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  “Julien!”

  “No, no.… He wanted to.… Ugh!”

  Georges, utterly fed up, hailed a cab.

  “I’ll never get anywhere with you around. Go on, go home. Tell Jeanne to give you the guest room. I’ll come tell you if anything happens, don’t worry.”

  She didn’t want to leave. But he shoved her into the cab, calling to the driver:

  “Rue de Varenne. Hurry!”

  His hands were burning, bleeding, by the time Julien reached the elevator. Once inside, he dropped to the floor. For a moment, he was unconscious. He came to, slowly. He rolled over on his back. A cigarette.

  Immediately; the need to smoke filled his whole mind. There were cigarettes in his overcoat pocket. He spread the coat on the floor and ran his hands over it. A full pack! He pulled it out. He tried to make a joke of it. Like the good old days of the war, eh? His ration till Monday morning.

  The white packet showed up feebly in the dark. He fumbled, trying to tear it open and dropped it. It bounced; Julien tried to catch it; a near miss. And his hand had knocked the pack halfway over the edge of the open trap door. He could just make it out, for a second, before it tipped over and disappeared.

  He was crouching over the hole, stunned. He was holding his breath. Silence. And more silence. Then a tiny, barely noticeable sound, very far down below. The pack had hit bottom.

  Then, and only then, he burst into tears, beating the floor with his fists, howling like a maniac …

  Fred and Theresa slept holding hands. In sleep, their faces had the pure look of angels.

  Chapter IX

  The car was a brand-new Jaguar. It sped along the Versailles road, with the big white trailer jolting behind. Pedro Carassi, at the wheel, was keeping one eye on the road and the other on his wife, watching her in the rearview mirror. She’d insisted on riding in the back seat. He was worried, but his voice was cheerful when he spoke:

  “Isn’t it funny, darling? Every time I pass somebody on a bike, somebody passes me in a car.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Everything all right, Germaine? Smell that air. We’re going to have some vacation!”

  His wife didn’t budge. Her face was cold and hard. Pedro looked at her in the mirror, and finally looked away. He shivered.

  For a while, they drove in silence. He wondered: “Does she suspect anything?”

  His hands gripped the wheel, and he moistened his lips, trying again:

  “Come on, now, you like taking a vacation, don’t you?”

  No answer. Only those accusing eyes, those hate filled eyes fixed on him in the mirror. Unbearable. He tightened his jaw and swallowed. Still, he couldn’t just sit there.

  “Anda, Muchacha,” he said, “you geeve me wan leetle smile?”

  In the old days, the singsong accent of his country had always made Germaine laugh. No more. He hated to play the clown; now, especially, it was too grotesque. But he’d try again. He joshed her, tenderly:

  “Now, Germaine. I thought you wanted to stay in back so you could take a nap. But if you’re just going to sit there like the lady of the manor, you might as well come up and keep your poor husband company.”

  It was painfully hard for him to keep it light. He’d never been able to lie well; one word leads to another and you trip yourself up before you’re even finished. The way Germaine was looking at him—she must know what was happening. He was drowning in guilt. Hopeless. Hopeless! There was only one thing he really wanted to do. Stop the car, take his wife in his arms, hold once more the soft, warm body he’d have to give up so soon. He shook his head. He couldn’t let himself go. It didn’t matter what it cost him, Germaine had to arrive at Grasse, at her family’s home, without suspecting what came next.

  “Tomorrow, by noon, you’ll be seeing your folks again, won’t that be nice?”

  He pressed down on the brakes, slowly; you don’t stop all at once with a few tons of trailer rolling behind you.

  “Come on up here, Germaine darling, we can talk better then.”

  His plan worked for the trailer, but not for his wife. Her lips stayed sealed. He acted as if he hadn’t noticed, turned off the ignition, got out and gave her an elaborate salute.

  “If Madame will follow me …”

  Germaine didn’t move. He couldn’t go on making believe nothing was wrong.

  “Darling, after all! We’ve been looking forward to this trip for so long. Just yesterday, when we bought the car and the trailer, you seemed so happy. You haven’t seen your family for years. We’ve come such a long way. What’s wrong? Can’t you tell me?”

  He got in and sat down next to her. He took her hand; Germaine tried to jerk it away.

  “Germaine! Why are you angry? What have I done?”

  Suddenly she turned towards him, opened her mouth, but didn’t say a word. Her nails dug into his palm. Tears shone in her eyes.

  “Tell me, darling. What is it?”

  She lunged toward him, sobbing. She turned her mouth to his. He closed his eyes and tried to kiss her. It was the wrong move.

  “You can’t stand me,” she said. “I knew it. I … disgust you.”

  He held her face in his hands.

  “How can you … how dare you think a thing like that, Germaine? I’d give up the world for you, you know that. You? Disgust me? Sweetheart …”

  Slowly, he calmed her down. Her head was on his shoulders. He stroked her neck, gently. She bent it forward, to lead his fingers further. But for months now, ever since he’d known, he just couldn’t. Stroke her, hold her, yes. But …

  “Pedro,” she murmured, “don’t make me suffer so.”

  “But you make yourself suffer, Germaine. I haven’t said anything, or done anything …”

  “Why wouldn’t you kiss me?” she said, her eyes flashing.

  He smiled.

  “Why’ve you been in such a bad mood all day?”

  He immediately wished he hadn’t asked. Germaine’s pupils shrank, and two lines cut into the corners of her mouth. She began to shake.

  “Germaine!” he shouted.

  He put his arms completely around her, held her with all his strength to stop her trembling.

  From far off, seen through the open door, it might have looked different. As if he were trying to kiss her by force.

  “Come on! Don’t look, it’s not nice,” Theresa said, pulling Fred by the hand.

  “They give me a pain, these cornballs,” Fred said. “When a girl says no, is no, that’s all. Did I ever rape you that you know of?”

  “No. Come on.”

  He followed her, grudgingly. Another thought:

  “Sure, wouldn’t you know. Brazilians.”

  “How can you tell?” Theresa said. “It’s a tourist plate, they could be …”

  “Sherlock Holmes you’re not. See the little flag on the fender? Brazilians.”

  He was still angry, had been all morning. He moved ahead of her. She followed behind. She understood how he felt. Only, now, she had to find out what her lover’s plans were. If any. Fred was making angry hurry-up I signals, waiting for her. She leaned on his arm.

  “What’re we going to do, Fred?”

  “No, you know what?” he burst out, avoiding the issue neatly. “This country’s going to the dogs, that’s what. Our fair France. Everything for the goddam foreigners, now. What the hell do they all want here, the damn half-breeds?”

  “Don’t get upset about it, Fred.”

  He let himself simmer down.

  “You’re right, it doesn’t change a goddam thing.”

  A pang of affection brought his arm around Theresa.

  He kissed her neck gently. When he softened like that, when he let her see the little boy who’d tried to grow up too fast, she couldn’t distinguish her feeling for him from her feeling for the child she was carrying.

  “You’re all I’ve got,” he whispered, “just you, Theresa …”
>
  Not quite. The thought he’d been dodging since last night caught up with him. And filled his whole insides with a fear stronger than he’d ever known.

  “A kid!” he screamed. And shook his fist at the smiling sky. “A kid! My God! What the hell will I do with a kid?”

  She took him by the sleeve and pulled him around to face her.

  “And me?”

  That stopped him. He forced a smile, held her to him.

  “You, me, it’s the same thing, you know? Oh, brother, what a bomb! The old man’ll run me out the door like a rat; you can count on that!”

  “No, Freddy.”

  “No? How come no?”

  “You know he’ll never run you out the door. He just won’t open it to me. No matter what happens, you’ll have a roof over your head and three hot meals …”

  Fred grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “Oh, sure. That’s Fred, isn’t it? Toasting his feet by the fire, while his wife and kid freeze their ass in the snow. Everybody hiss the villain. That’s how you figure me?”

  “No, Fred. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

  Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him. Then they started walking again.

  “Where will you get the money?” Theresa asked.

  He clenched his fists.

  “Money! Always money! The stinking loot. If I had a little I could show you tricks that’d curl your hair!”

  “Fred.… You don’t have it; we’ve got to find some.”

  ‘“How the hell would I have it? It’s all there, you see, there!”

  He was pointing at the trailer, far behind them.

  “Do they need loot? There isn’t enough to go around, kid, the breeds have got it all. The Jag and the million-franc trailer, and the girls they jump on the back seat, it’s all done with pesos, m’dear … Ah, baby, if I had just a little of that, know what we’d do?”

  She let him pull her along by the waist, sighing. She’d never be able to get Fred to stay on the ground. He was dreaming out loud:

  “We’d go south, we would indeed. To the Cote d’Azur, you and me. And we’d do the script for the movie. Then we’d run up to Paris, shoot the indoor stuff. And listen, what do you say, we’ll give you a part, huh? Let’s see, what could you play …”

  “The mother?” she suggested.

  “We’re going back!” he said, shot down in mid-air.

  “I can never talk seriously to you.”

  They turned, retraced their steps, walking in silence. The sun was warm.

  Pedro was talking to his wife, softly, tenderly, slowly bringing her around.

  “… and when we got married, you remember? Didn’t I promise you I’d take you back to France, one day? Were you sorry I took you so far away? Now, you see? It’s happened. We’re here, in your own country. You’ll be seeing your family soon. Everybody’s waiting for you, down there. Everybody’s going to make a big fuss over you. The return of the prodigal daughter, eh?”

  The stream of words seemed to make her drowsy. He stretched her out on the seat, and brought his hand to his face, turning away so she couldn’t see him cry.

  “Pedro,” she called.

  He wiped his eyes before turning back.

  “Yes, darling.”

  “I must have left my bag in the trailer with the luggage. Could you get it for me?”

  She smiled. Pedro looked at her: she was lovely.

  “Sure. Right away.”

  He swung himself out of the car and into the trailer. There was her luggage. But no bag. He went to the front window; he was about to knock on it, ask her in sign language where she’d left it, when his throat went dry. He could see down into the back seat of the car; Germaine was sneaking her bag out of the corner where she’d hid it. She opened it, took out a tiny revolver and checked the chamber.

  Sweat grew on his forehead. She must have sensed him watching; she closed the bag and turned around. Pedro managed to smile through the glass. Germaine showed him the bag, said “sorry” with her lips. He shrugged back “it doesn’t matter,” and held up a bottle. She nodded.

  He turned away and dropped onto the bed, sitting with his head in his hands. What would he do? What could he do? It was the hundredth time he’d asked.

  His wife’s footsteps brought his head up. He got up and got busy.

  “What’re you doing, Pedro?”

  “It’s so nice out, darling, I thought we could take out the table and the chairs and have our drink outside.”

  Fred pulled on Theresa’s arm.

  “We’ll never get there at this rate! I told you we should’ve taken the car. But no, not her. She’s got to walk. She’s afraid of …”

  Afraid. Every time he said the word he winced, somehow. He gave his orders:

  “You go in first. If they recognize you, it’s not so bad. But me, you know … Anyway, you see to it that the lobby’s clear and you give me the sign, right? Tell ’em we’ll eat in our room. Right?”

  Chapter X

  He looked bored, tired and miserable, and he flashed his identity card at the door.

  “Inspector Givral. About the missing person.”

  The maid was terrified; she rushed into the living room.

  “Monsieur! Oh, Monsieur, it’s the police!”

  Georges said, for the benefit of Jeanne and Geneviève:

  “At last. So you can get justice in France.”

  Geneviève looked as if she’d fallen on her head. Jeanne snapped at her:

  “Stop carrying on like that. I know it’s not easy, but you do want a divorce, don’t you? Well?”

  Geneviève shuddered.

  “The police.… How awful …”

  “Just a bad moment to get through,” Georges said.

  “Come on, Ginou, get it over with.”

  He pushed her gently towards the door. She said:

  “You’ve got to come, too, Georges …”

  “In a minute. Now don’t worry.”

  In the hall, the inspector had sat down and was moving his feet in his shoes, grimacing with pain. Geneviève came in, and he made as if to get up but slumped back immediately.

  “Sorry to have to bother you on a Sunday, Madame. You are Madame Geneviève Courtois, maiden name Jourlieu?”

  She nodded, her heart beating against her ribs: suppose something had happened to him? The inspector went on, in his tired monotone:

  “You reported your husband missing …”—he studied a greasy notebook—“yesterday, Saturday, at 10:40 P.M.?”

  She let out a little cry of fright.

  “You’ve found him.” She wrung her hands. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  Givral raised his eyes. There was a glimmer of surprise in them.

  “No, Madame. Just checking the information.”

  Geneviève dropped into a chair. “Funny,” the inspector thought, “she seems to be sorry.” Aloud, he asked:

  “You last saw him that same night, at 6:30 P.M.? Is, that correct?”

  “Not quite,” Georges said as he came into the hall.

  “But I did!” Geneviève said. “We had an appointment.…”

  “I’ll tell it,” Georges said, facing Givral. “She didn’t see him, you see. She talked to him on the telephone. That’s a different matter.”

  The detective nodded, sucking his pencil.

  “All right,” he said, making a note. “And where was he at that time?”

  “In his office on the Boulevard Haussman, the Uma-Standard Building. It’s on the corner of …”

  Givral waved that he knew where it was.

  “And you’re sure he didn’t call you at any other time?”

  “I was calling him.”

  Givral accepted and started to rub his ankle. He excused himself:

  “Been on my feet since noon Saturday, eh? So …”

  “I see you work Sundays,” Georges said, being democratic.

  “Rotatio
n. Got to have cops, as they say. All day, every day.”

  He wet his pencil again. Geneviève decided he had amazingly white teeth.

  “All right,” he said, “after that, you didn’t see him again?”

  Geneviève shook her head, trying desperately not to cry.

  “Didn’t hear from him?” Givral asked.

  “Not a word. Not a sign,” Georges answered.

  The inspector shut his notebook. Georges took a step forward.

  “Now, tell me, what have you found out from your side?”

  “Nothing. This is where we start, Monsieur,” Givral said, showing his notebook, then putting it in his pocket.

  Georges got on his high horse.

  “So. In twenty-four hours, you haven’t done a thing? Haven’t even started? Wonderful. That’s France for you.”

  Givral shrugged.

  “Notified the hospitals and the police station. What else can we do? Awful lot of missing husbands Saturday night. Be embarrassing to track ’em all down … They usually show up after midnight.”

  Geneviève put a hand to her mouth.

  “No offense, Madame,” he said, “but, men, eh? You know how it is.”

  She did. She dropped her face in her hands and let the tears run. Georges looked annoyed. Givral chewed his lip and tried to repair the damage.

  “Of course, sometimes they don’t get back to their legal residence till Monday morning. So don’t let that worry you. Why take it so hard, Madame? You do know where he is?”

  She snapped her head up, looking like a cornered animal. Georges came to the rescue.

  “By the way, Inspector, I’d better tell you that, as soon as the prosecutor’s office opens tomorrow morning, I intend to file a complaint against my brother-in-law. For fraud.”

  “Ah-hah. A complaint for fraud.… That’s not in my line.”

  The inspector looked at Georges steadily, his mouth slightly ajar, and stretched out his legs for comfort.

  “I think it is,” Georges said, “indirectly. Because it’s my brother-in-law who’s missing. And he swindled me out of …”

  “Georges! Please. The inspector’s not interested.”

  “Oh, I am, Madame. There’s three people you have to tell everything to, absolutely everything: your doctor, your confessor and me. So, Monsieur Courtois swindled you; now, d’you suppose that’s why he disappeared?”