Zara came back from jogging and, as always, wanted to stop for a cup of coffee in the little café around the corner from her apartment. She liked the café because it reminded her of her old life in Paris. As she entered, the owner recognized her immediately. “You’ll have your coffee in a moment, Mademoiselle!” Zara smiled, leaned on the brown counter and tightened the rubber band around her ponytail. An advantage of the new apartment was that she didn’t know anyone who lived in the neighborhood. She didn’t have to put on make-up; she could stand here, sweaty in her running-shorts, leafing through the newspaper while she waited for her coffee. “Here you are.” Without raising her head she reached for the coffee, and then looked up, in disbelief. No one whom she knew was supposed to be living here, she thought again! She had never expected Gregor Levy!
Gregor had developed a similar habit here in New York. After jogging, he headed to the café, drank his coffee at the counter, and leafed through the newspapers. The owner saw to it that he had both Israeli and German papers. He didn’t believe his eyes as he saw Zara in her red shorts. She didn’t look over twenty-five, more like eighteen, completely without make-up and with a messy ponytail, red cheeks from running, and buried in a French newspaper. They were both strangers in this city and that perhaps drew them to this café.
“Now really, Your Highness,” Gregor said, and Zara sighed. “There’s apparently no getting away from you anywhere in New York!” She took a sip of her black coffee. “We’ve obviously chosen the same café,” Gregor said amiably, and put his newspaper down. Zara took a look; “Frankfurter Allgemeine,” she said. He should realize that she had more than a title – an education, for example. Gregor looked at her, astonished. “Don’t tell me. You speak German.” Zara laughed, her eyes shining. There was quite a bit he didn’t know.
She looked at him. “You speak French, why shouldn’t I be able to speak German?” she responded saucily, and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “We apparently don’t only share a café but also a hobby,” she said and looked him over. He has well-developed legs and the rest of him is nothing to sneeze at, she had to admit. He was wearing a tight-fitting pair of running shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt through which his broad chest and his muscular arms were clearly evident. There was good reason why he was once a well-paid top model, Zara thought.
He also hadn’t shaved and his short blond hair wasn’t combed; he apparently runs right after getting up, just as she does. She found herself spontaneously smiling.
“What would you say if we declared this a neutral zone,” he suggested. He really didn’t want to have arguments here in the mornings, and he also didn’t want to have to look for another café. He studied her face; she had tiny freckles around her nose, which he had never seen before, probably because she covered them up with make-up. What a shame.
She gave him a side-long glance; actually she didn’t want to find another café either, particularly since there were French newspapers available here and the coffee was good. No, she didn’t want that, and besides, she could watch him here and decide which weapons to choose to crush him.
The owner pushed a croissant in Gregor’s direction and said to him in Hebrew, “I forgot this; the princess always confuses me.” He grinned and jerked his head toward Zara. “Amos, get one of your raisin twists for Her Highness; she’s too skinny as she is.” Amos flashed his grin and brought Zara a plate. “At the request of the gentleman next to you.” Zara looked at Gregor in surprise. She was also surprised that he spoke Hebrew. She knew that he was Jewish, but she knew other Jews who didn’t know a single word of the language beyond their Bar Mitzvah lessons.
“What is this? Do you want to poison me?” she asked. She looked at the yellow-ish brown thing with the raisins and the sugar glaze on the plate in front of her, and figured at least 400 calories, if not more!
Gregor looked at her, amused. “So what do you think about the neutral zone?” he asked again. Zara sighed, and said, “Well, alright, but only for Amos’s sake, and because otherwise I would miss the coffee and his newspapers.” She had to hide her intentions, conceal her goals, and see what he liked.
“Then eat the raisin twist.” She picked up the pastry with her well-groomed fingers, and carefully took a little bite. Gregor laughed. It tasted good, Zara determined; yes, it really tasted good. Why did he do that, what did he have in mind? she wondered. Gregor crossed his arms in front of his chest. “And you’re still alive?” “Okay, it’s good, everything is fine.” “Only good?” he asked, as if he were offended. “Okay, very good. Do you want to fatten me up?” She made a scornful face. Gregor suddenly had the desire to kiss this girl. He couldn’t explain it, but her big green eyes confused him, too. Naturally, he didn’t do it; his wish actually frightened him.
“So, are you going to be the next First Lady?” he asked, and watched as she finished eating the raisin twist. She swallowed the last bite. “Oh, you read the gossip columns,” she observed. “Sometimes.” “What would you like to know?” she asked, and took a sip from the mug. “What would I like to know?” he replied. He was the son of a rabbi and understood this kind of banter, old tradition, answering a question with a question. “Something that Robert doesn’t want to tell you?” “You’re not bad.” “I’m a lawyer!” she laughed. “Now, what would Robert not tell me?” he asked. This was interesting. She was quiet for a moment, and deliberated. Naturally Robert bragged about his women – and with his reputation, it was to be expected. “How often he had slept with me!” This was the old Zara, and she probably shouldn’t have said that, it didn’t fit the aristocratic role that she was playing here in New York; but let’s see how he reacts. Gregor almost choked on his coffee. “Excuse me?” She astonished him, he didn’t expect that she would say something like that, here in a café. She continued: “Now, I can add two and two. Robert is a ladies’ man, what does he tell a friend?” “That’s good; I thought your field was business law. You should consider switching to criminal law,” he suggested. “Sometimes there’s no difference between the two . . .” She looked down; these damn contact lenses are hurting again, she thought.
Gregor grinned. He had noticed that she wore contact lenses, so when she blinked just now, it was clear that she wasn’t as perfect as she pretended.
“Even I read your article in the Harvard Business Review,” he mentioned briefly, referring to the article she had published in the last HBR, in which she criticized criminal business practices and the lack of ethical standards
“Now don’t tell me! You’ve been reading my articles?” she asked, surprised. Apparently he’s interested in her – that’s a start.
“Don’t change the subject, I want to know.” This was really fun. She was still astonished that he read her writings; she had to size him up differently. “Okay, he’ll say that every time we went out, he had wild sex with me all night long.” Gregor laughed at the way she said it; with the French accent it sounded so marvelously indecent – and there was that feeling again – he wanted to kiss her. “That’s right. And? Is it true?” Zara looked at him with playful indignation: “Hey, I’m the arrogant little princess, did you forget that already . . . ” He shouldn’t get the idea that I sleep with every man I go out with.
Gregor made a face. “Yes, so you are; that means you haven’t slept with him yet. The poor guy!” He could imagine Robert, as he lusted after her and she didn’t oblige. How often had they been out together? “Well, my pity has its limits . . .” She looked at her watch. “Oh, it’s already so late; I have to go to pack my suitcase.” Gregor looked at her in surprise. “It’s Sunday . . .” “So it is, but I have to be in Paris this evening. I am, after all, a princess with many duties,” she replied with a tinge of irony, looking at him with her big green eyes. She turned to Amos, who was clearing dishes on the counter to bid him good-by, “Shalom, Amos, ‘til next week.” “Shalom, Princess, he replied.” She looked at Gregor again on her way out, and said only, “Pity.” Gregor watched as she left, and wonder
ed. What did she mean by that?
Gregor turned to Amos and said, “She’s a little crazy.” Amos laughed. “Could be, but I like her.” “So does almost every other man,” he said quickly. Naturally she was aware of her appeal and played it, just like her mother, Gregor thought.
Amos shook his head. “No, I’m too old for that. She’s a decent girl, who works twelve hours a day, does these charity events for her crazy mother, and comes home at night to an empty apartment. “My God, Amos, I’m sorry to hear that, but I can’t really empathize. She’s a conceited shiksa, who was born with the proverbial silver spoon in her mouth and a name that takes up a whole line on a page,” Gregor said dryly. Amos laughed and bent toward him, his eyes sparkling. Not only did he make a good cup of coffee and bake a good croissant, he was also a good judge of people. “Hey, Levy,” he said, “she appeals to you too, you just don’t want to admit it.” Gregor shook his head. “You’re wrong,” he replied quickly and finished his coffee. “Well, whatever you say.” Amos shrugged his shoulders and placed the clean cups on the shelf. Gregor continued leafing through the German newspaper. Without turning around, Amos suddenly asked, “I’ve heard that someone named Levy will possibly become the next prime minister of Israel. Are you related to him?” Gregor looked up at Amos’s back. “Hmm,” he muttered. At some point he knew he would be asked about that, he thought. “He’s my older brother,” he said slowly. Amos turned around and looked at Gregor. “Wow – does that mean you’ll also have bodyguards?” Gregor had never thought of that. “I doubt it, since few people know that Ben is my brother, and we don’t see each other all that often. Plus, the name Levy is as plentiful as grains of sand on the beach.” His parents and his brother weren’t very tolerant about his way of life. “In addition, it hasn’t been decided yet – they always argue in the Knesset, as you know yourself . . . and these political parties . . . Gregor didn’t really want to talk about it, although Amos did. He found this man to be very interesting. After they had found out that not only were they both Jewish, but that they both spoke Hebrew, they became quite friendly. Amos had been surprised since the tall, blond man hardly looked like someone who would speak that ancient language and who was a Jew as well – with his blond hair and blue eyes. Amos also knew that he was a banker or something like that; sometimes he came to the café in a suit, and drank his coffee while studying columns of figures. But he never asked him what he did; most of the time, people told Amos everything at some point.
“You’re here in New York and your brother is in Israel; that’s strange,” Amos commented. Gregor again looked up from his paper. “Why, I wasn’t born in Israel – I’m from Frankfurt.” “How come your brother ended up in Israel?” “He was born there, before my parents went to Germany.” “To Germany, hmm . . .” He gave him an odd look, that said more or less, “Why Germany?” Gregor sighed. “Amos, my father is a rabbi, that’s why. He worked and taught in Germany for a long time.” Amos laughed heartily. He looked at the blond man in front of him, in the running shorts, the tight T-shirt, and didn’t see the son of a rabbi at all. “And so that you’ll give it a rest, I’ll tell you something else: I was also supposed to become a rabbi if my parents had had their way.” Gregor closed the newspaper and put the money on the counter. “And did you?” Amos asked, curiously. Gregor smiled. “Do I look like a rabbi?” Amos laughed and shook his head. “Exactly. ‘Til tomorrow, Amos.”
Gregor walked down the street towards his new house, and thought about the time when he left his parents’ home for good. He had imagined a life other than theirs for himself. His religion, the Orthodox views, were left behind, and he went to Paris, against his parents’ wishes. He was just eighteen years old at the time.
Zara arrived in Paris that evening and immediately drove to her mother’s apartment in the Place Vendôme. As the taxi drove through the dark streets, the trees along the beautiful Parisian boulevards were already shedding their leaves. She missed Paris very much, everything about it – the little shops, the people, the weather, the buildings. She sighed; it was almost time to return to the ease of her old life, to her friends. She had to accomplish her goal quickly. The taxi-driver looked into the rear-view mirror and smiled. “Problems?” he asked. Zara shook her head. “No, just homesick.” He had picked her up at the airport, she clearly spoke Parisian French, so she had to be at home now. “Paris is simply Paris,” the driver said and sighed loudly. “Yes, that’s true,” Zara replied as she looked out the window.
They drove by one of the shops that had once belonged to her family and was now owned by strangers. This made her think about Gregor Levy and about their conversation in the café. Why did he have to look like that? It would be far easier to hate him if he didn’t. And then, Robert, too! He called her a lot and she was happy that she wouldn’t be back in New York until Thursday; she needed some time out, she had to think of something else, and ponder whether and how she would carry on with Robert.
In addition to Paris, the most wonderful place in the world was here. The dust from the country road, between the vineyards and the soft hills adorned in the rich, full yellow of the past summer, swirled up around Zara’s Mercedes. From a distance, she could already see her father’s vineyard. There he dedicated himself to the art of wine and to his young wife, who was only a few years older than Zara. Philipp Valois had a great passion for young, very young, women. It had cost him his first career. He had been Minister of Economic Affairs in the conservative government when he betrayed his first wife, Zara’s mother, with a sixteen-year old. Not that the girl didn’t know what she was doing, but my heavens, she was sixteen! Zara thought of it every time she saw her father.
Then, last year, he married the blonde bimbo, as Zara secretly called her. This bimbo, who was coming toward her in tight jeans and form-fitting top, looked like a Claudia Schiffer-double. But Claudia would have been jealous if she would have seen her breasts. And they were supposedly real! As natural as Zara’s blond highlights – no one, obviously, has such a bosom with a double-D cup, and wears a size 6!! And Zara’s father believed her – how charming. But just wait a bit; once she passes the age of thirty, he’ll trade her in for a younger model.
Zara got out of her sports-car to the usual greeting, with a little kiss on the left, a little kiss on the right. Although she was a bimbo, to be more specific, an English one, she was actually very nice in her simplicity. And perhaps, Zara hoped on her father’s behalf, she really did love him.
And here came her father, tall, very slender, narrow face and salt-and-pepper hair – he had inherited the forehead of his ancestors. In some circles it would have been said that Zara’s family was somewhat degenerate. Only a hundred years ago some members married their close relatives. Aunt Amelie’s jaw cracked so loudly when she spoke – simply deterioration. Zara was so blue-blooded that she had a record of her family tree tracing back over hundreds of years, complete with inbreeding. Taken from that point of view, perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea that she should reproduce.
“My beauty!” Her father embraced his daughter and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “How is my brilliant daughter?” They walked up the gravel path to the old manor – the family legacy, the little bit that still remained and hadn’t had to be sold off.
“Good, Papa.” He studied her from the side and thought that his daughter grew ever more beautiful; she looked so much like her grandmother, thank heavens, not her mother. How thin she is, doesn’t the girl eat? In the fitted gray pantsuit she looked damn thin, no hips, no bust.
The Claudia Schiffer-double came wobbling after them. Why do women buy themselves such high heels when they can’t walk in them, Zara thought fleetingly, but stopped herself from commenting. She gave her stepmother a sharp glance, but she didn’t even notice it. Had she gained weight, she wondered, and took note of the small bulge at her belly, noticeable in her tight jeans.
“And how are things going with your job?” he asked her, settling himself into the leather sofa in the great hall
. “Good, thank you.” It always smelled a little strange here, like in a cellar. Zara suspected that the walls were damp. One could never heat these buildings, first, because there weren’t good heating systems to be had in any of them, and second, the fireplaces required a horde of servants – and her ancestors had already paid for feudalism, with their heads.
Philipp looked at his daughter. She never came without a reason, he thought, so what was it this time? “To what do we owe the honor of your presence?” Zara shrugged her shoulders. “Do I have to have a reason?” she replied. Although he wasn’t far wrong, if she were honest. “I just wanted to have a few days to think,” she finally said.
Her stepmother giggled. She had sat down on the arm of the sofa next to her husband and asked curiously: “Is it true that you might become the First Lady?” Well, well – she read the gossip columns too. But then, she would probably not understand the business section, Zara thought.
Philipp raised an eyebrow. “A candidate for marriage?” he asked. Zara smiled a little. “He is the senator from Massachusetts and will perhaps become a candidate for the presidency,” she explained briefly. “Oh, and you have something going with him.” “Father, I don’t sleep with every man!” “My God, you’ve become a real snob. You should come back to France soon; I remember you a little differently!” he laughed. “I’m not at all interested in becoming First Lady; I’m happy to be a lawyer.” Philipp shook his head. “That’s not the right thing for you, to argue with thieves.” “Father, my field is business law; I do contracts, for example . . .” “That’s what I’m talking about!”
Zara sighed. Her father lived in his dreamworld. “Can I borrow your horse?” she asked. “Of course, with pleasure as always; the old hack will be happy – I hardly ever get around to riding anymore . . .” His young spouse giggled suggestively. Zara shook her head; what did her father see in this dumb blonde?
Love under contract Page 3