There definitely was a bee in this skinny, funny-eyed woman's bonnet.
Aimee heard noises from the hallway.
An expression of alarm crossed the woman's face. She was scared, Aimee knew that much. The woman bolted from her chair.
'You explain it to him!' she said, striding to the door.
Cold fear of the unknown coursed through Aimee's veins. Now she wished she'd brought Rene as backup.
The door shot open. A tall man with dark stubble shading his skull wheeled in a dolly piled high with boxes. His pinstriped suit showed behind the top of the cardboard boxes.
'Just got back,' he said. He called to the woman, 'There's more in the car.'
She moved quickly. 'You deal with her,' she said, then she was gone.
The man heaved the boxes with a grunt, set them down, then noticed Aimee. His tan, hard-lined face contrasted with his bright, sharp turquoise eyes. He picked a plastic-cased video from the box, tossed it at her, and began stacking a pile of videos in the corner.
Aimee read the blurb inside the clear plastic: 'It's all here, see the TRUTH, visit what they call a 'death camp' and see the hoax that has been perpetuated for fifty years.'
'Impressive!' she said.
He turned around and took her in with one look.
She blanched. SS lightning bolts were tattooed bracelet-like around his wrist.
'We discuss ideal art forms, comparing today's degenerate art and exposing myths in twentieth-century philosophy like the fallacy of death camps.' He pointed to a poster in front of her.
She pretended to study the slogan on the poster: 'Guidelines to recognize Zionist tentacles in literature!'
He stretched his arm out and jabbed at it, pantomiming shooting up with a needle. 'Our bodies are Aryan temples and we don't do dope.' His icy turquoise eyes never left her face.
He didn't miss a beat, she thought. And he was scarier than the wandering-eyed receptionist. 'No problem, I'm clean, really clean,' she said too earnestly.
'Who are you?'
She shrugged. 'That's something I wonder about, too.'
'Where are they?' he said.
'Not ready.' She panicked. What were they expecting? What if the real messenger arrived while she was talking?
The phone rang on the desk behind him and he picked it up. He turned away from her, scribbling on a note pad.
If that was someone calling about her supposed item she was in big trouble. She began studying the pamphlets in the racks along the wall, edging towards the door, as he spoke into the phone. She was almost at the door when he slammed the phone down.
'Not so fast,' he said. 'Take these with you,' he said, handing her a bunch of videos. He seemed more relaxed. 'It's been rearranged. Bring them to our Saturday meeting. At Montgallet, upstairs from the ClicClac video.'
He appeared almost amiable now. Her card read 'Luna of Soundgarden, Events Producer/Performance Sound, Les Halles.' It was one she had picked from her alias file.
Theatrically he dusted his hands off, then reached for his. As they exchanged cards she noticed his hands were ice cold. His card read 'Thierry Rambuteau, DocuProductions' with a short list of phone/fax/E-mail addresses and numbers.
Loud shouts erupted from the hallway. At the sounds of breaking glass and scuffling she gripped the brass knuckles deep in her leather jacket pocket. Thierry's face remained masklike as raucous laughter echoed in the outer hallway. He herded her towards the door.
'Stay and talk after our meeting, Luna,' he said, his tone changed. Warmth shone from his blue eyes. 'Our cause will change your life. It changed mine.'
Fat chance, she wanted to say. Outside the door, shards of glass sprinkled the parquet hallway flooring. There was no trace of anyone, but the bathroom door opposite stood slightly ajar.
She emerged into the sunlight on Avenue Jean Jaures, curious to know what had happened but glad to leave. What was going on?
She waited ten minutes then retraced her steps into the building. Silence. A citrus scent lingered in the hallway. The glass had been swept up and the door to Les Blancs Nationaux had been padlocked.
Had Thierry Rambuteau discovered Aimee wasn't who the skinny woman with the wandering eye took her to be? What if he'd played along? She could find out if Morbier helped her.
She'd left Lili Stein's cedar-smelling coat in a locker at the station, intending to drop in at the cleaner's. Now she put it on, tired of the reactions of others in the Metro.
She thought about Lili Stein and her own mother. The mother whose face remained blurry, hovering dimly on the outskirts of memory. She put her arms around the coat that covered her tattoos and black leather. 'Maman,' she whispered quietly, hugging the coat to her body.
'SARAH!' A HIGH-PITCHED GIGGLING voice came from behind her.
The old woman stopped, half smiling, and turned around. Too late she realized a group of young girls were talking to each other, not to her. No one had called her that for fifty years. Why had she turned after all this time?
She reached the corner and stood in front of reflecting shop windows. And for the first time in a long time, she took a good look at the way she appeared to the world. Staring back at her was a sixty-five-year-old woman, a thin, lined face with strong cheekbones, and full shopping bags between her feet. She didn't see any sign of the Sarah she used to be.
She stopped for a cafe au lait on Boulevard Voltaire across from Tati, the cut-rate store. Above the espresso machine hung a gilt mirror framed by smudged business cards and old lotto stubs.
Marie, the pudgy, aproned proprietress, sucked in her breath and asked her, 'You made it to Monoprix's big sale, eh?'
Sarah nodded.
Marie shook her head approvingly as she wiped the counter. 'I want to go before it's too late; it's only once a year. Much left?'
Sarah managed a tired smile as she adjusted the scarf over her forehead. 'I couldn't make it up to the fourth floor, too jammed, but housewares still had quite a bit, people hadn't started fighting yet.'
'Ah,' Marie sighed, 'that's a good sign.' She moved to wash some glasses near the end of the counter.
Sarah pulled a newspaper from the rack. Her bursitis ached and she knew that it would be too hard to get up again if she sat down. She'd enjoy her coffee standing, not to mention the francs she'd save by not sitting at a table.
She glanced at
Suddenly, her cup fell from her fingers and cafe au lait splashed all over the zinc counter. Staring at her was a face she knew.
How could it be? She pulled her reading glasses from her purse and stared at the photo. The nose was different but the eyes were the same. Then, taking a pen from her purse, she colored the white hair black. She couldn't believe it. Wasn't he long dead? Unconsciously, she began to shake and gasped shallowly for air.
'
