3 PM
Outside, without really thinking about it, Lana steers them toward rue St.-André-les-Arts. The smell of street food, the cheerful faces of tourists, and the hum of French voices swirl around Nathan’s low-pitched monologue. Their loud honesty only makes him seem more shamefaced and pathetic.
“I had this idea. I knew you wouldn’t like it, so I thought, okay, I won’t say anything, but I’ll sort everything out and present it to her—you—tied up in a bow and then you’d be okay with it. My idea was to contact Jean-Luc directly, explain that you are a friend, tell him the story just as you told me, assure him that the whole sequence of events was just one of those peculiar accidents and you had no agenda. I was sure that he would understand and return all your—”
“He’d understand?”
“I didn’t think there was any point in getting into a discussion about the right and wrong of the thing. This was pragmatism. My hope was that by the time you came back from the market I’d have your passport and ticket, everything, waiting for you—”
“You were anxious to get rid of me.”
“No. I really hoped you’d stay on, forget about tonight’s flight, but I wanted you to be free to make a choice. Which would make it even better if you chose to stay on.”
“And getting my own passport back was like some special privilege?”
“No, no, I know that’s—no. Oh please, Lana. You have to admit it was a pretty terrible situation. I was just trying to find a way out that would satisfy everyone. I mean, you had thought that they were out to kill you. Have you forgotten that? Now I know better why you were having those cr—”
The hard c in crazy was as far as he got before hurriedly sucking the sound back in.
“—why you were . . . misreading the situation.”
“So you didn’t ask him to send three guys to hunt me down at the market.”
“No, no! I promise you, I knew nothing about that.”
“Right. He just somehow divined where I was.”
“No! I . . . I mean . . . it was just . . . I think Jean-Luc asked at one point if you were with me, and I said not right now, and I probably mentioned the market, I don’t know, maybe just casually, you know. I mean the context was—”
“So he or Vallette used this ‘casual’ information and sent those guys after me. You still think you can trust him?”
And the tiny hesitation is enough to tell her that Nathan might trust him more than he trusts her.
“I don’t know, Lana.”
“Or you don’t want to know?”
“Maybe you’re right. Can I be totally honest here? And I don’t mean to be insensitive, but I have to admit . . . I’ve been thinking about Jean-Luc and the election. I live here. I know that the country can’t take another seven years of neoliberal bullshit. It’s been a disaster and Dufour will only make things worse: pro-privatization, anti-immigrant. Believe me, Fournier is the only man to stop all this, and I’m not saying that because he’s an old colleague. He just is the right man for this job. His ideas are better. Sure, he has his flaws as a human being, and maybe these are more serious than I ever thought—”
“What if it’s more than a flaw? What if it’s a sickness? Have you heard of satyriasis?”
“Fine, give it some pop-psych name if you like—”
“Oh, right, the way we c-c-c-razy Americans like to.”
“Please don’t put words in my mouth, Lana! I just want you to believe that it wasn’t ever my intention to do any harm. I really thought that I was helping. Can’t we sit somewhere and talk? Things may feel better if we eat something.”
They have arrived at rue de Buci, but Lana has no intention of planting herself in one of the cafés scattered on either side of the crowded street. Her object is to keep on the move, get farther from the apartment while she works out what to do next.
“You know something. I should go fix up my bill at the hotel.”
“They have your credit card on file, don’t they?”
“Sure, sure, but you know, I’d just feel better. And we can eat after that. How about Montorgueil?”
“Well . . . okay. We have time.”
Lana realizes that if she can keep Nathan thinking about her as whimsical and manic, it won’t occur to him to be suspicious of her intentions. They reach the Pont Neuf.
“All right, Lana, I admit my own ego made me act in what now seems like a . . . if you want to use the word . . . an underhand manner. And yes, I freely admit I wanted to be the good guy, the hero, sorting out this problem. If I’m at fault, then that was my sin.”
Lana winces at the “if I” form of apology, but manages to keep her mouth shut.
“And yes, it hasn’t worked out exactly as I’d planned, even though it does seem like things are going to be okay after all?”
“Maybe.”
“Anyway, once I got talking to Jean-Luc I thought it was all going to be fine. He was very friendly, he listened very carefully and asked about you, and I was able to tell him really good things and he seemed to be relieved that it could be sorted out. I realize now that he . . . What happened was there were two calls. He thanked me and said he needed to think about what I’d told him and he’d get back to me very quickly. Which seemed, you know, perfectly reasonable in the circumstances.”
“He got off the phone and called you back?”
“Yes. I mean I—”
“Which was when he sent his guys to find me.”
“Well, thinking about it now, probably. Anyway, a few minutes later he called and said he was sure things could be sorted out and he would send your documents over. I gave him the address and not long after that he and Vallette turned up at the apartment. What could I do? Not let him in? I see now . . . Oh God . . . I’m . . . I’m so sorry, Lana.”
At least this expression of regret has no “if” in it. Suddenly she feels, quite spontaneously, a spasm of pity toward Nathan. It’s not an emotion that would ever have played even a walk-on role in their passionate past, but at this moment it’s an improvement on disgust. His defeated expression seems genuine.
“I should have been more wary. But you know I’d contacted him out of the blue, so naturally when someone in those circumstances asks for more thinking time—”
“Sure. Why would it occur to you that he was organizing muscle to kidnap me?”
“Are you being—”
“Sarcastic? Actually, no. Not this time. I do understand. Why would you suspect such a thing about a man you look up to, someone you believe in?”
He is so sheepish he doesn’t even notice that they are approaching Le Fumoir. Lana doesn’t bother to point it out. What a twisting emotional journey it has been from here back to here.
“It wasn’t about blind trust. I suppose my analysis was that here is an intelligent politician in a very awkward situation. A guy with Jean-Luc’s smarts is not going to dig himself even deeper into the mire. I was offering him the quickest, easiest way out. I was his get-out-of-jail-free card, if you like. So when he wanted to meet you in person, that didn’t seem, you know, all that surprising. Obviously I see now what was really going on. Fournier realized that you might evade his guys and come back to the apartment—”
“And he needed to get there before I did because once I found out you’d been talking to him, I wouldn’t wait around.”
“I should have been more suspicious when they arrived so quickly. I’d never met Vallette before. And I swear, it was only after you came back that I noticed he was armed.”
They are under the arches now, only yards from the entrance to Le Chevalier. Almost twenty-four hours after her arrival, how much has changed. It’s hard for Lana to enter without feeling she’s being watched or that something bad is about to happen. The receptionist’s English is just as smooth, but her smile seems to have even less of a welcome about it than yesterday. Obviously Lana’s failure to check out by noon had not gone unnoticed.
“So sorry. My credit card, everything’s been
stolen and I was dealing with the police. But don’t worry, I won’t cancel the card until your bill goes through. You have my details?”
It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what the receptionist does to express her disapproval. Is it in the particular incline of her head, or the force with which she taps the computer keypad, or the way she places an envelope in front of Lana as if it’s an unsavory thing and she’s glad to pass it on to its unsavory owner? “Lana Gibson” is scribbled large on it. Before opening the envelope, she checks that Nathan is sitting comfortably, paying little attention. It’s from Guillaume; big, awkward writing, but easy to read.
LANA! WHERE ARE YOU? I MUST GO NOW. CLAUDE IS IN THE HOSPITAL! THEY BEAT HIM. IT IS SO TERRIBLE!
CALL ME PLEASE! GUILLAUME
Hospital? A beating? Those anxious, amber eyes. They are going to kill you, Madame. Strolling ahead of her with the luggage cart, sinuous and beautiful. What have they done to him? Lana makes her mind up. Now she knows exactly what she must do. She folds away the note and composes herself to face Nathan.
“Right. That’s done. Let’s get out of here.”
And once back on the street again she says, “Forget Montorgueil, let’s go eat at the Danton. We’ll take the metro.”
She can tell he thinks it’s another whim and he’s happy to go along with it. They walk to the Pyramides station.
“When I saw the gun, I was flabbergasted, by the way. But then I told myself a presidential candidate would have a security person, of course, so that must be who Vallette was. But you know, it may well be that he’s the problem here. He may have persuaded Jean-Luc that you had some kind of malevolent agenda.”
It’s the perfect time to tell him about Vallette’s threat and also totally the wrong time. Lana just shrugs. “They wanted to scare me.”
“Yes, but why, when I was offering him a simple way out?”
“You’re assuming I would have agreed to it.”
“Okay, yeah, sure.” Nathan suddenly sounds uncertain. “But you would—wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe Fournier knows me better than you do. Or maybe he knows himself better; just how sick and arrogant he is.”
In the station Lana lets Nathan lead. The signs tell her they are going toward Gare St.-Lazare.
“Are you saying that if things had worked out as I’d hoped, if you’d come back from the market and found your passport and purse and ticket and clothes all safe, that you’d still have wanted to expose Jean-Luc?”
Lana speaks without thinking now, mere words to keep Nathan distracted.
“I’m only a foreign tourist. Surely the question is why you still don’t want to expose him, after what you witnessed in the last hour. Don’t you find it sinister?”
“Yes . . . yes . . . I admit my belief or my hope, whatever I had about this election, has been shaken. But you have to agree, you were not meeting Jean-Luc in normal circumstances.”
“Sure, at least today he had clothes on, which was a big plus.”
On the busy platform. Prochain train, une minute. Lana is so focused on her escape plan she scarcely notices that Nathan has fallen silent until his hesitant question completely throws her.
“When we had that time together . . . were you . . . had you already been diagnosed?”
What to say, why is he asking? She doesn’t want him to think she’d hidden something so important back then, nor that he might have been the trigger.
“No, no. That happened a long time after.”
“It’s just I wish I’d known about it, to have had time to get used to . . . what it’s like for you.”
“Would you have wanted to?”
“Of course. Any opportunity to understand you better, Lana Turner.”
Train s’approche. Focus. Think of Claude lying in the hospital. She mustn’t let Nathan distract her now. Too late for that.
“Well, I wouldn’t ever say this thing I have is easy to cope with, but there are times when I’m glad it’s in me.”
“Yes, I can imagine that.”
The driverless train bursts from the tunnel. It’s time to distract Nathan. Shock him.
“Especially when you have to deal with something like a murder threat.”
“What?”
“Vallette. He said he’s going to kill me and make it look like some sad crazy American woman had committed suicide.”
“Are you making this up?”
The doors open. There is the usual crush to get on.
“When you went to make coffee, Fournier stepped out on the balcony and left Vallette alone with me. That’s when he said it.”
The warning horn blares. Lana pushes Nathan ahead of her. He twists his head around.
“But that makes no sense—if anything did happen to you, I’d know the real story.”
“So why did Vallette insist on washing the coffee mugs?”
Nathan looks totally mystified at this, but he’ll just have to work that one out on his own. She gives him a final nudge onto the train and follows, but hovers in the doorway. His back is to her. The moment the horn stops she lunges backward against the final anxious surge on board as the doors snap shut.
Nathan twists around, but the train is already moving. Lana looks at his fast-receding face with an expression intended to suggest that some terrible accident had separated them. Three teenagers come racing onto the platform, reaching for the train with theatrically despairing gestures and crying out French curses, even though they know there will be another in two minutes. Lana briefly notices the only other person standing on the platform, a guy in a newsboy cap, but her amusement at the teen dramatics and her own delight at escaping Nathan distract her from wondering how come that guy on the platform had also missed the train.
4 PM
It feels like the end of something. Even though her priority right now is to get to Guillaume and Pauline’s apartment, Lana can’t help thinking about Nathan’s face as his train sped into the tunnel. He was actually openmouthed, still cute, but in the way a little kid shocked at being suddenly separated from his mother might: so different from that sophisticated mix of intelligent inquiry, inner wisdom, and physical beauty that she first encountered in Le Fumoir all that time ago. It probably was a pity they had ended this way, without an opportunity even to acknowledge that she had already begun the process of forgiving him for his stupidity. Would she also have told him that the passion that had defined their relationship and raged fiercely until just a few hours ago was now absolutely, totally vaporized? Phff! Maybe he realizes that for himself? Theirs had been a relationship that seemed to operate only in short bursts of high intensity. Now there’s no time to dwell on this second separation. Lana has to figure out what train takes her close to rue d’Aboukir, but it’s very hard to pinpoint the street itself on the metro map. She knows it can’t be too far away from the Chevalier because it had only taken five minutes to drive there last night, but in what direction? Lana squints, moving her finger back and forth, regretting now that she had always left this sort of thing to Brian whenever they were in a strange city. Not only was he really good at reading maps, but even without them he had an innate ability to orienteer and loved showing off. She had enjoyed so many relaxing days just trailing about big beautiful cities, taking in the sights and letting Brian worry about where and how far and how long.
Rue d’Aboukir, rue d’Aboukir, rue d’Aboukir . . .
The next train comes and goes. Finally, by painstakingly tracing her finger along the map, half inch by half inch like a police search of a crime scene, she finally happens on the magic word, d’Aboukir. But she has no idea which end is the right one on what looks like a long street. Strasbourg–St.-Denis seems to be the closest metro stop and the least complicated journey from Pyramides. Change at Madeleine. Then five stops.
Once she’s on the next train, the gnawing frustration recedes and the buzz begins to take over once more. She’s going to make Fournier regret what has been done to Claude, regret the words “how you behaved
yourself.” She will allow Guillaume to record her testimony and, once safely out of Paris, she’ll make sure Fournier finds out about it. His fear of this story becoming public would definitely mess with his head, undermine his campaign. And even if he still wins the election, this time bomb would keep ticking. It pleases her immensely to think of President Fournier living under the threat that some nobody, some clown-faced indie filmmaker, has a smoking gun and he will be in deep shit whenever Guillaume’s finished movie hits the public. Sweet. So sweet. No more than his arrogance deserves. And his cruelty. She takes out the note again: in the hospital. Is Claude’s life in danger? Guillaume will surely have more news of him. She cannot help feeling guilty. There is no escaping that the beating must be linked to the incident with her outside the hotel last night.
It’s a long walk at Madeleine from line 14 to line 8. It briefly occurs to her that, had her trip to Paris gone as planned—what a bizarre notion that seems now—she would be spending the afternoon directly above, at street level, moseying around Fauchon and Hédiard, buying last-minute sweet treats before booking a cab to the airport. Instead she is creeping anonymously among these crowds through the series of identical white-tiled passageways, driven and focused. More than anything she’s buzzed at having outmaneuvered Vallette: relieved too. The more she thinks about him the scarier he becomes. That calm-voiced murder threat may have been the nadir, but it reminds her of just how sinister everything about his behavior had been from the moment she had squinted at his distorted face through the fish-eye peephole of her hotel room. If only she had viewed him with suspicion back then. Was it he and the other guy who had beaten Claude? She could easily believe it.
At Opéra, a young Eastern European woman steps onto the train wheeling a karaoke machine. The backing track begins, too loud. Microphone in hand, the poor thing counts herself in and sings a ballad-type number that is so truly awful Lana guesses it has to be from the French hit parade. On the New York subway people would already be shouting abuse at her. On the London tube someone would have inquired rather stuffily if she was aware that this activity was not just illegal but socially unacceptable and so should desist. But on the Paris metro everyone just looks elsewhere and pretends it isn’t happening.
What She Saw Page 18