What She Saw

by Gerard Stembridge

  Lana can’t believe that Nathan has stuck his head above the parapet and given her the opportunity to turn on him.

  “Lana, if you can just explain to Jean-Luc how you came to be in the private elevator . . .”

  She hopes her eyes are successfully projecting the iciest disdain. Look at me. Does this face suggest it has any interest in anything you might have to say? You’re not even in the room. But Nathan surfs on, looking shaky, barely staying upright, yet weirdly proud of himself. It’s as if he expects kudos for cunningly arranging this summit. Lana is annoyed with herself that it had not occurred to her, from the first moment Nathan mentioned his link with Fournier, that in institutions like Sciences Po, the boys’ club would always hang together in a crisis. Fraternité.

  Nathan sounds just a little strident now, insisting he had relayed her story and explained her actions, exactly as she had conveyed them to him. All Jean-Luc needs is a little more convincing. Eventually the ice in her eyes reduces him to spluttering incoherence and he tails off into a downcast and—what nerve, it seems to Lana—resentful silence.

  She looks away. Had Nathan been suffering from a profound lack of self-awareness when he’d claimed last night that his anger toward her had lasted only a couple of months? Surely, because it’s obvious he has no real appreciation of the complexity of his own feelings. The rage had merely lain dormant for a long time until her reappearance in his life, especially the manner of it—sudden, out of the shadows, late at night, prompting him to bad behavior toward the poor innocent woman he had brought home—awoke the poisonous worm in him. So is this little betrayal deliberate payback or does he even recognize the brutal vengeance in the act? His whiny, self-serving tone suggests he still needs to convince himself that he’s looking after Lana’s best interests, playing the honest broker between two warring, but essentially equally respectable parties. They should be begging him to sort out the Arab-Israeli conflict.

  “. . . All the elements point to a certain conclusion, you agree?”

  Fournier has been talking all this time. Lana hasn’t taken in a word, but she’s fascinated by how his eyebrows are constantly on the move, resembling the silhouettes of two swallows in flight against the backdrop of a bloodshot sunset.

  “Hm? Sorry, my mind wandered. I have no idea what you just said.”

  It’s very satisfying that the calculated indifference in her tone at last draws a lick of flame from Fournier’s eyes, a tiny flicker compared to the bushfire blaze Lana had witnessed the night before. For a moment she thinks the smartest guy in the room might just lose it, get up, rumble over, and punch her. She hopes he will. How quickly it would shift the ground rules, end this charade of the sophisticated, rational man, Descartes in a four-thousand-euro suit, trying oh with infinite patience to talk some sense into the crazily devious woman, who doesn’t seem to recognize that she’s been outmaneuvered. But the heat is quickly turned down and his eyes seem almost to change color as the cool, sympathetic—borderline patronizing—gaze resumes.

  “I beg your pardon. Allow me to explain again. You are ready for me?”

  “I’m totally there. Can’t wait.”

  “Consider the matter from my point of view. A woman arrives in Paris alone from”—he leans forward and picks up a piece of paper—“Dublin.”

  He’s holding her boarding pass, and—why had she not realized this earlier?—her purse, passport, and credit card are on the coffee table in front of him. The action of picking up the boarding pass was deliberate, to draw her attention to it and her other possessions.

  “She books into the Chevalier. Soon she is showing great interest in the hotel’s famous Suite Imperial, the means of access, and who is staying there. When she sees someone enter the exclusive elevator to the suite, she attempts to discover who it is. Later she speaks with a young lady who is brought to the suite, a lady who transpires to be not a lady at all, but a spy with a camera. Then this woman from Dublin, who is in fact American, somehow contrives to create a diversion. She gains access to the Suite Imperial for a few seconds and on returning to the hotel foyer assaults an associate. Then later, she joins two people, one of whom has a camera and who, according to her own story”—he gestures toward Nathan; Lana doesn’t bother to look—“wishes to destroy my career and reputation. In the light of this, how can you think it unreasonable that we believe you are working for someone who, let us say, does not have my best interests at heart?”

  Lana has to admit that from the perspective of an ambitious politician, on the brink of achieving or losing his life’s goal, the events of the last twenty-four hours might indeed suggest a more conspiratorial narrative than the one she knows to be true. Nor can she help being curious as to who exactly Fournier might think she’s working for. His political opponent? Or perhaps he’s convinced himself that the CIA has targeted him. Tempting though it is to engage with him on this nonsense, she recalls instead that scene last night: the naked old goat and the white of his knuckles as he gripped the girl’s arm. She thinks about Odette, curled up in the shadows, whispering about being tied to a chair and assaulted, which would have been Lana’s fate if Vallette’s attempt to carry her away last night or today’s sinister surveillance had succeeded. It might happen yet.

  “I have to admire your nerve, trying to make me the story. But there’s a little problem with this scenario of yours. It’s not me who’s into secret sex parties in exclusive hotel suites. I’m not the one assaulting a young woman because she refuses to strip and abase herself. I don’t have muscle masquerading as police, which I’m guessing is a felony in France just like it is in the U.S., am I right?” She looks at Vallette, whose smirk suggests he’s enjoying her outburst.

  “Your cologne is way too high-end for a cop, by the way, and those guys this morning? Not dressed for the market. I’m surprised at such freshman errors, Inspector Fichet. Oh, sorry, no, Monsieur Vallette, isn’t it?”

  No one is trying to shut her up so Lana decides, what the hell, let it all out.

  “So what is my crime? I accidentally got into an elevator at the wrong moment, and witnessed the nauseating reality of an old pervert who thinks he’s the guy who should be running this country. Are you serious? You know what you should be doing, instead of warming your butt there like some puffed-up foie grass-fed COLONIAL OVERLORD?”—she hopes that description will kick Nathan where it hurts—“interrogating me, impugning my motives? You should be crawling, the way I hear you like to make women do, on all fours, imploring me to take pity on you and not breathe a word about your embarrassing, shameful freak show. Fuck you, Fournier!”

  It feels so good. Like there should be applause from an appreciative audience. Lana is well aware that such a harangue will achieve nothing, but it can hardly do any more harm. Fournier, she figures, is one of those alpha males who pride themselves on what they think is their emotional intelligence, their mastery over petty responses. Words spoken in the heat of battle mean little or nothing. No matter how she lambasts him he’ll keep his eye on the prize, which is presumably a clear, scandal-free run at the presidency. Lana can grandstand all she likes; that’s all part of the game.

  “An admirable tirade, Madame Gibson. I recognize the crude, cheap moralizing of the tabloid press, and I detect nostalgia for the Old Testament God of guilt and shame.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Oh but yes, and I hear the debased sophistry of the American religious right. Perhaps this is the clue to your extraordinary behavior? Are you a devotee of Anglo-Saxon tabloid culture? Or perhaps an agent of some American right-wing organization, the kind that appropriates words like freedom and liberty in its title and is anxious to manipulate the democratic process? It is one thing to spend millions misleading voters in your own country, but to interfere in others? You moralize to me, but your use of language is meretricious. ‘Assault,’ you say? But your friend the spy was not hurt by me. And how would you behave, if you invited someone to your hotel room and discovered she was secretly filmi
ng your private world? No doubt you would say, ‘Oh forgive me! In the future I promise to conduct my private behavior by your rules.’ Ha! So I ask again, what is your agenda? Who do you work for?”

  It feels a little like being on one of those political TV shows where the presenter keeps saying, “With respect, you haven’t answered my question, so I’ll ask it one more time.” Lana wonders if this is Fournier’s secret self-image: a fabulously coiffed, preternaturally bright, ruthlessly determined TV interrogator. Is he genuinely convinced that his suspicions are correct and confident that she’ll break down and confess all in the face of his steely, dispassionate logic? Or is he just trying to panic her, make her beg, promise him anything in exchange for release? If so, it’s working. She’s getting closer to that place than she would like to admit.

  When Fournier speaks again, Lana notices that his voice has softened. He contrives to look caring.

  “May I call you Lana? It is a delightful name and I cannot continue with this ‘Madame.’ Lana, why the obdurate silence? Why do you contrive not to vindicate yourself? You are like the old terrorist groups who always refused to recognize the courts. But you are not Action Directe and this is not a court. It is not even an interrogation. You must appreciate that I am only trying to protect my personal integrity—yes, integrity. I am not a hypocrite, I have never moralized about what others do. Nothing in my private affairs has ever interfered with the quality of my political work. The people of France vote for a president, not a saint. There are no saints, as you must know. You are too intelligent, too urbane not to accept this.”

  Silence. Fournier sighs, shrugs, gestures as if made helpless by her refusal to cooperate, and mutters something to Vallette, who leaves the room.

  “Very well. I will be candid. It is my inclination to believe the story you told Nathan, despite its illogicality. After all, why would you lie? You were speaking to an intimate friend—”

  Lana snorts. Nathan protests.

  “Lana. Can’t you give me even a little credit for—”

  “And in my experience, this is life, yes? Random, uncertain, illogical. But if so, then why you say nothing to convince me is a mystery, when there are facts that might tally with your version of events. Evidence you could show—”

  Vallette returns with Lana’s bag.

  “—ah, as we will see. You told Nathan you came to Paris for the Hopper exhibition. And yes, you have a ticket and a catalog.”

  Vallette takes out the catalog and the ticket and places them on the table like they are court exhibits.

  “So this is true. Would you waste this time if you were in Paris for some other, more notorious purpose? It is a little thing, yes, but there is more. Your medicine, Lana.”

  Vallette takes the bottles from the bag and gives them to Fournier, who holds them toward her.

  “Interesting. Trileptal, Risperdal. Am I correct that this combination of drugs is normally prescribed to someone in the manic phase of bipolar disorder? In this situation it is normal for a person to be reckless, to spend too much, to act without considering the consequences, to believe that every foolish idea is inspiration. Do you not see, Lana? These pills are your best defense. If only you had told us what your situation was, it would have explained so much about your behavior.”

  The cruelty of the performance is breathtaking. Fournier’s voice is utterly even, calmly sympathetic as a doctor’s, his expression seems so understanding, flavored with a dash of tender sadness. And he’s not finished yet.

  “Embarrassment, perhaps? Of course, yes, it is normal. But we are sensitive people. It would have helped us understand you and your actions so much better. We might even be sitting here now, relaxing with a coffee, all matters resolved, conversing like old friends.”

  Fournier holds the bottle of pills toward her as if he’s hoping she’ll snatch at them like an embarrassed child. A phone rings. Vallette pulls his cell from his pocket and steps outside.

  “So, yes, I can believe that you were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. But even so, how can I be certain you will just walk away? Don’t you see? I would be happy to allow you depart quietly on this return flight tonight, but you have refused to help yourself, so that even if you promise now not to contact these people you were with last night—these people who are intending to destroy me—why should I believe you?”

  Vallette returns, barking in French. Lana guesses from Nathan’s reaction he is telling them about her bottle attack.

  “Oh Jesus, Lana. What have you done?”

  Fournier looks at the pills and shakes his head.

  “A broken bottle, Lana? Reckless behavior, not caring about consequences: all, I believe, symptoms of your condition. The man you attacked is in the hospital. You really are not helping yourself. Fortunately his eyes are not damaged, but his face . . .”

  “Lana, you have get out of France as soon as possible!”

  She ignores Nathan.

  “Then have me arrested, Monsieur Fournier.”

  “No. I don’t want to cause you any—”

  “You don’t want me shooting my mouth off. And you know I will. You want me scared and silent. You want me to believe that without my passport and ticket and all the rest I am lost and the only way I can get these things is by promising to do whatever you want. But I can go to the embassy on Monday morning, report a stolen passport, and get myself a temporary one. I can arrange a new ticket and fly back to Dublin whether you like it or not. And as for your shock”—she turns to Nathan—“at how I defended myself, it’s a good lesson in consequences, don’t you think? You sent me out on the streets and then made a phone call. I find myself in danger and a guy gets himself hurt. You want to connect the dots?”

  Nathan just shakes his head. Fournier sounds impressed.

  “It’s a very persuasive argument. I think we could all do with some coffee. Nathan, please.”

  The tone, the wave of the hand is that of a valued restaurant client instructing a waiter. Despite her disgust at Nathan right now, Lana hopes he’ll show some backbone: “No, I am not your servant.” But he nods and goes to the kitchen. The atmosphere has become as noxious as the smoke generated from Fournier’s cigar. He seems to notice the smoke, at least, and goes to the window, opens it, and steps out. The noise of weekenders thronging the square and the St.-Michel fountain beyond reminds Lana how close by pleasant normality is. Fournier leans over the rail, seemingly captivated by the doings of the amusing little people below.

  Alone with Vallette, she cannot not look at him. It seems that a pause in proceedings has been decreed. Is that to allow Fournier to reassess his strategy? Does she have him on the run?

  How wrong. How pathetically, dangerously wrong.

  “You are quite correct in all you have said, but to be correct does not always guarantee the victory.”

  Vallette’s voice, oddly low and very calm, riles Lana. Why is he speaking now? Can he not allow her these few moments of merciful silence? Does he feel he has to fill the void?

  “Paris is such a crowded city. So busy. It is surprising that there are not more accidents, no? But still, every day strange tragic events occur. Sometimes these events are no one’s fault; they are just bad luck, fate. But sometimes . . . people make terrible choices, no? Sometimes these choices cause the death of others, but sometimes they end their own life. So sad, but impossible to prevent if the mind tells us, it is too much, this life. Americans, for example, love Paris so much. To come here and take your own life might seem to someone reading such a report like a very romantic tragedy.”

  Is Vallette insane or does he just have a peculiar sense of humor? Yet the choreography lends weight to his words: Nathan instructed to go make coffee, Fournier stepping out, leaning over, hearing only the noise of the street, leaving Vallette, the enforcer, to pass on the lethal message. But they cannot be serious. Surely Nathan, cringing collaborator though he is, would not be part of such a scheme? Of course not. Was that why he’d been sent from the room?
Still, if any “accident” happened to Lana, wouldn’t he piece it together and refuse to let it stand? Of course he would, before realizing that such a paranoid story would never fly. How would he back it up? The only forensic evidence in existence would be of her presence in his apartment and sexual activity between them. And how about the complicated backstory? Man has affair with married American. Years later the woman returns, spends the night with him, and then commits suicide. Man makes up crazy conspiracy to hide some other sordid truth. It would be not just foolish, but dangerous, for Nathan to speak out. And maybe the offer of a gig as some minor functionary in Fournier’s future administration might help ensure his silence, having first allowed himself a little time to struggle with his conscience.

  “Be sensible, Madame Gibson. I understand it is difficult. By the way, is it time for your medication yet?”

  A face like Vallette’s isn’t constructed to look kind, but he manages a reasonable impression. It’s still hard to digest that her life has just been quietly threatened. Nathan, such a handsome waiter, comes back with a large tray. Vallette shouts quite peremptorily to Fournier that the breeze is a little too chilly. The potential future president of the republic smiles as he steps back inside, sniffing the aroma.

  “Ah, superb.”

  Lana notices that as Vallette closes the windows behind him he discreetly wipes the handles with a handkerchief.

  2 PM

  Ferdie woke in his own bed, naked, but with no memory of undressing. The trail of clothes led out of the bedroom and, in the hall beyond, he could see his crutches on the floor. He must have crawled on all fours to bed. Now he recalled squatting outside the Chinese restaurant to keep watch and confirm that the paramedics got to the bellhop in time. They arrived very quickly but were a long time in the building. When they eventually brought him out on a stretcher, Ferdie could tell by their demeanor and quick pace that the patient was alive, but the situation was undoubtedly critical. The taxi driver had woken him when they reached his apartment and he had only a muddled awareness of wallet-fumbling and stumbling on the pavement. Then, nothing at all.