A Tangled Web (55 page)

You won't have this house. You can't afford it.

She walked to the back door and looked through the glass at Marcel, cutting that day's flowers for Madame Besset to arrange.

Who owns this house?

For the first time in months she was engulfed in the emptiness of not knowing who she was or where she belonged. The fog closed in and panic rose inside her. I don't belong here. I don't belong anywhere.

“A few days, madame?” pressed Madame Besset. “It would help in my marketing if you could tell me—”

“I told you I don't know!” She took a breath. “I'm sorry, Madame Besset; I really don't know. I'll tell you as soon as I can.” She wanted to get away from Madame Besset's bright black eyes that saw so much and guessed
much more. “I'm going to ride up Mont Ventoux on my bicycle; would you make a sandwich and fill two water bottles for me?”

“Yes, madame. That is a formidable ride.”

“I know. I may drive the lower part of it.” She went back to the bedroom and swiftly dressed in skintight bicycle shorts, a loose short-sleeved shirt, and bicycle shoes. In a small waist pack she stowed her wallet and car keys, sunscreen and a lightweight jacket, and the sandwich and grapes Madame Besset had given her. She slipped the two water bottles into the sleeves on either side of the pack. “I'll be back by midafternoon,” she said to Madame Besset.

In the garage she strapped her bicycle to the rack on the back of the car, tossed her helmet and gloves into the front seat, and backed out of the driveway. A car was parked nearby with a man in the driver's seat wearing a black hat pulled low over his eyes. He seemed vaguely familiar and Stephanie nodded to him as she drove off. It was five-thirty in the morning.

The air was cool, the sky a faint blue-pink, and every leaf and blade of grass seemed clear and sparkling in this brief crisp interlude before the day's heat descended. Stephanie drove fast and easily, passing the trucks that barreled down the narrow roads. Once they had terrified her; now she thought of them only as obstacles to be calculated so that she had time to pull back in front of them before an oncoming car reached her. For such an early hour, the roads were busy, and she concentrated on driving, glancing now and then at farmers in the fields, women hanging out wash in the early coolness, and schoolchildren walking along the roads with yapping dogs chasing each other about their heels. Ahead of her loomed the chalky summit of Mont Ventoux with its radar station and huge television mast outlined against the pale sky.

She slowed when she reached the village of Bédoin, built on a small hill with Mont Ventoux rising majestically behind it. The narrow streets were deserted at this hour,
except for the market area where men and women in long aprons were setting up tables and arranging on them fruits and vegetables or stacks of baskets and tablecloths while others hung newly killed chickens upside down, set out rows of cheeses in refrigerated cases, with long curving sausages dangling above, opened barrels and jars of a dozen kinds of marinated and herb-infused olives, and stacked loaves of bread of all sizes and shapes, some almost three feet across. Near the market area was the main square with the mayor's house at one end and the soaring stone church at the other; in the other houses that faced the square people slept or rose to make their breakfast. Everything was normal; for this village, the earth had not shifted. But Stephanie saw all of it as if for the first time because for the first time she was alone.

The summit of Mont Ventoux towered more than four thousand feet above the valley floor, and Stephanie drove partway up its heavily wooded flank before beginning her ride. At a curve in the road she pulled into a grove of cedars, out of the way of other cars, almost hidden from view. She put on her helmet and bicycle gloves and fastened her pack around her waist. It was six-fifteen when she began the ride up the paved road that cut back and forth between cherry and peach orchards and forests of beech and oak, cedar and pine that gradually gave way to scrub that thinned with the thinning air. Through the leaves Stephanie caught glimpses of the TV tower at the top, beckoning her on.

Her body had settled into a rhythm that made her feel she was flowing up the mountain, breathing hard, muscles straining, but exhilarated with her own energy and the cool air swirling about her. Thoughts and images drifted through her mind and she let them come and go without trying to hold on to them.

Max is gone.

I have the house.

But who owns it?

Robert will know; he found it for Max.

Robert will tell me what I can do. Stay for a while, then sell it.

Max should have the money, but how will I get it to him?

And where will I go?

I could live with Léon. He wants that. And I want it.

No, not yet. I told him I was going to live alone.
I'm depending on myself.

He understood; he always understands.

I love Léon. I love Léon. I love Léon.

The words sang within her to the rhythm of her body. Her muscles began to ache; she downshifted until she was in the lowest gear and rode more slowly. She pulled out her water bottle and squeezed a stream of cold water into her mouth as she rode, then twisted to replace it in her pack. As she turned back, a car passed her, surprising her; she barely saw the driver's black hat as she swerved to the right, skidding in the gravel at the side of the road.
Have to be careful; I might break my wrist.

What an odd idea, she thought, but her mind was slowing to the same speed as her legs, and she let the thought go and pushed steadily upward, keeping her eyes on the summit. It was closer now and the trees were almost gone; soon they would disappear entirely and only the white stone of the highest elevation would remain, a white cap with the television mast like a feather in its center. The sun was higher, but as she climbed, the air grew cooler. She breathed deeply and thought of nothing but one more revolution of her legs, one more and then one more, and then she made the final turn in the road and she was at the top.

Gasping, she leaned her bicycle against the low stone wall and drank deeply from her water bottle, draining it, then opening the other. It was eight o'clock in the morning and at the base of the mountain the heat was building, but here, at six thousand feet, the air was cold and Stephanie began to shiver. She pulled out her jacket and put it on, zipping it up to the collar. She was alone; it was too early for tourists, and the restaurant was not yet open. The only
sound was the steady rush of wind that gave the mountain its name. Stephanie left the bicycle and, nibbling a bunch of grapes, walked slowly around the summit, circling the white and red air force radar station and the long, low building housing scientific and television equipment, gazing at the scene below.

The Provençal plain spread on all sides like a verdant ring, and beyond it in a great circle of green and buff and blue were the Alps, capped with snow, the Lubéron, the Pyrenees, the Rhône Valley with its broad river winding in lazy curves to the horizon, shining silver in the sun, Marseilles and the lighthouses of the Berre lagoon, and the Alpilles chain that Stephanie had first seen in Léon's painting.
Léon should be here; we should be seeing this together. So much beauty, so much magnificence, such a glorious world.

She felt a piercing happiness. Everything is waiting for me: a new life, a whole life, with Léon. Because I will remember, however long it takes, and then I'll be the person I was and the person I am now. And I'll have everything I could ever want.

She was smiling to herself, in love with Léon, with life, with all the possibilities that awaited her, when a shadow fell near her and she looked up into the face of a man who had come up behind her. He held a gun, so small it looked like a shiny silver toy palmed in his gloved hand, but it was aimed at her, and it was so close that her arm brushed it in turning. She gave a sharp cry and he gripped her arm with his other hand.

“Shut up. Don't say anything, just stand here, just the way you are, like you're looking at the view. People may come.”

“What do you want?” Her voice sounded strange to her. “I don't have much money, you can have what I've got, it's in my pack. Take—”

“Shut up! Keep your voice down!” His black slouch hat almost touched Stephanie's forehead and their bodies were so close she could see small scratches in his leather
vest. “I don't want your money. I want your husband. Where is he?”

“I saw you yesterday! In the churchyard. And this morning you were outside our house, in your car.”

“
Where is he?
”

“I don't know.”

“The fuck you don't.” He pushed the gun upward into Stephanie's breast and she gasped. “I was outside your house all night; he didn't leave, but he's not there now. Where is he?”

“He did leave. He's gone.” Now it was real, the man, the gun, the darkening sky. She was trembling and breathing rapidly; the gun cut into her breast and the man's face, so oddly cherubic with a tiny nose above full, red lips, was so close to hers she could feel his breath. Léon, Léon, Léon, she thought wildly; I can't die; we haven't even begun. “You're hurting me. What do you want?”

“Where did he go?”

“I told you, I don't know! I can't tell you! Please stop . . . you're hurting me.”

“You stupid cunt, I'll stop when you tell me where the fuck he is. He didn't go to Marseilles; I checked.
Where is he?
”

“I don't know!”
He knows about Max's warehouse in Marseilles. What else does he know? Where does he come from?
“What do you want him for? What do you want of us?”

“I want him. I don't give a fuck for you if you tell me where he is.”

“I can't tell you. He left while I was asleep; he didn't tell me where he—”

“You're lying.” He tightened his grip on her arm, twisting it until she cried out.

“I'm not, I'm not. Please, that hurts, please leave me alone, there's nothing I—”

“Christ, this is like a fucking conversation. Okay, you're coming with me; if you won't talk, you'll take me to him.”

“I can't!” Her fear exploded. “Damn you, I don't know where he is! We don't live together anymore!”

He was taken aback. The gun relaxed slightly against Stephanie's breast. “Since when?”

“Last night. He left and he's not coming back and that's all I know.”

“Bullshit. I saw you at that church, all lovey-dovey; there's no way he was about to walk out on you.”

Stephanie looked at him in despair, not knowing what else to say. “He's gone. He's not coming back.”

“Fuck.” He looked around as a tour bus pulled into the parking area a hundred feet away. “Come on, we're getting out of here.”

“Why? I can't tell you anything! Can't you just leave, please, just go away? I told you,
I swear,
there's nothing—”

“Shut up!”

Men and women in straw hats and brightly printed cotton shirts and dresses, with cameras slung around their necks, were streaming out of the tour bus. The man pushed Stephanie before him along the low wall until they had rounded a corner and were behind the radar station. “My car's over there, around the corner,” he said and gestured with the gun toward the end of the viewing area where Stephanie had left her bicycle. “You walk nice and quiet right next to me, and keep your mouth shut.”

“Where are we going?”

“To your husband, like I said.” He eyed Stephanie's long bare legs, then once again nudged her breast with his gun, this time a little playfully. “We might stop and have some fun on the way, though.” Swiftly he reached down and shoved his hand between her legs. “Nice. Real nice. There's no hurry, is there? He'll be waiting for you, wherever he is.”

“No!” Stephanie cried, and in desperation said, “If you touch me I'll never tell you where he is.”

The man cocked an eyebrow. “See? I knew all along. And you'll tell me, you little cunt; you think you won't, but
when I get through with you, you'll—” Raised voices came from the direction of the tour bus. “Get going, to the car.” He jammed the gun against Stephanie's ribs and edged her with him to the corner of the radar station. He stopped there, gripping Stephanie's arm to keep her out of sight, and casually looked around. A few feet away stood the low building housing television and scientific equipment, its door closed. It was built in the shape of an L, and he pushed Stephanie before him across the small open space to the sheltered corner at the back of the low building.

They stood there, waiting. Stephanie's body was like ice, her breathing shallow, her muscles taut. She was terrified of the cheerful smile on the man's cherubic face and the way his eyes raked her. She could still feel the pressure of the gun barrel pushing into her breast and his hand between her legs. She looked around, but there was nowhere to run; the rock-strewn, treeless summit was bare except for the two vacant buildings and the tourists cheerfully exclaiming in German over the view, their cameras clicking.

But within a few minutes they were leaving. Cameras and binoculars were put away and they climbed inside the bus, the driver counting as they mounted the steps. The door swung shut with a hydraulic hiss and they were gone.

“Now.” The man pulled Stephanie's hand through his arm, like a gentleman taking a stroll with his lady. But at that moment a car sped up the road, careened across the parking area, and scraped the man's car as it stopped beside it. “What the fuck—” he began and then he saw, around the corner of the building, as Stephanie did, that the driver was Max.

“Hey. How about that.” As Max opened the door and stepped from his car, Stephanie felt the arm clamping hers relax, and she whipped her hand free and ran toward Max.