Julian and René sat in the café on the corner of the rue La Boétie and waited. Françoise had said she would be there with Charlotte at two o’clock. It was almost two twenty. At two forty-five Julian heard familiar voices in the distance. He looked up from his coffee. Walking toward them was Françoise, blinking rapidly, a signal that Charlotte was close behind.
A waft of lilac ambushed the table as Charlotte walked by without noticing them, and Julian felt dizzy. He glanced at René, whose eyes had become disturbingly luminous. Her familiar scent seemed to have engulfed him too. Julian glimpsed Charlotte’s unchanged profile with hatred. Still beautiful; untouched by time or Germany.
Charlotte wore a black suit with shiny gold buttons, a chiffon scarf knotted loosely around her neck. Her dark sunglasses were oversized, emphasizing the subtle flip of her new bobbed hairstyle. As she sat down several tables away, Julian could hear her laughing at something and that was when he detected the real change. The sound of her voice was deeper, hearty, less girlishly seductive, more authoritative. Though Charlotte’s back faced them, Julian could hear everything.
“I said ten paintings by Friday, Françoise.” Charlotte’s tone was comfortably arrogant, as if she were accustomed to giving orders. “They are expected in Munich by Sunday. And don’t forget that the Léger and the Miró are being auctioned in Bern in two weeks. I saw the frames you chose—cheap and gaudy. Change them.”
René stood.
“Where are you going?” Julian asked. This was not the plan. “Isn’t it obvious. Look at her. Goddamn it, Julian.”
Before Julian could stop him, René walked over to Charlotte’s table and stood behind her.
Charlotte snapped her fingers crisply in the air at a passing waiter, still focused on Françoise. “Café au lait for me, and no milk for you, right, Françoise? Why are you staring at me like that?”
René ran a finger along the exposed skin around her neck. “Hello, Charlotte.”
She lifted her sunglasses, turning around slowly. Her eyes widened with shock at the sight of René, and she mumbled something incoherent.
“Don’t look so disappointed.” He walked around the table, and their gazes locked.
A minute passed, and Charlotte glared at Françoise. “You set this up.”
“Françoise had nothing to do with this,” René said sternly. “I held a gun to her head.”
Charlotte put her sunglasses back on, then scanned the café. “Julian too,” she whispered meeting his gaze then looking away, frozen. Tears began to leak out from beneath her sunglasses. “You need to get out of here, now,” she said. Each word seemed to shake.
“Aren’t I safe if I am with you?” René responded coldly. “According to the Reich handbook you are now untouchable.”
Charlotte gripped the edges of the table and stood. She looked at Françoise. “Go back to the gallery now and cover for me.” Her voice trembled. Turning to René, she said, “Meet me at the Hotel Louise. You remember the place. It hasn’t changed.” She clutched her designer purse with both hands. “There will be a key waiting.”
“I don’t want a key,” he said angrily. “Just information.”
Charlotte tightened her scarf, forced a polite smile at the maître-d, and exited the café.
By late evening, René still had not returned to the tiny cheap hotel room that he and Julian rented in the Latin Quarter. Damn, where is he? René had promised he would be gone no more than an hour. Julian glanced at the wall clock. Three hours had passed. He was angry with himself for letting René go alone to see Charlotte. What if it was another trap?
The peeling paint on the ceiling seemed to be closing in on Julian as he waited, his mind envisioning every possible scenario René might have gotten himself into. But there was no one to contact. He had to wait.
When the doorknob finally turned in the middle of the night, Julian sat up, gripping the headboard.
“Julian,” René called out into the grainy darkness. “It’s me.”
Julian did not move. His voice was anesthetized from disuse and from paralyzing thoughts. “You were supposed to have been gone an hour at most, René, not a goddamn lifetime.”
René touched Julian’s trembling arm. “I am sorry. I knew you were worried. But there was no way to reach you.”
Julian smelled the wine-stained breath and pushed René’s hand off of him. “Bordeaux, or is it Beaujolais? Is that why we stayed in Paris? One last fuck?”
René sat beside Julian on the bed and stared up at the splotchy ceiling, focusing on the largest and darkest stain directly over their heads. “She married Felix.”
Julian knew that must have killed him. “But she still slept with you, right?”
René pursed his lips. “Of course. Charlotte is a whore. She hiked up that skirt of hers, spread her long legs, and waited for me to get snared.”
“Which you clearly did.”
“Not right away.” René mopped his face with the sleeve of his jacket. “I wanted to leave.”
“But you didn’t,” Julian said accusingly.
“I wanted to tell her to go to hell, Julian. I should have killed her right there. But I froze. Can you understand that?”
“Here’s what I understand.” Julian reached over and lifted up his friend’s shirt and pointed to the raw pink burns across his stomach. “Did she appreciate your body décor? Did you tell her the gory details about our stay in the guesthouse, courtesy of her husband?”
René turned away. “Yes, I told her. She kept kissing me, touching the burns, my hands, and crying. I fucked her when she was crying, Julian. I closed my eyes and pictured her as she once was, not who she is now. But at least I left with answers.” He stood with his arms folded. “I got what I came for, Julian.”
Julian shook his head. He could not even look at René.
“She agreed to help me trap Felix.”
“Trap him?”
René nodded. “You think I am moving on with what’s left of my life without my paintings? Without killing Felix?”
Julian blinked in disbelief. “Killing him is not going to change a damn thing. I promise you, he won’t get away with what he did to us, your father, and Engel.” Julian stood. “Remember, he is the criminal, not us.”
René paced the floor. “Here’s how it’s going to go, Julian. I want Felix’s blue blood staining my father’s gallery floor. It’s more than just my paintings at stake. I’m going to destroy him for taking everything from me.”
“I can’t believe Charlotte agreed to this.” Julian walked over to the cracked mirror, took a quick look, and walked away. His face was ravaged. He looked like a skeleton.
“She doesn’t know what she agreed to,” René said. “But she owes me, Julian.”
Julian drew in a deep sigh. “We will never be able to leave Germany behind, René. But we can start over on our terms. We can expose what happened there. We have friends. We know people—journalists, writers, and others who would take up our cause. We can get our revenge without killing anybody. You and I have already been in prison. Let’s be smart, strategic. We can do this the right way.”
“I have a plan, Julian,” René said with conviction, hearing nothing.
Your plans have nearly killed us, Julian wanted to say, but didn’t. “You owe it to yourself to get your life back,” he said instead, searching René’s eyes for some sign of sanity, but found nothing.