“Luebet, is there a point to you spreading rumors?”
“Word goes a fixer, une Américaine, runs a network transporting certain objets d’art.”
Dombasle’s nose twitched in full gear now. “The Modigliani?”
“Just rumors, as I said.”
“I need more than rumors, Luebet,” he said.
“Alors, I told you everything.…”
“Cut the act,” Dombasle said. “You owe me, remember?”
Monday Morning, San Francisco International Airport
RENé FRIANT’S HIP ached after the eleven-hour flight and the long line at US immigration. Four feet tall, he stood on tiptoe at the glass booth to pass over his French passport.
He smiled at the immigration officer. “Bonjour.”
“You’re a tourist, Mr. Friant?”
His promised work visa hadn’t come through. Perspiration dampened his shirt. Nervous, his mind went back to Tradelert’s last fax, which he’d memorized on the plane: No problem, H-1B visa’s in the works. Soon as the green light comes, we whisk you over the border at Mexicali, you come back in legal to work. Meanwhile say you’re consulting on a project for the week from Paris, no visa required.
René preferred to follow the rules and laws, at least more than Aimée did. But the less said the better.
“For now, Monsieur.”
A loud thump and TOURIST stamped on his passport. “Enjoy your vacation.”
Then an endless walk through the terminal with his bags, goading the hip dysplasia pain. But currents of excitement ran through him as he waited at the airport curb. The air felt different, the colors—the newness of everything struck him. Fog settled over the taxis, the huge American cars.
“Over here, Tattoo,” Kobo, Tradelert’s rep, yelled from a battered Volkswagen.
René grinned. “Where’s the sun, Kobo?”
“You’re thinking of LA.” Kobo, tall and gangling, bent to give René a high five. A matchstick of a man, René thought, smelling of onions. Kobo tossed his bags in the backseat.
“But Zeelakon Vallaaay.…”
“We call it ‘The Valley,’ Tattoo,” Kobo interrupted.
“What’s with ‘Tattoo’?”
“De plane, de plane!” Kobo laughed. “From the TV show Fantasy Island. Get it? You’re wearing the same suit, too.”
Wasn’t Kobo too young to have seen that eighties show? Strange, but René recalled that Americans watched the télé all the time. René’s aunt in the countryside stayed up late watching old reruns and made the same joke. Not that he found it funny. “Suit? Oui, but the weather doesn’t cooperate.” René smoothed down his beige linen jacket, wishing he’d packed his wool pinstripe.
The cramped VW was littered with food wrappers. “Andy’s meeting with our investor angels.” Kobo ground into first gear. “So I’ll drop you off at the car rental and meet you at Tradelert later, okay?”
René needed to fire his brain cells for the meeting. Hit the ground running. There had to be a café somewhere.
The drive-through, as Kobo called it, served brown piss for coffee. Back on the highway, everything spread out before him was giant—the quadruple lanes, the cars, the sprawling flat buildings, the signs and billboards advertising lawyers to call if you’ve been in an accident. It all felt more foreign now than it had on his brief weekend trip for the interview.
He’d made the jump to a new life in a new country: a job—writing code, designing mainframes, running security—his métier—and a mission: to meet a woman, preferably a tan, leggy Californian who would sit with him under the palm trees and eat hamburgers. He felt the thrill of possibility. Time to leave the ghost of Meizi, that heartbreak.
“Everyone’s so glad you’re on board, part of the team.”
“Me, too.” René felt a flutter of pride.
“You’re our distinguished French connection!” Another laugh as Kobo nudged him. He pulled into the parking lot of a car rental agency, let René out, waved, and took off in his battered VW.
Excited, René imagined the awaiting Jeep Cherokee he’d reserved. The job recruiter had raved about company bonding powwows in the countryside, “off-road”—wasn’t that the term?
“Your reservation’s confirmed for tomorrow,” said the car rental agent, “not today, Mister Free-ant.” René peered up at the Formica rental-car counter. The voice continued to boom like a loudspeaker above him. The gist of it was that the car with adaptations for his height hadn’t arrived. He needed to clear his jetlag-fogged brain and think. He had a meeting with Tradelert’s CEO in an hour. Thank God he’d gotten the international cell phone.
Kobo didn’t answer. Time to call another friend.
“WELCOME TO THE Valley, René,” said Bob, one hand on the baby-blue steering wheel of his big, finned 1974 Cadillac, the other draped over the passenger seat’s shoulder rest. René had met Bob, a fellow programmer, last year when he’d come to Paris to work on a Netscape project. They had discovered a shared passion for vintage cars.
“Smart to snap you up,” Bob said. “But why the hurry?”
“Seems everybody’s gone into overdrive,” René said. “New venture capital interest, so the agenda’s on warp speed. We’ve got to get the security system up now. Such a challenge and thrill to get in on the ground floor.”
“They’re offering you stock options, right?” Bob turned down the radio, which was blasting Creedence Clearwater Revival.
René nodded. “I’m more interested in the work visa. I came in on a tourist—”
“Whoa, René, look out the window. See that temple?”
A gated block, the peaks of a tiled Japanese roof hinting at the wooden temple.
“No time for the scenic tour, Bob.”
“A twenty-four-year-old owns that. Took it apart, brought it over piece by piece from Japan and reassembled it.”
René nodded. “It’s a gold rush, eh, Bob?”