6.

Liquidation under way, Frances and Malcolm returned to their suites at the Four Seasons. They saw nothing of each other during this time.

Malcolm read. His momentary focus of study was the memoir recollections of disastrous voyages into uninhabitable regions of the world. He lived in his robe, with curtains drawn, the television on but muted. He never changed the channel; it was something he would glance at from time to time, as one looking out the window to check the weather. He ordered six full meals per day: breakfasts at nine and eleven; lunches at two and four; and dinners at seven and eleven. He was eating not with anger, not with desperation or sorrow, but with rigor, as though this gorging were part of a strict training. In the afternoon he pulled on his trunks and visited the pool but otherwise he never left his room. By the fourth day he couldn’t manage the small talk that came with receiving his meals, and so he had them left outside his door. He knew from experience that he was suffering from the hotel unwellness.

Frances became involved with a number of reality-based TV shows. Anything having to do with incarceration and she was helpless to look away. The clang of a prison gate, the echoing, menacing chatter of distant unseen inmates, the rattle of keys on a polyester-clad guard: it was catnip for Frances. It wasn’t that she relished the misfortune of others, or that she took solace in her own freedom. She and Malcolm both were moved, in their respective areas of interest, by a sheer experience described in such detail that it achieved palpability. They were drinking steadily, if not heavily.

Joan was often in touch with Frances, sending notes and leaving messages with the concierge. Frances had been avoiding Joan but increasingly she wished to unburden herself. They met for brunch one Sunday morning in early December.

“Are they saying I’m broke?”

“They are.” Joan chomped a piece of celery. “Are you? Talk to old Joan.”

“I am.”

“And what does the word mean: broke?”

“It means that I have nothing.”

“And when you say: nothing?”

Frances explained. Joan listened with perfect seriousness. “And what,” she said, “what if I were to bring up the topic of a loan?”

“Oh, but you mustn’t do that.”

“What about a gift? Would that be better, or worse?”

“Either one would be the same ugly thing.”

“Won’t you please bend on this?”

“No.”

Joan said, “A plan is coming to me.”

Frances waited, watching.

“Possibly it’s idiotic,” Joan continued. “But it’s an option, and the more of those you have the better, isn’t that right?”

Frances waited still.

“My Paris apartment. I haven’t been in, what, a year and a half? And it’s just sitting there.”

Frances was nodding. She understood the proposition, and was wondering whether or not to bother hiding her shame. Joan took up her friend’s hand. “Don’t rush to think of it in any one light, darling. It’s only sensible.”

“Sensible,” said Frances.

“Sensible.”

“Sensible.” Frances was experiencing the phenomenon of a familiar word losing its meaning. “Sensible.”

Joan felt outraged; she pinched Frances’s arm, hard. Frances mouthed an Ow! but made no sound. She rapped the top of Joan’s hand with the scoop of her spoon. “Ow!” said Joan, and they sat back in their chairs, Frances rubbing her arm, Joan her hand, each watching the other with a sober expression.

The waiter appeared and they ordered their lunch and a bottle of wine. They ate their lunch and drank their wine and then came a second bottle, which they also drank. Paris was not decided, but it began to look rosier, for it was viable, and as a plan it possessed at least a measure of style. They spoke of the city in youthful, romantic terms. They’d both been in love, and both had been loved in Paris, France. Joan expressed jealousy at the thought of Frances’s moving there permanently or semipermanently and Frances accepted this at the start, but when it went on too long she said it was beneath them, this banter, and that they should approach the event for what it was.

“Which is what?” said Joan. “What are we calling it?”

“Annihilation.”

The waiter appeared. “How was everything today, ladies?”

“Perfection.”

When the check came, Frances and Joan reached for it simultaneously. There was a seated tussle and the bill soon was ripped to pieces by their clawing hands, the both of them trilling with laughter. The waiter brought them a new bill and Frances ceremoniously passed it to Joan. They were holding hands as they exited the restaurant, and Frances looked to be near tears. Later, smoking in the alley, the waiter was made contemplative by the memory of her. Her beauty had not been diminished by her sadness; he had held his breath as he watched her move from his sight line.

She said goodbye to Joan and returned to her home to find it empty. The staff had been let go, but Mr. Rudy was pacing the property and clucking with self-satisfaction. He’d made many shrewd sales, and so Frances sought to endure his attitude; but then he began acting strangely, calling her Francey, touching her bare wrist. He was wearing a new suit and an abundant, musky scent. When he suggested they celebrate their successes over dinner, she laid a cool hand upon his ample face and said, “Mr. Rudy, I’d sooner fuck an eel.” After this he affected a high-road attitude, which she also endured. As they went over the figures she felt certain he’d massaged the payout in his favor but she didn’t pursue it, she merely took her cut with thanks and sent him on his oily way. The check denoted a fair amount, but not enough to represent anything besides a provisional pardon, and she studied the zeroes with a sadness that felt treacherous. She couriered the check to Mr. Baker and asked him to have the funds transferred to euros as quickly as he was able.