12

All that he would need for his trip to America was packed in a single leather suitcase. The other things, the household items, his typewriter, and so on, had gone ahead to France.

He walked from room to room, eyeing the shrouded furniture.

The timing had been excellent. He would leave Spain, stop in New York to negotiate the movie rights on the Duvivier series, then take up residence in Pau. Altogether, he would be in the States two, maybe three days. That seemed to him a long time.

He had no faith in coincidence, and thus did not fear discovery. And he’d been back in the States before. He was, by habit, very careful; by nature, very clever. Everything would be all right.

He raised the window and listened for the Land Rover that would carry him to the airport in Madrid. When he heard it, he closed the sash, grabbed his satchel, and walked out into the quiet, cobbled street.

“Señor Beeshop.” It was María, his maid. “Una carta.” She handed him an aerogram, then retreated, her dark clothes merging with the shadows.

He slid the letter into his breast pocket and was off.

He loathed the Madrid terminal. Each year, it seemed, the shops grew tawdrier and the vendors’ stands more plentiful. Ah, well, soon Madrid, too, would be part of his past.

His plane was announced and he went to meet it. He carried his suitcase on board. He ignored the sunrise, though it was spectacular: blue-black mountains pressed against a blood-red sky.

The plane lurched out over the ocean as daylight steadily filled the cabin. When it was sufficiently bright, he took the letter from his pocket.

He recognized the name on the flap, but this time she had used her home address. He hoped she would not become a nuisance.

Duvivier was ofttimes very foolish. Paul Philippe, for instance, would never have answered her letter. Paul Philippe would, he suspected, throw this one into the trash, its seal unbroken.

He opened it and began to read. It started off in a typically American way:

Remember me? A while back I wrote you a huffy little letter about the menstrual number that you did. I found your reply (which was a surprise) wonderfully funny. I’m glad I kept it, because I think I could use your help. I want to disappear, poof, vanish. It occurred to me that I could disappear to Spain, work for you (room, board, a small stipend). I’m a terrific audience, a reasonable critic, an able (though unwilling) typist. I have only been drunk twice in my life and I’m planning to quit smoking. Despite this letter, I am quite sane. I do menstruate regularly, but I think you can handle it.

Where did she live? He flipped back to the address. Laurel, Maryland. Where was Laurel, Maryland? He had no idea. Why was she writing? What, that is, precipitated her letter? Duvivier could use that sort of information in his next book. A few critics had complained that his women weren’t believable.

He pulled a magazine from the pocket of the seat in front of him. He skipped from page to page, impatient. One headline caught his attention—an abominable combination of words: YOUTH WAS SWERVED AS THE FRENCH SWEPT. What could that mean? He read it:

The goings-on in the days leading up to the 25th running of the Washington, D.C., International at Laurel, Md., were bizarre, almost as crazy as the running of the race itself.

He read it again. Yes, that’s what it said. Laurel, Maryland, a suburb, apparently, of Washington, D.C. He smiled, replacing the magazine. He would, he resolved, give the novels of Thomas Hardy a second chance.