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In which Garland Lenox disparages French television before undergoing a dramatic transformation.
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“I don’t think I’d even own a television if I lived in France,” Garland said as I burst into his hotel room.
“What?” I asked, more confused than interested in what he was talking about.
“Sixty channels of the weirdest shit you’ve ever seen,” the old man said. “Eight channels of nothing but soccer, and at least a dozen channels showing aerial views of Saint-Lô. I watched you walk across the church square. Hard to miss those pants.”
I checked the hallway to make sure I wasn’t followed, and as I shut the door behind me Garland added, “I was worried about you, son. Did you find religion?”
“What?” I asked again, now more preoccupied by the French game show he’d found in which most of the contestants appeared to be nude.
“I said what took you so long?” Garland repeated, and I said, “Martin Blair. I found him. Well, he found me.”
“And he let you go?” Garland asked, sitting up on the bed.
“Sort of,” I said. “He thinks we’d be better off in US custody. He’s sending a van to pick us up in five minutes, but I told him the wrong hotel.”
“Why’d you do that, son?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, and Garland smiled.
“So what’d you find out at the church? Anyone remember Maddie?”
I started to speak but hesitated for a second and Garland asked, “Son, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, and composed myself. “I spoke with an old nun, Sister Ava. She ... she knew Madeleine.”
Garland was off the bed and standing right in front of me. “And?”
“And ... Madeleine was waiting for you to come back, when she heard you’d been ...”
“Been what, son?”
“Been killed in action.”
“Son of a bitch,” Garland said and sat back down on the bed. He was quiet for a long time, then said, “So’d this Sister Ava know what happened to Maddie, after she thought I was dead. She get married?”
“No,” I said. “She joined the Benedictine—”
“Sisters of the Sacré-Cœur de Montmartre,” Garland said, finishing my sentence. “Well I’ll be damned.” The old man hung his head while I thought of a way to tell him Madeleine died six years ago. But before I could say anything he smiled up at me with glistening tears in both eyes and said, “Son, we’re going back to Paris.”
“Paris? No. I don’t think that’s a great idea Garland.”
“Noted,” the old man said, and walked into the bathroom.
I continued my protest through the wall. “Garland, the police are everywhere. And soldiers. They even have a tank. It’s a small tank, but it’s still a tank and they could use it to shoot us or run over us or both.”
“Pack up and be ready to go,” Garland shouted through the door, ignoring everything I’d said about the tank.
“The tank isn’t that small,” I added. “It’s bigger than most SUVs, and besides, Martin Blair already knows we are here. We’ll never make it out of Saint-Lô, and even if we did—”
I shut up at the sight of an old woman stepping out of the bathroom.
“Laugh and I will kill you with my bare hands,” Garland said, but I fell back on the bed and burst out laughing in spite of myself.
“Why?” I finally asked between laughs. “Why are you wearing a dress?”
Garland glared at me and growled, “I asked Parker to buy the wig and dress back in Bayeux. Thought they might come in handy.”
I laughed some more. “Why did you think dressing like a woman would come in handy?”
“Son, in 1969 they had me in Cuba spying on the Castro brothers. I spent the better part of a year in drag. Fidel even asked me on a date, but I had to break his commie heart.”
I began to reply but only laughed again and Garland said, “You can doubt me if you want to son, but you can’t make this shit up. Now come here.”
Still laughing, I followed the old man over to the window and he pointed across the street.
“Préfecture de la Manche,” I said, reading the name of the building.
“Not the building son, the parking lot. We need a new car, so when you see me wave, you run like hell and be ready to drive fast.”
“No Garland,” I said, but he was already walking toward the door. “Seriously?” I asked. “We’re not seriously going to—” But he was out the door and gone. I watched from the window, and minutes later saw the old man dressed as an old woman shuffle across the parking lot and walk up to a Porsche roadster.
“No,” I said out loud. “Pick another car Garland. It will have an alarm.”
But it didn’t, or Garland somehow got in without setting it off, and then he waved at me. I cursed and ran across the street to meet him.