there’s any damage, I’ll be taking it out of your payment.”
“Understood,” Claude agreed. “We’re no amateurs, are we, Michel?” Michel nodded in agreement with his brother, though he didn’t lift his eyes from his hands.
“Call me tomorrow when you’re clear.” Marc took his wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out several €500 bills. Claude pocketed the money and they took their leave.
Marc lingered awhile longer and then tucked enough for his tab under the saucer. He strolled along the boulevard, taking his time to enjoy the sunshine and the crowds. He wondered if Sera had left his apartment yet. She probably had, which was a shame. He smiled to himself as he thought of the wager. She hadn’t been truly his for years. He wanted to convince her to stay even longer and he thought that three months might be enough to make it permanent.
He turned off to head towards the Place Saint-Sulpice, where a market was held regularly. Occasionally there would be a junk dealer selling old furniture and trinkets. Last time, there had been a gorgeous old sofa table that he’d purchased on the spot. The junk seller thought he had made money, but Marc had sold it two weeks later to one of his clients for over double the price. There were no junk dealers this morning, but he walked through the stalls anyway.
He emerged facing Saint-Sulpice, the largest church in Paris, with its Ionic colonnade and double towers. A familiar figure stood sketching in the middle of the square, oblivious to the passerby. He took his time approaching her. As he came up beside her, he leaned in to glance at her half-done sketch of the church.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle Sophie,” he said, his voice low. Sophie started, her pencil slipping from her grasp and clattering on the cobblestones. He picked it up and handed it back to her. “I’m sorry to have startled you,” he said, making sure their fingers brushed as she took her pencil from him. Her cheeks flushed pink and Marc knew that he was going to enjoy seducing this young woman. Winning the wager would be the icing on the cake.
“It’s not your fault,” Sophie replied. “I get caught up so easily.” He smiled and saw her relax a fraction. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and he followed the motion of her hand down and over the collar of her delicate pale blouse, noting where the thin fabric clung to her curves.
“Could I see your work?” He held out a hand and she gave him her sketchbook. The piece wasn’t near to being finished, but he could see in a moment that she had skill. “Sera was right, you’re very talented.”
Sophie ducked her head shyly. “That’s very kind of you, monsieur. And Sera.”
“I don’t give compliments like that out of kindness.” And it was true. For all that he would lie to a woman about her attractiveness, he saw no reason to coddle someone with no talent. He’d seen enough middling artists and appreciated those with real skill.
“I’m not used to it. I was hardly even the best artist in my classes.”
“How many of your classmates have come to Paris and have been following in the footsteps of their favourite artists?”
Sophie gave him a grateful look. This wager would be easy to win if all he had to do was give her a few compliments. Sera had misread her.
“Just me. I’ve wanted to visit Paris for years.”
“Then I should leave you to your work.” Marc took a slow, calculated step away. Sophie glanced at her sketch and back at him.
“No, I think it’s better left unfinished. My memory can fill in the details. Besides, I was going to go to d’Orsay this afternoon, and you’ve kept me from being too late.”
“You’re braver than I,” he remarked. He took his cigarette case from his jacket pocket and lit a cigarette.
“Brave?” Sophie echoed.
“Saturday afternoons at d’Orsay mean that every tourist this side of the Seine will be there. Better to go midweek, or when they have free admission for students.”
Sophie considered for a moment. “I’m sure I can find something else to do.”
“Do you like books?”
“I haven’t gone book shopping yet. I can’t read French as well as I’d like.”
“Then we should go to Shakespeare and Company.”
“They sell English books?” Sophie raised a brow, looking doubtful.
“Thousands. And it’s a strange little building. I think you’ll like it.” Marc gestured towards the street. “Come with me, mademoiselle.”
He took her down the rue Saint-Sulpice and back to the boulevard St. Germain. The increased crowds made the route slow-going but neither of them minded. They squeezed through a queue of people waiting to buy a crepe from a sidewalk stand and Marc took the opportunity to lay a hand on the small of her back. He let it drop when the sidewalk widened, noting her disappointed glance.
“Have you always lived in Paris, monsieur?”
“Born and raised, though I travel a great deal.” He recalled their conversation from the other night. “Is Ottawa your home?”
“Yeah, for nearly my entire life. But I was born on the west coast. We moved when I was young.” Sophie didn’t elaborate, but her smile had faded. It wouldn’t do to remind her of her past. Marc changed the subject as they turned up the rue Boutbrie, headin
g towards St. Severin church, which stood imposingly behind an iron fence. Sophie craned her neck to look up at the bell tower and the graceful stone arches.
“I didn’t even know this was here,” she said. “It’s gorgeous.” They turned into the rue Saint-Severin and walked down the narrow street, past restaurants and shops. They crossed the street and turned towards the Seine. Notre Dame loomed in the distance. Sophie stopped to gape at the view. He put an arm over her shoulders and moved her off to the side of the busy walkway. She looked up at him in surprise.
“You were going to be run over by those little old ladies,” he told her. She giggled and he smiled back at her.
“They wouldn’t do that, would they?”
“They just might. Old ladies in Paris are dangerous.” She gave him a playful shove. He used that opportunity to draw her closer, feeling the press of her lithe body. “You need to be careful.” Of him.
Sophie laughed as he winked at her. She didn’t pull away until they started walking again. “Good thing I have you then.”
They turned into the rue de la Bûcherie, and she easily spotted the aged signage of the bookshop. Shakespeare and Co. was doing a brisk business this afternoon, and Marc could hear several languages being spoken.
“It is charming.” Sophie looked delighted. They made their way inside, squeezing past the queue at the cashier and up an uneven set of stairs. Sophie paused to look around at the shelves and piles of books. The little shop was crammed full of more books than seemed possible. Here and there were rickety old chairs tucked into corners, and a faded green velvet armchair was nearby, almost lost in stacks of paperback books.
Marc followed a step behind Sophie as she wandered through the shop. When they came across a neatly made bed with a bright, knitted quilt in a small side room, she glanced at him. He gave her a suggestive look and she made a little sound, almost a gasp. He was tempted to close the door and take her right there on the bed, pressing her naked body into the homely quilt.
“That’s not what I meant.” She was embarrassed.
“People do sleep here.” He took pity on her and kept the conversation light. “They get interns every year who stay in the shop.”
“I’d never be able to sleep if I worked here. There are too many books. I’d want to read them all. If I lived in Paris I’d be here all the time.” Her words tumbled out, awkward and hurried.
“You could come every day for the rest of your stay.”
Sophie laughed.
“I wish! But I’d never get anything done on my thesis, and I’d run out of money. I can only afford to be here for the next month or so. If I go home empty handed, my grandmother will consider it proof that I should have done something ‘more sensible’ with my studies.” Sophie sighed.
“Your grandmother doesn’t like art?”
“According to her, I should have gone into finance. She said that at least I’d get a good job.” Sophie stopped to look at a shelf full of coffee-table art books. While she looked at a book on Manet, Marc pulled down one on Degas. He flipped through it idly, leaning against the shelf. He looked up and saw Sophie eyeing his book.
“Do you like Degas?” he asked her.
“Not his ballerinas. My bedroom was decorated in them when I was younger.”
“You had dreams of being a prima ballerina?”
“Never, though my grandmother tried. I had the worst coordination.”
“You would look lovely as a ballerina.”
Sophie shook her head. “I preferred to sit and read.” Marc replaced the Degas book on the shelf. Sophie tucked the Manet under her arm and they continued on. It took them another half an hour to make their way through the rest of the shop. They stopped so Sophie could pay for her book, and then stepped back out into the sun.
“It’s such a nice day—I wish I hadn’t promised my roommate that I’d go shopping with her.”
“Cancel. Spending a Saturday afternoon on the terrace of a café is a much more pleasant pastime than shopping.” Sophie hesitated, and seemed caught up in an inner debate.
“I should meet her,” she said. She looked at Marc regretfully. “Thank you for showing me around.”
Marc slid his hand down her spine to the small of her back and turned her towards him. “The pleasure was mine.” Sophie didn’t move; she seemed too surprised. He took advantage of her indecision and kissed her. Her mouth was soft and she was obviously inexperienced, but she responded, letting him part her lips. He didn’t press his advantage, and when he pulled back, he saw the fleeting disappointment in her expression. It assured him that he was playing her completely right; he’d seen that look many times before and it had always led to success. He slid his business card into her hand and she recovered her composure. Sophie looked about to say something, but couldn’t find the words.
“Call me,” he said, letting go of her hand.
“I will.” She glanced at his card before tucking it into the pocket of her jeans. “Merci.” She looked reluctant to leave, turning towards Notre Dame, then back to him. “Will I see you again soon?”
He nodded. “Just call.”
She gave him once last searching look before she turned to go. He watched her cross the road, walking along the Seine to the Petit Pont. She glanced back twice and he stayed standing in front of the bookshop until she was nearly across the bridge, too far to see him clearly. Once she’d gone, he went to the left, heading back along the Seine. As he walked, he began to hear sirens. At first it was faint, but as he drew closer to the Pont du Carousel, he could see the cluster of vehicles and their flashing lights surrounding the Musée d’Orsay. He paused near a group of tourists, drawing his cigarette case from his jacket as he watched the scene and listened to their conversation.
A woman in the group waved to another approaching. “Oh my god! There you are! I thought you’d been inside!”
The new arrival gave the woman a hug. “No, we were just in line. The police will be there for ages.”
“Did they find them?”
“I think they’re still looking. I can’t believe we were there!”
Marc stiffened, then forced himself to relax. He lit his cigarette and replaced the case. He resumed his walk, turning away from the river to head back to the boulevard St. Germain. He should have listened to his instincts. He didn’t want to think about what might happen if they were caught. He felt for his phone in his inner jacket pocket, but it didn’t ring. He took it out, but there were no missed messages. Did the Girards get away?
Marc hated waiting.
Lingering had been out of the question, as had going to the office. He went home. Pacing had only satisfied him for so long even with a scotch to soften his worries. When his phone buzzed, he picked up on the first ring.
“Oui?”
“We’re calling from the marketing firm of...” trilled a female voice before he ended the call. He left the phone on the coffee table and went to the alcove where he stored his cello. He took out the case and laid it on the floor, removing the cello and its bow. He drew up a straight backed dining chair, tightening the bow and tuning the strings. The habitual action helped him to relax. He played a few chords and found himself segueing into Tchaikovsky’s Nocturne in D-minor. He rarely played it, preferring pieces with fewer memories attached, but it always came back to him when he felt uncertain.
His mother had suggested he learn the piece for the entrance exam to the Sorbonne. “It’s beautiful,” she’d said. As a musician herself, she’d know. He’d been halfway through a lengthy practice session for the exam, barely eighteen years old. The doorbell had rung, interrupting his practice. He remembered the lieutenant’s sympathetic eyes and heard the words he hadn’t ever wanted to hear.
“Your brother is dead.”
He played through the piece, but the memory persisted. He chose another, but the Tchaikovsky stayed in his mind. His bow faltered on the strings as his vision blurred and his shoulders sagged.
The phone buzzed, its vibrat
ion loud on the wood of the coffee table. He snatched it up. The number displayed was blocked.
“Oui?”
“We made it.” Claude’s voice came over the line, heavily distorted by static.
“I’ll be there shortly. Do you have them?” All Marc could hear was static. “Claude?”
“Well, you see, monsieur...” Again, static.
He stood, laying his cello carefully in its case. He left the bow on the seat and walked the length of his apartment.
“What do I see, Claude?” The reception cleared and he could hear Michel in the background, talking to Claude.
“Tell him it wasn’t my fault!” Michel sounded panicked, almost hysterical.
“What wasn’t Michel’s fault?” Marc paced back across the living room, stepping around his cello. He paused in front of the window. The setting sun made him squint. He shaded his eyes and watched a pedestrian turn the corner at the boulevard de Courcelles while he waited for Claude’s reply.
“Shut up!” Claude hissed at his brother, though he’d poorly covered the phone and it carried to Marc. “Michel’s just over-excited,” Claude emphasized. “He thought we were going to get caught by the cops.”
Half a dozen violent scenarios came to mind as Marc listened to Claude embellish their daring escape from the pursuing police: how they’d ducked into alleyways and through parks, hopping on buses and finally the metro. Marc revised his favourite scenario—hanging Claude and Michel from a garret window by their ankles—to include gags. He moved away from the window, his body feeling like a coiled spring. His hand tightened around the phone.
“You’ve always been a poor liar, Claude.” He could hear Claude sputtering his assurances and Michel in the background. “Do you have them?”
Claude didn’t answer.
“You had better not disappoint me,” Marc warned. He heard Claude start his protests again, but he took the phone from his ear and ended the call. He slid the phone into the pocket of his jeans and bent to put the bow back into the case with his cello. He closed the lid and left it lying in the middle of the floor. The anger came swiftly and he cursed. He should have turned down Bates’ offer. He’d known better.
The Paris Game Page 5