For a few minutes after waking he enjoyed feeling rested. He stretched and his body tingled pleasantly. He curled up, a contented cat. But there was no question of drifting back into sleep; rather his brain began to spark and sizzle with thoughts that burned red-hot, all directed at Vallette. For a long time it had been Ferdie’s casual mantra that something had to be done about this mad dog, but now it was critical: something really did need to be done and soon, now. The obvious option of bringing the matter to Monsieur Fournier’s attention had dangers. Would what he told him just sound malevolent, if not deranged? More significantly, Ferdie could not be certain that Monsieur Fournier did not already know exactly how Vallette operated and considered it a useful, perhaps even necessary, part of the campaign, and would not particularly mind anything his guard dog did for the cause. Ferdie was honest enough to admit that outrage at the fate of the bellhop was less a motivation than was the certain knowledge that he would have no long-term future with Monsieur Fournier as long as Vallette was around.
Hanging around his apartment for the next few days brooding was not something Ferdie could bear. He briefly considered going to the hospital and trying to find out how the bellhop was, but he knew that any information worth having would only be given to next of kin. Anyway, what could he do at this stage; whatever would happen would happen. The deeper truth was that such a caring gesture was less interesting to Ferdie than the darker pleasure of striking back at Vallette. The thought of him cruising around right now in Ferdie’s classic car felt particularly galling. And when he remembered the laptop under the driver’s seat, the more unnerving thought of Vallette getting hold of that and being able to access so much private material was genuinely galvanizing. Ferdie had to get out of his apartment now, find Vallette, and do something to hurt him. It seemed clear that the bellhop had not given out any information to his attackers; otherwise he would not have been beaten quite so badly. So Vallette needed a better result, and soon, such as hunting down Caramel Girl or her associates; which made today an ideal day to keep track of him, if Ferdie could find him in the first place. But there was no way he could do it on his own.
Didi Bastereaud was the man for the job.
A grunt or two from Didi over the phone and some background noise indicated that he was doing nothing other than sprawling at home watching wrestling on TV. However, a few more grunts revealed that he was halfway through a six-month driving ban and technically wasn’t available. So chauffeuring Ferdie around Paris for, say, the next twenty-four hours was out of the question? With his usual minimal word count, Didi indicated that nothing was out of the question if there was enough money on offer. Ferdie knew there was no point in doing this at all without being willing to pay a premium to get the most reliable and least talkative wheelman he knew. With Didi he was guaranteed discretion and protection, as well as driving skills.
The only complication was that, because of his ban, Didi could not risk using his own car, so one would have to be rented, but not in Didi’s name; nor could he even be named as the second driver. And Ferdie could hardly arrive on crutches with a bound foot to collect a car rented in his own name.
The solution would involve some physical discomfort, but he had no choice. He told Didi where and when to meet him and then called a car rental company he had used before and booked a BMW Series 7. Then he ordered another taxi and, while waiting, removed the dressing on his swollen foot and slowly pulled on socks. Sneakers with the laces undone were the least uncomfortable footwear. Even so, the short walk from his apartment to the taxi was still very painful and got worse from the taxi to the car rental office. At least out on the street he could wince and whine, but once inside he had to keep his face composed and walk normally. When he reached the desk he suppressed a gasp, put his hands on the counter to take some of the weight, and eased the tortured foot from the ground.
Once he had produced his driver’s license and two credit cards and signed all the necessary forms, the desk girl invited him to sit down while he waited for his car and clearly thought it odd when he smiled and said he preferred to stay as he was.
The journey from the office around the back of the building to the garage was almost unbearable, because the young guy who led him talked and moved at speed. Despite Ferdie’s repeated expressions of satisfaction, he insisted on walking him around the car to check the bodywork, wheels, indicator lights, and headlights. Finally he was allowed to sink behind the wheel and he sat still, head down, breathing slowly, waiting for the stinging to ease. There was a tap on his window and he had to reassure the young guy that everything was absolutely, totally fine, but still the annoying little shit hovered as Ferdie started the car and took off, pressing gingerly on the accelerator. Back on the street he allowed himself a sustained moan, building in volume and intensity. Another hundred meters and he pulled in. Sure enough, the great hairy ape shape that was Didi appeared, offering a thumbs-up. Ferdie decided it would be easier to slide over to the passenger seat than get out and hop around. Didi heaved himself in. A nod and a grunt said how are you and where are we going? Already Ferdie had begun to feel better about the rest of his day.
Where were they going? He was relying on his knowledge of Monsieur Fournier’s schedule to lead him to Vallette. He had an appointment at 4 p.m. at the Arab World Institute. Taking his cue from Didi, he wasted no words and just spat out the address. The odds were reasonable that Vallette would be traveling with Monsieur Fournier, and anyway, once he found one it would not be long before the other would appear. After that, who knew. But at least it felt a whole lot better than moping in his apartment, and he was determined to take any opportunity to make trouble for Vallette.
FOURNIER’S MONOLOGUE—IN FRENCH—ON THE QUALITIES OF NATHAN’S coffee goes on and on. The words are chosen so carefully, with such articulation and reinforced with lordly gestures, that his meaning is clear to Lana, though she doesn’t affect even a scintilla of interest. She does notice, however, how pathetically pleased Nathan seems to be with the compliments. Vallette stands near the door, cup in hand. Lana avoids looking him in the eye. She believes he had meant what he’d said, but what isn’t so clear is whether his threat is backed up by Fournier, or if she’s dealing with someone who’s playing by his own rules. Lana has a notion that it might be a little of both. The Fourniers of this world love having the loyalty of Vallette and his kind, the ones who know what needs to be done without explicit instruction. The bottom line from her point of view: if she gets killed, does it matter who gave the order?
So what now? Obviously she needs to stop being pain-in-the-ass girl and become can-I-help-you-with-that girl. Promise Fournier whatever he wants, her silence, whatever. Put it in writing if need be. All that matters is recovering her passport and ticket and everything else. Then she’d have just six hours in Paris to keep out of trouble. Maybe even enjoy herself a little. Yeah, right.
This is, without question, the sensible thing to do. Forget Guillaume and his documentary, forget Odette’s pain, forget her disgust at Fournier. Just get herself home safe. She would hug Brian like she hadn’t hugged him in a long time.
But . . . but . . . it feels like defeat. It pisses her off how much Fournier might enjoy her humiliation.
What are the alternatives? And would they result in her taking a ride with Vallette to some wasteland in the banlieues? How about telling Nathan what Vallette had just said? Would he even believe her? And what could he do anyway? Still, it would be interesting to distract the two fine minds from their important discussion about where the finest coffee in Paris was to be had—or whatever debate they were now enjoying—and tell them, “While you were being a good little barista, Nathan, and you were out on the balcony, Monsieur Fournier, looking down on the little people, Monsieur Vallette quite casually threatened to kill me. He said it would be easy to make it look like suicide.” She’d use the startled silence to add, “I presume you ordered him to threaten me this way?” If Fournier was responsible, then his denial would come
wrapped in outraged tones and insinuations that perhaps Lana was desperate enough to accuse anyone of anything to sow confusion and uncertainty. If Fournier had no knowledge he might still react in a similar way—not wanting to seem disloyal to his lieutenant—but Lana is confident that there would be some little giveaway in his eyes or voice, something that would point to genuine shock at the discovery that he has a psychopath in his intimate circle.
Fournier is looking directly at her, holding the Hopper brochure and speaking. She tunes in and hears English again.
“. . . so I envy you, Lana, this spirit of freedom. As you may guess, such things are impossible for me now. In normal circumstances there is nothing I would have liked better. There is a very special atmosphere around each of his paintings, so to be in the presence of so many all at once must have been utterly intoxicating. Ah! Maybe, Lana, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps Mr. Hopper affected you more than you realize. Such is the power of great art. Although for me, you know, restraint and modesty has always been the flavor of Hopper. So many people say that he created our idea of America and certainly it is true that he represented the particular urban architecture of the United States at his time. But his men and women are not who many Europeans think of as the typical, perhaps the stereotypical, American: brash, overconfident. I myself do not believe this stereotype and so, for many who see Americans in this way, Mr. Hopper should be a revelation. His characters are uncertain, modest, often with head bent low and eyes disappearing into the shadows. They wait patiently or go quietly about their work. They are little and alone in a big world. Yes, I would love to have the opportunity to see all these magnificent humane works. Perhaps they would make me fall even more in love with America. I spend a lot of time in your remarkable country, you know. I lecture there, I attend conferences, I have friends there.”
Just as Lana is beginning to doubt he will ever stop talking he stands and changes tone abruptly.
“So. I have my commitments, Lana. Sadly, our time is finished. I realize that you are not . . . well . . . in the best situation now, so there is no point in continuing to engage in this way. I choose to believe that while you may be capricious, you are not malevolent. I am a man who likes to take a risk, to follow my instinct. But not without certain necessary precautions.”
Can it be that Fournier is at last spooked by her aggressive silence? Is he going to cut his losses? Vallette begins to gather up all her documents.
“I have decided that you will stay here with Nathan. I’m sure you will enjoy each other’s company for a few more hours. This evening at Charles de Gaulle, Arnaud or one of our colleagues will be waiting with all your necessary papers. If Nathan can confirm that you have behaved yourself, then you may take your flight just as you planned.”
“Behaved yourself.” Lana blazes inside. With just two words out of so many, Fournier has made a serious misjudgment.
“I won’t even require particular promises. I will assume that once back in Dublin you will prefer to forget everything that has happened here. Arnaud, can you suggest a good meeting place in the airport?”
Vallette gestures and they step out on the balcony and lower their voices. Fournier nods energetically. They come back.
“Arnaud proposes the smoking terrace at Le Grand Comptoir, in Terminal One departures. At nine o’clock. But he also has one other useful suggestion. Purely as a gesture of goodwill, perhaps you would like to tell us one thing, Lana. These people you met last night, these interesting filmmakers. Where did you go with them? Have you an address?”
“No.” How Lana manages to answer without revealing her rage she doesn’t know. So Vallette and Nathan would decide if she had “behaved” or not. Surely Fournier understood exactly how stinging that had sounded, or was his contempt for women such that it hadn’t even occurred to him? Right now Lana would not tell this coiffed ape the time, let alone give up Guillaume’s address or any useful information.
“No?” Vallette’s response to the refusal is chilly. Lana knows she has to hold herself in check. For now. “Behave” herself, if she can.
“It was dark, and it was a bit of a wild ride, remember.” She smiles at Vallette as if recalling a fun evening together. “I had no idea where we were going. We stopped in a narrow street. I’m pretty sure we never crossed the river, so it was definitely on the right bank. Oh, and I remember, the front doors were purple.”
Useless though this information patently is, Lana hopes Fournier will allow himself to be satisfied that she has made some attempt to be helpful. He gazes at her for what seems a long time, then shrugs.
“Not a problem. Nathan, I presume you are happy to be guardian to our guest until tonight?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
From the way Nathan looks at her as he answers, she can see he wants an opportunity to be alone with her.
“Good.” Fournier steps closer. “So this is goodbye, Lana. It is such a pity we did not meet in different circumstances. I think you would have formed a much better opinion of me.”
How pathetic, unable to accept that he has failed to enchant her. This time she takes the offered hand. Limply. Fournier again stares, but finally seems to acknowledge that there is no point in pushing anymore.
In fact, right now Lana isn’t even focused on him, distracted by what’s happening behind his back. Vallette has picked up Fournier’s coffee cup and is speaking quietly to Nathan in French. He seems to be insisting on cleaning up. As Fournier turns away from her, his minion is already walking toward the kitchen, cup in hand, to wash away any evidence of his master’s presence in the apartment.
Now, not only is Lana insulted and enraged by the conditions of her “release,” she doesn’t for one moment believe it will happen.
And suddenly it’s just Lana and Nathan staring at each other. Or rather Lana staring at Nathan, who looks away, then moves about the room and goes out to the hall to check that Fournier and Vallette closed the door properly as they left. Lana’s gaze follows like a motion-sensitive surveillance camera, until he slithers out of sight into the little kitchen.
“More coffee? I’m going to make some.”
The forced chirpiness in his voice seems to plead a truce, a cease-fire; that old story of soldiers coming out of the trenches on Christmas Eve for a few hours of peace and goodwill with the enemy. Without answering, Lana goes to the kitchen and watches him from the doorway. The clock on the wall says two forty. It might be a very long afternoon and evening. His eyes can’t help flicking toward her, but he looks away quickly and focuses all his attention on espresso-making. Lana has no intention of letting him off the hook and there will be no preliminary chitchat. Subject: betrayal. You have as long as you like, Nathan, to explain yourself.
He holds out until after he hands her an espresso that is everything he is not—strong, gutsy, full of depth. Actually, the espresso reminds her of Nathan in one respect: it has a slight but distinctly bitter aftertaste. Lana sips, silent. He makes an apologetic gesture toward the living room. Does he seriously hope that a change of scene, the battered comfort of the old couch will relax the mood? What he hasn’t picked up on is that, despite everything, Lana is feeling totally relaxed. In fact, up to a point, she’s only toying with him. She’s parked her rage, although she’s not quite finished with it yet. But that has nothing to do with Nathan. It’s all focused on Fournier now, and especially his “behave yourself” remark. Lana has already vowed that he’ll pay dearly for that. At whatever cost to herself. So, truthfully, Nathan is just a sideshow, albeit a necessary one, because he stands between her and Fournier. Lana will have to bypass him, railroad him, or enlist him, and she’s not entirely sure which one yet.
After another long espresso-sipping silence, he crumbles.
“Lana, I swear to you, whatever you may think, I was trying to look after your best interests.”
“I get it. You thought I’d need some help carrying my bags at the market.”
“Sorry?”
“Vallette’s elegan
tly dressed gorillas.”
“I honestly haven’t an idea what you’re talking about.”
“Whose face did you think I smashed? Some innocent stranger?”
“Well . . . Lana, I don’t know. Seems like there’s lots I don’t know.”
And there it is, just the tiniest hint of petulance, of bitterness, of self-righteousness: what she hadn’t told him, what she hadn’t trusted him with. Nathan is going back over everything she said and did and reassessing it in the light of what Fournier revealed about her. So does he get to let himself off the hook and turn it all on her? She’s manic, that’s the solution, that’s what this whole thing is about. Her story can’t be trusted, nor her motivations, nor her actions, she’s . . . she’s . . . unstable. Lana can see how that version makes sense. But she tells him the crazy truth anyway.
“Three of Vallette’s guys tried to kidnap me at the market. My question is, how did they know I was there?”
“What? Oh really! You think I—”
“I don’t think anything. I’m asking how they knew I was there?”
“All I wanted to do was to see if this thing could be worked out.”
“You know what? I don’t like being here anymore. In this room. And I sure don’t want to be a prisoner here for another six hours.”
“You’re not a prisoner—”
“Then take me out. Let’s at least have something beautiful and real around us, while you explain exactly what you thought you were doing.”
A little to her surprise, Nathan is desperate enough to seize on the idea. Is he scared of her, does he think it best to humor her in her condition? Lana, having so easily achieved step one, realizes she has to make the best of this opportunity. It will at least be more congenial to listen to whatever self-serving explanation he comes up with while enjoying the buzz of the streets. It would be sad if her last memory of Paris was the acrid disappointment hanging in the air of Nathan’s apartment.
What She Saw Page 17