turned to the front matter, and gasped at what he saw. In spiky, slashing letters three inches high, Kohle had printed FRAUD and LIES all over the page. Tim’s inscription had been crossed out and covered over with UNTRUE AND OUTRAGEOUS . Tim slid the book back into the bag and removed the next. He discovered the same furious graffiti scrawled over the front matter. In the text, individual phrases and paragraphs, sometimes whole pages, had been x-ed out.
A fast-moving thread of water slipped from the bill of his cap onto a violated page, and the R in FRAUD softened and ran into the adjacent letters on both sides. The book seemed to be dissolving in his hands. In horror, Tim slammed it shut, making a soft splatting sound, as if some big insect had been squashed between the pages. The books went back into the shiny bag, and he trotted out into the fierce rain and, with a swooping gesture of his right arm, threw the bag into a garbage bin.
12
In Hendersonia, the rain predicted by Roman Richard Spilka came and went in under an hour, never amounting to much more than a sprinkle. (There was something suspiciously overdetermined about that storm over SoHo.) The sun shone the entire time it rained. The workmen who wore shirts shed them to enjoy the sensation of mild, warm rain falling on their upper bodies. Willy envied them. She wished she could strip naked to the waist and stroll through the sun-gilded rain.
Suddenly, she felt like talking to Mitchell, not just listening to his voice on the answering machine. Mitchell disliked intrusions of his personal life into his work world, and probably wouldn’t like being called back. He especially wouldn’t like it if he were in bed with some woman who worked for the Baltic Group. The thought of her husband-to-be in the embrace of one of his female colleagues gave Willy an entirely unwelcome pang. Sometimes she wondered why he had chosen her, Willy Bryce, Willy Patrick, with her funny little gamine body and clementine breasts. Gently, in a series of little nibbles, despair attempted to draw her downward through a psychic drain. She really did want to talk to Mitchell, and at first hand, not through an exchange of recorded messages.
The Internet soon found the telephone number of the hotel in Nanterre. She dialed for what seemed a frustratingly long time, but was then rewarded with a series of rings that sounded like the wake-up signal of a portable alarm clock. A male, wonderfully clear French voice said something she had no hope of understanding.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but do you speak English?”
“Of course, madame. How may I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to one of your guests, please, a Mr. Mitchell Faber.”
“Moment.”
Soon he was back on the line. “I am sorry, madame, Monsieur Fay-bear is no longer a guest of the Mercure Paris La Défense Parc.”
“I must have just missed him. When did he check out?”
“Monsieur Fay-bear checked out this morning, madame.”
“He couldn’t have,” Willy said. “He just left a message on my voice mail, and he was speaking from your hotel.”
“There is some mistake. Unless he called you from a telephone in the lobby?”
“He said he was in his room.” She hesitated. “You said he checked out this morning? What time was that?”
“Shortly before ten, madame.”
“And what time is it there now?”
“It is 4:45 P.M. , madame.”
Mitchell had left the hotel almost seven hours earlier. Willy hesitated again, then asked, “I’m calling from New York with a message for his wife. Was Mrs. Faber with him, or did she go ahead to Toledo?”
“We have no record of a Mrs. Faber.”
She thanked him and hung up. Back to the Internet for more information, then back to the telephone to dial another endless series of numbers. When she was connected to the Hotel Domenico in Toledo, she had trouble communicating with the man on the other end of the line, and finally succeeded in replacing him with a hotel employee
A fast-moving thread of water slipped from the bill of his cap onto a violated page, and the R in FRAUD softened and ran into the adjacent letters on both sides. The book seemed to be dissolving in his hands. In horror, Tim slammed it shut, making a soft splatting sound, as if some big insect had been squashed between the pages. The books went back into the shiny bag, and he trotted out into the fierce rain and, with a swooping gesture of his right arm, threw the bag into a garbage bin.
12
In Hendersonia, the rain predicted by Roman Richard Spilka came and went in under an hour, never amounting to much more than a sprinkle. (There was something suspiciously overdetermined about that storm over SoHo.) The sun shone the entire time it rained. The workmen who wore shirts shed them to enjoy the sensation of mild, warm rain falling on their upper bodies. Willy envied them. She wished she could strip naked to the waist and stroll through the sun-gilded rain.
Suddenly, she felt like talking to Mitchell, not just listening to his voice on the answering machine. Mitchell disliked intrusions of his personal life into his work world, and probably wouldn’t like being called back. He especially wouldn’t like it if he were in bed with some woman who worked for the Baltic Group. The thought of her husband-to-be in the embrace of one of his female colleagues gave Willy an entirely unwelcome pang. Sometimes she wondered why he had chosen her, Willy Bryce, Willy Patrick, with her funny little gamine body and clementine breasts. Gently, in a series of little nibbles, despair attempted to draw her downward through a psychic drain. She really did want to talk to Mitchell, and at first hand, not through an exchange of recorded messages.
The Internet soon found the telephone number of the hotel in Nanterre. She dialed for what seemed a frustratingly long time, but was then rewarded with a series of rings that sounded like the wake-up signal of a portable alarm clock. A male, wonderfully clear French voice said something she had no hope of understanding.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but do you speak English?”
“Of course, madame. How may I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to one of your guests, please, a Mr. Mitchell Faber.”
“Moment.”
Soon he was back on the line. “I am sorry, madame, Monsieur Fay-bear is no longer a guest of the Mercure Paris La Défense Parc.”
“I must have just missed him. When did he check out?”
“Monsieur Fay-bear checked out this morning, madame.”
“He couldn’t have,” Willy said. “He just left a message on my voice mail, and he was speaking from your hotel.”
“There is some mistake. Unless he called you from a telephone in the lobby?”
“He said he was in his room.” She hesitated. “You said he checked out this morning? What time was that?”
“Shortly before ten, madame.”
“And what time is it there now?”
“It is 4:45 P.M. , madame.”
Mitchell had left the hotel almost seven hours earlier. Willy hesitated again, then asked, “I’m calling from New York with a message for his wife. Was Mrs. Faber with him, or did she go ahead to Toledo?”
“We have no record of a Mrs. Faber.”
She thanked him and hung up. Back to the Internet for more information, then back to the telephone to dial another endless series of numbers. When she was connected to the Hotel Domenico in Toledo, she had trouble communicating with the man on the other end of the line, and finally succeeded in replacing him with a hotel employee
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