One block over from Albert & Lucienne’s Bar, Stahl led Camille through his apartment door, making sure no one saw them enter. He shut the door and locked it.
He walked to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of Jack Daniels and two tumblers. He filled them and handed her one. They sipped a healthy sip some and relaxed on the sofa. The overhead lights accented her natural blonde hair and innate beauty.
“Your French is Parisian,” he said.
“Pigalliane.”
Stahl knew the Pigalle, a touristy section of Paris known for its trendy cafes, restaurants, Moulin Rouge type nightclubs, sex clubs and prostitutes who catered to every conceivable sexual orientation and perversion.
“I left two years ago.”
“Why?”
She pointed to the scar on her chin.
“Pimp. He enjoys hitting girls.”
Stahl did not like men who beat women. More than once, he’d beaten men unconscious when he saw them hitting women. On one occasion, he’d beaten the man to death.
“Where’d you work?”
“Around the Palais des Congrès.”
“The hotels?”
“Yeah. Businessmen. Mostly nice guys. But sometimes, you know, I was sick, or didn’t feel like working. So he beats me! My nose, see – it bends left! The bastard hit it with a wine bottle. The beatings got worse, so I left. Came to Brussels. Work independent now. It’s much better.”
“What’s his name?”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Just curious.”
“Remy DeRachet.”
Stahl committed the name to memory. “Maybe I’ll chat with Remy next time I’m in Paris.”
“Be very careful. He’s crazy. Dangerous.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell Remy I’m here. I’m afraid he might come up for me.”
Stahl turned and looked into her eyes. “Remy will never bother you again.”
She stared back surprised, apparently wondering how he could make such a promise. Then she shrugged.
“Your parents still in France?”
Camille looked down a moment, seemed hesitant to answer. “Most guys just want to know what’s between my legs.”
Stahl shrugged.
“Never knew my birth father. Mother died when I was nine. Lived with my aunt and uncle. When she died, he took me to his bed. I was eleven. Sale con! I ran away at thirteen. I’m nineteen now. Never been back.”
Stahl realized that she, like him, had been robbed of a normal childhood.
He felt a rare emotion, something like sympathy for her, maybe even something more, because the longer he looked at her, the more she reminded him of Zafina, the only woman in his life that he’d felt close to besides his mother. Zafina had natural beauty too, and like Camille had lost both parents early. Growing up in a Palestinian camp taught Zafina to hate the West, but failed to teach her to stay off streets when Israeli rockets were expected, like the one that killed her.
He looked at Camille. Perhaps after this assignment, he should take her away from all this, maybe to his Caribbean villa. Or maybe give her enough money to get off the streets, live a more normal life.
She sipped more whiskey. “How long will you stay in Brussels?”
“Couple days,” he said.
“Stay longer.” She put her drink down, leaned over and kissed his lips.
“Can’t.”
They moved toward the bed, peeling off their clothes. She quickly excited him and he enjoyed exploring her voluptuous young body, even though he saw scars on her back and arms presumably caused by her soon-to-be-dead former pimp, Remy DeRachet.
Camille and Stahl made love and her responses were strong and seemed genuine. But then, he reminded himself, prostitutes could win Oscars. Still, she seemed genuinely pleased by the intensity of their lovemaking. And he seemed genuinely relaxed.
After, they lay in silence, listening to the wind and rain rattle the windows.
“You’re different,” she said.
“How?
“I don’t know. But with you, I feel something.”
He said nothing.
“Can I see you again soon? No money please.”
“I’ll be traveling.”
“Take my phone number for when you’re here again”
He took her card.
“Please call me,” she said seriously. “We can be friends, yes?”
He realized she meant it and nodded, thinking perhaps he’d call her in the future. Perhaps take her to the Caribbean, or set her up with enough money.
She bounced up from the bed, smiling. He marveled at her exquisite body as she walked over and lit a cigarette. Fate blessed her with beauty – then cursed her with environment.
Stahl took a thousand Euros from his wallet, placed the money beside her purse, then went into the bathroom.
* * *
Camille turned on the television. The screen flickered to a Paris fashion show. She watched the beautiful, long-legged models strut down the runway. Friends often told her she had a model’s body. Do a photo book, they said, show it around, you’ll get hired, make big money. She’d been thinking about doing that. Last week, a photographer had asked her to stop by for a photo session. Maybe she would. She was still young. Many of Europe’s hottest new fashion designers were in Brussels. If it didn’t work out, she could always fall back on her present line of work.
A news flash interrupted the fashion show. Seconds later, her eyes fixed on the screen.
On a man’s face.
Her eyes widened as the announcer said, “Anyone knowing the whereabouts of this man should contact the police immediately. He needs urgent medical attention….”
The face seemed familiar, she thought, but the eyes, well yes, very familiar, definitely the same eyes. Eyes like no one else.
I know where the man is!
She continued staring at the man’s face.
And the man was staring at her.
From the bathroom, Stahl saw his computer-aged face, but still his face on the television screen.
He looked at Camille as she looked at the screen. He could tell by her stiff-back posture that she recognized him. But even if she didn’t, she soon would. A most unfortunate turn of events for him.
And for her….
He inched silently toward her back, staring at her thin neck… so beautiful.
I’m very sorry, Camille.