What She Saw Read online

  Lana guesses the age difference at maybe thirteen years. Not so wide when viewed from thirty-five, but she wasn’t so locked out of reality as not to realize that what she saw and what he saw were very different things. What a chasm thirteen years must seem from the point of view of immortal twenty-two or whatever, even though in her teens and early twenties she hadn’t given any guy under thirty a second glance. But it was different for girls, wasn’t it? Some of those names and faces suddenly come bouncing back, Jesus no! and she tries to refocus on now, this moment, on the bellhop’s ass exiting the elevator—Lana wants to give him a name . . . Laurent? . . . Vincent? . . . Laurent—managing to look desirable even while rolling a bellman cart on which only a tan duffel sits, deflated and lonely. But Laurent makes it seem somehow important, as if the little bag could not have been transported any other way.

  He unlocks 511, leads her in, sets down the bag, and, in what to Lana becomes a kind of dance accompanied by a purring monologue in that kissable voice, describes the art nouveau influence on the interior design. Lana pays little attention to the detail, enjoying instead the music and choreography of the performance. Why it is that even young French men have oozing, cello-like voices, never that hectoring insistent American horn blast: Brian on the phone braying to his pals about the latest Seahawks game. “He’s a super-intense guy and hey! I’m all over that . . . he’s gotta learn to channel that competitiveness! . . . The whole four-quarter-total-commitment thing . . .”

  Laurent has so transported her that he is already saying “Bonne soirée, Madame,” and opening the room door on his way out when she realizes she hasn’t offered a tip. It’s amusing how her sudden apologetic cry and scramble for her purse, the possibly gross generosity of the offering—Lana doesn’t notice what number is on the euro note she grabs and presses into his soft hand—are acknowledged with nothing more than polite equanimity. Merely his due, is that what he is thinking?

  Lana misses him when he is gone and suddenly needs a cigarette, so, as a distraction, she directs her attention very deliberately back to Brian.

  It would be only kind to let her husband know where she is, rather than leave him mystified, but he’s still at work now and never appreciates being interrupted. When he arrives back to the very comfortable Edwardian house the company had sourced for them on Dublin’s north coast, her absence won’t be an immediate red flag, but if he calls and gets her voicemail several times, he might become concerned enough to make a “casual” call to their two Dublin friends, hoping she’d be with them, trying not to reveal the stress that Lana knows will have already begun to throb along his shoulders and up his neck.

  To be fair, Brian was not the kind who would immediately jump to the worst-case scenario, although he had been picking up on and getting more anxious about her mood in the last day or two. Lana had felt the drag of his uneasy attention. He’d asked if she was worried at all at how long this “current phase” was lasting, and she was definitely taking her meds every day, wasn’t she?

  Does he have any idea how condescending his concerned smile looks? What about his own obsession with his work? Doesn’t he ever think that’s “excessive,” that it needs “taking in hand”? Maybe he needs some meds to help sort out that fever. After all, it’s the thing that occupies most of his waking hours and it was certainly what had uprooted them from Seattle to Ireland, whether she’d wanted to make the move or not. Actually she had very much liked the idea, the suddenness and freshness of it, but that was not the point. If Lana had refused to fall in with his plan—the complex sideways-upward career trajectory that involved fixing whatever was wrong at Dublin HQ, before triumphantly returning to Seattle and a certain promotion in six months or so—how would Brian have handled that? Lana knows exactly how: he would have nodded sadly, but resignedly, as if accepting her decision, then the pinpricking campaign would have begun, him scratching and hinting and nudging and nagging until he’d have gotten his way, somehow. That’s as much a mania as hers is, isn’t it? So Lana Turner thinks, let him suck it up for a few hours, let him stress about her, it’ll do him good. Meantime, she’ll get on with it, shower, change, go to the exhibition, and call him afterward, or—yes, better—just text him.

  6 PM

  Fifteen minutes later, with her mind mostly on Hopper, Lana Turner still can’t resist drifting across the lobby before exiting the hotel, drawn like a pig to a truffle toward the private elevator, hoping, though not believing, that this time there’ll be some action. And yesss, there is. A slight-framed guy is standing waiting for the doors to open. His back is to her and it is definitely not the back she had seen earlier. This suit is a different cut and color, and it’s much, much cheaper. Lana finds herself speeding up, trying to time it so that she will pass close by as the guy enters and turns. Just to get a nice close look at his face. The elevator doors ping open. He steps in. Lana accelerates, enjoying the ridiculously pointless rush of it all; the doors start to close and the guy turns and—something trips her. She stumbles forward. After several hotel guests converge to help her up and she assures them “It’s okay, thank you, I’m fine, really, just a bit embarrassed that’s all. How stupid of me!” the possibility occurs to her that it had been someone, not something, that had tripped her. She even asks herself if it is one of these concerned ones, then in a gap between the solicitous faces Lana notices an arm a shoulder and a big ear, a very big ear, protruding from a nearby high-backed armchair. This guy had not leapt to her aid, nor even stood to see what the fuss was about. She had passed close by that armchair on her impulsive dash toward the private elevator. Could this guy have stuck out a foot and caught her? Yes, but why would he have?

  As Lana moves away, she can’t resist choosing a moment to glance back casually, but the face is hidden behind today’s edition of Le Monde.

  7 PM

  Ferdie was gleeful. It was fun fitting Vallette’s face to the body of the guy on all fours being fucked, then to the guy over him, thrusting, then back to the first option. The guy being fucked was definitely the better choice and technically the match looked pretty seamless. But the expression on Vallette’s face in the photo he was using wasn’t as hilarious as it should be. It needed to have more of that squinting disapproval that, Christ knows, Ferdie had seen often enough. It was just a matter of trawling through his gallery of Vallette head shots for one with just such a demeaning expression. But there was no time because he saw Monsieur Fournier approach the car and had to quickly power down his laptop and slip it under his own seat. The Photoshop efforts were very much for his own vulgar amusement, and he knew his employer wouldn’t smile on them.

  He hopped out to open the rear door and, listening to Monsieur Fournier’s side of the phone conversation, understood that he was talking to Vallette. It pleased him that his boss’s mouth traced a familiar smirk and his tone was sarcastic.

  “So is the plan to assault any hotel guest who passes near the elevator? . . . Yes, yes, Arnaud, I understand completely how careful we must be, but let’s also be careful not to create drama where there is none.”

  An hour ago, Ferdie had just stepped out of the elevator at the Suite Imperial for a final check when Vallette had phoned, barking at him to stay where he was until he came to him. Then he was subjected to an interrogation. Was he aware that he was being followed? No, in fact, Ferdie was fully aware that he was not being followed. Really? What about an American woman, blond, thirties? Ferdie was certain there was no such woman following him.

  He turned onto boulevard Sebastopol and inched along in the rush-hour madness, which he never minded because it gave him more time to enjoy the regular sidelong glances from other drivers at his 1970 DS21; looks of fascination and envy for the classic favorite. Four years ago, when he interviewed for the job and was shown the car, he would have accepted any salary to be allowed to drive the black beauty with its sun-bouncing silver roof. Fortunately, Monsieur Fournier’s rates were also generous. And the perfect threesome he had enjoyed with car and boss
continued until the campaign made Vallette a much more oppressive daily presence. So it was a pleasure now to hear the master bring the overprotective guard dog under control; a double pleasure, because at the same moment he saw two heads in a brand new Citroën in the next lane turn and gaze with affectionate nostalgia.

  “If you think it’s worthwhile, Arnaud, then of course. And where is she now? . . . Really? How amusing, hm? . . . Well, an American comes to Paris and what does she want to see? An exhibition by an American artist . . . Frankly, unless your men would appreciate seeing Monsieur Hopper I don’t see any need . . . It does seem obvious that she’s just a tourist, yes?”

  Back at the hotel, Vallette had claimed this woman “had been observed” pursuing him as he entered the elevator. He had made it sound like a catastrophe had been averted and didn’t seem to feel any explanation was necessary as to why some American woman should have Ferdie under surveillance.

  “If Oscar had not taken action she would probably have reached the elevator before the doors closed. What then?”

  What “action” had Oscar taken? Ferdie did not know. More important, why had he been hanging around there at all? The answer to that one was clear. Vallette’s instructions.

  Then Vallette had done that infuriating thing he always did: repeat the question in precisely the same tone, like it was a recording on a loop, while never, not once, looking directly at Ferdie.

  “Well . . . what then?”

  “If some strange woman hopped into the elevator? I’d have stopped her, of course. Pressed the emergency stop if I’d had to, explained to her that she’d made a mistake and allowed her to exit. This woman was probably a tourist who thought it was just another normal elevator she could use.”

  Ferdie couldn’t have cared less about what sounded like a farcical incident, but it had alerted him to a much more important matter. He had to stop Vallette from monitoring the elevator to the Suite Imperial. He didn’t want any complications when he brought Caramel Girl to the party later.

  “Anyway, we’ll soon find out more. Oscar and Marcel are tailing her.”

  Ferdie had wanted to sneer openly at the lunacy of Vallette’s favorite meatheads wasting time following some American tourist, but he held back. Confrontation now would not be useful. He wanted Vallette reined in, at least for tonight, and there was only one person who could quietly make that happen. Monsieur Fournier would have to persuade him or instruct him to back off. To encourage this, Ferdie reported the incident to his boss as an amusing anecdote while planting the idea that Vallette’s approach was mildly embarrassing, just a touch heavy-handed in the circumstances. Was indiscreet too strong a word? These he knew were grievous errors in Monsieur Fournier’s playbook.

  “But Arnaud, Arnaud, listen to me, tonight, Arnaud, let’s keep all security away from the hotel interior . . . Yes, yes, I understand, but nevertheless.”

  Ferdie stalled at a red, tense now. Vallette was arguing back as usual. Would he have his way after all?

  “No, no, no . . . Yes, call it that if you wish. Adamant is a good word, Arnaud . . . Do I need to . . . ? Very well, my view is that such an arrangement seems a little indiscreet . . .”

  Ferdie tingled when he heard his boss echo his exact word, with emphasis.

  “Please, Arnaud. Let’s not talk in terms of orders and instructions. Say it is my wish.”

  How many times had Ferdie heard Vallette push and push like this? And how many times had Monsieur Fournier rolled over? But it seemed not this time. “Outside the hotel is sufficient . . .”

  For once, Ferdie wasn’t impatient for the lights to change. He was happy to sit and eavesdrop.

  “Naturally if there is some development with the American lady, that would change everything, but I don’t seriously foresee a difficulty there, do you? I think we are in agreement on that at least.”

  Monsieur Fournier clicked off. He sighed. It seemed like everything was all right, but Ferdie looked in the rearview eager for confirmation. Say something!

  “Ah, Ferdinand.”

  “Monsieur?”

  “The light is green.”

  LANA CANNOT BELIEVE HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE WAITING IN LINE, CREATING a wide human spiral. The evening is mellow orange, but she has no intention of hanging around outside for what might be an hour or more. This could never happen back in Seattle, where fifty thousand of Brian’s too easily earned tax-deductible dollars had bought the Gibsons their coveted Gold Circle status at Seattle Opera, with free tickets to dress rehearsals and an invitation for two to the “intimate” director’s salon, where they could “mingle with the artists while enjoying cocktails.” All this and heaven too: season-long access to the Norcliffe Room, complimentary valet parking, and so on and so on and so on.

  But she is not in Seattle now and she knows the long lines will be here tomorrow too, probably even longer on a Saturday, so she puts the brake on her impatience and steps through the first barrier. The young attendant looks at her Internet ticket printout, smiles, points, and explains something. Lana understands enough to work out that the girl seems to be sending her to a different line. But of course. The French would never be satisfied with one line when they could create several. The good news is that this second one, reserved for online bookers, is much shorter. The great spiral is for the losers paying cash at the entrance. A phrase floats into Lana’s mind: “In the famous French triad of values, Egalité is the most abused.” Then, remembering who had said that to her, her smile disappears. Nathan. This is precisely the memory of Paris she wants—needs—to avoid on this trip. At all costs. She finds distraction in the discovery that there is a line even more privileged than hers. The third, reserved for holders of something called Sesame Pass, is scarcely a line at all. Mostly these lucky patrons just drift in without having to wait. Almost all are women of a certain age, their lines and wrinkles complementing their air of grace. It helps that they all seem to be an enviable size six. Several arrive at the same time and fall into seemingly spontaneous conclave, which soon takes on the rhythm and intensity of an enthusiastic seminar. Lana figures they can’t all be university lecturers or art critics, although they sure as hell come off like they are. But their anticipation of the pleasure ahead seems genuine.

  Her own line shrinks quickly: fifty, twenty-five, fifteen. Lana is cold now, darkness is falling fast, and she has no energy left to be interested in either the privileged enthusiasts on one side, or the slow-shuffling herd on the other. Her only desire at this point is to get to those Hoppers. When the attendant finally waves her group on, she springs forward, a culture hound in full cry.

  Lana realizes very quickly that the exhibition is more extensive and complex than she’d anticipated. The first display is an old black-and-white newsreel of 1921 Manhattan’s heaving streets projected on a wall of a darkened room. Lana scans it very quickly; the world of Hopper, urban America, yeah yeah yeah. She pushes on, bundling through the gawking crowd, past painfully worthy early efforts from Hopper’s Paris years. Moving right along. She flashes through a roomful of etchings, though their long-shadowed gloom carries a certain temptation, but Lana is clear about what she wants to see and has no intention of falling in with the exhibition’s carefully structured narrative of Hopper’s slowly maturing style. Not for her. Not today, thank you. So she cuts a swathe through the milling, whispering crowds, floats past a giant slide show of Hopper’s work as a commercial artist for magazines, and skims a long line of East Coast watercolors, all the while wanting to scream, “Where are the Hoppers? The real Hoppers! Come on, curator! You know what everyone is here to see.”

  When they finally arrive, they do so with Christmas Day overabundance. Lana steps through an unassuming gap in a wall and is suddenly surrounded by the mother lode: images as familiar as home and secret as memory.

  Now, finally, Lana stops racing around. She even breathes more slowly, although her eyes can’t stop flicking around the treasure-filled room. Okay, here we are, settle now, she thinks, take your
time. A thick semicircle of heads draws her eye first and, peeking through, she’s not surprised to discover that they are gathered in front of Nighthawks. She negotiates a better view, but doesn’t stay long. Nor does she linger at another favorite, Gas. Sure, there’s the joyous tickle of recognition, the intake of breath at the solidity of its close presence, the texture of the paint itself so tangible. But then after no more than a few moments Lana just moves on, without quite understanding why, until she comes to Compartment C Car 293 and loses herself. It can only be the woman’s story that holds her: who is she, where is she going dressed in black on that late evening train? What’s she reading? And thinking, her eyes hidden behind the brim of her black hat. Above all, Lana would love to know why she’s alone.

  Reluctantly, she tugs herself away, because she spots another favorite, Office by Night. A young woman is removing papers from a filing cabinet while glancing toward a man at his desk. There is such an undercurrent of longing in the young woman, as if she’s wishing and hoping the man would give her the same attention he seems to be giving the document. Now, so close to the original, Lana notices detail that had never struck her before: how moistly scarlet the little smudge of lipstick glows amid the gloomy browns and subdued greens and creams of the cheap little office. The young woman’s voluptuous bottom seems even more so, and the downturned eyes scream even louder of loyalty tormented by lonely desire. Working late, always there for him, waiting, waiting, waiting. For what?