VI
Riding along in the taxi, Oliver was already focused on other things. “Do you know anything about dementia?”
“Not much.” Will shrugged, relieved that they wouldn’t be talking about Zoya.
“As you’ll recall, I asked Ned’s friends, the jazz boys, to keep an eye out for her. Well, they found her, or rather the hotel owner did and called them up. Apparently Ned was discovered lying in the common bathtub at the end of the hallway talking incoherent gibberish. The woman said she is sounding completely bonkers. Ned, I mean, not the hotel owner. Actually, the whole thing is a bit loony. First Boris and now this, well, one doesn’t need to be paranoid…”
As the cab took them over the river and they headed up toward the Latin Quarter, Will tried to recall all that had happened over the past week. If these really were the last days he would spend in France, it was quite a way to go. Paris had always provided more than he could hope for: from afternoons spent walking in the Parc Monceau to evenings with hot beef bourguignon to nights with curvaceous brunettes taking off their cotton slips in his apartment, the city had given generously. Now, though, he was experiencing bewildering new dimensions of life here, far beyond anything he had ever imagined.
He had read somewhere about how reporters during the wars grew addicted to the intense, chaotic drama inherent to battle and once peacetime arrived these journalists slowly lost their minds amid the quiet and solitude, eventually throwing themselves out of windows in the capital cities where they’d been covering various slothful legislatures with their various voluminous farm bills. Will wondered if, once he returned to America, life in those quiet suburbs of Detroit might drive him mad too. After all, once you’ve raced through the streets of Paris rushing from a sweet, sexy Russian valentine to a delirious lesbian double agent, backyard barbecues might lose their charm.
A block off the river, they pulled up in front of the hotel, a run-down-looking four-story building. There was no sign. “This is the Arc Hotel?”
“Afraid so,” said Oliver, handing the cabbie some francs.
Inside the small lobby, they found Red waiting. The musician filled them in as he led them up the stairs. “She has been going nonstop like a broken record. I thought one of the jokers staying here might have slipped her something, but the lady says Ned only came in yesterday and didn’t talk with any of her neighbors.” Red pushed open the door to the small hotel room. “Take a look.”
Inside, the small woman lay on the bed, curled up tightly in the fetal position, her eyes wide open. Flats was sitting beside her, holding her hand. The only sound in the room was her rattling on in a raspy voice, the words barely discernible. Flats got up and Oliver gingerly sat down on the edge of the bed and, leaning over, put his ear to her mouth.
For the next fifteen minutes, none of the men said a word as Oliver sat listening. Other than Ned’s noises, the room was as quiet as a Quaker meeting. Finally, Oliver sat up, shaking his head. “I don’t know why, but I had imagined she would be more lucid.”
“She was talking better earlier, clearer anyway, though it still didn’t make any sense,” said Flats. “It’s probably worse ’cause she’s tired now. It’s like she’s stuck under some spooky spell.”
“No need to be superstitious,” said Oliver, getting up. “There’s always a logical explanation.” He began poking around the room, opening the bureau drawers and digging into her pockets. In her small black purse he found some business cards. Will noticed him discreetly tuck one into his vest. “Has a doctor been called?”
“We were waiting for you.”
“Why was that?” asked Oliver.
“Well, if the doctor came and took her away we felt there was a solid possibility you wouldn’t pay us what you promised.”
Oliver grinned, took out his wallet, and started counting out bills. “My, my, Red. I’m sorry you ever doubted my word. I thought we were friends.”
“Yes,” Red said, taking the cash. “You are my friend, Oliver, that is true fact. A hundred percent. But that is only one thing you are. And I was raised never to trust white people, and never to trust rich people, which is another two things you happen to be.”
“Oh, you overestimate me.” Oliver smiled. “But I suppose you do make some sort of anthropological sense.” He looked at the woman lying on the bed. “In any case, there’s probably no harm done. She seems beyond any doctor’s abilities. Maybe a shot of adrenaline would wake her up. Any idea where we could find some?”
The black men shook their heads. Oliver got out his fountain pen and wrote an address down. “Okay, well, let’s try this. Since all our accounts are now squared, ask the manager to let you use the phone and call this number for an ambulance. Ask for Jerry, he can take her to the American Hospital over in Neuilly.”
Oliver gave Ned’s curled-up body a pat, then put on his hat and headed out the door. Trailing down the stairs after Oliver, Will suddenly felt like a young, earnest Dr. Watson scrambling behind a distracted Sherlock Holmes. Will had loved those detective stories as a boy, but he realized there was one significant difference: Holmes’s cases always involved a single mystery that he plucked apart with logic, grace, and wit, whereas Oliver never solved anything, each riddle only perpetuating deeper ones, which he clumsily fumbled at until they all came down on both their heads like piles of hatboxes tumbling off some great armoire. It was annoying.
As he reached the street, he saw Oliver striding fast down the block, past the busy sidewalk cafes and bars. Will ran to catch up.
“What’s the hurry?” asked Will.
“I have an appointment.”
“An appointment?”
“Well, a date actually.”
“Really?” Will was confused, there was still so much to sort out. “But—”
Oliver spun around sharply. “But
“No, that’s not what I meant at all,” said Will, slightly taken aback. “I was only thinking maybe we should sit down somewhere and talk about Ned. And Boris. And that file the Russian embassy has. And my knife. There’s a whole host of problems we have to sort out, Oliver. Especially since Brandon and his boys are not going to go away.”
“Oh yes,” Oliver said, quickly softening his tone. “I apologize. Don’t worry, we’ll attend to all that tomorrow, first thing. I can’t do it now, I’ve got to attend to my other responsibility, that poor, long-suffering little journal of mine.”
“I thought you just said you were going on a date?”
“Not a very romantic one. The woman has both the thickest ankles and the most equine features you’ve ever seen, but she does know a few writers I need to meet. I’d put it off if I could, but I can’t. Come by my place first thing tomorrow. I have a few notions on our case that I think will interest you.”
Will shook his head. “I can’t come by tomorrow, I’ve been out of the office too much.”
“Well, then, we’ll find some opportunity to catch up over the next few days, and in the meantime I’ll do some poking around on my own. For now you’ll have to excuse me. I would offer to share a cab, but I’m sure we’re going in very different directions.”
With that, Oliver gave him a small smile, jumped into a taxi and was off, leaving Will once again bobbing in his wake. This pattern was growing absurd. Will looked at his watch. He had told Zoya he would come after dinner, and it didn’t seem right to show up early. So, feeling a bit stranded, he wandered down to rue Monge and found a bistro where he ate a pile of moules marinieres and drank a half carafe.
Afterward he hailed a taxi and gave the driver Zoya’s address. As the cab took him toward Pigalle, Will thought about Oliver’s last little outburst. It had only been a quick flash, but Oliver had seemed honestly hurt, angry, and almost human there for a moment. Will smiled to himself, it had been a refreshing sight.
When the cab finally pulled up in front of Zoya’s building, Will was a little taken aback. The hotel made Ned’s seedy Arc Hotel seem luxurious by comparison. He walked in and saw the clerk fast asleep at the front desk. Will looked down to double-check the address written there and found the room number, 5A. The elevator was out
