Maxine (22 page)

“Paris is the destination but we don't necessarily want it to look that way. We can't go straight up from Gibraltar; it's too obvious. We'll go east, along the Mediterranean, and then up. It'll still only take a few days.”

“I'll divide the package. You can wear half of it in a pouch.”

“If something happens. If I—if we are separated, go straight to Paris. Never mind the direction. Don't fly: get on a fast train.

Take the metro to Odéon. Wait for me at the statue of Danton at ten in the morning and ten at night, every day. Don't wait longer than forty-five minutes. If I'm not there in four days, phone the number I've given you.”

Jerome listened and nodded. His expression was thoughtful, intelligent. Frédérique told him the telephone number once and he knew it, would remember it until his death. When he unlocked the door to their room, it was full of light. He saw the thick, creamy curtains in a heap on the floor. The bedclothes had been ripped apart, the mattress slashed, pictures turned to face the wall or pulled down. Their clothes were scattered everywhere, the knapsacks gone. He heard Frédérique's sharp intake of breath behind him.

Serge is in the neighbourhood again early the next morning. It is, after all, his neighbourhood. Maxine was already up, had woken to the phone ringing, but because it wasn't a ring as such but more like a long beep, she thought it must be an alarm of some kind. She'd gathered her money and passport and was preparing to evacuate. By the time she figured it out and picked up the receiver, it was too late.

Serge just stopped by to check on the mail, and now he is explaining kissing to Maxine. Not French kissing exactly, but kissing in France. They're sitting on his bed, having coffee and chatting, chatting with a new friend being in Maxine's view a perfectly ordinary thing to do, except for the fact that they are on his bed, where he sleeps and whatnot. And for that matter so, now, does she (but not of course when he does). Anyone can see that it's not currently functioning as a bed. It is neatly folded up into a couch, with not even a stray bit of sheet poking out, none of which prevents Maxine from wondering whether he sleeps on it on his back or side or perhaps his stomach, whether he's a PJs type or perhaps boxers, or. And the conversation has drifted to kissing and Maxine is unsure precisely how this has come about, but she knows he must talk this way with everyone, he would no doubt have exactly the same expression if he were describing the route to the Louvre by bus. This has nothing to do with her, per se, and she must at all costs remain cheerfully, earnestly dispassionate. She is not developing a crush on Serge. Definitely not. For one, he is Emmanuelle's boyfriend. For two, he is almost certainly not interested. He is talking about how they kiss in his family, how those English never kiss but here, when you meet people, friends, family,
c'est sérieux
, kissing. Some people do a very limp kiss. He thrusts a hand angrily through his short hair. The lips, he asserts, must
s'écraser
, they must squash up against the cheek. So far she has managed very well, smiling and nodding and looking him in the eye as if he were perhaps giving quite a lively presentation on palliative care, but on
s'écraser
she drops her eyes and blushes. With considerable difficulty she manages to bring the subject back to Emmanuelle. So, Maxine asks, will he and his girlfriend, will Emmanuelle—

Emmanuelle is not my girlfriend, he says, surprised. She's my cousin.

Your cousin?

Her father is my father's younger brother. Karim is also my cousin. My parents come from large families, so there are lots of cousins.

Karim
is your cousin?

Yes. I look more like my father, but my mother is Algerian.

Oh I see.

Karim is my
cousin préféré
. We grew up together. You should see him play football.

Serge has said several times that he will soon have to leave and now he moves slowly toward the door. He must go to work. He works in the agricultural sector, he has explained. On the development of environmentally sophisticated fertilizers. He smiles his nonchalant smile, the one that floored Maxine when she first saw him, and she pictures him for a moment in fields of thigh-high crops, scrutinizing a leaf, picking up a little soil and letting it run through his fingers, making the earth a kinder, safer place for little French babies.
Au revoir
, then, Serge says. He kisses her on the cheek, four times in alternation, the way he has explained it, and he's out the door.

She yanked out a pouch that had been hanging around her neck.

“Quickly,” she said, slipping it over Jerome's head. “You must take this now. ”They ran down the stairs and out into the street, where a car was stopped in front of the hotel as if a deliveryman had gone inside for a moment, front door open, keys in the ignition. Jerome started to get in.

“No!” Frédérique pulled his arm and they ran for the end of the street. As they neared the corner, a warm wind picked them up and lifted them forward, as if someone wanted to help them on their journey. There followed a very loud noise, a deep silence, and then screaming. Jerome turned but Frédérique kept pulling on his arm and then they were around the corner and in the main street. A beige taxi idled nearby. They flung themselves in the back seat.

The phone rings and rings again on the other side of the door, which she is fumbling to open, trying in the dim light of the hall to stick the key in the right place. It could be a family emergency for Serge. God knows what Emmanuelle might have done. She bursts through the door.

As soon as she lifts the receiver, a male voice starts talking in a language that is definitely not French or English.

Um,
allo
? says Maxine, and the caller hangs up. The next time there is no talk, just the hang-up. The third time she decides she'll just ignore it and let them call back for Serge later. But Maxine is obedient by nature. If the phone rings, you answer it. And it isn't for Serge.

Mademoiselle Maxine Cartère?

Ummmm.
Oui.

Ici Madame Duclos, des Editions Merluche
. I have been calling you for
trois jours
.

Maxine feels told off in a schoolteachery way. She explains that she has been out every day and doesn't know how to use the answering machine. She hears a buzzer.

So, we are expecting you at the reception
ce soir
. With your
invité.
You will be attending,
oui
?

At this point Maxine has pulled the cord to its limit and is opening the door for Serge, who looks casually immaculate in a white short-sleeved shirt and jeans.

Um.
Ce soir?

Madame Duclos seems deeply annoyed that Maxine has not received the invitation which Serge is just now depositing on the table. There is no stamp or postmark so someone must have delivered it.

Yes, Maxine says, I'll be there,
merci
. She hangs up and exhales strenuously. Serge raises an eyebrow.

It's the phone, oh my god, phone calls in French, it's so stressful... People don't speak French a lot where I come from. I'm not used to it. Serge, I don't suppose you'd, um, liketogotoareception.

A reception?

Areceptionwithmetonightatseven-thirty. It'sOKyoudon'thaveto.

Avec plaisir.

Really? You really would? Oh thank you, Serge, that is so great, otherwise I would be terrified—oh, I don't mean that's the only reason I hoped you would come, I didn't mean that at all, please don't think—

I shall bare
mes dents
and scare away all the terrifying French people.

Oh thank God.

He has managed to get the morning off work and perhaps she'd like to have coffee and go for a walk along the Champs. The Champs? The Champs Elysées, does she know—Oh
those
Champs, yes, she would like that very much.

“The gare,” Frédérique told the driver. “Quickly!” But soon he pulled up outside a pizzeria. “What are you doing?” she shouted. “No stopping, no more customers, I will pay!” The driver didn't answer. The door opened. Two large men grabbed Jerome and threw him out while a third blocked Frédérique's door. Jerome landed on his shoulder in the dust; the men climbed into the taxi and sped off.

They get off at Concorde. Fountains with mammoth statues of black women with gold fish, so much black and gold. And the traffic. Cindy would have loved it here, Maxine realizes. All the people, all the activity, even the traffic, always something happening. Cindy had been energized by movement. Compared to the traffic circle, though, the avenue is calm, the sidewalks wide and peaceful, and they walk close together.

Maybe, Serge is saying, I am a sinister Français. Maybe I have a plan and circumstances will require that I leave Paris in the next few months, and I will escape to the frozen north and ask to stay in your apartment.

It's not the frozen north. It's the same latitude—

—as Paris,
oui
, I think you made that point earlier. A few times.

Well then. And you'd be welcome to stay.

Vraiment?

He takes her hand and swings it in his as they walk. His hand feels warm. The day is not yet too hot and they walk in the shade of the trees along the broad, straight avenue.

Jerome went over things in his head. What she'd said. Things that could be clues. He got away from the pizzeria and walked for a time, dodging into side streets, wondering how to proceed.

“That hotel manager,” she'd said, “I don't like him. I don't like the way he watches us.”

Could the hotel manager have betrayed them? It would be a terrible irony, to discover that your host, the person who offered you shelter, was in league with the enemy. That he was plotting your death.

They have lunch in a crowded
brasserie
in a side street.

I'm reading a book, Maxine says, about an English boy who comes to Paris. He's reading
Le Grand Meaulnes
.

In your book, he's reading
Meaulnes
? We did it at school. Too much
nostalgie
. Everyone has loss. You move on, you do things.

Maxine had taken a night course the year before, to keep her hand in. Coming of Age in Five Countries. They'd studied
Catcher in the Rye
too. Coming of Age didn't look like a lot of fun and as for the Emergent Sense of Self, well, Maxine didn't feel much more emerged than any of the teenagers in the novels. But the books were good.

He would have to get to Paris, that's all. As soon as possible. But first he would call the number. Frédérique—every time he saw a beige taxi he felt sick. He felt sick wondering what might have happened to her. But the good thing was that she'd been right: they didn't seem to suspect him, and she'd had time to give him the pouch with the USB storage devices, the passports, and a shocking amount of money in several currencies. His only hope was that Frédérique would escape. She knew what she was up against. He trusted her.

Serge arrives a few minutes early to take her to the reception. He has changed into a brown summer suit and brought her a small bouquet. He gives her a kiss, just one this time, but he does hang in there for a while. The language of kissing is so complicated here that she can't tell what if anything it might mean. At home if someone kisses you, you know right off the bat what way you're headed. Here you can kiss someone loads of times and it might be your sister. It's all rather mysterious. He compliments her on her dress and once again Maxine has that slightly dizzy feeling that this can't quite be true, that she is in Paris, going to a reception with a handsome Frenchman as her date.

Serge. I saw a poster of you today. What were you doing on a poster?

What sort of poster?

It was a black and white poster of your face. I was lost in a back street. It was kind of a dark corner and the bottom of the poster had been torn away and there was graffiti on the picture, but I could have sworn it was you.

Graffiti? That must have been the problem. There is no poster of me.

Are you sure?

You were wandering the streets with your head full of ideas about what your new French dress for the reception would be like and you saw a face that looked a bit like mine—lots of people have faces like mine—but it was partly covered, and you missed me so much and you longed for my good company, in fact your eyes were blurry with tears because you didn't know how you would get through all those hours until sev—

Yes, all right, let's go.

Jerome just made the last train for Tangiers. The couchettes were all taken. He found a seat by a window so he could lean against the wall. He hadn't had much sleep lately. The train was hot and crowded; the man next to him was carrying bags and parcels that stuck out in every direction. When the train began to move, all Jerome knew was that it was taking him farther away from where he'd last seen Frédérique. He leaned his head against the wall of the train but it was vibrating too much. He shifted and leaned back in his seat. He tried to think positive thoughts. He pictured Frédérique jumping out as the taxi turned a corner, Frédérique wrenching her arm away from one of the men on a Marrakech street and disappearing into the crowd.

Maxine has no idea what to expect of the reception. A handful of staff from the publishing house and the man who won the novel contest, she supposes. A tablecloth draped over a few boxes of books at the back of the office, some wine in plastic cups, a few crackers. When they arrive, though, they're led to an elegant, high-ceilinged room with fifty or sixty people talking loudly. Smells of food and perfume. Unless Emmanuelle has been invited, which is unlikely, Maxine won't know any of them other than Madame Duclos, so they slip into the crowd and find a place to stand near a tall open window. A gauzy curtain sways in the breeze from the street like a ghost who's visited the wine table too often. Serge heads off to find that table and Maxine looks out into the evening, which is still light and pleasant. An elderly woman is walking her dog. Two young people in jeans hug on a street corner.