Still, he wasn’t beating her up, so in my mind, he was worth his weight in platinum.
“Look, I feel so rude to do this to you, but the jet, even though it’s private still gets a slot, you know, a take off time. Rex and I really need to get going. Come and visit me in New York. Any time. There are some great Broadway shows, fabulous restaurants—”
My stepfather cut me short with a chuckle. “We have the best food in the world in Paris, why would we be tempted by foreign cuisine?”
“Whatever,” I answered. “But you know what? You’d be surprised what you discover when you scratch beneath the surface. When you dig deep, you never know what you may find.”
My mother gave me a look that was more potent than a poison dart. “Bye darling, she said. “You’ll need to leave now so you don’t miss your private jet. Bye, Rex, baby,” she said, cupping Rex’s head and giving him a kiss—and she added with dry sarcasm, “Do send us a postcard from New York, sweet doggie, and let us know how you’re getting on with the American cuisine.”
I winked at her and smiled. My stepfather eyed up my mother—her seamless perfection—my comments flew right over his head.
Good. I wanted it to stay that way.
On the flight back to New York, I nodded off. Perhaps it was the hum of the plane—whatever, something reminded me…
I’m entangled in this web of ferocious filth. Fifteen years old and seeing stuff that no person could ever imagine in the span of a whole lifetime. I’m a cog in this wheel of destruction that I brought upon myself. Round and round—there’s no end. The woman is pleading with me, “If the president says no to the peace deal and the French leave, the Rebels will kill us all. The French can’t leave. We owe you our lives.”
She’s on her knees now, trembling, her hands clutching the material of my combat pants.
I look down at her, a specter of a woman, her hair matted with dirt, dried blood on her makeshift dress, as mosquitoes buzz around us in the hazy, dusty heat. She has been witness to horror. Her uncle was chopped up into tiny pieces in front of her, her younger sister decapitated, but she’s grateful to be alive after ten rebels raped her consecutively at gunpoint. I hold her hand. What else can I do? What can I tell her? I can’t assure her that everything will be okay, because it won’t. These little villages are swollen with pain, each on the frontline of terror and war. A country broken and maimed. No matter how many rebels I kill, they double in droves. Like angry, maddened wasps. Fearless. Relentless. Some of them even younger than I am. Just children. Children! Young boys wielding machetes and rifles almost half their bodyweight. It’s them or me. It’s kill or be killed.
But still, some of these ‘Rebels’ are children.
“I’m sorry,” I say to the woman. Behind her I see the smoke and ashes of what was her house, burned to the ground. Yet she is still grateful. Grateful to be alive.
A man who must be in his late twenties, his eyes hollow graves, tells me, “My youngest cries herself to sleep every night. They took my wife from us, dragged her into the street and shot her. Like a wild animal, they shot her in the head. My daughter sees images of blood before she goes to bed at night. Please help us. You have to stop the Rebels. Please don’t abandon us.”
I jerked up in my seat, sweat dripping on my back and brow. The memories had snuck up, unexpected. The shadows of war. The horror that had been buried in some dark corridor of my mind had been unleashed once more, letting in the demons which were keen to knock at my brain’s back door.
The words tumbled out of my mouth as I rolled them on my tongue, “The Ivory Coast,” I mumbled to myself. It sounded so romantic—just the name conjured up a tableau of elephants, yawning sandy beaches, and thick forests. But for me it was one long nightmare, not the glamorous dream I had conjured up. Joining the French Foreign Legion had been a wild impulse. I lied about my age. I was just a lad of fifteen bursting to explore the world. An idealist. How are boys meant to know that fantasies will crumble to dust right before their very eyes?
I got up, ambled rockily to the airplane toilet and splashed my face and the back of my neck with cold water, trying to shake the cruel pictures from my mind, imbedded there like crimson etchings. I replaced the graphics of blood and gore with fields of lavender, the undulating waves of the Mediterranean—anything to let a sliver of peace ease its way into my assaulted brain. I splashed more water into my eyes, on my chest, my stomach, in the hope that it would help wash away the ghosts intent on sneaking into my soul. Because when you’ve been in war, your soul is seeped in black, however hard you may pretend it isn’t. It’s your secret. A secret you don’t share with your loved ones because the pain, the dark knowledge of the truth, would be too great for them to bear. You have to convince yourself you did the right thing. You can even believe it. But your soul will never lie to you.
The adoration shimmering in Rex’s eyes was tonic to my battered psyche. Dogs are great forgivers. Dogs don’t care who you are, what you’ve done, if you haven’t had a shower (the stinkier the better, right?), or how much money you have. As long as they get fed and watered, walked and loved, they’ll stick by you. Rex was traveling in style but he was oblivious. He was about to live in one of New York’s swankiest districts with a private roof terrace which boasted a lawn and trees and a view to Central Park. I had even hired a dog walker-nanny for him, Sally, who’d need to stay over sometimes if I was away on business. I didn’t want Rex to be alone. Spoiled much? You bet.
Rex…my buddy. The one who could forgive all. Because as far as he was concerned, there was nothing to forgive in the first place.
He was excited by his new home, rushing and sniffing about, exploring the three floors of my apartment as if there was buried treasure somewhere. The staff had even bought him treats and toys. I guess they knew their way into my heart was through my dog.
Everything was almost perfect. I was setting myself up with the ideal family situation. Beautiful home, people to help me run it, money galore, dog….but the most important ingredient of all was missing: Pearl.
She hadn’t responded to a single one of my messages. Text, voice messages, emails. Zilch. She had obviously had enough. I’d have to work really hard to win her back. But I was confident I had a good chance. Feelings like that don’t count for nothing. With all the women I’d been with, it felt to me as if Pearl was genuinely in love with me, more than any of them. But who knew? She hadn’t said the words, even though I had laid my heart out to her.
It was nine a.m., New York time. I was sitting by my desk at home, listening to Miss You by The Rolling Stones, trying to do something other than obsess about Pearl. She’d be at work by now, I imagined. Rex and I had arrived at my apartment at 3 a.m. I didn’t feel tired, so we walked around Central Park. I practiced some Taekwondo moves—I needed to keep my black-belt polished, so to speak.
I still like to do that sort of thing—toy with dangerous situations, walk about in dodgy places at night under the cover of darkness. Places where muggers and drug addicts could be hanging out. Keep myself alert. Sharp. When you’ve been in war zones the way I have, you’ve got eyes in the back of your head. Forever. The fear, like an author’s sharpened pencil on a page poised to write, needing to write, never abandons you. You don’t want it to because it’s what you trust, what you rely on, even though it once nearly broke you. Fear is your friend. I’m a man who obviously needs adrenaline. Rock climbing. Surfing. Sex. Taekwondo. Hanging out in Central Park at 4 a.m. These things keep me alive. Keep me sharp as that pencil.
Besides, I had a Pit-Bull cross by my side; Rex’s secret. He could pin a person down at a moment’s notice if I gave the signal. His gentle Labrador side had people fooled.
I must have checked my cell twenty times. Nothing. Pearl. Pearl. Pearl. Her name rang in my head so many times, that by the end of the morning, the word ‘pearl’ sounded surreal, as if my Pearl was disconnected somehow, as if our relationship had been just a dream.
I wondered what direction
I should take to win her back. Then again, she deserved better—maybe I should just leave her in peace. My mind was in turmoil, vacillating between the two extremes. I wanted her back. But if I pursued her, I didn’t want to just show up at her work or apartment. I’d played that card.
I was going crazy. Lack of sleep…the memories swirling about my brain…my dark past telling me to let her go—to allow her get on with her life without me. But my burning heart and the hole in my gut couldn’t bear to even entertain that thought. I needed to convince her to stay with me; not run away anymore. I didn’t want to hound her but I did want, at the very least, to know how she was doing. I’d need to talk to her and explain, but right at that moment, I knew she was sick of the sight of me. Sick of Sophie. Pearl would need time to simmer down. I needed to keep the bulldozer at bay.
At least for a while.
First, I needed to sort out the tangled web of madness that Sophie had spun us into. No, I wouldn’t turn up at Pearl’s work. I’d write her a letter and have it hand-delivered to her apartment, with the pearl necklace that she’d left behind.
I found the choker in my bedroom, tore off my T-shirt which I wrapped around it. Only afterwards did I realize that the T-shirt was two days old and must have stunk of my sweat, but I didn’t have time to do everything with decorum. Rex watched my every move, following me around my apartment, as if to make sure I did the right thing. I strode into my office, grabbed a piece of paper from my desk and hastily wrote a note:
Darling, precious Pearl,
You are my pearl, you are my treasure. Don’t deny me this. Don’t deny me the love I have for you.
When you left my heart broke in two. The Spanish describe their soul-mate as ‘media naranja’--the other half of the same orange. And that is what you are to me, the other half of me, the perfect half that matches me. I have never felt this way before about anybody. Ever.
You think I betrayed your trust. No, I would never do that. Sophie snooped at my iPad and saw my personal notes. They were written in English so I never imagined she would bother to translate them. Call me a jerk, call me a nerd for making notes concerning you. But here they are. (I have copied and pasted this). This is what she saw:
I printed out the nerd-notes I had on my iPad (how shameful, how embarrassing!) and attached it to the hand-written part. It was the only solution. Better for her to think me a geek who wrote everything down than a liar:
Problems to be solved concerning Pearl:
Needs to reach orgasm during penetrative sex. (My big challenge).
Needs confidence boosted – age complex due to American youth worship culture.
Need to get her pregnant ASAP due to clock factor. (Want to start a family with her.)
I scribbled on:
I feel embarrassed showing this to you but it is the only way I know how to explain myself. I write lists and notes – I write them for everything – you know that.
When I first set eyes on you in that coffee shop, I was smitten, instantly. I remarked to Sophie how beautiful you were. Sophie commented on how easy American girls are, how they jump into bed with anybody at the drop of a hat. I told her, that in your case, I thought I stood very little chance – that you looked sophisticated and classy. (Given that I had never been with an American woman, I had no idea if what she said was true). It was disrespectful of me to discuss this in French with her while you were standing right there before us when we were all waiting in line. I apologize. But that was then.
This is now.
Now I have found my Pearl I do not want to let her go.
I will fight for you. I want you in my life.
I have made a decision. I am giving over HookedUp to Sophie. I will still keep shares but will no longer be involved in the daily decisions of running it. I’d like to start up a new enterprise – a film production company and I will be looking for someone to run it (production skills mandatory). I wondered if you would consider yourself for the job?
Here is the necklace. It belongs to you, and only you.
A squadron of kisses,
Your Alexandre
P.S Rex has arrived and wants to meet you.
P.P.S For the present time my family members will no longer be staying at my apartment when they visit New York.
I decided I’d deliver this to Pearl’s apartment myself. I called Sophie. I knew she’d still be having her ‘power nap’, six hours ahead, Paris time, but I didn’t care; she owed me one.
She picked up but didn’t even speak, just shuffled about, breathing into the receiver.
“It’s me,” I said curtly.
“What is it? Is Elodie okay?” she asked in a weary voice.
“Fine. Just fine. Listen. I know you did all that super-sleuthing about Pearl so I’m assuming you know everything there is to know about her.”
Sophie groaned. “I told you I’d get off her case and I will, Alexandre. I’ve even been thinking of ways to make it up to her. Just to keep you happy.”
“I appreciate that. Sophie, I need her best friend Daisy’s phone number or contact address. The redheaded British girl who lives in New York. Do you have it?”
“Somewhere, I guess,” she replied in a bored drawl.
“I need it now.”
“Can’t you find it yourself?” she said with a long noisy yawn.
“Yes, I could but I thought you were trying to make things right, Sophie.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll call you right back, I’ll need to locate it.”
I went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, which suddenly struck me as being absurdly large, especially for a bachelor, as I now hopelessly was. Would I be living alone forever with this massive thing, stuffed with enough food to feed several families? With no family of my own to feed? It didn’t matter how much money I had. It didn’t—as Hélène pointed out—matter how big my dick was, if I didn’t have the right person to share it with, to create a family with.
I brought out a bowl from the fridge and Rex wagged his tail, expecting a treat. Would it be just Rex and me, then, if Pearl decided she’s had enough? Two, tough, single males, roaming Central Park at night, daring anyone to fuck with us? I dug my hand into the bowl of blueberries and stuffed a handful into my mouth. Rex seemed to be interested in the blueberries, too, so I threw him a couple which he caught mid-air. My cell buzzed. It was Sophie, with Daisy’s home phone and cellphone numbers. Even her address. Christ, my sister was such a stalker. I was glad to have her on my side and not as my archenemy.
I called Daisy, my heart inexplicably racing.
“Hello?” she said guardedly.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, to call so early—”
“Look, please, I’m not interested in buying your product, please don’t call this number any—”
“It’s Alexandre Chevalier,” I interrupted.
“Oh.” There was a weighty silence and then, “How on earth did you get this number, is Pearl okay? I just had breakfast with her, I—”
“You just had breakfast with her?” I said with hope.
“Excuse me, Alexandre, I’m not sure why you’re calling me.”
“Can we meet up?” I asked, and then instantly regretted my question. She must have thought I was hitting on her. Great. That’s all I bloody needed.
“No, we can’t meet up. I’m busy. If you want to see Pearl, she’ll be at work by now. Call her.”
“Look Daisy, that’s why I’m calling you. I’m sorry to impose but I need to talk about Pearl. I just want to know if she’s alright. She won’t answer my calls, my emails, my texts.”
“Good girl,” I heard her whisper under her breath. Was she talking to her daughter or referring to Pearl?
“And I don’t feel inclined to barge my way into her office when I know she’s busy and too furious to see me right now,” I added. Not only was that true but I wasn’t feeling my greatest, with the surge of Foreign Legion memories battering me, bashing my self-worth to a pulp, my raison d’être. Right now,
I felt Pearl deserved better than me, but still, I couldn’t let her go.
“Look, Alexandre, I’m not Pearl’s keeper. I can’t help you. You really shouldn’t be calling me in the first place.”
“I know. I’m sorry, but I just want to know if she’s okay. We had an argument. About my sister. I won’t go into it but I assume Pearl—you two being best friends—has already told you everything.”
There was a measured beat of silence and Daisy said languidly, “No, I don’t think she even mentioned you, Alexandre. I mean, in passing, yes. Said she just got back from France but…you know, Pearl is a very busy, in demand woman. She doesn’t have time for any nonsense.”
I paced up and down the kitchen, blood roaring in my ears. Pearl hadn’t even mentioned me to her best friend? Or only did so in passing? So…she really didn’t give a fuck, after all. She would just get over me in a flash. Shit!
Daisy went on coolly, “Look, Alexandre, Pearl is the kind of woman who has men queuing up to date her. Literally. Men go crazy for her. Extremely wealthy. Important. Interesting. Men. It won’t be long before someone snaps her up. I mean, men propose marriage to her all the time.”
Marriage proposals? Yes, well that would make sense. She was forty. Wanted a family. She wasn’t going to hang around and watch opportunities pass her by.
Daisy carried on, “She’s beautiful. Clever. She’s a catch. She’s extremely busy with work, too. You know, she has a project about child traffickers, and another one concerning arms dealers—both in the pipeline. Important, life-changing stuff that the world needs to know about. She doesn’t have time for silly games, or people who dick her around.”
Those two words—arms dealers—sent a bolt of fury through my gut. That fuck Mikhail Prokovich would be moving in on Pearl any moment.
Daisy talked on, “If you want to catch a woman like Pearl Robinson, Alexandre, you’d better pull your socks up. I know it’s summer and you probably aren’t even wearing any socks—” she snickered at her joke.
Pearl (The Pearl Series) Page 12