Kate set the table and went to the kitchen. As if on cue, the door buzzer rang and I let Moreau in. He was forty-five minutes late. I recognized in him a man who was never late, never disorganized, always prepared, always in control. He had indeed been watching us from somewhere and made his entrance when it seemed most appropriate.
Kate came to greet him and, because he was down on one knee removing his boots, her primary view of him was of the large and ornate French Foreign Legion paratrooper wings tattooed on the sides of his head. They startled, even frightened her.
He stood, took her hand and introduced himself, and his pleasant demeanor offset her initial reaction. He went into the living room and introduced himself to everyone by turn, and then we all went to the dining room.
My mother had taught Kate to make a traditional Finnish birthday-type cake—my favorite kind—and she did it well, with layers of fruit-based filling and a simple frosting made of cream and sugar. The kind of frosting many Americans are so fond of, that comes ready-made in a can, is now available in Finland, so at Kate’s insistence I once gave it a try. It’s so sweet that it’s like eating rotten candy, disgusting to me. I also find American coffee useless. They drink it weak, like hot black water.
Moreau gestured toward the pile of gear in the living room. “You are preparing for a paramilitary operation?” he asked.
Milo loved to talk about our group. He looked at me for permission and I nodded yes.
I watched the storm come in as he talked. The sky was first zinc, then black and heavy, and then the rain came, wind-driven into silver diagonals. Kate rocked Anu back and forth in her carriage. Katt reclined on my shoulder.
I waited for an appropriate moment. “Adrien, tell us about yourself.”
“I grew up in Finland, in Iisalmi—a small town in the east,” he said. “This is the first time I have been back in over twenty years.”
Now we spoke English, but yesterday we spoke Finnish. His manner of speaking our mother tongue made me believe him. It carried an odd intonation, unusual word choices and grammatical constructions. I’ve noticed this before about the speech patterns of long-term expats.
“I attended the University of Helsinki and studied philosophy, because I wanted to find out who I was and what I wished to be. By the time I completed my master’s, the answer was clear, and I joined the French Foreign Legion.”
“Why not the Finnish army?”
“I had already served in the Finnish army. It has been said that every young man needs his war, and I needed mine. Finland has not fought in a war for sixty-five years now. Finnish boys must seek their glory elsewhere. I have served in Chad, Rwanda, the C?te d’Ivoire, the Gulf War, Gabon and Zaire, Cambodia and Somalia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, the Central African Republic, Congo-Brazzaville, Afghanistan and, of late, in Mexico. You would be surprised how many Finns are in the Legion, for just that reason.”
This is true. I’ve met several former Finnish Legionnaires, and several more who tried but washed out in basic training. Only one in seven applicants makes the cut.
“What interest does France have in Mexico?” Kate asked.
Moreau smiled. I looked around the table. His calmness of mien suggested an uncommon gentleness, and it set people at ease, despite his satanic appearance. “France has interest in all things international. The American government requested French assistance in Mexico to help reconcile the violence caused by friction between the drug cartels. That assistance came in the form of me.”
That was quite a teaser for a story, and we waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t.