The Book of Lost Fragrances: A Novel of Suspense (25 page)

Xie hadn’t wanted to go with them. Despite his curiosity about being in a foreign city and tasting some of its forbidden fruits, he didn’t want to take any risks. Wanted to save his escapes for the grand one. Except he’d been concerned that if he stayed in when everyone else snuck out, that alone would appear suspicious. So he’d gone to the bars with his fellow students. Despite his anxiety, he’d been fascinated by Western culture.

How Cali would have enjoyed the scene. The lively students, the freedom, the lack of surveillance. The absence of military police.

But he and his fellow artists could only observe such liberty. It wasn’t theirs to share. Their government couldn’t even send a group of artists to Europe without moles. Was Ru spying? Beijing offered students special treatment for turning in their classmates. What had they tempted him with?

Without Cali and her wizardry with a laptop, Xie was incapable of checking out the Tsinghua University student’s background. He missed Cali in other ways too. Missed her bravado and passion.

There was a knock on the door.

Xie had missed his opportunity. He cursed his hesitation. Cali would have laughed at him and called him a coward. And she would have been right.

“Yes?”

“Xie, it’s Lan. I was just heading downstairs. Are you ready?”

He shouldn’t have answered. He wasn’t being clever or smart about any of this. His nerves were interfering with his thinking.

He opened the door. “Come in. I’m almost ready—I’ll just be a moment.”

The young woman from Peking University was not only the finest calligrapher of them all but also the shyest. Lan gave Xie a half smile as she walked in, her eyes cast down.

They’d sat next to each other on the plane. When he’d realized how quiet she was, he’d gone out of his way to respect Lan’s timidity and also put her at ease. Since then, she’d made an effort to pair up with him at every opportunity: on the ride from the airport to the hotel, during meals and on group walks.

In the bathroom, he splashed his face with cold water, then lingered a few seconds to stare in the mirror. He could see the fear in his eyes.

Om mani padme hum.

Four times, he intoned his mantra and then brushed his hair, tugged his shirt cuffs, grabbed his jacket off the hook on the back of the door and shrugged it on.

Downstairs they joined the group of a dozen students already boarding the waiting bus.

The entrance to the Victoria and Albert Museum’s nineteenth-century marble splendor also incorporated contemporary design. Beside him, Lan stepped into the high-ceilinged lobby and looked around at the orange, yellow, and red flags emblazoned with the names of current exhibitions.

“I never dreamed my work would ever be seen anywhere like this. Did you?”

It hit Xie then. The fact of this trip. Not the covert reason but the obvious one: his artwork had been chosen. He was capable of creating paintings that were worthy of an honor like this. There was no telling what the rest of the trip would bring, but he knew that he owed it to his teachers and himself to at least stop and be aware of this moment. The swirls of ink on paper, the concentration it took to make the brush dance, not stumble, the years of study and sacrifice. It wasn’t only about reclaiming his individuality and helping His Holiness—it had its own value. The message on the paper. The peaceful poetry of the art form.

No matter what else happened, that was important, too.

Swept up with the other students, he followed the guides into the Chinese sculpture galleries. Here tall windows faced a garden with an oval pool. Buttery gold light reflected off the water and back into the hall.

Their calligraphy hung on fine fabric partitions that had been positioned around the room. With Lan by his side, Xie walked in and out of the pathways created by the dividers—their very placement artistry in itself. It was a village of Chinese art—on the walls and on the panels—created centuries apart but all sharing the same spare, simple power.

Yes, there would be hours ahead to worry and plan. Days ahead to try quelling his apprehension and accomplish his goal. Tonight was for the work. It spoke to him. His job—to listen. To honor in the way he knew best. The way the Tibetan monks who’d been burned to death in the monastery had taught him when he was just a child.

With mindfulness.

Professor Wu corralled Xie and Lan and ushered them toward the rear of the galleries. “There will be time to look at the work. You need to thank our hosts first.”

The bar was set up with bowls of nuts, little sandwiches, wine, and soft drinks. To its right was the receiving line where the Chinese ambassador to Britain and other officials from the embassy stood with museum officials, greeting the students and guests.

When it was his turn to shake the hands of his countrymen, Xie bowed deeply and spoke in the soft, monosyllabic style he’d assumed since childhood. None of the dignitaries seemed any more interested in him than in any of the other students. That was a relief. Interest suggested attention. And drawing attention was to be avoided.

So it pained him when Ru approached him and in a belligerent tone that was clearly the result of drinking too much wine in too short a period, verbally attacked him.

“You think you are superior to all of us,” Ru intoned, pointing at Xie with his glass. “You think your work is better.” Wine sloshed over the rim, and red droplets fell on the white marble floor. “You are no better than anyone else. Your strokes are no finer. Your lines are no clearer.” Emphasizing his point, Ru drew an imaginary line in the air with his glass. The wine splashed onto Xie’s face and into his eyes.

Tears of red burgundy stained his cheeks and his shirt.

Ru stared, pleased with himself for a moment—and then terrified as he realized he’d created a scene on this very important night.

Before either of them could speak, a tiny, elderly woman approached Xie and thrust a paper cocktail napkin at him. “Oh, this won’t do,” she murmured. While he dabbed at his face, she took him by the arm and steered him away.

Although Asian, she spoke with a perfect British accent. “Let me show you to the lavatory, where you can clean up as best you can.”

They were headed for the main doors. “I’m so sorry this happened.” She wore a bright red suit with lipstick to match. Her grip on his arm was surprisingly tight. “What a shame. On this night of all nights.” If he’d wanted to escape, he would have had to pry her hand loose.

As they exited the room, the noise level dropped. “You know your paintings are indeed better than the other students’.”

“I’m humbled.”

“I’ve been studying them for the last two days.”

“I’m glad they please you.”

“You have a subtle style.”

“Are you a curator at the museum?” Xie asked.

“Yes. Calligraphy is my specialty.”

“Are you from China?”

“I was from Tibet.”

Xie felt a shiver start at the base of his neck and travel down his spine.

“And I have studied your work very carefully,” she continued as she led him down a quiet hallway devoid of any museumgoers. “I saw many things.”

“I hope you liked what you saw.”

“You have imbued your work with very understated themes. Easy to miss. Important to find.”

Xie hadn’t expected actual contact before Paris. He hadn’t allowed himself to hope he’d get help.

“Here we are,” she said, stopping in front of a door. “You can make your way back to the gallery after you are done here?”

“Yes. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“All right, then. Now be careful, Xie Ping.”

He nodded.

“There are many people who want your work to succeed,” she whispered. “They will be watching out for you on your journey. Don’t look for them. They’ll find you. You’re very brave.”

“Thank you,” he repeated and bowed.

When he looked up, she’d already turned away.

Opening the bathroom door, Xie stepped inside and walked toward the sink. He didn’t see the man come up behind him until he was right on top of him. A flash in the mirror. A large hand covered his mouth. Xie tried to shout, but the stranger’s flesh absorbed the sound.

Thirty-one

PARIS, FRANCE
THURSDAY, MAY 26, 7:15 P.M.

The sunset reflected on the Seine. Yellows gave way to dusky pinks, which faded to lavender; all the colors splashing on the surface of the water as if an Impressionist painter were using the evening as a canvas.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Jac said.

“Walking across the bridge?” Griffin asked.

“Going out to dinner.” She’d forgotten how he always played with what she said that way. “What if there’s a break in the search?”

He put his hand on her arm, stopping her.

“Marcher has your cell phone number and mine.”

She felt the pressure of his fingertips through her jacket. The instant heat of his hands melted something inside of her. She resented it and moved her arm.

“And Robbie wouldn’t forgive me if I let you go hungry,” Griffin said.

Jac wondered if he remembered those Sunday night bag dinners, or if the reference to their past was unconscious. Jac thought of the ribbon, frayed and worn, back in New York inside of her jewelry box. She couldn’t tell him. The admission would suggest a level of emotional involvement that she didn’t feel. She’d kept the ribbon to remind her not to be weak, not because she still cared about him.

Griffin leaned on the parapet looking toward Notre Dame Cathedral. Jac looked the other way, toward the Grand Palais. The setting sun glinted off its glass roof. The Victorian building looked like it was on fire.

Around them, other pedestrians crossed the Carrousel on their way from the Left-Bank to the Right-Bank or vice versa. Jac and Griffin weren’t the only ones who’d stopped on the footpath to look out over the cityscape. To their left, an elderly couple stood close together, pointing out the sights and taking pictures. To their right, a man and a woman embraced passionately. Jac looked away. Toward the river.

“Are you with anyone?” Griffin asked, speaking softly.

She hadn’t expected such a personal question. She wasn’t sure what she wanted him to know.

“I was until a few months ago,” she said, still looking out over the river.

“Did you end it or did he?”

“Strange question.”

“Is it? Sorry.”

She shrugged. Bit her lip. “I put him in a position to end it.”

“What does that mean?”

“He wanted me to move in with him. When I wouldn’t. . . . You know, I don’t think I want to talk about it after all.”

Griffin reached out, put his hand on her shoulder, and turned her so that they were facing each other.

“If you want to tell me, I’ll listen.”

Jac shrugged again. “It’s getting cold,” she said, pulling her jacket tighter around her. “We should go.”

In silence, they reached the end of the bridge. Waited for the light. Then walked under the large stone archway into the Louvre museum complex. Crossing the Coeur de Napoléon, Griffin stopped in front of I. M. Pei’s glass pyramid.

Around them, hundreds of people milled about, some taking pictures, others lolling by the fountain. The square had an almost fairground levity. Very few were studying the architecture with Griffin’s intensity.

The last rays of the sun shined in Jac’s eyes. She blinked. Around her, the scene waved. For a second, she saw a horse-drawn carriage. Liveried servants opening the doors. A woman in a gold brocade gown and fanciful wig descending. She smelled floral perfume and the odor of unwashed skin.

“There’s evidence that the pyramid shape draws microwave signals out of the air and converts them into electrical energy.”

“What did you say?” Jac asked. She hadn’t heard a word.

“There’s evidence that the pyramid shape draws microwave signals out of the air and converts them into electrical energy. That’s why they say even a newly constructed pyramid acts as a fulcrum for magic.”

“Surely you don’t believe in magic now. You haven’t changed
that
much, have you?”

“No one’s more skeptical than I am. But I’ve spent the night in a pyramid, and I experienced something I can’t explain.”

She shook her head. “I am. I’m more cynical than you are.”

“You didn’t use to be. When we were . . .” He didn’t finish what he was going to say. Started again. “What happened to you, Jac?”

She almost said, “
You
did,” but held back. “What happens to everyone? Only Robbie is still innocent. Still as happy as he ever was.” She choked back a sob. Jac didn’t want Griffin to comfort her. She knew how easy it would be to be seduced by his concern. He was so damn good at caring.

Le Café Marly was tucked under the stone archway in the Richelieu wing. Even though there were usually a few tourists here because of its proximity to the museum, the restaurant catered to Parisians.

“Robbie told me this is one of his favorites,” Griffin said as they walked in. “Chic without being pretentious. Easy without being ordinary.”

The maÎtre d’ showed them to a table in a corner of one of the inside rooms. Griffin ordered wine and some cheese to start.

This section of the ancient palace had been renovated to accommodate a modern restaurant, while retaining its majesty and grandeur. Ornate gilt moldings framed the high ceiling. The four-hundred-year-old marble floors were uneven with wear. The deep chairs were upholstered in rich red velvet.

“I want you to try to relax,” he said. “Take a few sips of your wine.” He slathered some of the soft, runny cheese on a piece of crusty baguette and handed it to her. “And eat this.”

“Orders?”

“Suggestions. You’re under a lot of stress. I’m just trying to help. When was the last time you ate?”

Jac resented that he’d remembered this about her and took a small bite of the bread, more to stop herself from commenting on what he’d said. She was hardly hungry.

“It doesn’t feel right to be in a restaurant while—”

Griffin interrupted. “We need to eat, and we might as well do it someplace where the food and the wine are good. And where no one is watching the door.”