“Thank you for showing me around.”
Marc slid his hand down her spine to the small of her back and turned her towards him. “The pleasure was mine.” Sophie didn’t move; she seemed too surprised. He took advantage of her indecision and kissed her. Her mouth was soft and she was obviously inexperienced, but she responded, letting him part her lips. He didn’t press his advantage, and when he pulled back, he saw the fleeting disappointment in her expression. It assured him that he was playing her completely right; he’d seen that look many times before and it had always led to success. He slid his business card into her hand and she recovered her composure. Sophie looked about to say something, but couldn’t find the words.
“Call me,” he said, letting go of her hand.
“I will.” She glanced at his card before tucking it into the pocket of her jeans. “Merci.” She looked reluctant to leave, turning towards Notre Dame, then back to him. “Will I see you again soon?”
He nodded. “Just call.”
She gave him once last searching look before she turned to go. He watched her cross the road, walking along the Seine to the Petit Pont. She glanced back twice and he stayed standing in front of the bookshop until she was nearly across the bridge, too far to see him clearly. Once she’d gone, he went to the left, heading back along the Seine. As he walked, he began to hear sirens. At first it was faint, but as he drew closer to the Pont du Carousel, he could see the cluster of vehicles and their flashing lights surrounding the Musée d’Orsay. He paused near a group of tourists, drawing his cigarette case from his jacket as he watched the scene and listened to their conversation.
A woman in the group waved to another approaching. “Oh my god! There you are! I thought you’d been inside!”
The new arrival gave the woman a hug. “No, we were just in line. The police will be there for ages.”
“Did they find them?”
“I think they’re still looking. I can’t believe we were there!”
Marc stiffened, then forced himself to relax. He lit his cigarette and replaced the case. He resumed his walk, turning away from the river to head back to the boulevard St. Germain. He should have listened to his instincts. He didn’t want to think about what might happen if they were caught. He felt for his phone in his inner jacket pocket, but it didn’t ring. He took it out, but there were no missed messages. Did the Girards get away?
Marc hated waiting.
Lingering had been out of the question, as had going to the office. He went home. Pacing had only satisfied him for so long even with a scotch to soften his worries. When his phone buzzed, he picked up on the first ring.
“Oui?”
“We’re calling from the marketing firm of...” trilled a female voice before he ended the call. He left the phone on the coffee table and went to the alcove where he stored his cello. He took out the case and laid it on the floor, removing the cello and its bow. He drew up a straight backed dining chair, tightening the bow and tuning the strings. The habitual action helped him to relax. He played a few chords and found himself segueing into Tchaikovsky’s Nocturne in D-minor. He rarely played it, preferring pieces with fewer memories attached, but it always came back to him when he felt uncertain.
His mother had suggested he learn the piece for the entrance exam to the Sorbonne. “It’s beautiful,” she’d said. As a musician herself, she’d know. He’d been halfway through a lengthy practice session for the exam, barely eighteen years old. The doorbell had rung, interrupting his practice. He remembered the lieutenant’s sympathetic eyes and heard the words he hadn’t ever wanted to hear.
“Your brother is dead.”
He played through the piece, but the memory persisted. He chose another, but the Tchaikovsky stayed in his mind. His bow faltered on the strings as his vision blurred and his shoulders sagged.
The phone
Marc slid his hand down her spine to the small of her back and turned her towards him. “The pleasure was mine.” Sophie didn’t move; she seemed too surprised. He took advantage of her indecision and kissed her. Her mouth was soft and she was obviously inexperienced, but she responded, letting him part her lips. He didn’t press his advantage, and when he pulled back, he saw the fleeting disappointment in her expression. It assured him that he was playing her completely right; he’d seen that look many times before and it had always led to success. He slid his business card into her hand and she recovered her composure. Sophie looked about to say something, but couldn’t find the words.
“Call me,” he said, letting go of her hand.
“I will.” She glanced at his card before tucking it into the pocket of her jeans. “Merci.” She looked reluctant to leave, turning towards Notre Dame, then back to him. “Will I see you again soon?”
He nodded. “Just call.”
She gave him once last searching look before she turned to go. He watched her cross the road, walking along the Seine to the Petit Pont. She glanced back twice and he stayed standing in front of the bookshop until she was nearly across the bridge, too far to see him clearly. Once she’d gone, he went to the left, heading back along the Seine. As he walked, he began to hear sirens. At first it was faint, but as he drew closer to the Pont du Carousel, he could see the cluster of vehicles and their flashing lights surrounding the Musée d’Orsay. He paused near a group of tourists, drawing his cigarette case from his jacket as he watched the scene and listened to their conversation.
A woman in the group waved to another approaching. “Oh my god! There you are! I thought you’d been inside!”
The new arrival gave the woman a hug. “No, we were just in line. The police will be there for ages.”
“Did they find them?”
“I think they’re still looking. I can’t believe we were there!”
Marc stiffened, then forced himself to relax. He lit his cigarette and replaced the case. He resumed his walk, turning away from the river to head back to the boulevard St. Germain. He should have listened to his instincts. He didn’t want to think about what might happen if they were caught. He felt for his phone in his inner jacket pocket, but it didn’t ring. He took it out, but there were no missed messages. Did the Girards get away?
Marc hated waiting.
Lingering had been out of the question, as had going to the office. He went home. Pacing had only satisfied him for so long even with a scotch to soften his worries. When his phone buzzed, he picked up on the first ring.
“Oui?”
“We’re calling from the marketing firm of...” trilled a female voice before he ended the call. He left the phone on the coffee table and went to the alcove where he stored his cello. He took out the case and laid it on the floor, removing the cello and its bow. He drew up a straight backed dining chair, tightening the bow and tuning the strings. The habitual action helped him to relax. He played a few chords and found himself segueing into Tchaikovsky’s Nocturne in D-minor. He rarely played it, preferring pieces with fewer memories attached, but it always came back to him when he felt uncertain.
His mother had suggested he learn the piece for the entrance exam to the Sorbonne. “It’s beautiful,” she’d said. As a musician herself, she’d know. He’d been halfway through a lengthy practice session for the exam, barely eighteen years old. The doorbell had rung, interrupting his practice. He remembered the lieutenant’s sympathetic eyes and heard the words he hadn’t ever wanted to hear.
“Your brother is dead.”
He played through the piece, but the memory persisted. He chose another, but the Tchaikovsky stayed in his mind. His bow faltered on the strings as his vision blurred and his shoulders sagged.
The phone
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