“Yes.”
“Call me again when you have reached your destination. I expect to hear from you within forty-eight hours.”
“But what about M—” A fit of coughing at the other end interrupted him. “Sorry. What about my friend?”
“Unfortunately she is beyond my reach. “
“Oh. So you’re just going to sit there, are you? Well she’s been working pretty hard to keep things together at this end, pal, so I suggest you get your ear to the ground and see if you can help out at all.” A pause ensued.
“I shall of course do what is possible. Travel safely, mon ami.”
Did Jerome detect a hint of empathy in that last bit? He wasn’t sure.
Merci beaucoup, Maxine says into the mic as she receives the envelope. She takes a deep breath. Je suis très…heureuse, and she smiles at the crowd in the hope that they have stood quietly for long enough now that no speech will be necessary, and sure enough they clap. She shakes Madame Duclos’ hand and rapidly descends the podium. Before she reaches the bottom step she is greeted by an austere associate of Madame Duclos, who escorts her with speed and firmness to a side room. He says there are a few terms and conditions attached to Maxine’s prize. He encourages her to open the envelope and she finds there a cheque large enough to cover her airfare and expenses. Attached is a waiver indicating that at no time in the future will Maxine etcetera, which she signs and hands to him, at which point he becomes less formal and escorts her genially to the door of the anteroom, where Serge is waiting.
Félicitations! he says, sliding his hands around her waist and burying his face in her neck. I am so happy for you.
Maxine and Serge are loitering in a doorway. In his doorway. Serge has pushed the door open and they are half in the hall and half in the apartment, but the effort of locating the key and fitting it into the lock has proved an onerous distraction from the matter at hand and they haven’t made it across the threshold yet. The matter at hand is kissing. Maxine rests her back against the doorframe and the strap of her dress has slipped off her shoulder, perhaps because Serge has hooked his finger around it and tugged. Really it was as much as they could do to open the door. Having to stop and find those keys was painful, and now they almost don’t want to carry on into the apartment and close the door. But also they do. They really do.
The air in the apartment feels warm and solid. Serge drops his jacket over the back of a chair. He undoes his tie as he strides to the window, turning the oval handle to open it. Maxine contemplates his back, the outward dent of white shirt over his shoulder blade, and presses a cheek against it. The night air slides in past them. She can feel it on the side of her face. A few voices in the street, but otherwise it’s quiet. She can see lights in open windows here and there, someone cooking, the blue flicker of a TV. When he turns to her, she reaches for his waist and draws him in. By the time they make it to the futon, Serge is no longer quite together. He is in a state of disarray. His shirt is unbuttoned. His pants are unbuttoned— they stand ajar. Maxine does not linger in the doorway.
Maxine wakes in the middle of the night to a face at the window. She’s sure it’s a face, and the moonlight is definitely moving on the rug. She pulls a sheet over Serge and pads over to the window. The face is gone but she heard something. She opens the window all the way and says Qui est là? Silence. She leans out the window and looks down, feeling slightly sick. She twists her torso to look up, but she still doesn’t have a clear view of the roof. Maxine closes the window and locks it, returns to bed and crawls in.
On the way back from the reception they had stopped here and there, anywhere, in doorways and dark corners. Maxine has seen couples locked together in the street before without understanding the exhibitionism. Now she realizes it’s not showing off. It’s about urgency. As soon as they left one quiet spot and had to walk side by side for a minute, they were hurrying to find the next place. In a doorway in a quiet street, trying to get as close as clothes and bone allowed, she opened her eyes and saw behind Serge’s back his own face in black and white staring out from a poster—SergeMathieu, it said underneath, unambiguously, and the tops of letters below his name were cut off by a poster tacked on top. For a second she froze. Then she’d pushed Serge until his back covered the picture of his face and closed her eyes.
By the time he got off the train at the new station in Tangiers, Jerome had had another catnap, a short one, but better than nothing. He ignored the boys pulling on his sleeve at the station, offering hotels and taxis. He shook them off and left the crowd behind. He located a relatively quiet pay phone and called the hotel he and Frédérique had left so abruptly in Marrakech, whose number he’d found at the train station before he left town. I’d like to speak to the manager, Jerome said.
Maxine’s last day in town. Maxine woke to Serge’s voice explaining quietly to the telephone that he wouldn’t be able to go, there was something important he had to do, and although she knew it was childish, she felt pleased to be described as important and not the flu. She went back to sleep feeling lazy and important.
We have the whole day, he says, What would you like to do? Hey, be careful.
Maxine has been leaning out the window, but now she pulls back a little. She’s remembering a dream in which she saw a face at the window and climbed out on the roof to see who it was.
She watches a young woman dressing in another window. It’s an intimate moment, dancelike, seductive, and Maxine knows she should turn away but she can’t. The caterpillar curve of the back as the woman bends and steps into the pants. Unhurried. Wriggling them up over her hips. She stands straight, tips her pelvis forward and zips. Maxine turns towards Serge.
Do you work Saturdays?
Non.
But I heard you— That was my lesson. I was cancelling my lesson.
What lesson?
I am learning to be a pilot.
Oh.
It is very beautiful up there, Maxine. Maybe one day I can take you up in the clouds with me.
Jerome is sweating again now. He is dehydrated and he needs a toilet. If there’s time before the next ferry he will find a hotel where he can shower and shave. He is waiting for the manager to come to the phone.
“Your friends have someone I want,” he said. “And I have something they want.”
“Who is this?”
“I am prepared to make a trade. In Paris. But she must not be harmed in any way.”
“Where are you?”
“I will call back in six hours for your friends’ answer. If she is harmed in any way the information will be destroyed.”
So, Maxine says nicely. What are you wanted for, anyway? She hands him the basket of croissants. The waiter arrives with coffee on a small round tray. They’re sitting outside, facing the street, sunglasses on, watching people go by, Serge’s arm along the back of her chair.
What am I wanted for? Let me see. Eh bien there is my skill at the corner kick—if I may say so, I have a small reputation there. My pizza niçoise is quite good also, I think, although I must confess that I buy the frozen crust. What else...
No, I mean by the police. You lied to me about the wanted poster.
Serge frowns and puts his coffee down slowly on its saucer.
You think I am a criminal.
I’m asking what you are.
Already last night you thought I was a criminal.
Why aren’t you telling me the truth?
Serge waits for some time before answering: Because I am embarrassed. I am afraid you will think I am one of those fanatics.
Serge. I think you’re great. You’d better spit it out, though. If you call and ask me to, you know, harbour a fugitive or something, I have to know you won’t do anything to harm other people, not at my place, not ever, or I’ll turn you in just like that.
Harm other people?
I know some people feel there is justification, OK, and I agree there’s a lot wrong with this society but you can’t go around killing people for that.
; Killing people. Serge speaks slowly and with difficulty. What do you take me for?
The expression on his face frightens Maxine, who starts backtracking: Well, all right, maiming. Well, I didn’t say you killed anybody, did I? Or, um, maimed. No, I didn’t. And anyway, what is it then, for Christ’s sake?
For a few moments, half the café is staring at Maxine, but Serge pays no attention.
I ran as a Green in the municipal election. I lost. I’m sorry, I should have told you the first time you asked about the poster.
A Green.
I’m sorry, Maxine.
Greens don’t believe in flying. They think ground transportation is more environmentally friendly.
Sometimes Greens make compromises to do the things they love.
Maxine digests this at some length.
Frigging eco-nutbar. Liar.
Serge now has a tiny smile pulling at one corner of his mouth: I am truly sorry. I had no idea what you might think about that poster. How can I make it up to you?
Maxine flops back in her chair and folds her arms over her chest.
You can take me to the Musée de Cluny to hear the songs of the troubadours. And then the Bois de Boulogne. And it better be good.
Oui, mademoiselle.
The room inside the museum is all white, with white columns around the edges, white busts on them.The mezzo is called Hélène somebody, and she has shoulder-length brown hair and looks beautiful in an earthy sort of way, as if her natural state were to be barefoot on dewy grass near a grazing deer. As it turns out, all the troubadours ever sang about was love. There are sad songs the woman sings for her lover on his way to sea, worrying songs while he’s out there, and happy songs when he comes back. The guys, on the other hand, apparently favoured longing. Lots of the I-must-get-close-to-you, just-a-single-glance-or-I-will-die songs. These strikeMaxine as unutterably romantic. The worrying ones are very beautiful, but who needs songs about worry? Maxine knows all about worry. She’s a connoisseur in the worry department. Longing is much more exciting than worry. The heady atmosphere of desire hangs over the room so tangibly you’d think it would register on the Humidex.
“Have you arrived?”
“Not yet. Soon. But my plans have changed.”
“What do you mean?”
“The offer is withdrawn. I am giving my package to someone else.” A pause.
“And why is that?”
“It’s an exchange. For the safe return of my friend.”
“You would not do anything so foolish. These people are not trustworthy.”
“I have no choice. But I will tell you when and where the exchange will take place, if you like.”
“You are playing a dangerous game. You’re out of your depth.”
There’s no mon ami now.
In the Bois they rent a boat and push off into the greenish water. You can tell it’s not North America because none of the boaters is wearing a life jacket. You probably couldn’t have a life jacket if you asked for one. A guy smoking a cigarette would shrug and say: It’s not that deep. Maxine wonders if they’ve ever had a drowning here. The boat is easy to manoeuvre and they take an oar each, rowing in a lazy rhythm, leaning into each other. Every now and then one of them speaks a few words and the other laughs, or they have a quick kiss.
C’est dommage, Serge says, that I can’t take you up in the air.
Yeah, no. I’m fine with that. Every moment I’m in the air my muscles are bracing for a possible catastrophe.
Maxine, a possible catastrophe is not a catastrophe. Everything is a possible catastrophe. You have to assume that most of the time, things will be OK.
On one of the nearby islands, a child in a sun hat and a diaper crests the hill, heading in the direction of Serge and Maxine. The child starts to run down a steep grassy bank toward the water, picking up speed like a runaway snowball in a cartoon, one that grows bigger and bigger, faster and faster, and you know it’s headed for a splat. Maxine looks uncertainly at the child and then at Serge. She pulls in her oar and places both hands on the gunnel. A man pops over the top of the hill and bellows JULIE! He pounds down the hill after the toddler, who is bound for a grassy cliff where, if she continued in a straight line, she would run over the edge and drop about six feet into the lake. The man now looks like someone in a race photo from a sporting mag. His arms are pumping, his face contorted. He’s gaining on the toddler but not by enough, and Maxine grabs her oar and Serge’s and rows like a person possessed to the place the child would hit the water. She too is moving like someone who has trained for the gold and sees it within reach, she’s hauling with speed and sheer force of will while the man pounds downhill, as if they had to meet each other or die trying, and sandwiched between them the toddler whose legs have gotten out of her control stumbles on the edge and pitches forward, head first, past the grass and toward the water, at which moment the man screams and Serge swings both arms to full extension, snatching her out of the air.
16
maxine is waiting in the customs line-up but she can see Barb, Kyle, and Gail on the other side of the glass. They wave and Kyle makes faces up against the glass until Barb’s mouth moves and she gestures, at which point he turns away and slouches off to the seating area. He reaches into a pocket and takes out an electronic game; he pulls up his hood and hunches over. Maxine feels a rush of emotion—she has missed him. She didn’t know how much of him she understood until this moment. She knows he’s annoyed with his mother, slightly embarrassed at being rebuked, not sure whether he’d been making a fool of himself with the faces and a little embarrassed about that too, but also a bit gleeful, wanting to see Maxine but bored with waiting—all that and more she sees in the slouch and she wants to sit down next to him—with the newspaper, so he doesn’t feel too threatened by the obvious imminence of a conversation—and say lightly, Hi there, buddy, what’s new?
Barb and Gail stand side by side—David and Goliath at a cocktail party—every now and then one turns and says something. Gail, it makes her smile just to see Gail, the explosion of blond curls pulled back in a funky green headband, the bright lipstick. She winks at Maxine through the glass. And Barb, yes, it is undeniably Barb, glancing over to see that Kyle’s still where he was the last time she looked. At last she’s through and they are surrounding her and her luggage cart. Hugs and snatches of news, small awkwardnesses, and then Gail tells Kyle she’s testing a few new cookie recipes and she could use an experienced cookie guy.
I need the male perspective here, Gail says, pulling a small plastic bag out of her purse, and Kyle looks pleased to be the male perspective and off they go to the parking lot, Kyle shoving the cart ahead and bashing it into the corner of the information counter on the way out, accepting a cookie from Gail, and Barb falls back and touches Maxine’s arm.
We’re leaving in four days, Barb says. For a week. Things are looking good. I think it might be OK, but of course there are no guarantees. Kristina thinks he’s in the clear. If you could come over tomorrow, if you’re up for it, we could go over some things, just the activities and contact numbers and where to find his gear, and all that—
Sure, says Maxine. No problem, Barb.
Jerome stood under the Eiffel Tower at ten minutes to one. He had chosen it because it would surely be more difficult for them to kidnap people in broad daylight in such a crowded place. It was easy to blend in. It occurred to him now that he might have put innocent bystanders at risk and he regretted that, but it was too late and he could hardly be blamed for not understanding the rules of international espionage. He kept scanning the people, the faces, but without recognizing anyone. And then he heard his name, a North American male voice— “Jerome?! Jerome, it’s you isn’t it? I’m Chuck Blackmore, remember? Frédérique’s colleague—what a coincidence! Are you on vacation? Hey, looks like you could use a Kleenex.” Chuck threw a friendly arm around his shoulders just as Jerome was thinking that he didn’t recall ever meeting Charles Blackmore, so why would this man pick
his face out of a crowd? But then Jerome felt funny and he didn’t remember anything after that.
Barb is sitting at her dining-room table with Maxine and a few neat piles of paper. I think it’s going to be OK, Barb is saying. I talked with Gail. Kristina thinks he did a few strange things but he didn’t actually break any laws or violate company policy. He’s been trying to sort this out with her for a long time. I thought they were sleeping together but I don’t think that any more. He was just trying to convince her he was innocent. He was desperate. Anyway, if all he did was a few dumb things, well, we all do dumb things sometimes, don’t we?
Here’s his hospital card, I hope you won’t be needing that. And here’s the calendar. See, every day he has an activity, it’s written in. But it just says, for example, piano. I put stickies on top with the information, so there’s the time, where it is, the contact information. Every day in his lunch bag he has fruit or a fruit cup, a veggie pack, cheese or ham or turkey, and bread—or a tortilla or crackers, whatever. You can get groceries at Belbin’s and put them on our account. Or anywhere else and just tell me how much it was. They can’t take anything with nuts. Don’t be shy about the groceries, get as much as you like. Here’s the list of information— our itinerary and all the phone numbers.
When they’ve covered everything, Maxine picks up the papers. At the door, to Maxine’s surprise, Barb grips her in a tight hug. Thank you, she says. Thank you for doing this.
Hey, Barb, it’s OK, it’s no problem. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.
18
even from the kitchenMaxine can tell it’s police. A man and a woman in black at the screen door. When she sees them at the far end of the hall—light pouring through the doorway, streaming in around two figures standing dark and square as chess pieces—she knows it must be Kyle, something has happened at school. An accident. Let him be OK—she’s sprinting along the hall from the kitchen, flinging open the screen door: Is he all right? Is Kyle OK? The officers look at each other. The woman speaks.
Maxine Page 18