GUILLAUME PUSHES THE DOOR open. There are three people in the room. He recognizes one of them—the small, rat-faced man he met in the café is sitting on the bed. But it is the other two occupants who draw most of his attention. One of them is a giant, so tall that the top of his head nearly scrapes the ceiling, and so broad that he blocks out most of the light from the window. His fists are the size of ham hocks.
The other man is holding a knife.
“There you are,” says the rat-faced man. “Close the door behind you.”
Guillaume does as he is told. As the door closes the man with the knife moves in front of it.
“You know why we’re here,” says the rat-faced man.
Guillaume nods. “I have money for you,” he says.
“All of it?”
“Not quite.”
“How much?”
Guillaume crosses the room, reaches under the mattress, and retrieves Gertrude Stein’s money. Trying to stop his hands from shaking too much, he counts out the banknotes. Three unblinking pairs of eyes watch him. There is a long silence when he deals the last note onto the bed.
“That’s six hundred francs,” says the rat-faced man. “You owe me twelve.”
Guillaume swallows. “I can get you the—”
“Did you not hear me say that we need every last sou repaid today?” interrupts the man. “Did you not understand? Or did you just not believe me?”
“This was all I could get,” says Guillaume desperately. “I need more time for the rest.” He thinks of Gertrude Stein and Emile Brataille. Neither of them would have missed the six hundred francs he needs. Guillaume glances at the man by the door. The blade of his knife glints in the afternoon sunlight.
“You don’t have any more time.” The man picks up the money from the bed and counts it again. “You’ve given me half of what you owe. Half.”
The man with the knife steps toward him and pushes the knife into Guillaume’s side. The sharp point of the blade presses through the fabric of his shirt. “Big mistake, mon gars,” he whispers.
“I can get you the rest of the money!” cries Guillaume.
“That’ll do, Claude,” says the rat-faced man. The man with the knife reluctantly steps back.
“How?” asks the man on the bed.
A glimmer of hope.
“See all these paintings?” asks Guillaume. The man nods. “A famous collector is coming to view them this afternoon. She’s already bought one of my works. She says she’s anxious to see more.”
The paintings are still arranged around the room for the morning’s viewing. The man looks at them, dubious. “How much will you get for them?”
“A lot more than six hundred francs, you can be sure of that.”
“What’s the name of this famous collector?” asks the man called Claude. The knife is twitching in his hand.
“She’s called Gertrude Stein,” replies Guillaume. “She’s an American.”
“The writer?”
The giant speaks for the first time. The other three men look at him in surprise.
Guillaume nods. “That’s right. She’s a writer.”
The giant’s face lights up. “Oh, she’s wonderful,” he says.
“You’ve read her stuff?” asks the rat-faced man.
“Oh yes. She’s a genius.” The giant pauses. “A bit strange, but a genius.”
“You’re such a pretentious ponce, Arnaud,” sneers the man with the knife.
“It wouldn’t kill you to open a book sometimes, Claude,” says the giant mildly.
The man on the bed waves at them to be quiet. He is thinking. “So this American is coming by later today?” he says.
Guillaume nods.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
Guillaume walks over to the mantelpiece. There is Gertrude Stein’s card, exactly where he left it this morning. He hands it to the rat-faced man, who examines it closely.
“You say this person is a writer?”
“Yes.”
“Is she rich?”
“Rich enough.”
The man stands up and begins pacing the room, weighing his options. “And you’ll have the rest of the money by tonight.”
Guillaume nods and points to the wall where Suzanne’s painting used to hang. “She’s already bought the one that was here. That’s where the six hundred francs came from.”
“He’s lying,” growls Claude. “I say we follow our—”
“Would you shut up?” snaps the rat-faced man angrily. “If waiting a little longer is going to give us the full amount owed and one less body to dispose of, I’m going to consider it.”
Claude spits on the floorboards. “You’re swallowing his story about this rich American?”
“Let me remind you of something, Claude,” hisses the man. “My job is to make decisions. Your job,” he continues, poking an angry finger at him, “is to follow my orders.”
Guillaume sees Claude’s knuckles whiten around the handle of the knife. Perhaps, he thinks, they’ll all kill each other and he’ll be able to escape.
The rat-faced man paces for a few more moments and then stops. He looks at Guillaume. “All right,” he says. “One more chance.”
“Putain,” mutters Claude.
“Thank you,” breathes Guillaume.
“When is this American supposed to be coming by?”
Guillaume shrugs. “She didn’t say.”
A sharp look. “But today?”
“Oh yes. Definitely today.”
The man points at Claude. “He’s going to be waiting outside, watching the door. Don’t even think about trying to escape. He’s good with that knife. He’ll fillet you into ten pieces before your feet even touch the sidewalk.”
“Why do I have to wait?” whines Claude.
“Because I said so,” says the man, his face thunderous.
“I’ll do it,” says Arnaud.
The other two men turn to look at him. “Why?” says the leader.
Arnaud puts up his huge hands. “Gertrude Stein,” he says simply.
“Mon dieu, all right then.”
Guillaume swallows. He points to the six hundred francs on the bed. “So is that sufficient for the moment, then?” he asks.
“No, mon ami, it’s not sufficient at all,” says the rat-faced man. Then without warning he throws a strong, low punch into Guillaume’s gut. Guillaume doubles over, and as he goes down his attacker takes a step forward and drives a ferocious knee into his face. Guillaume’s nose erupts in blinding pain. He falls to his knees.
The man bends down so that his mouth is right next to Guillaume’s ear. “You’re getting one last chance,” he says. “But all that means is that you’re not quite dead yet.”
Guillaume clutches at the smashed cartilage in the middle of his face. His fingers are slippery with what he supposes must be his own blood.