Forgive Me (18 page)

The city did its level best to dazzle the honeymooners—Left Bank cafés scenting sidewalks with coffee and cheese, medieval cathedrals looming gray beauty by the brick, a string quartet sounding Gounod at the end of a cobblestone footbridge—but no amount of sensory seduction could lure Scott and Crystal out from the chasms of their own paranoia. And it was a shame too, all this paranoia, because Crystal had spent months curating the perfect itinerary.

For example, they began the day with the best of intentions and the most pleasant of strolls from their hotel to the Arc de Triomphe. The Place Charles de Gaulle was thick with tourists, and why not? Here was this magnificent curve of masonry, a great sculpture in its own right, and yet each pillar was further carved and sculpted, and there were angels and goddesses and a Roman emperor—

“No,” replied Crystal. “That's Napoleon.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Scott studied the engraved statue some more. They were a good thirty feet away, but its details were unmistakable: a man in a robe, holding in his left hand…a cross? No. A sword. “I thought he'd be shorter.”

“Well, that's not the actual Napoleon.”

“Oh.”

And he slid his hand along Crystal's, and he kissed her forehead, and that was when he made his first sighting of François and Mathilde, sixty feet away. They were milling past a squad of uniformed schoolgirls. It had to be them. Scott kissed Crystal a second time and dared not look back in the direction of the schoolgirls and, in all likelihood, that pair of sneering imps who had contrived to ruin for his dear wife the city of her dreams.

“So,” he said, as casually as he could, “where to next?”

“Are you OK?”

“With you? Always.”

Crystal led him east along the wide concourse of the Champs-Élysées. Lining each side of the boulevard were, in the large windows of elegant storefronts, every high-end brand in the world. The stores themselves were vaguely anonymous, many with no more than a series of initials or a single French word to identify them, but the wares they exhibited were as far from anonymous as sunshine from a shoe shine: crystal bowls and sandalwood horses and Gucci this and Prada that, and a few blocks in the distance, angling off the main thoroughfare, were La Petite Maison de Nicole, which Crystal explained was one of the most famous restaurants in the world, and, across from it, a five-decker Louis Vuitton.

They detoured to the Louis Vuitton.

This proved to be the day's first error. The first floor had more shoppers stuffed into it than could have been safe for any fire code. Scott and Crystal had little choice but to follow the currents of foot traffic.

“I've never seen so many bags in my life,” said Scott.

Crystal, who had never spent more than ten dollars on a handbag, was gobsmacked. How did leather come in so many shapes and sizes and colors and how were all of them gorgeous? She suddenly understood materialism and she wanted a piece of it for herself.

But then she saw waifish Mathilde one section over, beside a display of tiny purses, and her desire curdled inside her heart into coal ash. Crystal considered taking the escalator up. There was a museum, she knew, on the top floor of the store. Fewer people at the museum. Far away from Mathilde. But then eventually she and Scott would have to descend, and she was certain that Mathilde—and François—would be waiting for them at the foot of the escalator, and they would be standing side by side, and they wouldn't wave or say anything…they would be like a matched pair of malevolent mannequins, staring blankly, nothing more, and that would be enough.

Outside was warmer anyway.

Back on the Champs-Élysées, they reached the vast northern façade of the Grand Palais. They climbed the stone steps together until they were under the shade of the pillared front, and then they entered the monument, and thus another world. A world with a roof of webbed glass arched several stories above them by latticed beams of green iron. Scott couldn't shake the sudden impression that they, and the several dozen people in there with them, had become tiny figures in a snow globe that at any minute could be picked up and shaken. He felt dizzy.

“Are you OK?” Crystal asked him again. This time he didn't reply.

They lost themselves for hours in the exhibition halls of the Grand Palais and in the adjoining Petit Palais. Even Scott recognized some of the paintings on display in the marble halls of the latter, mainly from photographs in textbooks, and yet here they were, within reach and therefore real, or almost real. He allowed himself to relax while Crystal, every so often, would stop in front of a particular piece and shake her head a bit, as if she too were having trouble accepting the
realness
of it all. She was especially taken by one painting, which depicted a harem of fat naked women under a red cloth canopy, and off to the side were the men, also fat, also naked, and the men appeared miserable, and the women appeared joyful, and Crystal was wiping away tears from her chin before she even knew she was crying.

François and Mathilde were in the gift shop. Scott spotted them standing in line at the cash wrap at the same time Crystal saw them standing by the coffee table books. Scott and Crystal left without buying anything, not even a postcard.

For lunch, they ate sandwiches at a nearby café. They tried to make conversation, but their thoughts came out half formed.

What was next? The Louvre. Maybe a nap first? Yes. They hailed a cab with minimal effort and felt immediately better upon entering the elevator in the Hotel Zola and pressing the number for their floor and better still when those elevator doors closed and they were alone in the elevator compartment, sealed, as it lifted them slowly up.

Once in their hotel room, they peeled off their shoes and socks and slinked under the sheets and held each other. The cocoon of their bodies filled with heat and familiarity.

“I love you,” said Crystal.

“I love you more,” said Scott.

They slept. They'd only planned on napping, but their bodies had aspirations of their own. Without conscious minds to sway them otherwise, their bodies chose to explore the deep. So dark this many fathoms down that not even dreams could be found here. Scott and Crystal slept like sunken ships.

So dark and deep in fact that, many hours later, they didn't hear the
knock, knock, knock
on their hotel room door. Didn't even hear it with their imaginations. No need to alchemize the sounds into something phantasmagorical.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

Scott opened an eye. Not sure the reason. Light found it and he winced. Sunlight? No. Electric light coming in from the window, from the living city.

He and Crystal had slept through evening. How was that even—

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

Rushing up from the depths of her slumber, Crystal mumbled a groan. She slowly looked around the room. This was not her bedroom. Why wasn't she in her bedroom? Oh right. Paris. Yay!

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Neither Scott nor Crystal moved. Neither of them spoke. The heat in their cocoon became ice. They held each other tighter.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

Sixty seconds passed.

Another sixty seconds passed.

Little by little, the tension washed out of their bodies. Shoulders lowered. Lungs exhaled.

OK? OK.

Smiles.

Riiiing.

The telephone on the night table trembled, as if something were inside it and trying to escape, something angry.

Riiiiing
.

Scott pulled the blanket the rest of the way over himself and Crystal.

Riiiiing
.

Crystal pushed the blanket off of them. She'd had enough. This was supposed to be their honeymoon, goddamn it! This was Paris! How dare they ruin Paris for her! After all this time? Screw their menace and their threats. Who did they think they were?

She picked up the receiver during the fourth ring. She didn't say hello. Screw pleasantries.

The man on the other end of the line promptly spoke.

“We're on something of a timetable here, so if you could be so kind as to open the fucking door, thank you very much.”

And then he hung up.

And then Crystal, suddenly quite bewildered, hung up.

“What did they say?” asked Scott.

Crystal got out of bed.

“Where are you going? What did they say?”

The man on the other end of the line wasn't François. Of that Crystal was positive. He did have a French accent, but it was…dirtier? Whatever the Parisian equivalent of cockney was, this man spoke it. Or maybe he didn't, because his words had been in English, but Crystal couldn't shake the image that on the other side of their door stood, with a slight bend in his spine, a soot-smothered bum. A street seller had tumbled out of
Oliver Twist
to pay a visit to the McCormicks.

“Crystal?”

She crossed the carpeted floor. She wasn't scared. With each step, the bottoms of her bare feet pecked at the carpet. It really was a nice room. Not as opulent as the penthouse, not as seedy as the motel. Just right.

“Crystal?”

Now Scott was beside her. Good. Let him be always beside her. Even if this was the end.

The man at the door was not a singing chimney sweep but instead a middle-aged Frenchman in a zippered motorcycle jacket. The matching helmet he held in his hands like a small dog. His face looked like it had been dragged across the pavement and only now begun to mend—and it was doing a poor job of remembering where everything went.

He did not wait to be let inside. He pushed past Scott and Crystal, handing her his helmet, and flicked on the light switch. Then he took out a small walkie-talkie. No, not a walkie-talkie. But something. Whatever it was, he held it out while he walked the perimeter of the room, making sure to close the blinds as he passed them.

“Excuse me,” said Crystal, “but—”

The Frenchman bounded toward her and held up a cautionary finger.

“No, I will not—”

The Frenchman moved his cautionary finger forward until it reached her lips.

He cocked his head
. Did she understand?

She nodded.
Yes.

The Frenchman then cocked his head toward Scott
. Will you close the fucking door?

Scott closed the fucking door.

It took the Frenchman another minute to finish whatever it was he was doing. Then, satisfied, he pocketed the non-walkie-talkie and sat down on their unmade bed.

“So,” he said, “there's probably no surveillance.”

Crystal chest-passed him his helmet, which he caught. “Who do you think you are, barging into our room?”

“I think I am Michel Jardet.”

“Who's Michel Jardet?”

“I am.” He placed the helmet beside him, again like a small dog. “You are Scott McCormick and you are Crystal McCormick. The Americans believe you are in large danger.”

“Wait, who sent you?”

“The Americans.”

“We're Americans.”

“Oui.”

“Was it the police?”

“It was not.”

“Then who?”

Michel Jardet sighed deeply. He was bored. “Her name is Xanadu Marx.”

“Wait, the woman from the list?”

“Why do you keep telling me to wait? I do not like to wait. No one likes to wait. That is why prison is an elegant punishment. I have been on this case for one hour and already I know how to stop your danger. You do want to stop your danger?”

“Oui,
” said Scott, thus supplying one of the few French words he knew.

But Crystal wasn't fully satisfied. “How do we know we can trust you?”

“That is a philosophical question. This is a philosophical country. But I was born in Algiers. Fuck philosophy.”

“OK, but do you have a badge or…?”

“Call Xanadu Marx. Xanadu Marx will confirm. I will…wait.”

He stretched out on the bed.

Scott and Crystal had no idea what to do. They didn't know why Xanadu Marx had hired this daft man. They didn't even know Xanadu Marx. They did know someone they could ask, though.

Crystal took out her cell phone.

“No,” said Scott.

“I don't have a choice.”

“They said they'd know if we made any phone calls.”

“I don't have a choice.”

Michel Jardet sat back up. “They said they would know if you made any phone calls?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Give me your phones.”

Scott handed over his phone. Crystal hesitated, the she handed hers over.

“You say you don't trust me and you hand over your phones?” Michel snort-laughed. “You are funny people. Funny people.”

He disassembled their phones. He examined their parts. He reassembled their phones. He took out his own and handed it to Crystal.

“Thank you,” she said. “But I, uh, also need my phone. I don't have the number memorized.”

Thirty seconds later, Crystal had placed her call from Paris, France, where the current time was 7:06
P.M.
, to Detective Konquist in Atlanta, Georgia, where the current time was 1:06
P.M.

“Hello?” Konquist said. Obviously not recognizing the number. “Can I help you?”

What followed did not take very long at all, and after Crystal bid good-bye to the detective, she returned the phone to Michel Jardet.

“Now you trust me. Good. Tell me everything that happened to you in the past seventy-two hours. Every detail.”

What followed took a lot longer, and by the end of it, Scott's stomach was gurgling with hunger. But that he took to be a good sign. He was no longer too stressed to eat. And did trust this odd Frenchman.

Then again, what alternative was there?

“This is what is going to happen,” he told them. “You are going to leave first. We cannot be seen together. You will leave, go have dinner, do what you would do. I will follow. You will not see me, but I will be there. François and Mathilde will not see me, but I will be there. If they try to harm you, they will not succeed. We will meet again here tomorrow morning at seven. By then, I will know what to do.”

“You mentioned that we were on a timetable. What did you mean by that?”

“It is a figure of speech.”

“It is? What does it mean?”

“It is between me and Xanadu Marx.”

“Who is she anyway?”

Michel waved his hand dismissively. “Fuck philosophy.”

Then he stood. He shook their hands.

“Wait,” said Crystal.

He waited, clearly impatient.

“What time does the Louvre close?”

The Louvre closed at 9:45
P.M.
, so rather than trot back out on the Champs-Élysées, Scott and Crystal decided to make a night of it at another nearby landmark, the Moulin Rouge. Touristy? Yes, but so what? They were tourists! Overpriced? Extraordinarily so, but hadn't they saved a fortune earlier in the day by not buying anything at Louis Vuitton or the museum gift shops? They got a table near the front for the 9
P.M.
show. They wore their finest outfits—Scott, in the same suit and tie he wore when he proposed, and Crystal, in a pencil dress/lacy top number her maid of honor had bought for her specifically for Paris. They each ordered the terrine of roast rabbit with apricots.

“What's a terrine?” asked Scott, once their server left them.

“We're about to find out,” replied Crystal.

Was the food good? Maybe. After two glasses of champagne, the food could have been a terrine of topsoil and the honeymooners wouldn't have noticed. That, plus their attention was on the floor show. Oh the legendary floor show! Nothing like this existed in Nebraska. Sure, they had strip clubs aplenty—and Scott had even visited one a few times with his buddies—and this was no girl-on-a-pole mediocrity. Not at the Moulin Rouge! First of all, there were lots of women onstage, and a few men too, and all wore vivid Carnival-esque costumes. No two performers, or costumes, were quite alike. And they danced and they sang and, yes, they stripped, but it never felt low-rent or tawdry, not to Scott and Crystal, who often found themselves with dropped jaws. Along with the music pumping sonorously throughout the whole club came the rhythmic hollering from the mob in the cheap seats. By the time the water act came onstage, featuring a giant aquarium, a mermaid, and three live sea serpents, Scott and Crystal had abandoned their bodies and become spirits of energetic joy.

But everything must end, and so did this, and so Scott and Crystal returned to their burdensome bodies and made good on their bill, and when they stumbled out of the Moulin Rouge and onto the Boulevard de Clichy, the hour was nearly eleven at night and still they craved more. Fortunately, they were in Paris, where more was always on the menu. They found a bar not too far away and chased down their champagne and rabbit with a brace of Cosmopolitans. They waved at their reflections in the mirror behind the bar. Their reflections waved back. A jazz band came on, and so they left the bar and found another, and then another, drawing ever closer to their hotel but never reaching it. They were Zeno's arrow shot from Cupid's bow.

By the time they shimmied finally within view of the Hotel Zola, the streets had emptied of all but the cleaners and the homeless and the reprobates and them.

“We should nap more often,” suggested Crystal.

They shouldered toward their home base here in the City of Light. The air was cool, but hardly cold. Not to this woman and man from the hardscrabble Midwest of the United States. Somewhere above had to be a moon, but the clouds obscured her. Scott and Crystal rode up to their room that night without ever seeing the moon at all.

They set the alarms on their phones for—what time did that guy say he was coming? Seven
A.M.
?

That left them three hours.

They may not have slept much, but they still made ample use of their bed.