Love under contract

by Karin Fromwald

  At some point, Celine quietly withdrew and they were both alone. Gregor loved Zara. Both were bathed in sweat because of their passion, and as she lay in his arms she was a bit sorry that it was the last time. She stroked his chest slowly, his cheek, while he smiled and lay there with his eyes closed. “Zara,” Gregor murmured, and stroked her hair. He opened his eyes and looked at her. How beautiful she was; and without thinking he said softly, “I love you so much . . .” Zara smiled; with these exact words her plan was fulfilled. “Shh.” She lay her finger on his lips. He mustn’t say anything now; this was a moment that she didn’t have very often and she was happy that it ended as he fell asleep – in her arms. She pulled away from him slowly and stood up without his noticing, showered, and dressed hurriedly. Her suitcase was packed and waiting and she took a taxi to the airport. As the plane flew over New York, she softly whispered “Adieu.” She still saw his face before her, and she had just a bit, a tiny bit, of a guilty conscience and a tight feeling in her heart.

  Gregor slept very long and as he reached for Zara, still half-asleep, the place next to him was empty. He listened, but the house was quiet. It was Saturday and the housekeeper didn’t come on the weekends; she knew that Gregor was happy to spend time alone – especially since Zara had been living with him.

  “Zara!?” Gregor sat up and when he didn’t receive any answer, he got up, slipped into his robe and walked through the rooms.

  Her clothes were still there, only her Louis Vuitton suitcase was gone. He ran his hand through his hair and slowly the feeling that she had left him came over him.

  He went to the telephone and dialed the telephone number in the apartment in Paris. It rang a long time, until finally a woman with a strong accent and an unfamiliar name answered. “Levy. I would like to speak with Madame Valois.” The woman didn’t understand him at first, and she was silent. “Doesn’t Madame Valois live there?” “Oh, no, no, she hasn’t been living here since the beginning of November. The ambassador from Nigeria lives here,” she then said, in a friendly tone. Stunned, Gregor excused himself, and hung up. Was David right? Was Zara living a double-life about which he had no clue?

  He saw her face in front of him. There was this pain, his hands shook, he had to sit down. Where is this woman – above all, who is she really? An ambassador is living in her grandmother’s apartment? Gregor was more than confused. He got up and looked for the calling card of the detective. He found it in the drawer of his desk and called the French mobile-phone number; the number didn’t exist. He called Information in France, but the detective had no listing. There was only a grocery market at his address. The more calls that he made, the worse he felt – and with every call the picture that he had of Zara broke apart into smaller and smaller pieces.

  And the more he continued, the greater his pain. In a few days, the pain became rage and despair. He felt sick, stayed home and refused all meetings. She had gotten to him, more than he himself understood or could understand. The days passed like this until he finally appeared at the office again, and Alain saw immediately that something was wrong with him. Not only did he have circles under his eyes, he also seemed to be far away in his thoughts.

  Gregor sat in his leather chair and stared at the lively streets of New York. Alain took a seat and looked at him silently for some time.

  “Tell me what’s the matter,” he said. Gregor looked at him. “Come now, all New York must know by now that I made myself out to be an idiot, right?” Gregor asked, sighing. Alain grinned. “The gossip-mill is faster than one thinks. At the least, everyone knows that you bought a huge engagement ring for Zara at Tiffany’s.” Gregor ran his fingers through his blond hair. “And I thought something like that wouldn’t happen to me.” Alain laughed. “Although I know you won’t want to hear it, I’ve asked around. You’re not alone. There are many victims.” Should he really tell him that Zara burns men’s hearts like others burn wood in a fireplace? But maybe it will help him recover faster.

  “She has that kind of reputation . . . and not a good one,” he said slowly. David’s remarks were true then, Gregor thought. Everything a game, everything only a hoax, but why? He didn’t understand it. Was it only about the money? Certainly not about the stocks – she would have gotten those with the marriage. And she was probably not pregnant.

  “The woman gave a colossal performance here in New York, didn’t she?” Alain nodded.

  “Looks that way. It’s probably best if you forget everything quickly, very quickly, and if it’s any comfort, you could found a club for broken hearts with the others who have been rejected too.”

  That really wasn’t any help. He still loved her and wanted to know why she did this, why she faked everything. Really everything? How could he have been so mistaken?

  4.

  It was already after Christmas when Gregor finally traced Zara in Paris. He had long considered whether he should even try to do so. At first he wanted to go to Paris right away, but then he flew to Israel to see his parents for a week. He didn’t see his parents very often any more. He thought about that week in Jerusalem as he drove through the snow-covered streets of Paris.

  When he called his parents from New York to say that he wanted to come to visit them, his father knew right away that something was the matter.

  Gregor sounded so deferential, so unlike his son, and the old Aaron Levy offered to pick him up at the airport in Tel Aviv . . .which he declined. Gregor knew that his father hated to drive and that he hated Tel Aviv even more.

  Gregor arrived in Jerusalem in a rental car. It was cold and there had been night-frost. He found his parents’ house immediately, a simple but large house with a flat roof in a distinguished residential area of Jerusalem, in Talbieh. The house had a pretty garden with olive trees and fig trees. Actually, he had never been here, not since his parents had left Germany, and he had a guilty conscience to be arriving now, when things were not going well for him.

  His father was standing in front of the house, as tall as his son, slender, and his thick hair was slightly gray. He was wearing a kippah on his head. He watched his son get out of the Jeep that he had rented in Tel Aviv, and come toward him.

  “He looks very much like his mother,” Aaron Levy thought. “Hello, Father.” Gregor embraced him. Aaron took his travel bag from him. Something was troubling his son’s heart.

  Gregor’s mother was waiting in the foyer of the house. She looked at him skeptically; they hadn’t heard anything from him for so long. What was it this time? She embraced him briefly and then said, “The prodigal son returns.” Gregor smiled. “I’m sorry, Mother.” He hardly even called, even at their birthdays. “Well, I hope that you’re hungry. I cooked. Your brother also wanted to come by, but politics. . .” Gregor wrinkled his forehead. Since his brother had become involved in politics, he also had less time for his parents.

  In the dining room, it smelled like meat. His parents adhered to Jewish dietary restrictions, but his mother could cook, as Gregor had realized again and again, and which also reminded him of his youth in Frankfurt.

  As his mother pushed a plate toward him, he had to laugh at the large portion. “You want to fatten me up,” he said.

  Esther Levy looked at her son. He had hardly changed in all these years; he hadn’t aged at all. That flawless face still frightened her, for it reminded her of the time when it was in every newspaper, his half-naked body on huge billboards, even here in Israel, in front of the eyes of his father, and the community. How could he have done this to them?

  She had forgiven him a long time ago. Now, since he had a solid position, why didn’t he marry a nice Jewish girl? In the meantime, he certainly had become old enough.

  “Gregor, you are so thin,” she said, and reached for his hand. He was her youngest son; in spite of everything, she had always loved him more than Benjamin, perhaps because he looked so much like her father.

  Aaron poured a glass of wine for Gregor and said, “So now you can tell us why you decided so sudd
enly to come here now; we’ve already been here for two years. Not that we’re not happy to see you, but . . .” he wrinkled his forehead and looked at him with that strict rabbi-look that always frightened Gregor.

  Gregor picked at his food. “Nothing special, I just have to think about a few things.” His father didn’t quite believe him. “Ah, and about what?” Gregor grinned. “Well, about the meaning of life.” Esther laughed and said, “Then you’ve come to the right place!”

  After the meal Aaron got up and said, “Are you coming?” He didn’t need to say where; Gregor knew he meant the synagogue. He shook his head. “I’m going to go for a short walk.” “As you wish; you know where to find me.” Gregor nodded; naturally his father would go to the synagogue.

  Gregor strolled through Jerusalem at night, and across the Old Town; he thought about his professional position; his unrequited love for Zara – and also that apparently quite a few of his colleagues who knew the truth about Zara said nothing to him, probably because they thought that he knew. He felt like an idiot and could do nothing about his feelings for this green-eyed girl. He realized, however, that the love he felt for her was now accompanied by anger and rage.

  Suddenly he was at the synagogue that his father led. People were streaming out the door. He stayed to the side, in the dark shadows, and waited for his father to come out. Aaron saw him and walked toward him. “Well, it’s nice of you to at least come to meet me for the walk home.” “Coincidence.” murmured Gregor.

  It wasn’t really a coincidence; he had to talk to someone. As they wandered through the streets silently, Gregory finally spoke – feeling like a schoolboy, no, more like the time long ago, when he told his father about his plans the night before he left for Paris. “You’re right, I’m not here without a reason.” Aaron stopped short, with his hands behind his back, and looked at his son calmly. He had an inkling, but what could it be? Gregor had enough money; he looked healthy; so it had to be love or his job. “So, tell me.”

  Gregor sighed. “It’s a woman.” “That’s what I thought – what is the problem?” He could hardly believe that his son had problems with women; it must really be a difficult situation. “She is French.” Where and how could he begin?

  They had arrived at his parents’ home and went into his father’s study with a bottle of wine. And while Aaron poured the wine into the beautifully etched crystal glasses, Gregor sat down in the worn leather chair which he recognized as being from Germany. He realized that there were a number of things here from Germany, including the dumb, ugly cuckoo clock from the Black Forest, which his father had brought with him.

  “So, now tell me exactly . . . the problem can’t be that the woman is French, right?” Aaron smiled. “No, not that; her name is Zara Valois-en-Beaujolais; she is a noblewoman.” “Now, that you didn’t fall in love with a Jewish woman isn’t unexpected.” His father sighed deeply. “That’s actually the smallest problem,” Gregor interrupted him impatiently. “What then?” “She doesn’t love me, but I.” Actually it was so simple. “Yes, my son, that can happen – that your love is not met by love in return.” Gregor sighed, and in his relaxed facial features, saw the rabbi speaking.

  And then he told his father everything: He began with Zara’s mother up to the moment when he found out that everything had been a performance, a drama with him in a leading role. Aaron was silent the entire time, with his hands folded on his chest, watching his son.

  It seemed to him that his son loved this girl very much; he hadn’t seen him so sad for a very long time, in fact, since his time in school.

  When Gregor was finished with his story, both were silent for a time and drank the wine.

  “What do you want me to tell you?” Aaron finally asked slowly. Gregor didn’t immediately understand what his father meant. “You think that you can buy a woman with money,” Aaron began to summarize, and Gregor realized that his father was already unhappy about his story for that reason. “Alright, that’s what people think, because they – you - believe that at some point she will love you too – but she doesn’t. Rather, she plays the part of the girl that you would like to have, well brought up, well educated. Why she does this, you really don’t know exactly.” He leaned back. “So professional, what she did – she must have planned it beforehand. As is often the case, you have two choices.” Gregor sat up. “And they are?” “Forget her and find someone who loves you too – or . . .” he paused. Should he really give his son this advice? “You fight for her, find out why she did what she did, and maybe you’ll have good luck. Since she did live with you for a few months, perhaps she did feel something for you. It’s certainly not a sure thing, but it could be so.”

  And because of that advice, Gregor was now in Paris. This was not the only reason, however, and that was why his life was far too hectic. The haute couture fashion shows were taking place and Maurice was taking his leave with a grandiose production that Gregor was expected to attend.

  Nonetheless, he felt a bit lost as he arrived at the Four Seasons and looked down at the Avenue George V from the windows in his suite. The city was so quiet when the snow was falling. Being alone in town wasn’t exactly his thing. He knew Paris well and he decided to meet a friend at one of the nightclubs that had recently been touted in the press.

  When he arrived there a little before midnight, the club was already full, with French music blaring through the loudspeakers. He saw a few well-known models who also recognized him, and smiled and waved. Gregor was dressed completely in black, which suited his mood. He withdrew to the bar and ordered a Martini.

  Gregor leaned against the bar and watched the dancing crowd. He took an occasional sip from his glass, and suddenly noticed a younger, dark-haired man standing next to him also ordering a drink.

  Gregor glanced in his direction. The man was almost as tall as he and could be described as handsome, with fine facial features, dark complexion, and large dark eyes. He was wearing a white shirt half open, leather jeans, and the watch on his wrist and the pullover he had tied around his narrow hips revealed more than affluence and good taste. As he ordered his drink in good, but not perfect, French, Gregor noticed immediately that he had a strong South American accent. The bartender seemed to know him.

  The man turned around, looked at Gregor briefly and said, “I know you from somewhere – are you here often?” Gregor shook his head. “No. . .” “Model?” Gregor laughed. “No, but thank you for the compliment. . .” “Alessandro.” He extended his hand. “Gregor.” He shook his hand. The man laughed. “Oh, yes, Gregor Levy.” He seemed to know him. “You were a model and now you’re this banker . . .” Gregor smiled a little.

  “Well, that was a number of years ago . . .” “I’m in the business; my family makes the finest fabrics . . .”

  Alessandro gestured toward the entrance. “We’re about to witness the arrival.” Gregor didn’t quite understand. “When the shows are over, everyone goes from one bar to the next, from club to club – and the party mostly begins here around midnight. Then all these coked-up models come here and if you want to have a little fun, you can join them . . .” Gregor wrinkled his forehead. That was long since not his scene; it reminded him too much of his years as a model, of a past that he wanted to forget.

  “No, thank you, that’s all bygones for me; I don’t need that anymore.” Alessandro laughed. “Good for you – and have you recovered from Zara?” he asked. Gregor looked at him, floored; was their affair a topic, and was he thought a fool, here too? He was silent, and Alessandro looked at him briefly. “Hey, fear not, I can understand fully; I was once married to her – even if just for five or six months.” “That seems to be the critical length of duration,” Gregor said. Alessandro laughed. “Then you’re the ex-husband?” Alessandro nodded. Gregor had already heard of him – he was one of the few points of information that the detective had gotten right. Alessandro leaned in Gregor’s direction. “And which role did she play with you – the aloof aristocrat?” He laughed mockingly.
Gregor shrugged his shoulders. “Apparently she’s a good actress.” “Oh, yes . . .” Gregor ordered his second Martini. “With me it was love at first sight. But it was over after the first day and I found her in bed with my best friend,” Alessandro said. There was bitterness in his voice and Gregor became aware that Alessandro still loved her.

  That can’t all be true, Gregor thought, and took a hefty sip. “The bad thing is that once you fall, you’re never free of her. In any case, at least I’ve gotten it to the point that we’re friends. I see her now and then – now that she’s studying here and makes Paris unsafe at night.” Gregor was astounded – he had no idea. “She’s studying and enjoys the nightlife here?” “Oh, yes – you probably had no clue – she’s doing an MBA at Insead, the graduate business school based near here, in Fontainebleau.” He sighed, and ordered another cocktail.

  A girl was wending her way toward them and Gregor recognized Celine, his good-by present. She embraced Alessandro and kissed him on the mouth. When she saw Gregor she smiled, briefly stroked his cheek, and warbled “Oh, Doctor Levy, what a surprise.” Then she turned in her high heels, her black page-boy swirling around her narrow face, and walked away.

  Alessandro explained that Celine was probably Zara’s best friend, if she actually had one. Her father owned various night-clubs in Paris – and she and Zara had some kind of -- and he made a gesture in the air. He meant a relationship, but didn’t want to say it – it was simply too much!

  “They play at being a lesbian couple,” Gregor said -- he had seen and experienced it. “Exactly, mostly a “ménage à trois . . .” Alessandro grinned suggestively. “I know,” Gregor said, and thought back to that unforgettable night. That’s why everything was so masterful, so perfect – practice makes perfect.

  The alcohol and the third Martini were slowly going to his head, since he never drank too much otherwise. “Well, at least it’s good to know that one isn’t the only idiot!” Alessandro laughed. “No, welcome to the club -- at least we were allowed to sleep with her – some are even excluded from that pleasure.”