Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [150]
“How do you know it didn’t?”
Younger sent the cable. Outside the office, Colette saw a hotel on the other side of the Place de la Concorde. “Can we get rooms there?” she asked.
“The Crillon?” said Younger, flinching inwardly. “Why not?”
At Marie Curie’s invitation, they attended a crowded dinner party that evening: a celebration of Poland’s newfound independence and miraculous victory against the Bolsheviks. The celebration was held in a small apartment—Younger never found out whom it belonged to—where the guests ate standing up. Toasts were raised, a great deal of Polish was spoken, and an even greater quantity of flavored vodka was drunk.
Madame Curie took Colette under her wing the entire evening as if the girl were her daughter. Colette was still wearing the stylish dress, with its low-cut back, that she’d worn in Prague. It was true that she had nothing else to wear, but Younger nevertheless considered the dress too revealing. Plumed and pomaded Polish men flocked continuously around Madame Curie, doubtless moved by the opportunity to converse with one of the world’s greatest scientists. The men bowed deeply when introduced to Colette; they twisted the ends of their moustaches; they kissed her hand. Invariably Colette averted her eyes, flashing a glance at Younger as if she knew he would be watching, which he was.
After midnight, Younger lay on his four-poster bed in the Hôtel de Crillon, smoking. His jacket he had flung to the floor, but otherwise he was fully clothed. Even his shoes were on.
He had shown Colette to her room. She was skittish in the hallway, nervous, unable to work the key. He thought the strong drink might have gone to her head, except that he was pretty sure she had only sipped at it. When at last he had taken the key from her and opened the door, she practically fled into the room, leaving Younger in the corridor, with the door ajar. He closed it for her and went to his own room.
Younger stared at the gilt ceiling and at the dancing particles of smoke illuminated by the lamplight. Then he got up, extinguished his cigarette, and returned to the hallway.
He unlocked Colette’s door. Her sitting room was empty. He walked past the stiff and formal Empire furniture. At the threshold of the bedroom, he saw the door to her bath cracked open. Through it, he caught glimpses of her moving back and forth, wrapped in two white towels—one for her hair, one for her torso. Apparently she hadn’t heard him; she had been in the bath.
She opened the bathroom door, saw him, and froze. Her long neck was bare, her shoulders bare, her slender arms and legs bare, her skin wet.
He walked toward her. She backed away, into the bathroom, against a wall, shoulders lifted in apprehension. There was nowhere to go. The air was thick with moisture from the hot water, the mirror blurred by condensation. He took her by the arms. She struggled; he had to use more force than he expected, but he was prepared to, and he did. Their kiss went on a long time. When it was done, her body had softened, her eyes had closed, and the towel about her hair had fallen to the floor. He picked her up, carried her to the bed, and laid her down on the crisp sheets.
Colette’s hair spread out darkly over the pillows. Moonlight from the window silvered her limbs, still gleaming with moisture. One of her hands lay on her chest, the other over her waist, holding the white bath towel in place. He kissed her neck. He heard her murmur, “Please.” He heard, “No.”
Younger said, “Do you want me to stop?”
She answered in a whisper: “I don’t want you to ask.”
He ran his hand through her long hair. He tilted her chin and kissed her mouth. Later she called out to God, biting her lip to keep her voice down, so many times he lost count.
Still later, as they lay next to one another in the moonlight, her cheek resting on his chest, she said, “Do you forget?”
“Forget what?”
“This. Does it fade away?”
Her head rose and fell with his breath.
“I remembered this before it happened,” he said. “I saw it before.”
“Me too,” said Colette, smiling.