Paris
“Where the hell have you been?” George asked.
George’s cousin Augustin stood for a moment in the doorway, grinning. Though wearing clothes from the night before, he was still, as always, impeccably attired. He turned immediately to George’s breakfast table.
“Talking with a one-armed man, in front of the hotel,” said Augustin, as he looked under lids. He piled a few sausages and sliced tomatoes on a plate and proceeded to open the bottle of champagne languishing in the bucket.
“What happened to what’s-his-name’s daughter?” George asked, as he tried to figure out how to get one of the hangers out of his traveling wardrobe. “I thought you were bringing her to the—?”
“These little sausages are good, aren’t they?” said Augustin.
“But weren’t you going to—?”
Augustin looked around at George’s accommodations. “Your rooms are nicer than mine. Why is that?”
“All right,” said George, taking the hint. He gave up and shoved the suit and hanger into the overfull trunk. “I didn’t like her anyway.” He attempted to wrestle the suitcase closed.
“Aren’t we late for the meeting?” said Augustin. He plopped himself onto George’s unmade bed without tipping his plate and champagne flute. Augustin was not a handsome man in any ordinary sense; he had a flat face with close-set eyes, atop a great long nose. And yet somehow with the element of his grin thrown in, the face managed to be more than the sum of it parts. He sat up against the pillows and watched his friend fight with his suitcase.
“Why are you doing that? Where’s Thomas?” Augustin looked around, noticing for the first time that Thomas wasn’t there.
“I told you, I left him with . . . he’s still at home.”
“You never go anywhere without Thomas,” said Augustin, suddenly suspicious. “You left him with . . . you left him with that girl. The girl who can’t talk!”
George said nothing.
“I remember!” said Augustin. “No, actually I don’t. Tell me again. I wasn’t paying the slightest attention last night. Something about a watch—and a pastry.”
“Gus. You’re like a sieve. Help me with this damned suitcase. Do you have your car?”
“Of course,” he said. “Where are we going?”
• • •
The luggage was dumped into the back of the brand-new red Minerva. George talked as Augustin drove them east across the open French countryside.
“You see, it doesn’t make sense,” said George over the sound of the engine. “She’s reading Charles Dickens? Doesn’t it follow that she would be able to write?”
“Maybe,” said Augustin.
“I know people who can’t talk,” said George. “Roman’s boys, for instance. They sign. They write notes. They seem . . . more used to not being able. Adi acts as if this condition just happened last week.”
“You really need to stop drinking so much,” said Augustin, passing underneath a great arching stone aqueduct.
“What? I drink as well as you do.”
“I don’t think so,” said Augustin. “You don’t remember, do you?”
“Remember what?”
“You’ve heard this girl talk.”
“Not a lot. ‘Monsieur’ might have been the size of it.”
“The only thing I remember was her walking away.”
“We asked her to join us in South America.”
George looked pained.
“You don’t know,” said Augustin, “if anything she’s told you is true. Probably after your money; some sort of weird confidence game. It is pretty far-fetched, the not talking, the twin brothers, this watch thing.” He looked over. “I do recall her being attractive.”
George raised his eyebrows. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Well, there’s that. But, God’s sakes. What are you, twelve? You’re with this girl for a couple days and you already sound like you did with—what was her name? When you were twelve.”
“The worst part is, I hardly said goodbye to her before I left. I don’t know what happened to me. I kissed her, the night before, then I sort of . . . panicked.”
“Just a kiss?”
“Yeah.”
They drove in silence until rain started to come down on their heads. Augustin pulled over as the road widened near a train depot.
They got out of the car and started pulling up the top.
“The generals aren’t wasting any time, are they?” Augustin said, looking over at the depot. It was not lost on them that most of the men waiting on the platform for the train were in soldier’s garb, carrying their kits.
“That’s what we should be doing,” said George.
Wiping rain from the end of his great aquiline nose, Augustin looked over at the men on the platform.
“What? That? Ha. You couldn’t if you wanted to. The family’s not going to let their precious heir go off and get himself shot. Anyhow. A war? Not going to happen.”
George looked as if he weren’t so sure.
“You heard Petain, the other generals too. They all think we can win a war. ‘Done before Christmas,’ he said.”
“Aren’t we supposed to be in that boat going up the Amazon by Christmas?” said Augustin. “You can bring your girlfriend.”
They climbed back in, just ahead of the downpour. Augustin pulled out onto the road, skidding as he sped away.
George lifted his glasses up on his forehead and rubbed his eyes, moaning.
“I’ve run out on my uncles. Again! What is wrong with me?”
“Yeah. Henri’s never going to let you forget it.”
“I know, I know! You’re right. I know you’re right. About everything. About being played. About behaving like a schoolboy. The whole thing’s preposterous. The riddles, the kidnapper, the not talking—all of it.”
He leaned over and slugged Augustin hard on the shoulder.
“Ow! What d’you do that for?”
“ ’Cause you’re supposed to be talking me out of this!” said George. He put his feet up on the dash and slumped down in the seat. “You know, I’ve never brought a girl home.”
“Oh, no kidding,” said Augustin. “Anyway, why would I talk you out of it?”
“Because we have a deal.”
“Yes, well. I don’t know if that’s such a good idea for you anymore. Of course, it’s bound to end badly. But maybe there’s no sense in both of us being cynical and bitter about women, all the time.”
George looked over at his friend. “What’s happened to you?”
Augustin shrugged and grinned. He downshifted and stepped hard on the accelerator. “I can’t wait to meet her.”