Maxine (23 page)

Maxine?—Madame Duclos is all smiles this evening. Maybe this is the real Madame Duclos, who has escaped captivity at the hands of her evil twin. Clearly, she feels the situation has sorted itself out and she has done the honourable thing by offering as an olive branch an invitation to the reception. And in fact she is wholeheartedly hospitable. She stays quite a while by Maxine's side, she laughs, makes friendly inquiries. She is charming to Serge. She compliments Maxine on her writing and manages without ever actually mentioning the competition to plant the suggestion that the entries were so numerous and of such high quality that even a Nobel prize winner didn't stand much of a chance and that Maxine had done very well, considering. Eventually she says she must go and take care of some other guests but she insists first on escorting them to the food table, where an impressive spread has been laid out on white cloths. Please, she says, you young people must eat, and then she's whirring off with apologies and encouragements to enjoy themselves, and promises to return later.

Maxine watches Serge lean over the table and pluck two mussel shells from a basket. Short hair tapers to a clean line behind his ear. He slips the mussels onto toothpicks and holds one out to her; he watches inquiringly as she chews it, and then tastes his own.
C'est bon
, he pronounces, and it is too, a fishy white wine and garlic taste, but what Maxine wants now is not really food. It's true that food is nice and most often she does want it, but now what she would like is to step right up against him and slide her hands under his suit jacket and around his waist, where it would be shirty on the outside and softer and warm inside. She'd like to insinuate her nose between his shirt collar and his neck and smell the laundry smell, aftershave, and a little sweat. She'd like to lift up the white cloth draped over the food table, like Shackleton with a tent flap, and follow him in so they could spend the evening there.

Somehow Jerome fell asleep. He dreamed he was camping with Frédérique near Tofino. It must have been midsummer because the tent was unbearably stuffy. He reached out to unzip the tent flap and saw to his alarm that Frédérique's sleeping bag was empty.

16

i
t's becoming difficult to stand this close to Serge without touching him. But what if she did? What if she leaned in and slipped her arms around him and he looked embarrassed and pulled away? He wouldn't say anything—he's too well-mannered—and she would be mortified and he would avoid her until she left town. Or he wouldn't be able to help himself: a look of alarm and revulsion would cross his face, a neon sign would light up on his forehead:
YUCK!
He would pretend he had to go to the bathroom, come back and announce that he's just taken an urgent call on his cell and he's so sorry but. Or maybe, worst of all, he would look resigned and suffer through it. Maybe Emmanuelle's rich mother has paid him to be nice to her.

You look sad, Serge says.
Ça va?

Nonono, I'm fine.

You worked so hard and you still did not win?

No that's not it, really, I—

He's gazing at her with brown eyes full of such concern that she thinks she might—well she isn't sure what she might do, so it's a great relief when everyone turns and the voices fall away and it becomes evident that something is beginning to happen. Now she can see Madame Duclos on a podium which had not been visible. Madame Duclos stands at the microphone and begins a speech about the current state of world literature and its particular manifestations in France, the publishing industry internationally, the publishing industry in Paris in recent months, the importance of books, of reading, of buying books, the power of a resonant image, the power of many resonant images collected in one slim volume, even and especially when they are all, or almost all, images of Black-Tailed Godwits. It seems the winner has written a thriller about birds. In which birds are the characters. But maybe Maxine has misunderstood. She leans up to Serge's ear: an English-language bird-murder? Serge shrugs. And sure enough, a small, neat man mounts the podium and shakes Madame Duclos' hand. He smiles a lot and accepts his envelope. As the assembled crowd inspects him for signs of genius, he gives a short, gracious speech before bowing and leaving the stage to Madame, who thanks everyone for coming. Serge puts an arm around Maxine's shoulders and leans in: I believe your book is much better, he whispers, although he has read neither, and he kisses her or perhaps brushes against her accidentally, and she feels the warm smudge of lips on her ear. The gathering is poised to return to its conversation and consumption, but Madame Duclos continues:

Before you go, she says, I would like to announce another winner, this time of the Prix Merluche for sportsmanlike literary comportment, a very special prize to be awarded this year only, and this prize is awarded tonight to our distinguished guest from across the Atlantic Ocean. She talks a little more, but Maxine no longer hears her. Serge is pushing Maxine gently forward, the crowd is parting, she's walking toward a smiling Madame Duclos. Her neck and hairline feel hot, everyone is looking at her as she climbs the podium, which she feels that she should not be doing even though it's obvious that's what is expected of her.

When Jerome woke up he reached for Frédérique and encountered something like a large birdcage belonging to his seatmate that was driving into his ribs. He did not feel rested. He needed a shower. He stank. The air conditioning was now working though, which was fantastic. He went over the call he'd placed from the train station. A man's voice had answered, an elegant-sounding voice. Jerome pictured a large and elegant Paris apartment. Expensive paintings. A man's manicured fingernails, the cuff of a white sleeve.

“Allo.”

“I was given this number by a friend. My friend is in trouble. She has been taken away.”

“One moment.” Jerome thinks he can hear a siren, a door closing.

“How long ago did this occur?”

“A few hours.”

“I must warn you to say as little as possible in response to what I am about to ask. Did your friend entrust you with anything?”

“Yes.”

“And do you know where, generally speaking, you must deliver this item?”

“Yes.”

“Call me again when you have reached your destination. I expect to hear from you within forty-eight hours.”

“But what about M—” A fit of coughing at the other end interrupted him. “Sorry. What about my friend?”

“Unfortunately she is beyond my reach. “

“Oh. So you're just going to sit there, are you? Well she's been working pretty hard to keep things together at this end, pal, so I suggest you get your ear to the ground and see if you can help out at all.” A pause ensued.

“I shall of course do what is possible. Travel safely, mon ami.”

Did Jerome detect a hint of empathy in that last bit? He wasn't sure.

Merci beaucoup
, Maxine says into the mic as she receives the envelope. She takes a deep breath.
Je suis très…heureuse
, and she smiles at the crowd in the hope that they have stood quietly for long enough now that no speech will be necessary, and sure enough they clap. She shakes Madame Duclos' hand and rapidly descends the podium. Before she reaches the bottom step she is greeted by an austere associate of Madame Duclos, who escorts her with speed and firmness to a side room. He says there are a few terms and conditions attached to Maxine's prize. He encourages her to open the envelope and she finds there a cheque large enough to cover her airfare and expenses. Attached is a waiver indicating that at no time in the future will Maxine etcetera, which she signs and hands to him, at which point he becomes less formal and escorts her genially to the door of the anteroom, where Serge is waiting.

Félicitations!
he says, sliding his hands around her waist and burying his face in her neck. I am so happy for you.

Maxine and Serge are loitering in a doorway. In his doorway. Serge has pushed the door open and they are half in the hall and half in the apartment, but the effort of locating the key and fitting it into the lock has proved an onerous distraction from the matter at hand and they haven't made it across the threshold yet. The matter at hand is kissing. Maxine rests her back against the doorframe and the strap of her dress has slipped off her shoulder, perhaps because Serge has hooked his finger around it and tugged. Really it was as much as they could do to open the door. Having to stop and find those keys was painful, and now they almost don't want to carry on into the apartment and close the door. But also they do. They really do.

The air in the apartment feels warm and solid. Serge drops his jacket over the back of a chair. He undoes his tie as he strides to the window, turning the oval handle to open it. Maxine contemplates his back, the outward dent of white shirt over his shoulder blade, and presses a cheek against it. The night air slides in past them. She can feel it on the side of her face. A few voices in the street, but otherwise it's quiet. She can see lights in open windows here and there, someone cooking, the blue flicker of a TV. When he turns to her, she reaches for his waist and draws him in. By the time they make it to the futon, Serge is no longer quite together. He is in a state of disarray. His shirt is unbuttoned. His pants are unbuttoned— they stand ajar. Maxine does not linger in the doorway.

Maxine wakes in the middle of the night to a face at the window. She's sure it's a face, and the moonlight is definitely moving on the rug. She pulls a sheet over Serge and pads over to the window. The face is gone but she heard something. She opens the window all the way and says
Qui est là
? Silence. She leans out the window and looks down, feeling slightly sick. She twists her torso to look up, but she still doesn't have a clear view of the roof. Maxine closes the window and locks it, returns to bed and crawls in.

On the way back from the reception they had stopped here and there, anywhere, in doorways and dark corners. Maxine has seen couples locked together in the street before without understanding the exhibitionism. Now she realizes it's not showing off. It's about urgency. As soon as they left one quiet spot and had to walk side by side for a minute, they were hurrying to find the next place. In a doorway in a quiet street, trying to get as close as clothes and bone allowed, she opened her eyes and saw behind Serge's back his own face in black and white staring out from a poster—SergeMathieu, it said underneath, unambiguously, and the tops of letters below his name were cut off by a poster tacked on top. For a second she froze. Then she'd pushed Serge until his back covered the picture of his face and closed her eyes.

By the time he got off the train at the new station in Tangiers, Jerome had had another catnap, a short one, but better than nothing. He ignored the boys pulling on his sleeve at the station, offering hotels and taxis. He shook them off and left the crowd behind. He located a relatively quiet pay phone and called the hotel he and Frédérique had left so abruptly in Marrakech, whose number he'd found at the train station before he left town. I'd like to speak to the manager, Jerome said.

Maxine's last day in town. Maxine woke to Serge's voice explaining quietly to the telephone that he wouldn't be able to go, there was something important he had to do, and although she knew it was childish, she felt pleased to be described as important and not the flu. She went back to sleep feeling lazy and important.

We have the whole day, he says, What would you like to do? Hey, be careful.

Maxine has been leaning out the window, but now she pulls back a little. She's remembering a dream in which she saw a face at the window and climbed out on the roof to see who it was.

She watches a young woman dressing in another window. It's an intimate moment, dancelike, seductive, and Maxine knows she should turn away but she can't. The caterpillar curve of the back as the woman bends and steps into the pants. Unhurried. Wriggling them up over her hips. She stands straight, tips her pelvis forward and zips. Maxine turns towards Serge.

Do you work Saturdays?

Non.

But I heard you— That was my lesson. I was cancelling my lesson.

What lesson?

I am learning to be a pilot.

Oh.

It is very beautiful up there, Maxine. Maybe one day I can take you up in the clouds with me.

Jerome is sweating again now. He is dehydrated and he needs a toilet. If there's time before the next ferry he will find a hotel where he can shower and shave. He is waiting for the manager to come to the phone.

“Your friends have someone I want,” he said. “And I have something they want.”

“Who is this?”

“I am prepared to make a trade. In Paris. But she must not be harmed in any way.”

“Where are you?”

“I will call back in six hours for your friends' answer. If she is harmed in any way the information will be destroyed.”

So, Maxine says nicely. What are you wanted for, anyway? She hands him the basket of croissants. The waiter arrives with coffee on a small round tray. They're sitting outside, facing the street, sunglasses on, watching people go by, Serge's arm along the back of her chair.

What am I wanted for? Let me see.
Eh bien
there is my skill at the corner kick—if I may say so, I have a small reputation there. My
pizza niçoise
is quite good also, I think, although I must confess that I buy the frozen crust. What else...

No, I mean by the police. You lied to me about the wanted poster.

Serge frowns and puts his coffee down slowly on its saucer.

You think I am a criminal.

I'm asking what you are.

Already last night you thought I was a criminal.