Going Topless

by Megan McAndrew

  “That’s beside the point,” I say. “The fact is, if we don’t hand the goods over pretty soon, we’re going to get to know Lupa Romesco a lot better—or the goons she hires to break our kneecaps.”

  “But surely you’re not planning to give in to her?” Marge now says with an expression of total outrage.

  “Got any better ideas?”

  “I certainly do! I say we hand them all over to the police and use the money to do some good.”

  Jane and I stare at her, perplexed.

  “Of course, we can’t possibly return it to its rightful owners,” Marge continues, “but we can certainly put it to use indirectly for their benefit.”

  “Through this nonprofit organization you’re starting, for instance,” I suggest.

  “Well,” Marge allows, “that would be one way.”

  “She’s out of her mind,” I observe to Jane.

  “I am not. The only way to deal with this mess is to assume responsibility. That money could purchase vaccines, or AIDS drugs, for entire towns and villages. I think it’s entirely appropriate.”

  “Except that we’ll get killed,” I point out. “How are you planning to get all these people arrested? We don’t have any proof.”

  “We have Isabelle’s testimony.”

  “Right, she’s going to incriminate herself.”

  “She will if you threaten her,” Marge says placidly.

  “I’m not entirely comfortable with this,” I say.

  “Hullo!” Lucy cries, bursting in with her arms full of wildflowers. “Why does everyone look so grim?”

  “You’d better sit down,” Jane says.

  “In a sec, I have to find a vase…. Yves picked these—aren’t they lovely?”

  “Great, the discreet fucking charm of the bourgeoisie….”

  “Please stop swearing, Marge, it’s so unnecessary.”

  “Would somebody please tell her?” Marge says, rising heavily from her chair. “I don’t think I can take much more of this.”

  “You tell her, Jane,” I say, getting up myself. “I’m going to look for Isabelle.”

  “I hope it’s not bad news,” Lucy says, arranging her flowers. “We’ve had quite enough of that lately.”

  It’s not until I step outside that I see the woman walking toward Philippe’s house, though I remember at that moment that I heard a car door slamming. She has the chic Parisian gauntness you get from eating small portions and smoking, dark hair cut briskly to her collarbone. She looks exactly as I’d imagined.

  “Bonjour,” she calls out.

  “Hi,” I say in English, because it seems like my only defense.

  Philippe appears in the doorway. He kisses her cheek. I think he makes a little shrug in my direction, as if to apologize, but maybe not. You can tell from the way they touch that they never hated each other.

  “This is Constance,” he says, “our American neighbor.”

  She extends her hand. Her skin is dry and pleasant and smells faintly of eucalyptus. “You have the better house,” she remarks, taking off her sunglasses to reveal gold-flecked green eyes.

  “We’ve been here longer,” I say.

  She smiles in that perfunctory French way, then glances a bit impatiently at Philippe. “Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  He stoops to lift her bag. Only when she’s inside does he glance back, but I look right through him.

  “Isn’t she a bit old for you?” I hear her say through the open window.

  CHAPTER forty-two

  Isabelle found Yolande at home, giving herself a manicure and looking for all the world as if nothing had happened. She came back with her willingly enough, but it’s clear from the set of her frosted pink lips that she’s not going to cooperate.

  “You are foolish girls,” she says contemptuously. “And you, Odette …” She doesn’t bother finishing her sentence, though I’m sure we all get the idea: At least Yolande was a partner in crime; what kind of woman lets her husband keep her in the dark?

  “Leave her out of it,” Jim says, putting his arm around her and setting his eyes into a steely glare. Odette looks almost pathetically grateful.

  “The stones are on their way to Antwerp.” Yolande says. “You will have to deal with the countess—I suggest you pay her what she is owed; it is not wise to anger these people.”

  “What exactly do you suggest we pay her with?” I ask, just for the record.

  “Ah ça … it was your father who handled the money. Undoubtedly he has left instructions.”

  “We’ll have the lot of you arrested, is what we’ll do,” Lucy says.

  “This would not be a good idea. The rules are different here, as you know,” Yolande says mildly.

  “Are you threatening us?” Lucy cries. My eyes fall on Yves’ flowers, which she’s arranged in a vaguely bridal-looking bouquet on the mantelpiece, the petals already beginning to drift down onto the stained marble. It’s funny how it suddenly hits you that two people are perfect for each other. Yves, as if fortified by his newfound status, rises from the sofa and announces, “Madame, we are not going to take this lying down.”

  “It’s not about the money,” Lucy says. “We couldn’t bear to take it, knowing where it comes from, but I don’t see why that dreadful woman should have it, either.”

  “If you do not give it to her, she will take it. I remind you that she has already blown up my property….”

  “That’s the part I don’t get,” I say.

  “They thought I had the diamonds. They had already searched your house. I am trying to make you understand that these people will stop at nothing.”

  “I can see now why you were trying so hard to suck up to her,” Isabelle says sourly.

  “You are hardly in an irreproachable position yourself,” Yolande retorts.

  “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” I cut in. “If the countess wanted to lie low, why did she have a cocktail party?”

  “To get you out of the house,” Yolande says, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

  “You mean they searched it again?” I suddenly remember the open window.

  Yolande shrugs. “If your father had not made such a mess of things, none of this would have happened. It is really all most unfortunate, and with young children involved, too….”

  Odette’s hand flies to her mouth. “The girls! Where are they?”

  “Aren’t they with Jiri?” Isabelle says, a bit hesitantly.

  “I don’t think so,” Marge says. “He went in to Flore.”

  We all gape at each other, until Lucy breaks the spell by rushing out of the room and charging upstairs two steps at a time; the rest of us run outside. There is no sign of the girls either in front or in back of the house. A sick feeling grips the pit of my stomach.

  “I found Electra!” Lucy shouts from the third-floor window, her voice hysterical with relief. “Do you have Olga and Sophie?”

  “The water!” Isabelle cries. “Maybe they went down to the cove!” We rush down the path, Jim and Odette in the lead. We’re all panting by the time we emerge above Yolande’s cabin, the top of which, I notice, has been boarded up. There’s no one around except a couple of Parisian girls sunning themselves on the rocks, their breasts splayed like fried eggs on their thin chests. They sit up with a start when Isabelle bears down on them. No, they haven’t seen any little girls.

  “What were they wearing?” the older one asks. Isabelle hesitates, but her reddening face betrays her: She has no idea. She lets out a wail.

  “Now, now,” Odette murmurs, only to be shoved away. I think at first that Isabelle is going to hit her. Instead she crumples to the ground like a rag doll.

  “I’m going to the police,” Jim says. “Constance, come with me; you can translate.”

  We sprint back up the path, leaving Odette to deal with Isabelle. A torpid midday hush has descended on the maquis. It’s turned dry as tinder over the past month, as the sun beat inexorably down and the
little springs that seep out of the rocks earlier in the season shrank to a trickle and then dried up. I suddenly realize it’s almost August.

  “You don’t have to tell me the whole story,” Jim says as we pause to catch our breath halfway up. “I’ve figured out some of it, but you know, maybe I can help.”

  “There’s nothing you can do,” I say. “There’s some money in an account in Zurich. As soon as we’ve found the girls, we’re going to get it. I don’t care who we hand it over to, as long as it’s out of our hands.”

  “Do you really think that’s going to be the end of it?” Jim says.

  As our luck would have it, the gendarmerie and the mayor’s office next door are both deserted for the lunch hour. A fried-fish smell wafts over from the Marmite, where a busload of day-trippers has just been disgorged onto the terrace. We’re seeing more and more of them—people on package tours in the South up to view the rugged charms of the cap: Maybe all this skullduggery has been good for tourism. Albertine comes bustling out, sharply dressed in a tight skirt and blouse and looking rather more chipper than usual. The reason why instantly becomes clear: Richard, seated at a table off to the side with a Pernod and a little dish of peanuts before him.

  “Looks like someone’s come back for more,” I observe to Jim.

  “Jesus,” Jim says.

  “I’ve never seen anyone get peanuts at the Marmite.”

  Albertine is momentarily disconcerted when she sees us, but quickly regains her composure. She’s really quite attractive, in the broody, vaguely menacing way of Santerran women—or at least Richard seems to think so, something I bet Eddie hadn’t planned on. His brow corrugates as we come closer.

  “I don’t want to hear any sermons,” he says. “As you are perfectly well aware, my wife has deserted me.”

  “Eddie’s made off with the kids,” I say, adding hastily, “not yours: Olga and Sophie.”

  “Why should I care?” Richard says.

  “You really are a jerk, aren’t you?” Jim says.

  “Not at all. They’re wretched brats, just like their mother. I very much doubt they’ve been abducted, though, at least not by Eddie. He’s in the bar with that half-witted sidekick of his; been there all morning, right, sweetheart?”

  Albertine nods in agreement. She won’t look at us, but then, I guess we did catch her in an awkward situation the other night.

  “The countess!” I say.

  Albertine shrugs. “Elle est partie.”

  “What?” Jim says.

  “She’s gone,” I translate. “Are you sure?”

  “Go ask Eddie; he’s all bent out of shape about it for some reason,” Richard says. “Seems she made off like a bandit in the middle of the night. Amazing what goes on in this village after dark … ,” he adds sarcastically.

  A volley of imprecations erupts from the tourist table, from under which a scrofulous mutt has just shot out. The dog skids past us, a hunk of charcuterie maison clamped in its jaws.

  “Pilou!” a shrill little voice squawks. Sophie comes tearing around the corner, followed by a gleeful and disheveled Olga shouting, “Come here, you dumb dog!”

  “See?” Richard says. “Safe and sound, and as odious as ever….” Albertine’s expression leaves no doubt as to her opinion of ill-mannered children whose parents can’t even keep track of them.

  “Hey, girls,” Jim calls after them. Sophie turns reluctantly around.

  “What?”

  “Where were you? Everyone was looking for you.”

  She glares sullenly at us. I guess she figures if she tells, it’ll be another fun thing they won’t get to do anymore.

  “You can’t just disappear like that, you know,” I say lamely, just as Jojo comes ambling round the bend, his hands stuck in his pockets and a beret perched jauntily on his head, giving him the appearance of a demented boulevardier. Now I remember the dog.

  “Bon appétit!” he calls to the tourists, before strolling over to us. I’ll say this for the guy: He’s got unfailingly good manners.

  “Ah, my American friend,” he exclaims happily. “Is this your fiancé?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Yes, he is,” Sophie squeals.

  “What do you know about anything?” I snap.

  “More than you think.” She sticks her tongue out at me. Richard has a point: It’s hard to imagine why anyone would want to abduct these brats.

  “Lovely girls,” Jojo says, ruffling Olga’s hair. “They came to visit me.”

  “He gave us a dog,” Olga pipes in.

  “It gets lonely on top of the mountain,” Jojo says wistfully.

  “Why didn’t you take Agnes with you?” I ask Sophie.

  “She’s afraid of dogs. And she doesn’t like Jojo; she thinks he smells bad.”

  “Sshhh!”

  “He doesn’t understand English,” Sophie says.

  “Well, then,” Richard says, “now that we’ve sorted that out, would anyone care for a drink?” Jojo brightens right up. Before he can pull up a chair, though, Eddie emerges from the bar, followed by a doleful Toto—who, one can’t help but notice, is sporting a magnificent black eye. Albertine inches closer to Richard.

  “Going to open your shop, are you?” Richard calls out with a smirk. Eddie shoots him a sour look.

  “You should stay away from him, you know,” Jojo says. “He’s a bad sort.”

  “All right,” Richard says, “what’s everyone having? It’s on me.”

  “A little whisky, perhaps,” Jojo says, leaning back in his plastic chair. “Ah, this is what I call the good life: sitting at the café terrace with friends….” His eyes start to well up. Blinking back tears, he fishes around in his pocket.

  “Here,” Richard says sympathetically, “have a napkin.”

  Jojo takes it and dabs at his eyes. “Thank you, my friend—it’s the solitude: You know what it does to a man….”

  “Yes, I do,” Richard says. Albertine smiles at him in a maternal way.

  “We should go back and tell Isabelle the kids are safe,” Jim says, his voice suddenly drowned out by the roar of an engine as a red Škoda comes tearing up the road and screeches to a halt before us. Jiri leaps out, followed by a still-sobbing Isabelle.

  “Where are my girls?” he roars.

  “Calm down,” I say. “They’re fine—they’re playing in the back.”

  Isabelle moans with relief and dashes to the courtyard. “Are you hurt? Did anyone touch you?” we hear her babbling under the irritated yips of the dog.

  “Would someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?” Jiri demands.

  “I’d be glad to,” Richard says, “but, as I suspect is the case with most of us around this table, I have only a partial picture. Perhaps your wife could enlighten us.”

  A big beribboned package in the back of the car catches my eye. “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Her birthday present,” Jiri says glumly. “She turns forty today.”

  “Well,” Richard exclaims, “I’d say this calls for champagne!”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Jim says.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  Albertine returns with the drinks. I guess she’s not giving up her day job just yet. “I’m staying right here,” Richard says, swatting her rear end as she passes—a gesture she finds so inexplicably delightful that she bursts into giggles, causing the glasses and bottles to rattle on the metal tray.

  CHAPTER forty-three

  The countess is indeed gone, as Yolande hastens over the next morning to inform us, interrupting our breakfast and provoking Isabelle to mutter under her breath that some people have a lot of nerve. Yolande is obviously trying to put a good face on things, but the state of her makeup betrays her, as does the fact that she’s seeking solace in our company—a plan that is swiftly derailed when it becomes apparent that there’s a hitch.

  “You mean she just took off—like that?” Marge says.

  “Well …” Yolande demurs.

&nbs
p; Isabelle jumps. “She took the diamonds, didn’t she? You never sent them to Antwerp—you had them all along!”

  “I think we’ve had quite enough obfuscation, Yolande,” Jane says firmly. “Why don’t you just tell us what happened?”

  Yolande girlishly lowers her eyes. I’ll bet that used to work for her once upon a time, but all it nets her now is a chilly silence. With a sigh, she raises them again and adopts a businesslike tone. “Eh bien, yes, I kept them, though I fully intended to send them on. This is now immaterial, however, as I no longer have them. My house was broken into yesterday.”

  “Oh, right,” Isabelle says scornfully. “We’re going to believe that.”

  “I don’t think you have much choice. As I told your father many times, this is what happens when you deal with this class of person: I suspect Madame Romesco wanted to cut her losses—I understand the mayor told her that it would be better if she left Borgolano—and she must have known that the diamonds were worth more than whatever she was owed.”

  “You mean the two million dollars?” Jane says.

  “That is what Mr. Woland in Antwerp paid for the diamonds. I do not know exactly how much was to go to Madame Romesco. As I have said to you, your father handled the money. The point is that she was never paid for the last shipment. Nor were the intermediaries … ,” she adds delicately.

  “Such as yourself.”

  “I really don’t think—”

  “Well, that’s what you were, isn’t it?” Isabelle says.

  “Let us say,” Yolande replies with an air of aggrieved dignity, “that that is what I was reduced to.”

  “But what about the manor?” Lucy asks. We all turn to her, perplexed.

  She flushes. “I mean, just out of curiosity, what will happen to the countess’s house?”

  “I expect she will sell it.” Lucy’s eyes light up at this. “Though frankly,” Yolande continues, “I am not sure she even bought it properly in the first place. I really know very little: Since the death of my husband, I am not as privy to information as I once was.”

  “Well,” Marge says, “good riddance, either way.”

  “It doesn’t really solve anything,” Jane points out.