Satori - Don Winslow [10]
“I believe so.”
“How did he manage that?”
“Money,” she answered, as if it were obvious. “Money makes all things possible.”
“Is that why you work for the Americans?” he asked, instantly regretting it and wondering why he felt an impulse to offend her.
“Tout le monde,” Solange said. “Everyone works for the Americans now.”
Including you, mon ami, she thought, smiling at him. She got up from her chair. “I made a tarte tatin. Would you like some?”
“That would be nice.”
“Coffee?”
“I would prefer tea, if you have it.”
“Coffee for you now, Nicholai,” she said. “Un express avec une cigarette.”
She left for a minute, then returned with the apple tarte, a small pot of espresso, and a pack of Gauloises and set them on the table.
“I apologize for my rudeness,” Nicholai said. “I have become unused to conversation.”
“Pas de quoi.” She liked that he apologized.
The tarte was delicious, the coffee, surprisingly more so. Nicholai sat back in his chair and Solange nudged the pack of cigarettes toward him. “Take two,” she said, “light them, and give one to me.”
“Seriously?”
She laughed. “Didn’t you ever go to the cinema?”
“No.” It always seemed an odd concept to him, to sit and stare at other people’s fantasies projected through a strip of celluloid.
“I love the cinema,” Solange said. “I wanted to be an actress.”
Nicholai thought to ask what had prevented her — certainly she was attractive enough — but then decided that the answer might cause her sadness, so he refrained. Instead, he shook two cigarettes from the pack, put them both in his mouth, then struck a match and lit them. When the tip of one glowed, he handed it to her.
“Formidable,” Solange said. “Paul Henreid would be jealous.”
Nicholai had no idea what she meant, but he inhaled the smoke and endured a spasm of coughing. It hurt where the stitches were. “It’s been a while,” he said when he recovered.
“Apparently.” She laughed at him but he didn’t feel in the least offended or embarrassed. It was more as if they were sharing an amusing moment, and he started to laugh himself. Again, it hurt a little bit, and he realized that it had been a very long time since he’d laughed with another person.
Solange discerned his thought. “It is good, no? We have not lived through laughing times, I think, you and me.”
“Nor the world at large,” Nicholai said
She refilled his wine glass, then her own, lifted it and said, “To better times.”
“To better times.”
“You must learn to smoke, Nicholai,” she said. “All Frenchmen smoke.”
“I sneaked cigarettes when I was a boy in Shanghai,” Nicholai answered. “The Chinese smoke like chimneys. Smoke, and spit.”
“We can do without the spitting, I think.”
After lunch he strolled in the garden.
It had been very well done, indeed. Pathways led around an area of gravel carefully raked to replicate the ripples of the ocean. A small “island,” of short grass and stone, in the middle of the “sea,” represented the mountains of Japan. Shrubs had been perfectly placed around the path to offer a fresh perspective at every curve.
Like life itself, Nicholai thought.
7
THE NEXT FEW WEEKS passed in pleasant routine.
Nicholai woke early and went into the garden to meditate. When he came out, Solange had a café au lait and a croissant ready for him, and while it took him some time to get used to the concept of bread for breakfast, he came to enjoy it. After breakfast they engaged in conversation, during which she corrected his accent and suggested current slang and vernacular. Solange was an exacting taskmistress, which Nicholai appreciated.
For her part, Solange knew that the slightest slip, a careless anachronism or a lapse into a stilted formality, could cost him his life. So she pushed him hard, insisted