She dug a laptop out of her purse, connected to the Internet, and began searching for a reasonable hotel.
A PARIS WEEKEND
Paris. Friday. November 29, 2002
The Europe Liege Hotel on the Rue de Moscou is ideally situated. If you go two steps and turn right on the Rue de Amsterdam, the Opera House (or the Opera Garnier, after the architect who built it) is within a ten minutes' walk. And if you turn left on Rue de Amsterdam, it takes the same amount of time to reach the Boulevard Clichy and plunge into the precarious underbelly of Paris.
On the right, an arm's length away, is the Opera House. It’s just a stone's throw to the Louvre, the bridge over the Seine, the Musée Orsay, the Palais des Invalides, the Eiffel Tower. The daily program of the city-museum is inexhaustible. On the left are Monmartre, the Boulevard de Cliché, the Moulin Rouge, the sex shows and sex stores-the evening Paris of entertainment, a delightful nest of lewdness and vice. It's a sin to be in Paris and not be torn between the right and left hands. Gulya undertook the heroic task of making it to everything, and tried to zealously follow a set program.
The address of an erotic show-Rue Pigalle, No. 62-we got at the hotel, during the continental breakfast, from a married couple who had come on a tourist bus from Saint Petersburg. The couple had gotten this piquant information from their Parisian tour guide, Natasha.
We went to the Rue Pigalle on the second evening, having spent the first one at the Moulin Rouge, and two hundred euros for the two of us. To deny ourselves the pleasure of visiting the Moulin Rouge would have been the equivalent of spending a week alone with a bewitching woman and not once…Fill in the rest with your own ideas-it's different for everyone.
Just before the beginning of the show, we managed to traverse the Boulevard de Cliché, and search out, for Saturday evening-well, it was right there-the museum of Erotica; and a short distance away-everything was within a ten minutes' walk-was the Rue Pigalle.
The first day of our Parisian vacation passed delightfully. The second began with the Musée d'Orsay; after that, lunch with wine at a restaurant across from the Louvre and a walk around the Jardin des Tuileries; and for the evening, the plan was the museum of Erotica and the sex show at No. 62 Rue Pigalle. Just the program prim Americans require, n'est-çe pas?
After we'd already bought tickets to the show, we noticed another one opposite-the Lolita erotic theater; but, thinking it over, we decided that to get to know Paris, one sex parade would suffice.
Probably all Russians get the address No. 62 Pigalle from Natasha the tour guide. Otherwise, how can you explain what happened later?
First to come out on the diminutive stage were a lesbian couple; then another; for hors d'oeuvres-a standard, an astonishingly pretty mulatta and her white partner. The actors performed their routine work in a rather boring way-draping limp smiles over their faces, they portrayed love. We immediately sympathized with their distress and started to chaff: in the course of the evening, the actors had to walk out on the stage three times, and, to music, imitate high passions. And the painstaking rehearsals… Presenting the show to the boss and the Artistic Director…
I was only interested in the first run. When the actors started coming around the second time, repeating the same actions afresh, my attention shifted to the spectators. There weren't many of them-three partially empty rows, sitting in a half-circle by the slowly revolving stage. For the convenience of the spectators in the first row-everyone sat wherever they wanted to-the stage was an arm's length away. An aroused spectator could cheer on an actress with a light swat on the rear. The beauties encouraged a mild flirtation (nothing more!) and would answer with blinding smiles. The spectators conducted themselves in different ways. The second and third rows held a small number of couples, seemingly tourists like ourselves, coming for the first time to see the «tourist attractions;» they looked reserved. The first row drew attention to itself. Two single, well-dressed men, who looked like regular customers of the establishment, nervously clasped their hands and gazed hungrily at the stage. By the end of the first act, one of them, about thirty years old, couldn't restrain himself-he took off his shirt and started twitching and struggling to get on the stage. Continuing on with their «work», the actors tried to stop the nervous spectator with warning gestures. The man spread his hands in disappointment and returned to his seat.
Stop! I seem to have gotten a bit carried away by the show. After all, this story is not about that!
When the third round of acts began, a repeat of the first two, a new couple entered the room and seated themselves in the second row. Looking around, I recognized Sophia…She hadn't noticed me-her attention was riveted to the stage.
I poked Gulya in the ribs and whispered, «Sophia,» and nodded towards the newly-arrived spectators.
«Give her our phone number,» Gulya whispered. She pulled a business card out of her purse and held it out to me.
I crossed out the front side, wrote «Urgent-call» on the back, and put down the phone number of our Paris hotel.
«I'll give it to her,» Gulya seized the initiative in her own hands-«and let's go.»
We got up and turned into the passage. Gulya quickly shoved the card into Sophia's hand. Sophia, frightened, threw back her head and saw me. I was too late to escape and stood frozen to the floor. Gulya gently poked me in the back and growled, «Don't dawdle.»
We went out onto the street.
«Do you think she'll call?» Gulya didn't give me time to collect myself, nor to be alone with my thoughts.
«I don't know…»
«I think she will,» she said thoughtfully, «if only out of feminine curiosity. Only, don't even think of screwing her-I'll kill you!» She threatened, «I know you men…»
«Gulya, stop it. I'm not up for joking.»
«And I'm not joking.»
«If she calls, how do I explain my showing up at the Chechen Congress to her?»
«Let her explain her own presence first. And explain why she dumped you two years ago…Act the part of the deceived and outraged husband.»
«That's the way it really is. There's no acting to do.»
«I didn't know that you were still walking around being outraged,» Gulya remarked caustically.
I held my tongue. When Gulya's excited, it's better not to argue with her. Having sustained a small victory, she calmed down and became peaceable.
«It's really good to hold the high moral ground over her. That way, you can take the psychological initiative.»
Step by step, on the way back to the hotel, we worked out behavioral tactics.
* * *
Gulya was not mistaken-Sophia called that same evening, around twelve. We weren't sleeping-we were waiting for the phone to ring. To tell the truth, I had my doubts: what if she vanished again? But Gulya was sure: just now, the situation was different.
The conversation was brief. Possibly Sophia wasn't able to talk; but even for me, after two years apart, the words came with difficulty. Plus, Gulya's presence inhibited me. She was right next to me, and caught every word. Dropping the introductory part, beginning with questions of «how» and «why,» – the indispensable sign of the start of mutual pretenses-we were spared the necessity of clarifying our relations, and got down to business without delay: we agreed to meet at twelve noon at a Turkish restaurant not far from the Place Saint Lazare.
In our years of life together we had had more than one occasion to visit a restaurant. The idea that someone might scrupulously record restaurant chatter seemed nonsensical and ludicrous. Now, a great deal had changed. Before I left, Gulya had checked my equipment and made sure that the tape recorder was working flawlessly.
At five minutes to twelve I was at the restaurant. Sophia, to my surprise, arrived on time. The room was empty. The waiter was languishing from idleness and immediately brought the menu. I ordered a mushroom omelet (apparently it was a Frenchified Turkish restaurant) and coffee. Sophia, without stopping to ponder, asked for the same thing and added
a glass of wine. I followed her example-alcohol loosens restraint and smoothes away friction.
I didn't know where to start: I sat and looked her over in silence. Sophia came to my aid and said tenderly:
«You haven't changed. How long has it been since we saw each other?»
«You neither.» I took off my wristwatch and put it on the table. Sophia reacted calmly from old habit, not suspecting that the watch was made to order for the Secret Service, and its built-in microphone was capable of recording every sigh.
The waiter brought the wine.
«Let's begin…» I raised my glass and saluted her: «To our meeting.» I didn't start drinking in earnest-I only took a sip.
Sophia answered with the same words and set her glass down on the table. Without taking our eyes off each other, as in the old children's game, «who can outstare whom,» we silently looked each other in the face. Sophia gave in and was the first to break the silence.
«You blame me. I shouldn't have treated you that way…»
«Nice that you understand that, even if only now.»
«Let's just do without the accusations.»
«You yourself started it.»
«You're right,» Sophia sighed mournfully.
«Now, can you at least tell me what served as an excuse?»
«Mama. You know I sometimes used to help her out; I'd send her money. They sought her out…A man who came to see her in Odessa told her I'd sent her some dollars. Several thousand. But to fetch them, it was necessary for her to go to Vladikavkaz. She believed it. There, they took her hostage and took her away to Chechnya. Through Mama they found me…I, of course, was a bad daughter, who often ignored her opinion. Now the day of reckoning had arrived. I had to do everything, possible or impossible, to save her.»
«You should have confided in me. Would I really not have understood? After all, I loved you. Together we would have thought something up.»
«That's all true. But I couldn't take the risk. Your actions might have been unpredictable. And my mother's life was on the line.»
«What then?» I broke in impatiently.
«For about two years I lived alternately in San Francisco and Boston. I carried out little missions for a friend. In exchange for Mama's phone calls.»
«Aha-you were a video star,» I remembered the tape made at the theater where the musical «Chicago» was playing.
Sophia was surprised. «What do you have in mind?»
«A picture in the theater of a Broadway musical.» I deliberately didn't say which one.
«I made friends with this one Syrian,» she admitted without a blush, «He studied in the Soviet Union and speaks excellent Russian. He and the Chechen were roommates-it was through him that we got to know each other. The Syrian guy sometimes asked me to take some books by airplane from Boston to San Francisco. He explained: «A woman of European type doesn't attract the attention of inspectors in the security service.»
«Did you see these books?»
«No.»
«How do you know there were books in the suitcase? And if it was plastic explosives, chemical weapons?»
«I thought of that too. After September Eleventh. And I refused point blank. Usually the Syrian went with me when I flew. Only, we sat in different rows. And pretended not to know one another.»
«Well, you got into a pretty pickle…So anyway, was it him who videotaped you?»
«Yes. He filmed me often. In Madison Square Garden, at Carnegie Hall, at the Metropolitan Museum, on the Brooklyn Bridge…»
«Did you see these photos?»
«Not all of them.» She became embarrassed and blushed. «Abdel said that he was sending them to Damascus, to his father. As evidence that he had a fiancée. It was his excuse for lingering in America and asking his father for money. But where did you find out about the videotape?»
«Like this,» I answered evasively, and joked, «Someone sent them to a TV station. To the «Club of Interesting Encounters.» And, so as not to let her develop a dangerous topic, I hastily changed the subject.
«He sure pulled the wool over your eyes. Was that him with you yesterday at the show?»
«No. I haven't seen him for two months now. In January I flew with him to Marseilles, where we lived until the end of September. At the beginning of October, Abdel flew out to see his father in Damascus. And kept getting held up there. Right now he's in Baghdad. That's where his father's business is. But he hasn't forgotten me. He calls once or twice a week, and sometimes more often than that.»
«Away with you and your Abdel. But I don't understand what he has to do with the Chechens and with your mom.»
«I told you, Abdel was sharing the rent with the Chechen who tracked me down in New York and showed me a videotape with Mama on it begging me to be obedient.»
«Scumbags!» I couldn't keep from clenching my fists.
«I didn't make friends with him right away,» she started defending herself, «it was a month later. That's how it turned out. The Chechens, Abdel… All Muslims are connected to each other. And help one another. That, Abdel said, is how it's written in the Koran.»
«How did you wind up in Denmark?»
«Is this an interrogation?» She returned coquettishly. Her pupils lit up for a second, and she lowered her lashes affectedly, «Really, are you still jealous of me?»
I didn't yield to the sudden change of mood, and let the ardor cool.
«Spare me. I'd just like to know what my ex-wife is doing in Denmark.»
«I was asked to work on the organizing committee for the congress. As a translator. And when they arrested Zakayev, I became Vanessa's interpreter. And that's all.»
«Good,» I said, restraining my annoyance, «Let's go back to the strange note: 'Leave immediately. Your life is in danger.' What does that mean?»
«The thing is,» she faltered, «that Zakayev's aide suggested I lure you to Ichkeria.»
«What for?»
«How should I know…Maybe they think your lady friend will tag along with you»
«And what has Gulya done to get in their way? She's actively defending Zakayev.»
«I don't know. I can't say any more.»
«Very well,» I said through my teeth, «Why did you come to Paris?»
«For the same reason as you. When I saw you at the press conference, I went to pieces. I flipped out. I told Vanessa that I was having my first, critical day and didn't feel well. And I ran off to Paris, to an acquaintance.»
«It looks like you've acquired too many acquaintances,» I said waspishly.
«You haven't been missing me either,» she parried. A chill settled over the table Sophia was always a master at making someone else the guilty party-anyone but her.
«It's best to swing wide around sharp corners.» So says the golden rule of peaceful coexistence, but I gave up. Everything that had been boiling up inside me over the past months splashed out in annoyance.
«It's a nice Jewish woman who sleeps with Arabs…surely it would be better with Blacks.»
«Don't be a jerk, or I’ll leave»
«Okay, I won't.»
We had long since finished our breakfast. The watch hand had crept up towards two o'clock unnoticed, and Sophia started bustling about.
«It's time for me to go.» She got up and started putting on her coat. «I wanted to see you,» she unexpectedly confessed. Warm notes sounded in her voice. «After all, you're still not a stranger.» But she immediately corrected herself and grew chilly: «It seems we've discussed everything.»
«You have nothing more to say to me?» Although I was angry, I still, for some reason, didn't want to part with her, hoping in my heart of hearts that she would utter, at last, some tender words.
Sofia was not inclined to wax nostalgic.
«I haven't asked you about anything: the evening of questions has been yours. But my advice to you is – go back to New York. You're out of your depth, dear.»
I paraphrased, using an ironic pronunciation:
«Dear, I wo
rk for the radio station «Voice of America,» and I'm here on assignment.»
«Ye-es?» She rejoined mockingly, drawing out the word. «I somehow never observed any talent for radio journalism in you. Interesting-when did it manage to emerge?»
It wasn't clear what her question held more of-surprise or sarcasm. I left it without an answer-it's better to pass around a minefield at a distance. Sophia was satisfied with silence-the last word, as always, was hers-and asked, with irony in her voice:
«And do you make a decent living by doing it?»
«As you see, it pays enough for a restaurant.»
I wasn't about to go into details, and pulled out my wallet. Time for an about-face. The waiter had passed by several times, asking impatiently: «What else do you wish to order?» – In Odessa, such zeal would have signified: «Pay up and get out,» or: «Order some more-no reason to stay on taking up a table.»
I called the waiter and asked him to bring me the check. He did it instantly. As opposed to America, where tips have to be earned, in France, they're included in the check beforehand-the main reason why American service is better than European. I paid with a credit card. The waiter discreetly thanked me.
We went out onto the street and walked about ten feet.
«I want to ask you, when did you manage to marry?» – The question came suddenly, although, I think, it had been on the tip of her tongue from the moment she sat down at the table.
«Did you suppose that after you ran off, I would live out my days as a solitary bachelor? A hermit monk?»
She pressed her lips together. We walked in silence to the corner.
«You don't need to see me off. The metro's right there.»
«You won't leave me your phone number?»
It seems to me that I got scared. I was afraid that now she'd plunge into the metro and disappear forever. It was a strange feeling. After all, for two years already she had belonged, not to me, but to some Syrian-and maybe by now, not even to him, but to someone else-the man, unknown to me, with whom she had attended the sex show yesterday evening at Rue Pigalle, № 62.
Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks Page 10