Sylvia felt she was entering hostile territory when she stepped off the train in Brussels. Moreover, she felt lost without Jacques. He would know where to go, the perfect little hotel, a charming café. But without him, the city was stale and dreary, sweltering in the August heat. She checked into a commercial hotel near the train station, washed her hands and face, then sat down on the side of the bed and gave the hotel operator the number Jacques had given her for Madame Gaston. As she waited for the call to go through, Sylvia imagined Madame Gaston as a kindly, pleasant-looking woman, a faithful family retainer, perhaps the nanny who had raised Jacques.
She sensed something wrong the moment she heard Madame Gaston’s voice. Rather than French and genteel, she spoke English with a German accent that was curt, even suspicious. “Jacques Mornard?” she said as if she were confused. “Jacques Mornard?”
After muffling the phone to confer with another person, Madame Gaston came back on the line and told Sylvia to meet her at a café near Sylvia’s hotel.
The woman who arrived had sallow skin, gray, oily hair, and was carrying a big cheap handbag. “So, you are Miss Ageloff,” she said, sitting down at Sylvia’s table. “You look like you might do him some good.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you mean.”
“You know what he’s like. He’s a rich playboy. You’re not exactly his sort, are you, dearie?”
Sylvia’s felt the blood come to her face as if she had been slapped. Was the woman remarking that Sylvia was a Jew? Sylvia chose to defend Jacques and disregard the slight.
“He has good qualities. Are you a friend of the family?”
“A friend of his family? Oh no, they’re far too grand for the likes of me. He’s a friend of my son. They trained together.”
“Trained for what?”
“Officer training. Jacques didn’t tell you he was in the army?”
“No, it never came up. He’s been writing to me but suddenly the letters stopped. I started to worry that he wasn’t well. He said I could call you if I needed to see him.”
“And you took the train all the way to Brussels to find him?”
“I needed to get out of Paris.”
“Well, he’s not here. He went to London on family business. How long will you stay?”
“Just tonight.”
“He might return tomorrow. Call me tomorrow and I should know something. I will investigate.”
“What time should I call you?”
The woman observed Sylvia in a shrewd way, her arms wrapped around the large handbag resting in her lap. “I don’t know. In the afternoon.”
Sylvia walked to the main square but the soaring Gothic arches failed to lift her spirits. She returned to her hotel room, where she spent dismal hours trying to read, thinking how different Brussels would be with Jacques. That night, when she finally slept, Sylvia had frightening, fleeting dreams that left her exhausted and uneasy. She ate breakfast in the hotel dining room, where the coffee was weak, the rolls stale. She watched the clock until it was time to check out of the hotel, then telephoned Madame Gaston.
“Sorry,” Madame Gaston said in her curt way. “He’s still in London and won’t be back anytime soon. I don’t know when he’ll return.”
After the line went dead, Sylvia placed the receiver in its cradle. She sat on the edge of her bed, feeling lost and confused. Nothing made sense to her. She had to consider the possibility that Jacques was lying to her, but she couldn’t understand what possible motive he might have. She wanted to talk to her sisters or to someone she knew and trusted. She finally stood up and looked around the room to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, then picked up her small suitcase. She had come looking for Jacques. Now, she understood that he had disappeared. She left the key at the desk and walked to the train station.