The terrorist, p.3
The Terrorist, page 3
The next morning Louis found Renard in his office on the square across from the Hôtel de France. Peter Sanchez’s rental car was nowhere to be seen. “On the way back to the airport I suppose,” said Louis.
“He agreed to everything?” said Renard.
“Of course,” said Louis with a wave of his hand. “Why wouldn’t he? After all, what can I do if he violates our agreement?”
“Then why did you come up with conditions at all?”
“It was expected of me.”
“But you don’t expect that he’ll adhere to them?” Renard was exasperated.
“Don’t keep looking for things to be logical,” said Louis. “Or legal. Forty years ago, when I was stationed briefly in Beirut, I knew a man named Abu Massad. He was the head of a fledgling democracy movement in Egypt. When I knew him, he was living in Lebanon to avoid assassination by Egyptian secret police.
“According to Sanchez, Abu Massad is still active, although now he’s back in Cairo. And he has apparently evolved away from democracy and toward a more radical fundamentalist philosophy. He has contacts with known terrorists who may, in turn, have contact with bin Laden and his lieutenants”—Louis patted the pocket that held the small notebook—“if any of this is to be believed.”
“You don’t believe it?” said Renard.
“Sanchez is a very enterprising and serious investigator,” said Louis. “He went through forty-year-old files and found that old, brief connection between me and Massad. Next—and I’m guessing here; he told me none of this—he discovered my biography. Then he looked over my list of assets from my days in the Middle East. Many are gone, or dead. But some, it turns out, are still around. Most are no longer on the CIA payroll or, for that matter, friendly to the United States, Abu Massad included. Sanchez wants me to renew my old acquaintanceships to help the Agency get as close as possible to bin Laden and others.”
“Why you?” said Renard. “Why not some CIA loyalist? You’re hostile to the CIA, and they’re not exactly friendly toward you.”
“I’m certainly not the only one they’re in touch with,” said Louis. “I promise you that. They’re desperate, and they’re trying whatever they can think of. I represent a promising avenue for them because I’ve got anti-American bona fides. Remember, I was once thought to be a terrorist. I can easily persuade … someone … of my hostility to the United States.”
Renard looked at Louis in astonishment. “Bona fides? You were set up.”
“The people I’d be meeting in Cairo or wherever it is don’t know that,” said Louis. “Anyway, I haven’t said I’ll do it.”
“But you will, won’t you?”
“I haven’t said I will.”
“But you will, won’t you?”
III
It had been four years since Solesme Lefourier’s death. Louis still averted his eyes when he drove past her house, because he knew if he looked she would not be there. A young Dutch couple had bought the house after her death. Louis had stopped by to introduce himself. They had invited him in. To his relief it was a different house inside. But that changed nothing.
Solesme remained a profound presence in Louis’s mind. She came and went as she pleased. He had only to close his eyes, and there she would be walking up the driveway. He saw her laugh or frown. He saw her absently brush her hair from her eyes with the back of her hand. He saw her naked back, asymmetrical and beautiful. He even felt her body against his own. He saw her grow thin from the disease and become still more beautiful. Her skin became almost translucent. Her eyes shone. And then she was gone. Maybe it was the emptiness Solesme had left in his life that caused him to even consider the ridiculous venture Peter Sanchez proposed.
Louis dismissed the idea. “Nonsense,” he said. “It’s not you.” He sometimes talked to Solesme. He was sitting in his kitchen looking over the notes from his conversation with Sanchez, when Solesme entered his thoughts. “What will I tell Pauline?” he said.
Solesme did not usually respond when he spoke to her. But this time she did. “Everything,” she said.
“But it’s only been a few weeks since we met,” said Louis.
“At the Dissay flea market. I know,” said Solesme. “Tell her everything.”
Louis had driven over to Dissay and parked with the other cars on the mowed field at the edge of town. Louis liked flea markets. They reminded him of the markets in old Istanbul and Sarajevo and Cairo. Louis walked among the stands and crates and tables loaded with merchandise. He stopped at a makeshift stand, sagging under old tools and machine parts, odd springs and gears and bolts. He picked up a small, rusty iron box with some grooves carved into one side and a sprung lever on the opposite side.
“It’s yours for three euros,” said the man sitting in the canvas lawn chair. He wore a sleeveless shirt and a cap pulled low over his eyes. He squinted as smoke from his cigarette curled up into his eye. His hair hung to his shoulders. “In fact,” he said, “for you, I’ll make it two fifty.”
“What is it?” said Louis.
The man looked at Louis with mild disgust and turned away.
At another stand Louis looked through stacks of napkins, sheets, old lace, pillowcases. He pulled out a pair of heavy linen sheets. “They don’t make bedsheets like that anymore,” said the woman sitting behind the table. She stood up. She was thin and beautiful, maybe twenty-five, with coffee-colored skin and large green eyes. “I have the pillowcases that go with them,” she said and began searching through the pile.
“How much is the set?” said Louis. He watched her sort through the stack. “Sheets and pillowcases.”
“Twenty euros,” said the young woman.
“Can we open them out?” said Louis. “So I can see the whole sheet?”
“Of course,” said the young woman.
“They have to be ironed, you know.” This came from another woman sitting under a linden tree. She put aside the newspaper she had been reading. “They should go to a good home,” she said. “Where somebody irons. Do you iron, monsieur?” She—Pauline—stood up and stepped forward.
The younger woman rolled her eyes. “He’s a customer, maman. Don’t scare him away.”
Pauline was thin, like her daughter, but not as tall. She had pale skin and red hair and the same green eyes as her daughter. She squinted in Louis’s direction. “I’m not driving him away, ma petite. Tell her, monsieur.”
“On the contrary,” said Louis. “Your mother is closing the deal. You see, despite my derelict appearance, madame, I am a man”—he made a dramatic flourish with his arms—“who irons.” The two women laughed.
“You see?” said Pauline.
The younger woman put the sheets and pillowcases in a paper bag. Louis gave her twenty euros.
Pauline turned to her daughter. “I am going for a walk,” she said. She turned to Louis. “May I walk with you?”
“Of course,” said Louis. “It would be my pleasure.”
“I was getting bored just sitting there,” she said.
They ambled through the flea market, stopping now and then at stands and appraising the offerings. “That is a Russian military mess kit from the Second World War,” said Louis. “It would be valuable if you found the right collector.”
“Really,” said Pauline as though she found that fact interesting. “You are not French, are you?” she said, squinting again. She had an appraising manner, tilting her head to one side and half closing one eye, as though she were regarding suspect goods. She held her hands behind her back and her chin thrust out.
Louis looked crestfallen. “Is it that obvious? I’ve been here for decades, and still my French gives me away.”
“But no, not at all, monsieur,” said Pauline. “Your French is excellent and charming. But still you are a rarity in France.”
“An American expatriate?” said Louis.
“Don’t be silly,” said Pauline with a wave of her hand. “A man who irons.”
They introduced themselves.
“This is my car,” said Louis. He opened the door and put the linens in the backseat.
“Perhaps I am being forward,” said Pauline. “Marianne would be appalled if she heard me. But are you free for supper this evening? You see, she is making a farewell dinner for me—I’m going back to Paris tomorrow. The other guests will all be her friends. They’re all young. It would be lovely to have someone my own age there. Could you come?”
Louis said that he would be honored.
He found the small cottage in the village of Villedieu-le-Château and knocked at the door. He handed Marianne a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers from his garden. He shook hands with everyone. Louis and Pauline sat opposite each other at the long table and let the animated sounds of young conversation sweep over them.
Pauline Vasiltschenko—the daughter of Russian immigrants—was six years younger than Louis. Marianne was her youngest child. There were also two sons. “They are all hopelessly wonderful,” she said as she caressed Marianne’s cheek. Marianne was a teacher. “Too little money,” said Pauline. Frank, the middle child, was a businessman. “Too much money.” Anwar was a photographer. He was named after their father, a Senegalese physician living in Paris. “Their father and I are no longer together.”
Louis invited Pauline to join him for a walk the next morning. “I will get you to the station in Saint Pierre in plenty of time for your train.” He picked her up after breakfast and put her bag in the trunk of the old Peugeot. They drove out past the Beaumont chateau, parked beside the Dême, and started walking. After following the small, meandering river for two or three kilometers, the trail climbed a steep hillside and went through some abandoned vineyards. Only stumps remained where the vines had been. The supporting posts and wires had been overgrown and pulled over by weeds.
From the vineyard, they turned north and walked into a forest where they joined a forest road. The road was arrow straight. There was a clearing far ahead where the sunlight slanted in. At the clearing, they turned east on another forest road and then south on a path that carried them out of the forest and back down to the Dême. They passed close by the Beaumont chateau.
“That was a wonderful walk,” said Pauline.
“When you’re back in Villedieu,” said Louis, “perhaps we can do it again.”
“I expect to be back in the next week or two. I’ll let you know.”
“A farewell dinner, and you’re back in a week or two?”
“I hadn’t planned on it,” said Pauline. “But now I have a reason to come more often.”
“Ah,” said Louis.
“For the walks,” said Pauline, squinting into the light, her hands behind her back, her chin out.
“Of course,” said Louis. He wondered later whether she could have divined somehow that walking was the way into his heart.
Pauline called Louis a week later. She said she was coming to Saint Leon the following Friday. “Marianne has school Friday and Saturday, so I’ll be free. If you’re inclined to show me another of your walks, I would love it.”
Louis watched Pauline as she stepped off the train. She wore shorts, a T-shirt, a billed cap, and well-worn hiking boots. She had a small knapsack slung over one shoulder. When she caught sight of him, she smiled broadly. “What a perfect day,” she said.
“I thought we would drive to La Rochcorbon,” said Louis. “It’s nearby. There’s a walk from the village up through the vineyards, then down into Vouvray, and back along the Loire. Maybe four hours.”
“Perfect,” said Pauline.
After two hours, they stopped for lunch. Louis had brought along a baguette, some Gruyere, a couple of tomatoes, and some strawberries. They sat on the grass at the edge of a bluff in the shade of a chestnut tree and looked out over the rooftops of Vouvray.
“When the cheese gets this soft, if you take a bite of cheese, bread, and tomato, all at the same time, it’s like a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich.”
“I don’t usually eat sandwiches,” said Pauline.
“Really? Sandwiches are one thing I miss. Do you know what a Reuben is?” He explained what went into a Reuben sandwich.
“I’m not persuaded,” said Pauline.
“I’ll make you one someday. The sandwich itself will persuade you.”
The strawberries were plump, and the juice ran down their chins. “Water?” said Louis. They passed the bottle back and forth.
They walked down through Vouvray, crossed the highway, and found the trail to the riverbank. Some clouds had come up, and a light rain began to fall. “What is that?” said Pauline. She stopped and cocked her head. “Music?”
“Ah, the guinguette,” said Louis. He had forgotten about the little riverside bar. “It’s Friday afternoon, maybe a little early. There might be dancing.” He heard the accordion now and the strains of the bal-musette.
“Let’s stop,” said Pauline. “We can wait for the rain to pass.”
The guinguette consisted of nothing more than a counter crowded with bottles, a portable wooden dance floor, and a couple of tables. The roof was a bright blue tarpaulin stretched between some trees. The music came from a pair of speakers beside the bar.
It was about three o’clock. Besides Louis and Pauline, there were only four other people. The bartender and a customer stood across the bar from each other. They leaned in so that their faces nearly touched. They seemed engaged in an animated, yet intimate, conversation. When one or the other raised his voice too much, they would both look around to see who had heard them and then return to whispering.
The other people, a man and a woman, were dancing. Louis and Pauline got glasses of wine at the bar and sat down at one of the tables to watch. The dancing couple were not young. She was short and thick bodied. She held her head thrust forward. She wore ugly glasses, and her gray hair was in an unbecoming style. The man was taller, but he too had a middle-aged sort of ordinariness about him. His pants bagged out at the knees. He was balding. They both wore dancing shoes that they had brought with them. Their street shoes sat at the edge of the dance floor alongside her purse and what must have been a shoe bag.
The bal-musette is a quick waltz, a sort of urban folk dance. It has mostly disappeared, except for at the occasional guinguette—guinguettes are also disappearing—where it lives on. Without the musette, the guinguette is not a guinguette.
The dancing couple leaned into one another slightly. Her right hand was raised and cupped in his left, her left arm draped on his shoulder. His right arm lay against her back lightly with his fingers relaxed, his palm down. They spun about the floor turning small circles, their legs and feet taking little hops in perfect synchronicity. And yet they glided as though they were skating. Their dance was a beautiful thing. Louis and Pauline watched in silence.
Louis invited Pauline and Marianne to his house for dinner, along with Renard and Isabelle. Louis’s hair was combed, and he had put on a shirt Renard had never seen before.
Louis had made a fish stew, which everyone said was wonderful. “I have an early morning,” said Marianne after dinner. She and her mother kissed the others good-bye, and they left.
Isabelle pronounced Pauline très belle.
Renard said she was agréable. Isabelle poked him, and he laughed.
Pauline called again the following week. “Come to Paris,” she said. “There’s a brilliant production of The Imaginary Invalid at the Comédie Francaise.” Pauline had a spacious apartment looking out on the Jardin du Luxembourg, including a beautiful guest room with its own bath and kitchenette. “It’s yours whenever you want it,” she said.
After the play, Louis lay on his back with his hands behind his head. He vowed to read Molière in French. He listened to the traffic noises, the sound of laughter from the park below, the sirens coming through the tall open windows. The curtains billowed into the room. The city lights moved across the ceiling. In his dreams he saw the guinguette couple dancing. Except it was Solesme dancing with Pauline.
“You’re still getting over someone,” said Pauline the next time she was in Saint Leon. They were having a late lunch on Louis’s terrace.
“Solesme Lefourier was her name,” said Louis. “Except I’m not getting over her. She died. I have no intention of getting over her.
“I’m sorry,” he said then. “That was unkind. It sounded harsher than I meant to be.”
Pauline smiled. “You don’t have to apologize. I understand love, and I understand loss.”
“I’m a little fearful,” said Louis.
“Of what?” said Pauline.
“Of getting over her. Of losing her, once and for all.”
Pauline looked up at the sky. “Let’s take a walk before it rains.”
They walked down Louis’s driveway. “Solesme lived right there,” said Louis. He paused for a moment to look at the house. They took a grass track that crossed the Dême on a narrow stone bridge. They followed the river south this time, instead of north.
“You know,” said Pauline, “you don’t have to be afraid of losing Solesme.”
“I also fear not losing her,” said Louis.
Pauline laughed. Louis laughed too.
After a time, they turned onto a trail that led uphill through dark woods. At the top of the hill, they crossed some vineyards. The grapes hung in fat clusters. You could hear the armies of bees working on the grapes that had fallen to the ground. The Beaumont chateau lay below them. They came to an abandoned quarry. The water was clear and deep, and the granite walls disappeared into its blackness.
It was a sweltering day, in spite of the overcast sky. Pauline’s forehead was beaded with sweat. Sweat showed on the back of her shirt. Louis could feel sweat running down his back and chest and under his arms. He took off the broad-brimmed hat he was wearing and fanned himself with it. He opened the front of his shirt. He mopped his forehead with his sleeve. They sat on a stone and gazed down into the water.
“During the War, terrible things happened here,” said Louis.
“In Saint Leon?” said Pauline.
