The Same River Twice by Ted Mooney Page A

brigade fluviale
was ticketing a small outboard that had been sprinting up and down through traffic, leaving the other boats tossing in its wake. As Odile watched, a Welsh terrier jumped from the outboard into the police boat and viciously attacked the warrant officer’s trouser cuff.
    Since returning from Moscow, she had been visited repeatedly by an old notion, an idea about herself dating from adolescence. It had then been her private conviction that, under circumstances only marginally different from those in which she found herself, she would renounce the world and its ten thousand excruciations, she would retreat into solitude and live her life as an ascetic. Yet religion had held no interest for her then or now, she didn’t even consider self-denial a virtue. She had only noted, with youth’s cruel eye, that she possessed the capacity for it. It was a choice among many, and meant that another life was possible for her. But now she wondered whether she hadn’t overestimated her own freedom to make such decisions. Perhaps it was just an illusion.
    Below, Groot started his saw, and the shriek of metal cutting metal set the deck vibrating. A smell of burn wafted up. The air had grown chilly. She stood and gathered her things.
    After calling down the companionway to tell the others she was leaving, Odile descended the
Nachtvlinder
’s gangplank to the packed-sand quai where the boat was docked. Stone steps led back up to the street. She decided to walk home.
    Leather jackets in burgundy and black, pleated silk trousers, crocodile shoes and cowboy boots: Odile identified the two men waiting on the sidewalk as Russian even before she realized they were waiting for her. The burlier one, his head shaved and the rim of one ear studded with tiny gold rings, regarded her with an alertness that struck Odile as professional.
    The other man was tall and finely featured, with a wolfish smile. “You are Odile Mével,” he said to her in French. “True?”
    She made a lunge, trying to get around them, but the burly one easily caught her.
    “A most economical answer,” said the taller man. “Unfortunately, certain events, developments, et cetera make it necessary we talk with you in private.” He flashed a police badge at her. “Now is convenient?”
    She inhaled deeply, but before she could call for help the other man clapped a thick hand across her mouth.
    “Good. We talk in my car. Is more discreet.”
    Parked behind them, two wheels up on the curb, was a black sedan of Bavarian make. The burly man wrestled Odile into the backseat, and his employer, as she now judged him to be, slid in beside her. The door slammed shut, and the other man got behind the wheel, started up the car, and pulled out into traffic. At close quarters he smelled very bad.
    “Okay, this is the deal,” said the tall man. “You have involved yourself in transborder activities of highly criminal nature. The details are known. My office takes an interest. Maybe I find extenuating circumstances, maybe not. This is up to you.”
    Odile grabbed at the door handle on her side. It was locked. “Why do you pretend to be police?” she demanded. “Show me your badge again.”
    The man examined her closely for a moment, then laughed. “Police, fireman, garbage inspector—who gives a shit? Actually, I am in import-export business like you.”
    Odile sat facing forward, her arms folded across her chest.
    “Understand: my interest in Soviet memorabilia is extremely limited—nonexistent, I would say. But in Russia to export such things is serious crime—life sentence recommended. You may find it more desirable to talk to me than Interpol, but I leave this decision also to you.”
    He produced a pack of cigarettes and lit one, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. After a couple of long, thoughtful drags, he turned to her. “My question is this: where and when, please, did you last see the man called Thierry Colin?”
    Odile stared at him in