Pictures of the recent past flickered through her mind: the garden at the clinique, the sliver of light as Drina’s door opened, her sunken eyes, the nurse Aimée spoke to. The locker room and Roland’s pained expression.
“I’m afraid I can’t oblige. I’m late.”
He opened his suit jacket to reveal a badge on his hip.
The skin on her knuckles whitened as she clutched the strap of her Villeroi bag. “Impossible, I’ve got a meeting.” She stepped back, her heel catching in a cobble crack. Tried in vain to pull it out.
“Which you will of course reschedule, Mademoiselle.”
Her heel wouldn’t budge. Perspiration broke out on her neck. He bent down and with a practiced flick of his wrist unwedged her heel. Then took her arm. “One doesn’t keep the ministry waiting. Let’s go, shall we?”
“Where?”
“I’m sure you’ll find out.”
Those fencing politicians had tracked her down quickly.
Tuesday, Early Afternoon
FOR THE SECOND time in as many days, René knocked on Madame Rana’s caravan door. In front of the nearby UNESCO building—an ugly modernist hulk, in René’s opinion—rows of daffodils nodded in the breeze. At the Haussmannian limestone apartment building to his right, the concierge watered the red geraniums in her windowsill pots.
Impatient, he knocked again.
“Un moment.”
René paced by old dented Peugeots parked on the street. C’est typique, ?a, he thought in disgust. Here in the 7th, people either drove a junk heap or were chauffeured around in company cars. Determined not to show off or invite scrutiny—so revealing of the hypocrites in this sealed world.
Two minutes later, the door opened on a man wearing a pinstriped suit and wraparound sunglasses. He descended the steps and got into a black Audi waiting on the curb. No doubt a ministry official or ambassador—nice to know the fate of the world lay in such hands and in Madame Rana’s crystal ball.
“A palm reading, mon petit?” Today she wore an aqua caftan.
“I brought you a present.”
Madame Rana smiled like a satisfied cat so that her eyeliner curved up at the edges. “Entrez.”
She thought she’d hooked him. But he hadn’t come to have his palm read.
“I’m here for a translation,” he said, sitting down in the boudoir-like trailer. “Do you understand Romany?”
“Romany spoken in Albania, Romania? Or the German, Italian or Spanish dialects?” she asked. “If I don’t know, I know someone who does.”
“How about the dialect the Constantins use?”
“And what will I get for that?”
René opened the Monoprix bag hesitantly.
“You brought me a portable foot massager and spa?” said Madame Rana, smiling at the box. “Like my sister’s. Merci. My cousin’s wife is looking forward to the rice cooker, by the way.”
René set down the notepad bearing Drina’s last Romany words. “It’s written phonetically by someone who didn’t understand what was being said, so I hope it makes sense.”
She sighed and took his palm. Before he could pull it away, she clucked. “Oh, mon petit, you’re having second thoughts about that love potion?”
Then something occurred to him. Did her reading stop at palms? “Can you read this?” he said, tapping the notebook.
“I went to school,” she said, defensive now. “You think I’m a moron, slow-witted?”
The more agitated she became, the more her penciled brow furrowed.
“Django couldn’t read, and look at what amazing music he created,” René said, worried he’d alienated her. “I just need this translated so I can understand.”
After another glance at the notepad, Madame Rana looked up. She checked her Chanel watch. “You don’t want to know what this says, mon petit.”
“Yes, I do,” he said, frustrated. “More? You need more money?”
She pushed the notepad back at him over the purple-draped table. And then the foot-massager-spa box as well.
René doubted much scared Madame Rana, but he saw terror in those made-up eyes. “What’s the matter?” he said. “What does it say?”
“You give power to words when you say them,” she said. “And I will never say them. It’s a curse.” And before he knew it, she’d pushed him out the door with his present.
Tuesday Early Afternoon
“WE’RE INFORMAL HERE, Mademoiselle Leduc; there’s nothing official about it.” A dimpled smile as he handed her his card—Daniel Pons, Chef de Sécurité, H?tel Matignon. On the tall side, early forties, russet hair parted in the middle. His round face reminded her of a potato. “Off the record. Un café?”
She nodded, stifling her unease. Pons poured from the cafetière into a demitasse cup. At her feet sat a wooden crate, leeks spilling out of it onto the floor. Next to it was a Styrofoam container marked COQUILLAGES DE BRETAGNE—ON ICE.
“Off the record? Is that why we’re sitting in the prime minister’s kitchen?”
“Exactement. Napoléon said an army marches on its stomach. So do the ministries.”
Backroom intrigues weren’t her thing.
Pons pushed the sugar bowl toward her. “Du sucre?”
“Merci,” she said, checking her watch. “I hope this won’t take long. I’m late for an appointment.” She wished to God she’d gotten through to the lawyer. She’d called, frantic, but the line had been busy. Now she was a no-show.
Pons shook his head, an understanding look in his eye. “You’re just here to clarify a few things, you understand.”
She helped herself from the bowl of mixed brown and white cubes. Bipartisan sugar, she thought; it covered both bases—politically correct. In front of her was a chalkboard mounted on a cabinet with the day’s dinner menu. The prime minister’s upcoming five-course meal made her mouth water.
Another man entered, grey haired and slightly stooped.
“My colleague Grévot,” Pons said.
First rule: play dumb. Not difficult. “What’s this about?”