stormy. She had breached trusts; she had abandoned loyalties. Regardless of the extenuating circumstances, the bridges lay smoldering and in ruins. There just wasn’t anything else to say.
Payton left. They would never see each other again. There would never be any need to.
Mara reached up and absently touched the side of her face, the tips of her fingers tracing the silky surfaces of the tender, helical scars. Touching them, checking them, had become a habit. She was trying to break it. She was the only patron remaining in the cafe nearly half an hour later when the door from the Quai des Grands-Augustins opened again and Claude Corsier walked in. He was dressed like the most correct member of the Academie Francaise. He walked over and stood looking down at her. She was never self-conscious about the scars with Corsier. She always had the feeling that when he looked at her they disappeared. It was a way he had.
“Sit down, Claude.”
Corsier shook his head at a questioning waiter and sat down.
“I followed him for a while,” he said. “There was no one else.” He had kept his mustache and goatee. The look suited him.
“They’re walking away from it,” Mara said. “They’re not going to come after us. Your name never came up. It’s over.”
“My God.” Corsier gasped and sat back. He had been fatalistic about the outcome. In the three months since the explosion Corsier had been glum. He had gained little peace from his deliverance from Schrade. Too much-and too many-had been lost in the process.
The Swiss turned his face away to the street, and Mara studied his profile. Corsier had been horrified that he had allowed the Serb to deceive him about the precision of the explosives. He should have known better. And he was horrified that Skerlic had detonated both bombs, slaughtering Carrington Knight for no reason at all. What he had found most difficult to live with was that he himself had benefited enormously from Knight’s death. Knight was the only person who could have tied Corsier to the assassination. He had been the only unresolved flaw in Corsier’s plan, the one reason Corsier had resigned himself to being a fugitive for the rest of his life.
He had been lucky, but the price had been steep, and he would not pay it off in a lifetime.
Though Mara had been badly hurt, none of her wounds had been life threatening. Because the Schiele forgeries had been sitting on the bookcase countertop, above the level of the library table, and because Mara had been twice the distance from the explosion as Strand, the extra millisecond had given her time to react. The top of the heavy table had shielded her from the greater force of the blast. By the time an appalled Corsier had run across Carlos Place, Mara had already dragged Strand, bleeding badly, down to the first floor, away from the fire and smoke. Corsier had gotten them out the back door, into Mount Row, and away from the building as the crowds had begun to gather in the rain in Carlos Place.
“This is quite incredible,” he said, turning back to her.
“I think so, too. There were so many other possibilities.”
Corsier thought about it for a while, absorbing it. Then he sighed heavily. “I went to Rome,” he said. “Ariana had given quite a lot of money to Santa Maria del Priorato, near her home on the Aventine. The priory allowed an urn with her ashes to be placed in those lovely gardens there. It seems it was her request.”
He drummed his fingers on the table.
“She had drawn up legal papers to have her house converted to a residence for young Greek women who come to Rome to study art. She had set aside a large endowment for it, to be administered by a private university in Athens.”
He drummed his fingers on the table.
“I went to Santa Maria. The urn, of course, is beautiful.”
For the second time he turned to look out at the Seine and the Palais de Justice. The afternoon was quickly slipping away.
“My God, Mara, look at that light.”
They watched as the softening light stained the stone architecture and the slate roofs with tea rose and pale coralline. The shadows were turning dusty blue, poised for the deeper hues of dusk.
He turned to her.
“I am back in Geneva,” he said. “Back with my niece in the gallery.” He smiled. “It’s heaven.”
“Good, Claude. That’s good.”
“Come to see us, Mara. Let us hear from you. We must never lose touch. It would be a sad mistake.”
“I promise.”
“What will you be doing?”
“Staying on here for a while.”
“In Paris?”
She nodded, but offered no clarification. Corsier studied her a few moments.
“You know,” he said, choosing his words carefully, thoughtfully, “they say that a wise man will befriend the shadows that move into his life. They say that if he will embrace them and make them his companions, they will teach him how to live with his regrets.”
Mara said nothing. Then, suddenly, inexplicably, she felt her eyes moisten. She concentrated; she didn’t blink; she managed to stop it.
Corsier reached across the table and gently put his heavy, bearish hand on hers.
“Come to see us in Geneva.”
Mara was now alone in the empty cafe. It was finally over, and it had ended the way such things end, with a quiet conversation, a mundane and almost feckless dismissal of the extraordinary.
She stood and made her way out of the cafe just as the first few dinner-hour clientele began to trickle in and evening was settling over the Seine. She crossed the Quai des Grands-Augustins and walked slowly along the quayside toward the Pont St.-Michel. The lights of Paris were aglitter in the lilac air, and in the Seine the large bateaux mouches plied the approaching darkness, their swags of tiny lights sparkling doubly bright against the water.
She walked past the Pont St.-Michel and went on to the Petit Pont where she turned and started across the Seine. She was nearly to the other side when she saw him. He was waiting at the edge of the trees, leaning on his cane against the stone ramparts. He was watching her.
