granite cliffs and the glittering green sea, and wished there was someone she could ask for advice. The afternoon at the Villa Rothschild had passed like a hazy waking dream. Johann had paid the admission fee for the three of them, and they had walked through the Japanese garden beyond the pink
The exotic themed gardens-nine in all-that surrounded the former home of the Baroness Ephrussi de Rothschild were trained into the form of a vast land liner that crested the out-crop of land. To complete this illusion, they had once been crewed by twenty gardeners in white sailors’ outfits with red pompom hats. The place was absurd, vulgar, ostentatious and beautiful, filled with grottoes and pergolas, temples and waterfalls. Tall pines and cypress trees, ancient agaves and tunnels of bamboo fended off the glare of the low afternoon sun, hemming the cadenced emerald lawns in jewelled shadows that crossed the grass like a rising tide. The cicadas all ceased at the same moment, leaving only the sound of sea wind in the treetops.
She had looked across at Johann and found him staring at the pulsing fountains, lost in thought. His eyes were deep and dark, set close to his brow, as serious as a statue’s. If he realised she was studying him, he gave her no sign of it. They walked beside each other as Ryan ran ahead, but the silence between them was far from easy. “Come.” He smiled. “There is a gift shop. I will buy you some postcards of the beautiful gardens, for you to remember me whenever you look at them.”
He knew she was watching, but was careful not to show emotion. It was important to make her understand that he was a gentleman, and that meant being in control. He had not felt like this around a woman before. Madeline was unlike any of the girls he knew from the villages. He saw things in her eyes none of the others had, strength and grace and acquiescence. She had made mistakes and overcome hardships, but there was nothing of his mother about her, only kindness.
Most importantly, she was ready for him. He had never been close to anyone since he was a child, but he knew how to make himself appealing. It was as much about hiding bad traits as displaying good ones, and essentially, she could not learn of his predisposition towards breaking the law, which meant arranging their conversations in such a way that she would see nothing wrong.
If he managed to keep up the subterfuge, he wondered if there was a chance that she might become more than just a conquest. Her pale skin had tanned down, drawing out freckles, even in the days since he had been watching her. He had seen the full repertoire of her wardrobe now: one summer dress, a couple of T-shirts and a pair of faded jeans. He wanted to hold her, to reassure her that life could be good once again. In turn, he knew she would not disappoint him. He looked up into the sunswept sky and tasted salt, felt cool sea breezes in his hair. If he was to do this, to finally get close with a woman and share his life and his secrets, it meant hiding them for a while longer.
He was not sophisticated when it came to the subtleties of expressing affection, but he had seen films and watched enough television to provide passable imitations of various emotional states. The next evening, he asked her back to his room for a drink, but when she made an excuse and shied away, he realised he had made a mistake. It was too soon to exclude the boy from a meeting. Persisting, he invited the pair of them to join him for a pizza-it was a Sunday night, and there was nowhere else open in the village-and she accepted, although she insisted on paying her share of the bill. She was determined not to owe him anything.
The conversation was easier to control when Ryan was seated there between them. He could deflect her questions and ask something about the kid. The challenge would come, he knew, when they finally met
On Monday night it rained, and Mme Funes offered to take Ryan along with her sons to see an animated movie playing in English at the little side-street cinema in Beaulieu.
It could have been the night for him to make his move, but he resisted. Instead, he took them both to Monte Carlo.
9
The statue was of a man in a tall top hat with a bird on his arm.
Given its spectacular setting, it was a surprisingly modest and slightly ridiculous monument. Flags covered with red and white harlequin diamonds hung from either side of Monte Carlo’s slender square, and parades of
Madeline looked on in awe as a pair of angular fashion models in white mink coats paraded before a crouching photographer.
“Don’t be fooled by all of this,” said Johann. “I read that the average resident here has seven bank accounts, but you won’t see any of them around town. They’re up in the hills. This is just a display for tourists.”
But it was obvious to Madeline that Monte Carlo was geared to amusing thin white rich people. As she passed a silver Baby Bentley, its licence plate carrying the blue and white Monaco coat of arms, she felt herself shrinking into insignificance. The policemen looked like male models, and the streets were as clean as expensive restaurants. Down in the bay, elderly couples watched television on gleaming yachts in the world’s most expensive floating trailer park. This was Old Europe at its richest and creepiest, attracting serious wealth while simultaneously fish- eyeing the tourist classes, pocketing money while making you feel like a grateful nonentity.
Ryan had taken to holding their escort’s hand as they walked. Shafts of sunlight slanted between the green cliff peaks, tilting the town even further towards the sea.
“I don’t think this is my kind of place,” said Madeline, “I don’t feel comfortable here.”
“I like it.” Johann pointed up to the lampposts. “The cameras? Everything that happens here is filmed by the security system. There is no crime. They see everything.”
“I suppose that’s a good thing,” said Madeline doubtfully.
The cameras simultaneously protected and threatened. Johann liked that. They watched for petty crime and bad behaviour, but missed the fact that he had broken the law. It was the beauty of Europe; so many countries with different rules and moral codes, butted up against one another, and none of them communicating. Paradoxically, he felt safer here than anywhere else, knowing that the technology was more efficient than those who operated it.
“Let’s go back.” He took up the hands on either side of him and led them back to the underground car park where the shining floors squeaked and the walls played music.
She watched the passing lights through the windscreen as they passed out of town towards Cap-d’Ail. “What happened to your other car?” she asked, touching the polished dashboard of the silver Mercedes.
“There was a problem with the gearbox.” He did not take his eyes from the road. Ryan was asleep in the back.
“Really? It seemed fine to me.” She knew quite a bit about cars; Jack had always discussed his work with her. “Where did you get this?”
“My brother has a half share in a secondhand-car dealership. He lends me vehicles from time to time.” The lies came easily. They always had.
“I thought you said you were an only child, Johann.”
“I call him brother. Our family adopted him to raise as their own.”
“Does he live nearby?”
She was asking too many questions. Impatiently, he floored the car and allowed it to glide around the angle of the cliff road. “He is in Ventimiglia.”
“He must trust your driving ability.”
