“They haven’t heard anything from her. She hasn’t gone back to Yalta”—Zoya and Natasha’s hometown—“or Sebastopol, where she worked before she came to Paris. Do you think that little bitch Céline found out about your affaire and threatened her somehow?”
“I don’t think so. We were discreet, just as I was discreet with Céline.”
“Mmmm…you were discreet. I see that this mysterious lady has put an end to your obsession with that witch.”
“You’re excellent. Nothing escapes you.”
“That’s why you all love me at Mercure. And why you pay me so well.”
“On that subject, here’s your payment.” He took an envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket and put it on the dresser. “Au revoir, Zoya.”
As he left the building on Faubourg Saint-Honoré, Al-Saud didn’t notice Claude Masséna coming around the corner from Rue Monceau.
In the house his brother Ezequiel shared with his partner, Jean-Paul Trégart, Roy Blahetter was reminded of the good life he had enjoyed until he married Matilde, when his grandfather had cut him off financially and thrown him out of the metallurgical factory. In this sumptuous apartment on Avenue Charles Floquet in the Septième Arrondissement in Paris, they treated him like a king: brought him breakfast in bed, gave him a robe and slippers, drew him a bubble bath, heated up his towels, changed his sheets every other day, washed and ironed his clothes and made lunches and dinners worthy of a graduate from Le Cordon Bleu—in fact, Ezequiel had told him that the chef taught at the academy. The domestic staff was at his sole beck and call—Ezequiel and Jean-Paul were traveling and they were keen to impress and assist him.
Roy was convinced that he was best suited to the life of a wealthy man and never wanted to experience the cold grip of poverty again. He would become a rich and powerful scientist, fought over by the best universities, admired and garlanded across the world. And Matilde would be his queen, beaming next to him. He would build her a clinic so she could dedicate her life to the charitable works she dreamed of without needing to go to such inhospitable places as Africa.
He moved away from the window that looked out over Avenue Charles Floquet and returned to the drawing board that Ezequiel’s friend, a fashion designer, had lent him for his work. He worked in the old-fashioned manner, without resorting to computers or any other technological crutches other than his Hewlett-Packard HP 12c and his brain. He had used the money his father-in-law, Aldo Martínez, had lent him for his flight to Paris, but had also bought materials to draw up his plans and make the calculations—removable adhesive tape, film paper, a box of Rotring pens and markers, erasers, pencils, rulers, right angles, compasses and protractors—and anything else he needed to finalize his project. He urged himself to finish it. The man with whom he had been in contact a few weeks ago by e-mail and who was traveling to Paris to evaluate his work seemed very interested in financing the construction of the prototype.
He heard the ringing of the phone echoing throughout the empty apartment. A few seconds later, Suzanne, one of the housekeepers, knocked on the door and handed him the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Roy? It’s me, son. Aldo.”
“Aldo! I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for days. Where are you?”
“In Johannesburg, closing a deal. How are you?”
“Good, working. Mr. Jürkens wrote to me this morning. He’s planning to visit Paris in a few weeks and hopes to see a sketch of the centrifuge.”
“Be careful, Roy.”
“Don’t worry, Aldo. I was screwed once before. It won’t happen a second time.”
“Who is this Jürkens? Where did he come from?”
“He read one of my articles in the MIT journal and contacted me at the e-mail address next to my name. He’s a German nuclear physicist. He’s very knowledgeable. I can tell from the questions he asks me. We’ve even spoken over the phone.”
He didn’t mention the odd thing about Jürkens, the robotic sound of his voice, which had given him a start the first time they had spoken. The man had explained that he had had a cancer of the vocal cords that had left him mute. A new German invention installed in his throat had restored his speech, allowing him to communicate with his fellow man even if the sound was inhuman.
“I can’t get to Paris for a few weeks,” Aldo said. “I’d like you to wait for me before you meet this Jürkens. It would be better if I could discuss the terms of the contract with him.”
“I have no problem with you discussing the terms of the contract with him, but if Jürkens wants to meet to see some of my work, you don’t need to be there.”
“I urge you Roy: be careful. Do you know anything about this man?”
“It says on the Internet that he’s a scientist, a professor at the University of Hamburg. In this centrifuge business, Jürkens is acting on behalf of a German company that manufactures nuclear reactors. He’s their adviser.”
Aldo didn’t say anything. It was already clear to him that the story didn’t add up.
“Aldo, please.” Blahetter grew impatient. “I’ve already told you that I won’t get screwed over twice. I’ll take precautions. Do you think I’m going to show him all my work? Not a chance! If he wants to see it all, he’ll have to pay me first and sign a contract promising to finance the construction of the prototype.”
“Fine, I’ll trust your judgment. Changing the subject, have you seen my darling girl?”
“Not yet. I’m dying to see her, but now isn’t the time. I want to come back to her in triumph, not like this, poor and miserable. First I want to finish designing the centrifuge. Did you find out about that painting for me? Did you speak to Enriqueta?”
“My sister’s dealer was able to find it.”
“Great!”
“And here’s the good news: a gallery in Paris has it.”
“Perfect! My luck is starting to change.”
“Write this down. The gallery is called Chez Valentin and it’s on nine Rue Saint-Gilles. Enriqueta’s dealer has already put down a deposit to reserve it. The price of the painting is sixty thousand dollars.” Aldo heard Blahetter whistle. “And don’t be so shocked. According to Enriqueta’s dealer, they got it for an excellent price. I just sent the money to Ezequiel’s account. It should be available in two days.”
“Thank you, Aldo. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.” Blahetter’s voice sounded nasal. “Nobody has ever done so much for me. You paid for my flight to Paris to get Matilde back, you gave me the cash to finish my project and now you’re returning the painting she loves so much. Thank you. I have no words.”
“I just want you to make my daughter happy.”
“That’s all I want to do.”
* * *
* * *
CHAPTER 9
* * *
* * *
That week he settled naturally, quietly and smoothly into a routine, just as Matilde had naturally, quietly and smoothly taken him over. Although by nature he disliked repetition, habits and rules, and although in his profession no one day was ever the same as the next, Al-Saud had never been so happy. He woke up in the morning thinking of her. He knew that Matilde liked to get up early, around seven, and he imagined her in a robe, making breakfast, gazing out at the people strolling along Rue Toullier, thinking about how she could make the world a better place. Matilde, just by being in the world you make it a better place.
He would have breakfast with Leila—sometimes accompanied by her siblings, Diana and Sándor—and leaf through the newspapers, but eventually, halfway through an article, he would realize that he hadn’t absorbed a word. Matilde. Matilde. Around eight o’ clock, as he did his exercises in the gym or laps in the pool, he planned his dates with her. The only moment when he was able to forget her was when he was practicing hand-to-hand combat with Diana or Sándor and had no choice but to concentrate to avoid ending up humiliated on the tatami with a knee in the chest or whacked in the ribs by the tonfa.
A
s it started to approach midday, he started to check the time every five minutes. This restlessness, just as infrequent as his appreciation for routine, put him in a bad mood, because the cold, calculating part of him was rebelling against the fire for Matilde that consumed him. His spirit was infuriated by the web she was weaving around him. He felt trapped inside a paradox, because although his possessive impulse drove him to appropriate her, Matilde sometimes seemed unattainable, indifferent, distant, ethereal, while he twisted himself up into a tangle of feelings and frustrations. Sometimes he worried that he would break her with his violent energy. Hadn’t Juana warned him that Matilde was made of glass? And his Matilde, that fragile, thin, slight and soft creature, was planning to venture into a Congolese hellhole. He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from shouting, “You’re not going, Matilde! I won’t allow you to put yourself at that kind of risk!” He didn’t say anything, because he detected an iron streak beneath her angelic appearance.
His fears and suspicions disappeared when he heard her arrive at noon.
“Bonjour, Thérèse! Bonjour, Victoire! Ça va?”
“Ça va bien, Matilde.”
She had won the sympathies of his secretaries and partners, who went out to greet her as soon as they heard her arrive at the reception. But who wouldn’t love her at first sight, who wouldn’t fall under her spell simply by looking at her? Hadn’t it happened to him that day at the airport in Buenos Aires, when Matilde’s hair brushed the floor and caught his eye? That day seemed long ago, even though only a few weeks had passed.
He emerged from his office and when he saw her in her ivory coat with her rustic bag over her shoulder, sometimes with her hair in braids, everything fell into place. He hugged and kissed her, conscious that he was being driven by primitive instincts, a male marking his mate and his territory, and always came up with excuses not to eat lunch in the George V; he wanted her all to himself. Around two o’clock he took her to the institute—except on Thursdays, when Medes took her because he had an obligation—and went to pick her up at six thirty. Juana always came back with them and filled the air with her jokes and wisecracks. They would buy groceries, which Al-Saud never let them pay for, on their way home to the apartment on Rue Toullier, where Matilde made dinner while the three of them chatted.
On Friday afternoon, Al-Saud asked his secretary to make a reservation at Maison Berthillon, the ice-cream parlor and teahouse on Île Saint-Louis, which Parisians regarded as the best place in the city to get glaces et sorbets. He took them there for a snack after they left the institute. They were enjoying themselves, tasting each delicacy that Al-Saud ordered. Matilde was laughing at an anecdote from Eliah’s childhood when she remembered that she had to take her medication. She excused herself and went to the bathroom. Juana watched Al-Saud watch Matilde and stare daggers at her admirers in the café. She stretched in her seat and looked sharply at him, as though sizing him up.
“Mat has never been as happy as she is right now. And it’s all because of you, stud, so thank you, from the bottom of my heart.” He remained silent with a serious expression on his face. “Mat’s life hasn’t been easy, and in twenty-two years this is the first time that I’ve seen her so relaxed and outgoing.”
“You’re the second person to tell me that Matilde’s life was difficult. What happened to her?”
“She’s suffered everything under the sun. Our gentle little Mat had to put up with it all on her own, because with the family that was given to her, she got no help from anyone. I expect she’ll tell you about it later on, if you earn her trust, which isn’t easy. For now you should just be happy that she’s noticed you. Even I’m amazed. You may be yummier than dulce de leche, but that doesn’t matter to Mat, just as she wasn’t impressed by your Rolex, your Aston Martin or your designer clothes. You should’ve seen all the doctors at the Garrahan, the hospital where we used to work, who followed her around drooling. She acts as though she has no idea what’s going on. There was one…” She gave a small, melancholy laugh. “Poor Osvaldo…he’s quite cute and the nurses were crazy for him. But he only had eyes for Mat. If she had asked him to be a rug for her to walk on, he would have done it.” Juana squinted her eyes at him, examining the man in front of her. “You’re jealous, aren’t you? Very jealous.”
“I didn’t know I was until now,” Al-Saud admitted. “The truth is I’m more used to provoking jealousy and being pursued than the other way around. I was always the object of suspicion, not the suspicious one.”
“Well, Mat’s as trustworthy as Christ himself. There’s no one more noble and faithful than her, I’m saying this to you as someone who has known her since she was five years old.” Juana put her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. “Tell me something, stud. The women that you make jealous, do they have good reason to be suspicious?”
Matilde came back to the table and saved Al-Saud from his inquisition. He noticed a brooch on her black wool sweater that he hadn’t seen before. He held it between his fingers.
“C’est la Médaille Miraculeuse,” he said, without thinking. “The Miraculous Medal,” he translated.
Matilde smiled because she loved to hear him speak French. That afternoon she found it especially attractive. She realized that Al-Saud had gone home to change, because he wasn’t wearing the same suit as he had at midday but a light-blue shirt by Roberto Cavalli and dark-blue jeans that showed off his long, thin horseman’s legs. He was wearing olive-green shoes and a short brown leather jacket. His beard darkened his face, and his hairstyle, gelled and combed back, showed off his forehead, giving his features a different look. She was so captivated by his beauty that she didn’t realize that she was just breathlessly staring. Since Eliah’s return, she had stopped regretting allowing Ezequiel to buy her clothes at Galeries Lafayette. Eliah Al-Saud had thrown her life upside down so radically that things she hadn’t given a second thought to before had started to take on a new importance. She wanted to look pretty for him.
“Have you seen the Médaille Miraculeuse before? My grandfather’s wife gave it to me.”
“I know it well,” Al-Saud confirmed. “My mother and my grandmother Antonina wear it.” He didn’t mention that his mother’s and grandmother’s were made of gold; Matilde’s wasn’t even silver but an alloy that had lost its shine and was peeling around the edges. He released the medallion and grabbed her hand.
“I love my Médaille Miraculeuse. I never go out without it. It makes me feel protected.”
“Are you very Catholic?”
“Not at all. My Médaille Miraculeuse has nothing to do with religion, just my empathy for Mary, Jesus’ mother.”
“Our relationship with the Catholic Church,” Juana interrupted, “ended one Wednesday night in ’88. Do you remember, dear Mat?” Matilde smiled and nodded. “I’ll tell you, stud, when Mat and I were teenagers, we were part of a parochial group. The little group,” she said in a derogatory tone, “was run by the church that administered to Córdoban high society. Mat belonged to that high society; I didn’t.”
“My grandmother Celia made me go. Otherwise I wouldn’t have attended.”
“So the group organized a camping trip during the winter break, in Catamarca, a province in Argentina. Mat and I went there. We suffered from hunger, cold and boredom. The only good part was when I met Mateo, a divine boy who was just as uncomfortable in the countryside as we were. We fell in love. But the thing is, it was forbidden to return to Córdoba as the girlfriend of someone you had met at the camp in Catamarca.”
“What do you mean, forbidden?”
“They didn’t want people thinking that Capuchin religious camps were really an orgy. You had to wait a few months to announce that you were going out with someone you had gone to camp with. Mateo and I didn’t give a damn about the prohibition and we got together as soon we got back to Córdoba. At the first group meeting after camp, a Wednesday night, before reading the liturgy or giving the sermon, the president announced over the loudspeakers, in
front of four hundred people, that Mateo and I were expelled for having broken the rule. They asked us to leave the room and never return. We got up and left hand in hand. Your dear Mat, in the middle of a deathly silence and with everyone staring at her, stood up and followed us out.” Juana took her by the cheeks. “You’ve got balls, babe!”
Al-Saud brought Matilde’s hand to his mouth and kissed it. The iron streak he had suspected certainly did exist. He had the feeling that while she seemed soft and gentle, she would defend whatever she loved and believed in ferociously.
“Mat’s grandmother went crazy when a friend told her what had happened. She punished her for months. She tried to make her go back to the group, but Mat can be very stubborn when she wants to be. And she didn’t go back.”
“Do you practice any religion, Eliah?”
“No, none, although I was educated in Islam. My father is Saudi Arabian and he wanted us to learn everything about his religion. An imam came to the house twice a week and taught us suras from the Koran and the main precepts of the religion.” He didn’t tell them that, unlike other Muslim boys, he and his brothers hadn’t been circumcised, because Francesca had opposed it. “The only good thing about those classes with the imam is that my brothers and I learned how to write in Arabic.”
“Do you speak Arabic, stud?”
“It was my mother tongue, along with Spanish and French.”
“I don’t know anything about Islam,” said Matilde. “I’d love to find out more.”
Al-Saud couldn’t take his eyes off Matilde’s, which looked almost opaque in the dim light of the Berthillon, like mercury. A movement from a figure a few tables away, near the main door, caught his attention. The Dutch journalist, Lars Meijer, had followed him in a taxi from the George V and was now pretending to read Le Figaro. You had to give the man credit for his perseverance.
A little later, as they stood up to leave, Al-Saud guided Matilde between the tables with a hand on the small of her back. Before reaching the exit, he stopped next to the Dutch journalist’s table; Juana and Matilde stopped as well.
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