Live from Moscow (7 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

When he was alone in European cafes and restaurants, Conley generally found
he could meet women under two conditions.

---Tables were in close proximity.

---There was no language barrier.

Both had applied the night before. He'd struck up conversation with two
French university students. The girls were a pair; that had helped minimize
their reserve. One had given him her mobile number. There was even vague
promise of an outing on Saturday evening. Conley had returned to his room,
energized by the possibility and pleased about his French.

Time in Paris was short. So what? At least he wasn't isolated in his room,
moping over Jenna.

Now he sat in the breakfast café of the Hilton, situated below street
level with a view onto a courtyard with tropical plantings. He took a bite of
croissant and surveyed other tables. Most other breakfast goers were
middle-aged businessmen. His eyes gravitated to a woman breakfasting alone, at
a table along a partition. About his age, dressed in a female business
suit---gray and conservative, except for the tautness against her
breasts.  A translucent white blouse was visible underneath. Straight
blonde hair, falling halfway to her shoulders. Slender ankles crossed under the
table.

Probably English, Conley guessed. He'd spent enough time in London to
recognize the type. She registered his attention, then looked up and dabbed her
lips with a napkin. Her eye contact was measured, but carried a charge that
prompted Conley to return cup to saucer.

The woman noticed; merriment flickered on her face before she returned to
her breakfast and that day's edition of the
Financial Times
. Conley
checked his watch. Claire was due to pick him up in 10 minutes.

Five minutes later, as he gulped the rest of his coffee, the woman
re-established eye contact with a polite smile, then refocused on her paper.
Tables had been too far away. An amiable conclusion to a meaningless
vignette…Or so he thought, until she materialized alongside him in the
lower lobby while he waited for the elevator. He smiled and pressed the
"Up" button to keep the door open. She thanked him; her accent was
indeed English. Both of them faced forward as doors closed.

"In Paris long?" he asked her.

"Until tomorrow morning."

Her glance fell on him for a calibrated instant as her floor approached.

"See you at breakfast tomorrow?"

"Maybe," she answered, as she stepped out of the elevator.

Conley still carried a buzz of excitement when he returned downstairs and
settled into the passenger seat next to Claire. She noticed his smile, but
seemed to have other priorities in mind---first of all, speaking English.

"Why, my French not up to standard?"

With a courteous expression she put the car in gear. "I thought I'd
drive you up to Montmartre today," she said, maneuvering out of the drive.
"The weather's clear. I also know a nice restaurant there where we can
have lunch, after the interview."

As the Peugeot shot onto Avenue Suffren with a squealing of tires, she
leaned into the turn and inadvertently splayed open her silk blouse.

Conley looked away. His encounter at breakfast gave him something else to
think about. He kept his mind on the English woman all the way down the Seine.

Around the Place de la Concorde, with its distinctive Egyptian obelisk at
the center, Claire twisted and maneuvered between different lanes in the
rotary, her attention occupied. "
Zut
!" she exclaimed, jamming
the brakes.

Both of them lurched forward against their seat restraints as they came to a
stop. A car shot across their front end, missing Claire's Peugeot by inches.
"Imbécile
stupide!
"  she shouted, gesturing at the other driver with the
back of her hand. She leaned back from the steering wheel, eyes half closed,
and took a deep breath. At once honking horns erupted behind her; she released
the clutch and started forward again. "Pardon my language, Steve,"
she said, her voice jangled. "You okay?" She reached across and
placed a hand on his knee.

There was a tremble in her fingers. He assured her he was fine.

Anyone but Claire,
he reminded himself
.

The worst part about that last day," Claire said, describing Dushanbe,
"was that I missed Peter's phone call. It was before he left the hotel. I
was at work, wrapped up in a meeting. He left the message on my
voicemail."

They were sitting outdoors in a café in Montmartre, just down a quiet
side street from
Sacré
Coeur.
Sunlight was warm but both of them wore overcoats and scarves because of the
seasonal chill. There was only one other outdoor patron, an elderly man reading
a book and smoking. Conley ran his fingers through the hair on one temple, with
traces of self-absorption. He looked up behind his sunglasses. Even in English,
this interview was proceeding at slower pace than Claire would have liked.

"What did the message say?" he asked.

"That he had a dinner engagement with Salimjon Shakuri, the Prime
Minister. His message was brief. He said he'd call later with details."

"And he never called later?"

"No, and I was worried sick," she said.  "I hardly slept
that night…and I stayed home from work the next morning." She heard
her voice crack. "The next call I received was around lunchtime, from the
U.S. Embassy…"

She choked on the words. Tears formed and she drew a hand up to cover her
face. She had vowed to avoid such small outbursts today, but couldn't help
herself.

"I'm sorry, Claire."

"No…please go on."

Conley took a sip of his café-au-lait and waited a moment before
continuing. "Let's get back to that last message, before Peter had dinner
with Prime Minister Shakuri. Did Peter say anything else?"

Claire hesitated. This was somewhat personal.

"Well, yes..."

"If you'd prefer not to say…"

"No. I guess I don't mind. Peter said, 'I'm doing all this for you,
Claire. For us.' "

"He meant his assignment, or the dinner?"

"Both, I think."

Conley looked puzzled. "The dinner? Why would that be connected to
you?"

"He often told me I was the main reason he worked so hard. And this
dinner was a conclusion to a long project. Peter described it as important to
his ultimate success."

A heavy pause ensued as Conley studied his notes. The old man sitting nearby
closed his book and signaled inside for the check. To Claire Montmartre seemed
as always: a hilltop oasis amidst surrounding urban bustle. It also felt a
world apart from the brutality and unknowns of Tajikistan.

So did Argenteuil. Even that now seemed tame by comparison. She’d
fretted when Peter had ventured there as part of his early research. It was
Conley's destination that evening---a repeat of Peter's foray. She started to
worry about it.

But the locale was French, she decided. And Conley was experienced. He would
manage.

The check arrived; the old man placed money on the table and slowly rose
from his chair. Claire wondered if the man was a widower. If so, he appeared to
have found peace, a way forward. Through reading? Whatever worked. Each person
had to choose his own means.

She'd learned that from Peter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

From a viewing plateau on one side of the valley, Claire and Peter gazed
out. The Pont du Gard was a stunning work of Roman engineering. Construction
was all in stone. The structure had endured 2000 years, from around the time of
Christ. Claire had visited once before, when she was 12 years old with her
parents, an only child and the beneficiary of lavish attention. They'd tried to
communicate historical and architectural details to her from a guidebook.
Because of her age she'd been oblivious.

On this visit she'd also brought a guidebook. There was no need for it.
 As usual Peter had done his research.

He started with history. The Roman general Agrippa initiated construction in
19 BC; it was completed several decades later. Building materials consisted of
limestone: blocks weighing up to six tons each, hauled into place by massive
pulleys and slave labor.

The edifice served two purposes, Peter explained: bridge and aqueduct.
Claire followed his finger downward as he indicated six large arches rising
from the River Gardon and adjoining, rocky banks. These supported the first
level, which included a bridge roadway wide enough to accommodate ancient
horse-drawn traffic. Now it was reserved for pedestrians and bicyclists, and
accessible from the viewing plateau. From the bridge level rose eleven more
arches: identical in size to the base arches but more numerous because they
connected a wider expanse. These in turn supported 35 much smaller arches on
the uppermost level, which under-girded the aqueduct. It spanned 275 meters and
soared 50 meters above the river---the highest bridge in the ancient world.

In Roman Gaul, the enclosed canal transported water a total of 50 km from
the springs at Uzes to the city of Nimes, 18 km to the southwest. Flow came
from subtle use of gravity. Over this 50-km distance the total downhill
gradient was only 17 meters, or .4 percent. Such propulsion was more than
adequate. During a period of 400-500 years, the conduit provided the main water
supply for Nimes: about 400 liters per person per day to city residents.

"Amazing," Claire said.

"Yes," Peter answered. "Especially given the technology of
those times."

"Shall we walk out on the bridge? Maybe take some photographs?"

"I have another suggestion."

Claire smiled. "I'm listening."

"Why don't we take that trail and climb higher." He pointed to a
craggy walkway that wound up the hillside from the viewing area. "That
will bring us to the aqueduct level. We can walk across that to the opposite
bank. From there we can descend another trail and return over the bridge, which
will bring us right back here. And we can take photographs along the way."

She glanced first at the trail, visible at various points but hidden at
others by trees and brush. A few small groups were making the climb. Most other
tourists meandered toward the bridge or down to a picnic area on the riverbank.
Then she gazed further up, shielding her eyes from sunlight. She spotted some
small human figures at one end of the aqueduct, where it joined the hillside.
No people were visible on top.

"Are you sure we can cross up there?" she asked. "I don't see
anyone doing it."

"The practice isn't encouraged. But the authorities don't
intervene."

A year earlier, Claire might have hesitated. No longer. This was one of the
features that thrilled her about Peter. He was controlled and directed. But
she'd learned; that didn't preclude the unconventional.

"You're on," she said.

He returned a smile and reached for her hand. They crossed the viewing area
to the trail and began ascending the hillside. Sweet and fertile scents
permeated the air. The morning sun warmed their faces and spirits. They were at
the beginning of their first real vacation together, a four-day, April escape
to Nimes and Arles before year-end academic rigors of May and June. Claire's
mother had gently suggested such a trip was premature. Wouldn't it be better to
wait for a honeymoon? Claire had gone anyway. What was the point in delay?

Passion had exploded between them just after the New Year and grown more
powerful since. Claire expected Peter would propose to her by early summer,
once her exams were over.

Their future together seemed foreordained.

Nonetheless a certain issue had entered her consciousness in recent weeks.
Not a doubt, really. More a question of causes and effects. As the two of them
strode up the trail, hands still joined, relishing each other's company and
contemplating the adventure that Peter had outlined, this question came up
again.

Peter's devotion was unmistakable. He'd placed her at the very center of his
life. But sometimes she wondered if his physical attraction was subsuming
everything else…The previous night in their hotel had been a prime
example. In most respects she was flattered. After all Peter's desire was concentrated
on
her
. No one else. It was a catalyst, a plus.

She just needed to be reminded of the reasons he'd fallen in love with her
in the first place.

When they emerged from the trail at the top, he drew her closer to the
limestone blocks that formed the opening to the aqueduct, then released her
hand. The interior canal where water had once flowed extended into the edifice:
narrow, but large enough to accommodate a person. Sunlight was visible further
inside the passage, penetrating from an opening on the ceiling. He peered
inside, retreated, and jumped up on a brace of side-blocks for an outside view.
His first glance was downward, then along the top surface.

"More or less what I expected," he said. "Do you want to take
a look?"

Claire came over and found a foothold. Peter helped hoist her up.

The surface of the stone slabs was rough and weathered, which made for
treacherous footing. Width was just a few meters. At the point where she'd
glimpsed the interior sunlight, some slabs were missing, leaving a gap they
would have to hop over, or navigate around by balancing on the vertical
sidewalls. There were no railings. When her gaze descended, she gasped. The
river was a long way down. Picnickers along the banks appeared tiny. The valley
yawned on both sides.

"Good God, this is high up." 

"Almost 50 meters. The equivalent of an 18-story building."

Claire became a little dizzy. Peter helped her down.

"Do you still want to walk across?"

She thought a moment. If she could quell her fears, the risks were manageable.
Three meters was wide enough. But she needed to confirm something first. She
looked around. Other tourists had departed the area. They had the spot to
themselves.

"Before that, Peter, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"What do you believe holds us together?"

Even in this setting, her sudden question didn't surprise him. His
expression, as usual, was mature and certain. He stood facing her, and clasped
both her arms.

"We share the same orientation, Claire. The same outlook on life."

"You've said that before. But how can that be? You're so accomplished
already. Your future seems clear.  Meanwhile I don't know where I'm
going.  I'll even be lucky to get through all my exams this
semester."

"Oh, that's just a question of timing, circumstance," he said,
smiling into her eyes. "And I'm a few years older…at a later stage
than you."

"Do you think that will ever change?"

"Maybe, maybe not. But I'm talking about something more
fundamental."

"What?"

"We're both willing to think for ourselves."

They'd visited this theme two or three times before, back around Christmas,
but in different contexts. Peter did not mind another elaboration.

"…We're both from circles where expectations can be rigid.
Certain rules, fixed patterns. Right?"

Claire nodded. That certainly described
her
circles.

"…And that's true of society in general, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes."

"Well, we're both prepared to throw off norms. To disregard what others
tell us, when necessary. We want to make our own choices. And act upon
them."

His declaration stirred her.

"…I saw that in you from the beginning, Claire…it's perhaps
the main reason I fell in love. Now, even more than physical attraction, I
believe that's what binds us."

For a moment Claire felt overwhelmed. Then, gradually, her head cleared. Peter
was right. He seemed to understand her better than she understood herself. As
usual he had explained everything.

And she had the reminder she needed.

She took a step toward him, raised herself on her toes, and delivered a long
kiss to his lips---part gratitude and part tenderness. When she pulled back she
beamed at him.

"Still ready to walk across?"

"Of course."

Both of them wore jeans, warm-weather hiking boots, and lightweight
pullovers. Their clothes did not impede them from mounting the side-blocks and
scrambling up on the aqueduct. There the sun felt even brighter. Peter donned
his sunglasses, and Claire put hers on as well, then looked down. From a full
standing position the drop looked even more vertiginous than it had before. She
raised her head and hyperventilated a few breaths, while he offered counsel.
Stay square in the middle. Concentrate on surface footing. Avoid looking out to
one side or the other. He would lead the way. She nodded.

They set out.

Their progress was deliberate, but unhesitating. She soon realized that
clumps of moss and undulations in the stone presented the greatest hazards.
This fact helped her concentrate. Deep panoramas on either side became blurred.
Forty meters out they reached the first gap, where several slabs were missing.
Distance was several meters across: too far to jump. That left the two
sidewalls, each less than a meter thick, as the only means of traverse. Peter
inspected one, then the other, and stopped near the right one. He pivoted and
searched Claire's face as she drew up. There was still opportunity to double
back.

"I don't want to stop and think about it," Claire said, forcing
herself not to look down. "I'll come right after you."

"Remember, Claire. Concentrate on your footing."

"Right."

Peter proceeded across by even steps, holding his arms out for additional
balance, in the manner of a tightrope walker. Claire watched him, keeping the
backdrop out of focus. Once he completed the traverse, she paused, took a deep
breath, and followed his example, keeping her eyes riveted to the stone
surface. Halfway across, feeling suspended in air, she felt a bolt of panic. An
instinct for survival kept her moving until she reached him. Shaking, she told
him to keep going. They finally stopped 100 meters further ahead, at about the
halfway point, when her legs grew weaker and she needed a break. Dropping to
their knees on the rough surface, he scooted closer and embraced her, smiling.
At last, over his shoulder, she suppressed her fog of adrenaline and allowed herself
to re-gauge height and distance.

The valley sprawled far underneath on both sides, awash in sunlight. They
were so high and alone she sensed they were flying. Peter leaned back and
looked her in the face through his sunglasses. She felt bound to him like never
before.

"How's this for choosing our own way?" he asked her.

She was still shaking. She could hardly catch her breath.

"It's not easy," she answered. "But it's what I want."

"Me too."

Three weeks later Peter had proposed. She’d known her answer in
advance.