The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [167]
“Jean Claude, please . . . ,” she said in French. He wavered for a moment, then turned off the machine.
“Who are you talking to? Those aren’t the police. Who was the man that answered?” Osborn snapped suddenly. He could feel the jealousy surge through him like an ugly wave. Outside the phone booth, the solid hum of vacuum seemed louder than ever. Turning angrily, he saw the old woman staring in at him. When their eyes met, she abruptly lowered her head and moved off, the whir of the vacuum vanishing with her.
“Dammit, Vera!” Osborn turned back to the phone. He was angry and hurt and confused. “What the hell is going on?”
Vera said nothing.
“Why can’t you tell me where you are?” he said again.
“Because—”
“Why?”
Osborn glanced out through the glass. The hallway was empty now. Then, brutally and with a rush, he realized. “You’re with him! You’re with Frenchy, aren’t you?”
She could hear the hard rasp of his anger and she hated him for it. Like that, he was telling her he didn’t trust her. “No, I am not. And don’t call him that!” she snapped.
“Dammit, Vera. Don’t lie to me. Not now. If he’s there, just tell me!”
“Paul! Stop it! Or I’ll tell you to go to hell and that will be the end of our relationship.”
Suddenly he realized he wasn’t listening, not even thinking, but instead doing what he’d always done, since the day of his father’s murder, reacting to his own numbing fear of losing love. Rage, anger and jealousy—that was how he fended off hurt, protected himself. Yet, at the same time, he was forcing away those who might have loved him and reducing any feelings left to little more than sadness and pity. Then, blaming them, he would slink away, as he always had, to the dark corner of his own exile, ravaged and raw, alienated from everything human on earth.
Like an addict suddenly aware, he realized that if he was ever going to stop his own destruction, it had to be now, at this moment. And difficult as it was, the only way to do it was to damn the outcome and find the courage to trust her.
Digging deep inside, he brought the receiver back.
“I’m sorry ...,” he said.
Vera ran a hand through her hair and sat down at a small wooden desk. On it was a clay sculpture of a donkey that had obviously been crafted by a child. It was awkward and primitive but wholly pure. Picking it up, she looked at it, then held it comfortingly against her breast.
“I was afraid of the police, Paul. I didn’t know what to do. In desperation I called Francois. Do you know how hard that was for me after I’d left him? He brought me here, to a place in the country, and then went back to Paris. He left three Secret Service agents to protect me. No one is to know where I am, that’s why I can’t tell you. In case someone is listening. . . .”
Abruptly Osborn’s veil lifted, jealousy was gone, replaced by the deep concern that had been there before. “Are you safe, Vera?”
“Yes.”
“I think we should get off the line,” he said. “Let me call you again tomorrow.”
“Paul, are you in Paris?”
“No. Why—?”
“It would be dangerous if you were.”
“The tall man is dead. McVey killed him.”
“I know. What you don’t know is that he was a member of the Stasi, the old East German secret police. They can say they’re disbanded but I don’t believe it’s true.”
“You found that out from Francois.”
“Yes.”
“Why would the Stasi have wanted to kill Albert Merriman?”
“Paul, listen to me, please.” There was urgency in her voice. But she was also frightened and confused. “Francois is resigning. It will be made public in the morning. He’s doing it because he’s being pressured from inside his own party. It has to do with the new economic community, the new European politics.”
“What do you mean?” Osborn didn’t understand.
“Francois thinks they are all being subjugated by Germany and that Germany will end up controlling the purse strings of all of Europe. He doesn’t like it and thinks France is becoming too involved for its own good.”
“You’re telling me he’s being forced out.”
“Yes—very reluctantly, but with no choice. It’s become very ugly.”
“Vera, is François afraid