Pinot Noir

by Lorraine Evanoff

  “That’s very generous,” George said. “But…”

  “Before you say anything, I inherited quite a collection, and I’d love for you to have these.”

  “We were very sorry to hear of your father’s passing,” Mary said.

  “He lived a long and fulfilling life. My mom doesn’t really drink so she gave his whole collection to me.”

  “Well, cheers to your dad.” George started to put the bottle away.

  “But maybe we can crack that open a little later?” Michael proposed.

  “No better time than the present.” George took out two rock glasses and broke the seal.

  Louise noticed Mary staring at the bottle of burgundy. “Mom, are you okay?”

  Mary jolted. “Oh, yes. This just brings back memories.”

  “What memories?” George asked.

  “Oh, nothing really. I’m not sure exactly, but this label seems so familiar to me.”

  “Do tell,” Louise insisted.

  Mary realized she had gotten lost in a memory that she couldn’t share in this setting. She recovered. “Probably something I saw on the Rick Steve’s show.” Mary set the bottle down and resumed working in the kitchen.

  Michael handed a Christmas card to Louise. “Here’s something for you to open later.”

  “I don’t have anything for you,” Louise joked, knowing it was her plane ticket to Paris.

  “Your being here is the best gift.” Michael raised his glass of scotch. “Here’s to Louise coming home.” George and Michael clinked their glasses and sipped.

  “Shall we?” George said to Michael.

  “After you,” Michael replied, and they disappeared into George’s office.

  “There they go,” Mary said. “Leaving the women to toil in the kitchen without offering us anything to drink.”

  “Well, let’s take matters into our own hands, shall we?” Louise picked up the burgundy, but Mary stopped her.

  “Let’s finish off the champagne and save this for a special occasion.” Mary took the burgundy and placed it in the wine rack below the stairs.

  “Since when are you such a wine connoisseuse?” Louise asked. “This is a side of you I’ve never seen.”

  “It was before your father and I met.” Mary raised a finger to her lips shushing her.

  “Enough said,” Louise replied. “But I’m very intrigued.”

  Mary took the champagne out of the fridge and handed it to Louise. “Pour, please.”

  “I’ll ply you with champagne until you talk.” Louise refilled their glasses and they clinked. “Tchin-tchin.” Louise noticed that Mary suddenly lacked the usual sparkle in her eyes. She was almost unrecognizable. “What is it, Mom?”

  “It wasn’t a lost love or anything like that.” Mary took a sip and closed her eyes, disturbed by the intensity of her memories and where they were flowing.

  Louise noticed and steered the conversation. “Okay, never mind, Merry Christmas,” Louise said, trying to bring back her smile. “Now that I have returned to civilization, I can come back to visit you any time.”

  Mary looked Louise squarely in the eyes. “I’ve been with your father long enough to know when not to ask questions. But, if you ever need anything, please know you can always come to me or your father.”

  “Thanks, Mom. But everything is fine.” Louise shivered from a slight temperature drop and went to the living room to put another log on the fire. She noticed gifts under the Christmas tree. “What are all these presents for me doing here?”

  “Those are for each year you didn’t come home. I have been putting them out every Christmas, so this year you hit the jackpot.”

  “I still have my stuffed pig,” Louise said.

  “What a soft, sweet piggy that was,” Mary said.

  “I’ve taken it with me everywhere,” Louise said. “But I didn’t bring Squeaky this time.”

  “There might be a few things you’ll want to take with you under the tree as well. As you can see, everything is small.”

  Michael and George emerged from the office.

  “That smells wonderful,” Michael said.

  “You have a standing invitation to Christmas dinner, Michael, so you don’t need to hint.” Mary said.

  He rolled up his sleeves. “Well then, how can I help?”

  Mary took out a respectable pinot noir from the wine rack and handed it to Michael. “Open, please.”

  Michael pulled the cork while Louise set out four large wineglasses. Michael splashed half an ounce into one of the glasses, Louise swirled it, stuck her nose in, and inhaled deeply. She sipped, chewed, and aerated by sucking her lips into a slightly open pucker.

  “It’s fine,” Louise said.

  Every year, the Moscows hosted a Christmas Eve dinner with a traditional gathering of friends, work colleagues and any “Christmas orphans” they came across. As Michael filled the glasses, the first guests rang the doorbell and they continued the festivities. After dinner was served, and Louise had entertained the table with island stories – careful to give it a different contextual spin – everyone gathered around the tree to watch Louise open six years of presents. The slightly tipsy crowd cheered each unwrapping, as she pulled out a Hermès scarf, fleece-lined gloves with matching fleece hat, and a travel corkscrew. After everything was unwrapped, George handed her a small box.

  “I’ve been saving this for you.”

  Louise stood up and opened it. Seeing the contents sent a shock to the back of her knees like when she was a child feeding a cow and rested a handful of grass on an electric fence. She stared at the same ancient Egyptian scarab her father had given her over ten years ago.9 The last time she had seen it was when she had entrusted it to Jean-Philippe. It had disappeared along with him.

  December 26, 2001

  The years had flown by, only for Louise to come full circle, once again on a flight to Paris, her scarab on the chain around her neck. How had her father gotten the scarab back? Where had Jean-Philippe been all these years? She had speculated many times. He must have taken on a new identity and gone deep undercover. She was sure there was some important and perilous mission that required a complete break from his past. She had never met a more courageous and compassionate man, but his air of mystery had also frustrated her. His was a chapter of her life that would continue to haunt her, the proverbial one that got away.

  “Something to drink before takeoff?” the flight attendant asked.

  “Champagne, please.” The flight attendant noted her request and moved to the next row.

  Louise closed her eyes and took a deep breath to start meditating, when a voice said, “Everything is connected.” She opened her eyes and there was no one in the aisle seat next to her. In the row behind her a man in the aisle seat was leaning forward checking the cable of his headset. He sat back, looked at the flight attendant, and pointed to his headset. “Nothing,” he said. The flight attendant gently pushed the button to increase the volume, and the man smiled, shaking his head in the affirmative.

  Louise closed her eyes and slipped into a meditative state, repeating her mantra, shiama. But the words, everything is connected, echoed in her mind.

  “Please fasten your seat belts.” The captain’s voice over the intercom broke her trance. She opened her eyes and looked at her watch. Thirty minutes had passed. “Flight attendants, prepare the cabin for takeoff.”

  A glass of champagne sat untouched on the small retractable tray that stuck out from her armrest. She sipped as the 5:30 p.m. flight took off, heading westward into the wind then turning back east toward Europe. In the wintery darkness she could sense the empty space where the Twin Towers used to be. The terror of seeing them toppling on television brought up old emotions. Especially the second tower, which in her mind she had anthropomorphized into it not wanting to exist alone, a projection of herself not wanting to exist alone without Jean-Philippe. But she had somehow managed to survive and was even stronger than ever.

  At seven in the mornin
g, she would arrive in Paris, on a new day in a familiar place that was full of old memories. It would be the starting point to retrace her footsteps, connect the dots, and perhaps find more meaning behind the “old haunts.”

  PART II

  SECRETS TRAVEL FAST IN PARIS

  T W E L V E

  December 27, 2001

  With only carry-on bags, a taxi ride from Charles de Gaulle Airport had Louise in Paris by 9:00 a.m. She had booked a room at her favorite Hôtel Le Littré. It was risky going back there, but she loved it and also wanted to test her new identity with any old personnel. The hotel was four-star with elegant traditional French décor. The neighborhood was five-star, right in the middle of the Latin Quarter, and rooms with direct views of the Eiffel Tower.

  “Bonjour, Madame.”

  “Bonjour.” Louise handed her passport and a credit card to the twenty-something front-desk clerk. “I have a reservation and was hoping to check in early,” she said, dusting off her French skills.

  “Let me look.”

  “Bonjour, Madame,” the hotel owner interrupted. “It will be my pleasure to check you in early.” He looked discretely at her passport and back at her more than once. Even after ten years, they remembered each other but neither let on. This man’s sense of discretion was on par with that of Louise’s father. His masked confusion about her identity only corroborated his aptitude for placing faces with names. He had had enough experience with celebrities, diplomats, and spies to know when to stroke a guest’s ego by showing recognition and when to just let the ambiguity lie.

  “Voila,” he said, handing her the passport, credit card, and room key. “Bon séjour, madame Baker.”

  “Merci. Could you send up a continental breakfast?”

  “Avec plaisir,” the owner said.

  Louise entered her room and put her bags down. Her one indulgence in life had always been traveling well. Paying extra for comfort was worth it if one could afford it. But she offset it by self-denial in other things. On the island she lived simply and did her part to preserve nature. The island was completely off the grid, a veritable biosphere, with cistern, compost, and renewable energy sources. Her cover as a French teacher warranted a simpler lifestyle and more inconspicuous appearance too. But the hotel staff didn’t know her new background story, so for now, her mysterious dark persona would serve her well.

  Someone knocked, and she opened the door to let room service bring in a cart of coffee, steamed milk, orange juice, freshly baked croissants, butter, and apricot preserves. He set up the breakfast and wheeled the cart out of the room.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, merci.” Louise tipped him and he left. She poured herself a café au lait and looked out the window at the Eiffel Tower. “Hello, old friend.”

  As soon as she sat down to eat, she received a call from Big Steve on her satellite phone. She could hear the heavy bass of the rap music in the background.

  “It sounds like a party at 3:00 a.m. over there.”

  “We havin’ a good time up in here.”

  “Don’t let anyone in my bungalow, okay?” Louise said.

  “Naw, they got a yacht! Just checkin’ on y’all.”

  “I’m in Paris, safe and sound. Take care of the Tiki bar. Je compte sur toi.”

  “You can always count on me, Lulu.”

  “Ciao bello.”

  It was just after 9:00 a.m. in Paris, but she felt the 3:00 a.m. grogginess. Still, the well-founded rule of thumb was to stay awake until local bedtime. She finished the coffee and went to shower off the layer of travel grunge. As the steady stream of water massaged her neck, the same mantra played in her mind. Everything is connected. Just turn up the volume. She did her hair and make-up, dressed in black and went out to explore Paris.

  The doorman offered to hail her a cab, but she waived him off. It was only a 15-minute walk through Luxembourg Gardens to her destination, and she had all day. She took the scenic route, turning right off Rue de Vaugirard onto Rue d’Assas, then left on Rue de Fleurus, which led to the western gate of Luxembourg Gardens. The decomposed granite path crunched under her boots. She passed a large population of statues installed throughout the 1800s, along with a newly constructed small-scale bronze replica of Bartholdi’s Statue of Liberty.

  The beautiful garden hidden behind the Latin Quarter had a special serenity about it. A large octagonal pond in front of Luxembourg Palace was the centerpiece of the gardens. Miniature boats floated across the Grand Basin, tiny reminders of turbulent times of yore. Children used batons to push the toy boats hoping the breeze would get them from one bank to the other. Louise wished she could play too but she walked on until she arrived at Millésimes Wine Bar in time for lunch.

  The dimly lit bar with smoke-stained walls used to be a second home to her. It now felt worlds apart from her Tiki bar, evoking a feeling of déjà vu seeing Max cooking on a hot plate, cigarette in his mouth, red wine close at hand. Louise inconspicuously took her usual seat as though nothing had changed since her last appearance. Max’s nonchalant double take turned into twinkling eyes of welcome. He poured another glass of Chinon and walked over to Louise’s table.

  “Lulu! Ça va?” Always a man of few words, Max placed the glasses down, kissed her cheeks, and sat across from her.

  “Ça va bien. Et toi?” They clinked glasses and drank.

  “Ça va bien. It has been a long time,” Max said in fluent English laced with a heavy Parisian dialect.

  “Oh, you’re speaking English now.”

  “Zee toureesme demands it. Plus, it can be secret language, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Oui, c’est pratique,” Louise agreed. Over the years, she had taught Big Steve to speak French, which was practical when they didn’t want customers to understand what they were saying.

  “So, Miss Lulu, eet eez nice to see you. But what happened to your hairs?”

  “Tu n’aimes pas?”

  “Yes, I like it. It suits you. But, why the déguisement?”

  “It’s not really a disguise, just a new identity.”

  “C’est la même chose, non?”

  “Yes, it’s the same thing, I guess. I’m working undercover. Je m’appelle Karen Baker.”

  “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Baker.”

  “I need your help finding Vladimir.”

  “Hélas, désolé, I haven’t seen Vladimir since the last time I saw you.”

  “Merde alors.”

  “But I did see Greg once or twice at one of the places where I sometimes go.”

  “Can you tell me where?”

  “It eez a very excluseeeve place. Très difficile to find and even more difficult to gain entry, called Silencio.”

  “Silencio,” Louise repeated.

  “Oui, private club owned by a famous movie director.”

  “Are you a member?”

  “No, but zee owner loves my work,” Max said with a wave of his hand indicating some of his artwork hanging on the walls. “So, he asks me to make special appearance sometimes.”

  “Can you take me there?”

  Max indicated the wine bar with a whirl of his cigarette. “I am zee only employee here. No one goes to Silencio until at least 11:00 p.m., and I am working or home asleep by zat time. But I will make a call for you to entrée.”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll manage,” Louise said. “If you had to make a guess, what night of the week would they be at Silencio?”

  “C’est tout bête,” Max said. “Saturday night.”

  Louise gazed at the art on the walls. “Bravo, Max. Your work is beautiful. But, don’t you worry about leaving it on the walls with the smoke from cooking and cigarettes?”

  “Ha! That is part of my processus! Zee smoke and dust discolor my works to zee perfect patina.”

  Louise smiled at his endless creativity. “These are newer,” she said, pointing to a few pieces that hung directly across from Max’s cooking area. “They look different.”

  Max pointed
upward. “A voice from le ciel.”

  “An angel speaking to you from heaven,” Louise said, referring to her close friend and Max’s wife, Diana, whom Louise believed was killed by BCCI’s Black Network.10 “Well, if you can part with any of your paintings, I’d love to buy one.”

  “I will give you one, en cadeau.”

  “That would be a wonderful gift. I’ll be back before I leave Paris.” Louise stood up to leave.

  Max stood up too. “D’accord, ma belle.” Max gave her two cheek kisses. “À très bientôt.”

  “Au revoir.” Louise headed back to the hotel.

  Having a whole day to kill before Saturday night when she would stake out Silencio, she approached the concierge desk.

  “Bonjour,” Louise said.

  “Bonjour, Madame. How may I help you?” The concierge was the quintessential French hospitality professional. He wore a well-tailored grey suit, pink Hermès tie, and a crisp blue Façonnable shirt. He was impeccably coiffed with short dusty brown hair just mussed up enough to give the impression that he would know the finest restaurants as well as the trendiest clubs.

  “Where is the library?” Louise smiled to herself for asking, Où est la bibliothèque? in Freshman year high school French.

  “What are you looking for?” He replied in French.

  “Periodicals, reference books. It’s research for my novel.”

  “There is an excellent library nearby. La Bibliothèque André Malraux on rue de Rennes, not far from here.”

  “Merci.”

  After a short walk, Louise entered the library and put on her reading glasses. At the entrance was a display about André Malraux. As France’s Ministère of Culture in 1945, Malraux launched the innovative program to clean the blackened façades of notable French buildings, revealing the natural stone underneath.

  Also interesting was that Malraux had been an outspoken supporter of the Bangladesh liberation movement during the 1971 Pakistani Civil War. Louise’s former boss and founder of BCCI, Agha Hasan Abedi, had been a survivor of that war, too, but on the losing side. Abedi ended up one of millions of Mohajirs forced to immigrate to the newly formed state of Pakistan.