cpatricia.blacknotice-第63节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


r　way　of　greeting　Talley　was　to　throw　her　hands　up　in　despair　and　chastise　him。
　　〃She's　accusing　me　of　staying　away　two　months　and　then　not　calling　before　I　e　in；〃　he　translated　for　me。
　　He　leaned　over　the　bar　and　kissed　her　on　both　cheeks　to　make　amends。　Regardless　of　how　crowded　the　café　was；　she　managed　to　fit　us　into　a　choice　corner　table　because　Talley　had　that　effect　on　people。　He　was　used　to　getting　what　he　wanted。　He　picked　out　a　Santenay　red　burgundy　since　he　remembered　I'd　told　him　how　much　I　liked　burgundies；　although　I　didn't　recall　when　I'd　said　that　or　if　I　really　had。　By　now　I　wasn't　sure　what　he　already　knew　and　what　he'd　gotten　directly　from　me。
　　〃Let's　see；〃　he　said；　scanning　the　menu。　〃I　highly　remend　the　Alsacienne　specialities。　But　to　start？　The　salade　de　gruyére…shaved　gruyere　that　looks　like　pasta　on　lettuce　and　tomato。　It's　filling；　though。〃
　　〃Maybe　that's　all　I'll　get；　then；〃　I　said；　with　no　appetite。
　　He　reached　inside　his　jacket　pocket　and　pulled　out　a　small　cigar　and　clipper。
　　〃Helps　me　cut　buck　on　cigarettes；〃　he　explained。　〃Would　you　like　one？〃
　　〃Everybody　in　France　smokes　too　much。　It's　time　I　quit　again；〃　I　said。
　　〃They're　very　good。〃　He　snipped　off　the　tip。　〃Dipped　in　sugar。　This　one's　vanilla；　but　I　also　have　cinnamon　and　sambuca。〃　He　fired　a　match。　〃But　I　like　the　vanilla　the　best。〃　He　puffed。　〃You　really　should　taste　this。〃
　　He　offered　it　to　me。
　　〃No；　thank　you；〃　…I　said。
　　〃I　order　them　from　a　wholesaler　in　Miami；〃　he　went　on；　flourishing　his　cigar　and　throwing　his　head　back　to　blow　out　smoke。　〃Cojimars。　Not　to　be　confused　with　Cohibas；　which　are　wonderful；　but　illegal　if　they're　Cuban　versus　those　made　in　the　Dominican　Republic。　Illegal　in　the　U。S。；　at　any　rate。　And　I　know　that　because　I'm　ATF。　Yes；　ma'am；　I　know　my　alcohol；　tobacco　and　firearms。〃
　　He　had　already　finished　his　first　glass　of　wine。
　　〃The　three　R's。　Running；　Running　and　Running。　Ever　heard　that？　They　teach　it　in　the　school　of　hard　knocks〃
　　He　refilled'his　glass　and　topped　off　mine。
　　〃If　I　came　back　to　the　States；　would　you　see　me　again？　For　the　sake　of　argument；　what　would　happen　if　I　transferred　。　。　。　let's　say；　back　to　Washington？〃
　　〃I　didn't　mean　to　do　this　to　you；〃　I　said。
　　Tears　touched　his　eyes　and　he　quickly　looked　away。
　　〃I　never　meant　to。　It's　my　fault；〃　I　softly　said。
　　〃Fault？〃　he　said。　〃Fault？　I　didn't　realize　there…was　fault　involved；　as　in　something　to　be　blamed。　As　in　a　mistake。〃
　　He　leaned　into　the　table　and　smiled　smugly；　as　if　he　were　a　detective　who'd　just　tripped　me　with　a　trick　question。
　　〃Fault。　Hmmm；〃　he　pondered；　blowing　smoke。
　　〃Jay；　you're　so　young；〃　I　said。　〃Someday　you'll　understand…〃
　　〃I　'can't　help　my　age。〃　He　interrupted　me　in　a　voice　that　caused　glances。
　　〃And　you　live　in　France；　for　God's　sake。〃
　　〃There　are　worse　places　to　live。〃
　　〃You　can　dance　around　words　all　you　want；　Jay；〃　I　said。　〃But　reality　always　has　its　way　with　people。〃
　　〃You're　sorry；　aren't　you？〃　He　leaned　back。　〃I　know　so　much　about　you；　and　then　I　go　and　do　something　as　stupid　as　that。〃
　　〃I　never　said　it　was　stupid。〃
　　〃It's　because　you　aren't　ready。〃
　　I　was　getting　upset；　too。
　　〃You　can't　possibly　know　if　I'm　ready　or　not　ready；〃　I　told　him　as　the　waiter　appeared　to　take　our'　order　and　then　discreetly　moved　on。　〃You　spend　far　too　much　time　in　my　mind　and　maybe　not　enough　in　your　own。〃
　　〃Okay。　Don't　worry。　I　won't　ever　try　to　anticipate　your　feelings　or　thoughts　again。〃
　　〃Ah。　Petulance；〃　I　replied。　〃At　last　you're　acting　your　age：'
　　His　eyes　flashed。　I　sipped　my　wine。　He'd　already　finished　another　glass。
　　〃I　deserve　respect；　too；〃　he　said。　〃I'm　not　a　child。　What　was　this　afternoon；　Kay？　Social　work？　Charity？　Sex　education？　Foster　care？〃
　　〃Maybe　we　shouldn't　talk　about　this　here；〃　I　suggested。
　　〃Or　maybe　you　just　used　me；〃　he　event　on。
　　〃I'm　too　old　for　you。　Please　lower　your　voice。〃
　　〃Old　is　my　mother；　my　aunt。　The　deaf　widow　who　lives　next　door　to　me　is　old〃
　　I　realized　I　had　no　idea　where　Talley　lived。　I　didn't　even　have　his　home　telephone　number。
　　〃Old　is　the　way　you　act　when　you're　overbearing　and　condescending　'and　a　chicken；〃　he　said；　raising　his　glass　to　me。
　　〃A　chicken？　I've　been　called　a　lot　of　things；　but　never　a　chicken：'
　　〃You're　an　emotional　chicken。〃　He　drank　as　if　trying　to　put　out　a　fire。　〃That's　why　you　were　with　him。　He　was　safe。　I　don't　care　how　much　you　say　youloved　him。　He　was　safe。；》
　　〃Don't　talk　about　something　you　know　nothing　about；〃　I　warned　him　as　I　began　to　tremble。
　　〃Because　you're　afraid。　You've　been　afraid　ever　since　your　father　died；　ever　since　you　felt　different　from　everyone　because　you　are　different　from　everyone　and　that's　the　price　people　like　us　pay。　We're　special。　We're　alone　and　we　rarely　think　it's　because　we're　special。　We　just　think　there's　something　wrong　with　us。〃
　　I　placed　my　napkin　on　top　of　the　table　and　pushed　back　my　chair。
　　〃That's　the　problem　with　you　intelligence…gathering　assholes；〃　I　said　in　a　low；　calm　voice。　〃You　appropriate　the　secrets；　the　treasures　and　tragedies　and　ecstasies　of　someone　as　if　they　are　your　own。　At　least　I　have　a　life。　At　least　I　don't　live　voyeuristically　through　people　I　don't　know。　At　least　I'm　not　some　kind　of　spy。〃
　　〃I'm　not　a　spy；〃　he　said。　〃It　was　my　job　to　find　out　as　much　as　I　could　about　you。〃
　　〃And　you　did　your　job　extraordinarily　well；〃　I　said；　stung。　〃Especially　this　afternoon。〃
　　〃Please　don't　leave；〃　he　quietly　said　as　he　reached　across　the　table　for　my　hand。
　　I　pulled　away　from　him。　I　walked　out　of　the　restaurant　as　other　diners　stared。　Someone　laughed　and　made　a　ment　I　didn't　need　to　translate　to　understand。　It　was　obvious　that　the　handsome　young　man　and　his　older　lady　friend　were　having　a　lover's　spat。　Or　maybe　he　was　her　gigolo。
　　It　was　almost　nine…thirty　and　I　walked　with　determination　toward　the　hotel　while　everyone　else　in　the　city；　it　seemed；　continued　to　venture　out。　A　woman　police　officer　wearing　white　gloves　whistled　traffic　through　as　I　waited　with　a　great　crowd　to　cross　the　Boulevard　des　Capucines。　The　air　was　bright　with　voices　and　cold　light　from　the　moon。　The　aromas　of　crepes　and　beignets　and　chestnuts　roasting　in　small　grills　made　me　heartsick　and　dizzy。
　　I　hurried　like　a　fugitive　evading　apprehension；　and　yet　I　lingered　at　street　corners　because　I　wanted　to　be　caught。　Talley　did　not　e　after　me。　When　I　reached　my　hotel；　breathless　and　upset；　I　couldn't　bear　the　thought　of　seeing　Marino　or　returning　to　my　room。
　　I　got　a　taxi　because　I　had　one　more　thing　to　do。　I　would　do　it　alone　and　at　night　because　I　felt　reckless　and　desperate。
　　〃Yes？〃　the　driver　said；　turning　around　to　look　at　me。　〃Madame？〃
　　I　felt　pieces　of　me　had　been　rearranged　and　I　didn't　know　where　to　put　them　because　I　couldn't　remember　where　they'd　been　before。
　　〃Do　you　speak　English？〃　I　asked。
　　〃Yes。〃
　　〃Do　you　know　much　about　the　city？　Could　you　tell　me　about　what　I'm　seeing？〃
　　〃Seeing？　You　mean　now？〃
　　〃Seeing　as　we　drive；〃　I　said。
　　〃Am　I　tour　guide？〃　He　thought　I　was　very　funny。　〃No；　but　I　live　here。　Where　would　you　like　to　go？〃
　　〃Do　you　know　where　the　morgue　is？　On　the　Seine　near　the　Gare　de　Lyon？〃
　　〃You　want　to　go　there？〃　He　turned　around　again　and　frowned　at　me　as　he　waited　to　insert　himself　in　traffic。
　　〃I　will　want　to　go　there。　But　first　I　want　to　go　to　the　Ile　Saint…Louis；〃　I　said；　scanning；　looking　。for　Talley　as　hope　got　dark　like　the　street。
　　〃What？〃　My　driver　laughed　as　if　I　were　the　premier　crazy。　〃You　want　to　go　to　the　morgue　and　he　Saint…Louis？　What　connection　is　that？　Someone　rich　die？〃
　　I　was　getting　annoyed　with　him。
　　〃Please；〃　I　said。　〃Let's　go。〃
　　〃Okay；　sure。　If　that's　what　you　want。〃
　　Tires　over　cobblestone　sounded　like　kettle　drums；　and　lamplight　flashing　off　the　Seine　looked　like　schools　of　silver　fish。　I　rubbed　fog　off　my　window　and　opened　it　enough　so　I　could　see　better　as　we　crossed　the　Pont　Louis…Philippe　and　entered　the　island。　I　instantly　recognized　the　seventeenth…century　homes　that　once　had　been　the　private　hotels　of　the　noblesse。　I　had　been　here　before　with　Benton。
　　We　had　walked　these　narrow　cobblestone　streets　and　browsed　the　historic　plaques　on　some　of　the　walls　that　told　who　once　had　lived　here。　We　had　stopped　in　outdoor　cafés；　and　across　the　way　bought　ice　cream　at　Berthillon。　I　told　my　driver　to　circle　the　island。
　　It　was　solid　with　gorgeous　homes　of　limestone　pitted　by　the　years；　and　balconies　were　black　wrought　iron。　Windows　were　lit　up；　and　through　them　were　glimpses　of　exposed　beams；　bookcases　and　fine　paintings；　but　I　saw　no　one。　It　was　as　if　the　elitist　people　who　lived　here　were　invisible　to　the　rest　of　us。
　　〃Have　you　ever　heard　of　the　Chandonne　family？〃　I　asked　my　driver。
　　〃But　of　course；〃　he　said。　〃Would　you　like　to　see　where　they　live？〃
　　〃Please；〃　I　said　with　great　misgivings。
　　He　drove　…to　the　Quai　d'Orléans；　past　the　residence　where　Pompidou　died　on　the　second　floor；　the　blinds　still　drawn；　and　onto　the　Quai　de　Béthune　toward　the　eastern　tip　of　the　island。　I　dug　in　my　satchel　and　got　out　a　bottle　of　Advil。
　　The　taxi　stopp