The Diplomat's Wife (36 page)

“Lots of things are,” I reply evenly. Paul looks away. Neither of us speak for several seconds.

“Do you want to play?” Paul asks finally, drawing a deck of cards from his bag. “We might as well kill some time.”

I hesitate. “I don’t know too many games. Gin is my best. I used to play it with my grandmother, Feige, when I was a child.” I see her stout fingers shuffling the deck of cards, her brown eyes glinting with anticipation as she arranged her hand.

“That’s funny, so did I.” Paul shuffles the cards. “Play gin with my grandmother, I mean. She would always let me win.”

“Not mine. She was really good and she always played for real. But every time she beat me, she would say, ‘Someone will love you very much.’”

“Really?” Paul begins to deal the cards. “What did she mean?”

“There’s some old saying, ‘lucky in cards, unlucky in love.’ Or maybe I have it backward. But the point is that if you are a bad card player, you are supposed to be lucky in love.” Lucky in love. Someone will love you very much. Bubbe Feige’s words echo in my head as I arrange my hand of cards. Had she been right? Simon loves me in his own way, I know. But “lucky” would have been finding Paul years ago, before it was too late.

I look up from my cards to see Paul staring at me. “Your turn,” he says. I pick up the top card from the stack, a queen of clubs, and put it in between the two other queens I am holding, then discard the ten of diamonds.

“So tell me about your life,” I say. “Not the classified parts, I mean. But where do you live when you’re not working?”

“Nowhere, really.” Paul takes a card from the top of the deck and discards it right away, revealing a five of diamonds. “There’s an apartment in Zurich and another in Brussels where myself and a few of the other guys can catch some sleep, get cleaned up, change clothes. But those aren’t home to me any more than this room. Mostly I keep moving, take as much work as they can give me. It’s not hard, there’s lots to be done right now.”

I pick up the five of diamonds, rearranging my hand to start a run of the suit. “Do you ever get back to England?”

He shakes his head. “Not since I got out of the hospital. I haven’t been back to Paris, either.” Or Salzburg, I guess silently as he takes his turn. And if there had been an assignment at the prison in Munich he probably would have turned that one down, too. He is avoiding the places that remind him of me, I realize. Trying to outrun his memories. “The work’s not just in Europe, though,” he adds. “I’ve been to Africa twice and I’m supposed to make my first trip to Asia next. When we’re done here, I mean.”

When we’re done here. The reality slams into my chest like a rock: this is going to end. As soon as we get out of Germany, I am going to get on a plane back to England and Paul will be off on his next mission. We will never see each other again. I stare at my cards, not seeing them. “You’re up,” he says gently. I did not realize he had taken his turn. My hand trembles as I blindly pick up a card, then throw it down again. It was the seven of diamonds, I realize too late; a card I needed. Paul picks it up and shuffles his cards. “Gin!” he declares, laying down all of his cards in neat succession.

I set down my cards. “Congratulations.”

“You know what they say, lucky in cards…” His voice trails off.

“Unlucky in love,” I finish for him. “Do you really believe that?”

He shrugs. “Look at me. I was on the way to meet the one girl I ever loved when—”

I cut him off. “I’m sure there must have been others since. I mean, Brussels? Zurich? You probably have a girl in every port, as they say.” I try to sound light, chiding. But the mention of Paul with other women makes my stomach hurt. Suddenly I understand how he must feel, knowing about me and Simon.

Paul shakes his head. “Not at all. I wish I could say otherwise. The truth is, there’s been no one. A few dates here and there over the years. Once I had what we had…” He looks away. “I mean, what’s the point?”

“Paul…”

He turns back to me. “I still love you, Marta.” My breath catches at the words. “I’ve always known it, and, well, seeing you again…I know that’s wrong to say, but it’s the truth.”

I take a deep breath. I can hold back the question no longer. “Then why?”

“Why what?”

“Why didn’t you come for me?” My words, pent up since our reunion, tumble out on top of one another. “When you recovered, I mean. If I meant so much to you, why didn’t you come find me?”

He pauses. “I did.” Suddenly I cannot breathe. “Marta, the truth is that as soon as I could get out of bed, I left the hospital. The doctors said it was too soon, that I was going to relapse. But I knew that I had to find you.”

“But you never came…”

“I did,” he repeats, his voice rising insistently. “For God’s sake, Marta, of course I came for you. How could I not? I went to that address in Kensington you gave me back when we were in Paris, your friend’s aunt.”

“Delia’s house?”

He nods. “She wasn’t there. But her butler told me you had gotten married.” He pauses, swallowing as if the words hurt his throat. “He said that you moved out, gave me your married name. I looked you up. Even then I knew I had to see you. I went to find you, Marta.”

“You came to our house?”

“Yes. I saw you. You were working in the garden.” His eyes grow hollow and faraway in the candlelight, as though reliving the moment once more. “I wanted you to know that I was all right, even if we couldn’t be together. But then you stood up and I could see that you were pregnant.” His voice cracks. “You looked so beautiful. You were already married and expecting a child. There was no way I could interfere with that. So I turned around and left without saying anything.”

I do not answer. In my mind, I see the day he is talking about, an early-spring morning. I can almost feel the cool, moist dirt on the backs of my hands as I planted bulbs. I remember thinking that someone was there, behind me in the garden. It was a thought I often had in the months after Paul died, on the street and in the shops, too. I turned around but as always no one was there. Or so I thought. Oh, God. If only I had known. If only he had known. I see the moment again in my mind, only this time when I stand and turn, Paul is there. I drop the gardening basket in surprise and, heedless of the neighbors or anyone else, run across the yard and throw myself into his arms.

“Marta?” My vision clears and I am in the wine cellar once more. Paul searches my face, concerned. “Are you okay?” He really had come for me. Suddenly I can stand it no longer. I reach across the mattress and grab Paul by the shoulders, drawing him close and bringing his full lips to mine. For a second he is too stunned to respond. Then he begins kissing me back hungrily. We cling to each other desperately, as if to go back to that moment in the garden and rewrite history. “Are you sure?” he whispers between kisses, as he had that night in Paris. I do not answer, but rip his jacket open, hear the buttons as they break and scatter across the floor. He presses me back too hard, banging my shoulder against the wall. Playing cards crush beneath me. Clutching fistfuls of his hair, I bury my head in his neck to muffle my groans. Then he touches me and it is as if we are in Paris again, two young people in a time and place where shoulds and shouldn’ts do not exist. It is our first time, our reunion and our honeymoon, all of the nights that fate took from us.

When it is over we lie breathless beside each other on the mattress. “Are you okay?” he asks, his fingers still entwined in my hair.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’m glad it happened.” My body aches as it did after we made love years ago.

“Really?” he asks. I nod. “Well, that’s a relief. I wouldn’t have wanted to add this to our list of considerable regrets.”

I smile. “Me, neither.”

He touches my cheek. “I meant what I said before. I still love you.” His face is relaxed now, boyish, all of the hardness and pain gone.

“I love you, too.” The words feel warm and natural on my tongue. “I never knew you came looking for me. I mean, when I first saw you again, I wondered why you hadn’t.”

“I did. I was surprised you had met someone else so quickly,” he added.

I hesitate. Tell him the truth about Rachel, right now, a voice inside me says. But I am uncertain how he will react, and I do not want to ruin the moment. “You were gone,” I reply uneasily. “Forever, I thought.”

“I understand. I was glad that you were happy.” The sincerity of his voice shatters my heart. Happiness would have been being with him. He rolls onto his side, facing me. “So what now?”

“Now we try to get out of Berlin alive.”

“You know what I mean, Marta. What about us?”

I take a deep breath, swallow. “I’m married, Paul.”

“Do you love him?”

I look away, unable to lie. “I took vows…” I hear the echo of Emma’s words in mine.

Paul rolls away, slamming his hand against the stone wall so hard I am afraid he might have broken a bone. “Dammit, Marta. Why did things have to turn out this way?”

“I don’t know.”

“You could leave your husband, you know. Get a divorce. Women do it sometimes.” Divorce. My mind whirls. I have heard about divorce, read about it in books, but I never thought of it as something people actually did. Paul continues. “I would care for your daughter. Love her as if she were my own.”

She
is
yours. My eyes fill with tears and in that moment, I know I have to tell him. “Paul, there’s something that I—” My words are cut off by a banging sound coming from the front room.

Paul leaps up, pulling on his pants. “Someone’s here.” Our eyes meet uneasily. Jan is not supposed to be back so soon. Has someone else found us? Paul reaches for his gun. I pull the top of my dress closed as the door flies open and Jan rushes into the room. I cringe, knowing how ridiculous we must look, half dressed, playing cards scattered across the floor.

“Jan, we were just…” Paul begins.

But if Jan notices anything strange, she gives no indication. “Get dressed quickly,” she instructs, crossing the room toward us. “We have to leave.”

“I thought the flight wasn’t until morning,” I say.

Jan shakes her head. “It is nearly morning.” Paul and I exchange surprised glances. How much time has passed? “Anyway, the flight is out of the question now.” She holds up a newspaper. Printed across the front page under the headline are unmistakable sketches of Jan, myself and Paul.

CHAPTER
23

“I
told you we should have killed that police officer,” Jan says to Paul, her voice recriminating. I take the paper from her and scan the article.

“What does it say?” Paul asks, looking over my shoulder.

Jan answers before I can. “That two foreigners liberated the notorious criminal Jan Marcelitis,” she reads, her voice wry. “And murdered an unarmed police officer in cold blood.”

“Unarmed, that’s bullsh—” Seeing my warning expression, he does not finish the sentence.

“How could this have possibly made it to the paper so soon?” I ask.

Jan shrugs. “Someone must have come in shortly after we left and rescued that officer. I doubt he could have escaped on his own. The police brought the description to the paper right away, demanded they print it. Does it matter? Going through the airport, with Immigration and Customs, is out of the question now.”

“Maybe we hole up here for a while?” Paul asks. He sounds almost hopeful, I note with surprise. But I understand. Even with everything that is happening, the urgent need to escape, part of me wants to stay in the cellar and be with Paul.

Jan shakes her head. “Impossible. The wine cellar is a good hiding place, but it’s not undetectable. I won’t put Herr Meierhof in danger by keeping you here any longer.”

I refold the newspaper, my heart sinking. “So what are we going to do?”

“I’ve come up with one other possibility. There’s a freighter ship, the SS
Bremen,
leaving for Britain later today from a port city north of here. If we can get you into the hull, you can stow away.”

“How long will the trip take?”

“Considerably longer than if you had been on that flight. A day, maybe two. But I think it’s our only option. I’ve arranged for a truck to take you to the port. Come on.”

Jan starts for the door. As Paul buttons his jacket, I race after her. “Jan, wait. I want to explain. Earlier, I told you that Pa—I mean, Michael and I weren’t together, that I am married to someone—”

Jan raises her hand. “You don’t owe me any explanations.”

“But I
want
to explain.” I hesitate. Jan has trusted us with so much; I cannot bear for her to think I have been less than honest. But I am not sure how to explain what I do not quite understand myself. “You see, Michael and I were together years ago. We were engaged, but then something happened and I thought that he was dead. I married someone else, but then a few days ago I found out that Michael is alive. So we…” I falter, realizing how improbable my explanation must sound. “Anyway, it’s complicated. But I didn’t want you to think I had lied to you.”

“Life is complicated,” Jan replies. “It is also unpredictable and short. You two obviously care for each other. But remember, there’s always a price to be paid for our choices.”

She stops speaking as Paul approaches. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” I reply quickly.

“Nothing,” Jan echoes. “Let’s go.” We follow her back into the main wine cellar, but instead of walking toward the ladder, she goes to another bookshelf. Paul and I exchange puzzled expressions as she walks to one of the wine racks and begins pushing against it with her shoulder. “This one is heavier. I need you to help me,” she says to Paul. He goes to where she stands and pushes in the same direction. Slowly, the rack begins to move to the left, revealing a small wooden door. Jan opens it. “This way, quickly.”

Jan goes through first, crouching to fit inside the low doorway. I follow, wondering if the space is large enough to hold all of us. On the other side, I gasp. We are in a tunnel of some sort. Here the ceiling is high, the walls well carved out of stone.