Chapter 2.

The morning sun didn’t penetrate the narrow alleyway, which extended between the ancient walls up to the hilltop. Letting in only a small patch of sky, the ivy-covered sandstone walls offered refreshing shade all throughout the day. Blinds still covered the houses’ narrow windows.

Two men clad in overalls slapped cement into bullet holes in the hotel’s stairwell wall. The hotel sat at the end of the alley, on the corner of a square full of plane trees. The windows of a nearby house were burned, evidence of recent combat. No one was working there. Apparently, the entire family had fled or had been killed.

In the middle of the square, the long barrel of a submachine gun
protruded from behind a mound of sandbags. Three soldiers were sitting atop the sandbags, chatting lazily and smoking cigarettes. With rifles slung over their shoulders for instantaneous use, men and women in uniform stood out among the colorful crowd of passersby. 

These young soldiers’ movements and eyes simultaneously exhibited their fatigue, their pride in victory, and their confrontational challenge to the whole world. They were the defenders of the young state. At the cost of agonizing losses, they had proved their courage and their right to exist. The passing Arabs looked elsewhere or lowered their heads.

Mingled with peeling church bells and the distant mullahs’ calls from minarets, the noises from the street penetrated through the blinds into the small hotel room.

Holding back the tears with all her might while still trying to talk calmly, Anna sat on the bed with the phone pressed to her ear. “I beg you, don’t give up! Hold on!”

The answer petered out in a wave of noise and crackling. Then, a
strongly accented voice from the switchboard asked in English, “Is the conversation over?”

Vigorously wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Anna
jumped off the bed.

“Hello, hello... We’re still talking! No, I wasn’t finished! Why are
you interrupting? Hello, Wolfgang... can you hear me? Hello!”

The abrupt dead air was broken by the amplified electronic echo of the broken connection. Desperate, Anna dropped the phone onto its cradle. In the round mirror on the wall opposite, she saw a face etched with hurt and fear.

Her old age and helplessness hit her, overpowering her heart with their immense weight. For a moment, she breathed deeply, keeping the waves of panic at bay. She could not stay in this city because she would go crazy otherwise.

She went to the closet, pulled out her suitcase and, quaking with a bad case of shattered nerves, began throwing her clothes into it. In the past, she had been forced to flee bombed towns several times and later, against advancing Russian troops during the terrible winter of ’45. But back then her fate was shared by thousands of people.
She had never felt as alone as now. 

***

The young receptionist was dressed in a loose, colorful shirt and his uniform slacks. He wore elaborately curled sidelocks at
his temples and covered the crown of his head with a kippah.
The barrel of his rifle poked out from behind the reception desk.

Apparently, he knew the reason for Anna’s visit, because for two days he had exchanged with her only a few perfunctory words, pronouncing them in German with ostentatious courtesy. Now he turned away, pulled out a large gray envelope from under the ledge and placed it on the counter.

Surprised, Anna looked at the envelope through the sunglasses covering her puffy eyes. She saw a name but failed to understand how it might concern her. Its implication finally dawning on her, she realized what was written on the envelope: Anna Steinhoff.

She hesitantly picked the envelope up and opened it. A thick manuscript slipped out onto the counter, as a loose sheet fell to the floor. Anna picked up the piece of paper and read the handwritten letter, in German, in a low voice.

“I’m not sure if I’m doing the right thing by giving you this journal. But I don’t think I’m hurting my mother in any fashion. You came here despite knowing there’d be nothing here for you. All the same, you’re not responsible for your son’s actions. Please don’t try to get in touch with me. After you finish reading it, please leave the diary at the reception desk.”

Anna stared at the evenly handwritten script. She was not mistaken about Edith’s feelings, despite her reserve. The older woman was grateful and wanted to meet this young person again. She sensed the receptionist looking at her and raised her eyes to meet his. She could not help but notice the curiosity and repugnance in them.

“I’d like to stay a few more days,” she said evenly. “Is my room
available?”

The desk clerk was ready to answer yes, but his sense of duty and lack of sympathy for his customer made him reach for the registration book and begin methodically checking the list of reservations.

“Do you know the phone number of the woman who left the envelope,” Anna asked, “or her address?”

Although he heard and understood the question, he didn’t react. He just kept dragging his finger along the checked lines of his registry book. Anna laid her hand on the gutter of the book. The startled desk clerk looked up.

“Someone told you I’m the mother of a war criminal.” Anna took off her glasses and looked determinedly into his eyes. “That’s not true: my son didn’t hurt anyone. He was a soldier, like you. I will
prove it.”

They looked at each other over the counter. The receptionist didn’t respond to her words but mutely waited for her to pull her hand back.

“Your room’s free until Sunday,” he said in English.

“Thank you.”

Sliding the diary and the sheet of paper back into the envelope, she bent down to pick up her suitcase and headed for the stairs. She didn’t expect the desk clerk to offer to help her. He did the first day on her arrival but someone must have spoken to him since then. It probably was one of the officials from the municipal building, where Anna had asked for permission to visit the army barracks.

By the time she reached the first landing, the emotions that had given her strength just the moment before failed her. She plopped down limply on the stairs. Drenched in sweat, she tried to keep her anxiety at bay. The diary could be her salvation or a horrible verdict. She could not delay any longer. Pulling out the yellowed pages from the envelope, she took her reading glasses out of her jacket pocket.

She stared a long time at the first sentences written in French, in tiny handwriting. Luckily, she had studied French in Landshut, at her school run by the Ursuline Sisters, but she had to strain to
comprehend every word.

With the sounds of quickening steps and cheerful voices, a young couple came tripping merrily down the stairs toward her. She had noticed them at dinner the night before in the hotel’s restaurant. Dressed in uniforms, they sat at a table in the corner of the room, talking in low tones and holding hands, making them look lost and bashful. She suspected they were using the war as cover for a forbidden tryst and it would be their first night together, without their families knowing.

Now they appeared on the stairs, laughing and filled with courage and love. Upon seeing the older woman sitting on the landing, they slowed down, nodded at her, tiptoed around her, and hurried on.
Their voices resounded in the hall when greeting the receptionist and then were absorbed by the noises in the street.

Anna leaned over the diary again. Holding her breath, she murmured the first sentence and then wordlessly continued.

Chapter 3.

Monte Carlo, August 3, 1938

My pulse rises upon entering the great hall with its purple walls and carpeting. Green tablecloths suggest innocence, while elegant costumes disguise excitement and anxiety. We recklessly enter the belly of the beast, letting it suck our humanity from us, feeding on our hope, greed and despair.

I’m in my element here. Strolling alongside the tables of poker,
baccarat, and blackjack, I roam freely around the roulette table.
Men’s eyes caress my breasts, belly and buttocks. I’m not
wearing any undergarments and, with each enticing, slinking move, promise oblivion and every pleasure. I am alert. Having confidence in my intuition, I will unerringly choose the right man who’ll meet my expectations.

He will not be young, but over fifty. His boredom and disappointment brought him here. He will return home to his wife when he feels even greater emptiness. But first, he will encounter me. He’s wealthy and can afford a beautiful young woman but I’ll let him know it’s not about money. I’m not one to be bought. He can only seduce me.

I notice Karl, elegant and handsome, focused. He’s waiting at the
blackjack table, pretending interest in the game, betting small
stakes. He has confidence in me and knows I’m never wrong. My
stalking must take time: neither too brief because I’m not easy
prey nor too long because men cannot become aware of my intentions.
I’m not the only woman who makes her living off her instincts of
possession and delight. I am exceptional, because my every move, breath and expression convey the message that I was created for love.

***

For three years, Karl and I have known a carefree yet on-the-edge lifestyle that began out of the jumble of my former existence. After escaping my husband, I traveled the whole of Europe to stymie the police and avoid arrest. One day, dog-tired, broke and desperate, I went into a Monte Carlo casino. Untrained
in these matters, I wanted to meet a man who’d take care of me for a few days. That’s how I happened upon Karl.

Karl is German. His father was killed in a gas attack at the front in WWI France and his mother died a few years later. He was raised by his grandfather, who joined the SA Brownshirts and was murdered during the Night of the Long Knives. Fearing he would be made to answer for his grandfather’s transgressions, Karl left Germany.

In London, he found a wealthy widow twenty years his senior, who took care of him. She taught him how to treat women vis-à-vis what they were expecting of a man.

He learned they were wise, really very mindful regarding their
situation. They needed affection and sex within reasonable limits.
It wasn’t worth stealing from them.

When the widow died of cancer and her children seized their inheritance, Karl set off for the Côte d’Azur. For five years, he met elderly, lonely ladies in luxury hotels and casinos. Conforming to the widow’s tutelage, they had no illusions about his feelings. He’d spend a few months with them, sometimes a year, and then move on before the family stepped in to save the woman’s estate. He never tried to make a fortune but was more than satisfied with expensive gifts and enough cash for a comfortable life. This strategy allowed him to avoid trouble. But, realizing he’d have to retire from the field someday, he was ambitious about securing a future. Then he met me.

My immaturity led me to mistake Karl for no more than the bored scion of a rich family. He immediately recognized my talent and decided to mentor me. That same evening, we became lovers and Karl suggested we work together. My slip-up about him made me realize that, without some kind of guardian, I had no chance of survival. So I agreed.

I thought then some feeling would cement our relationship and I was ready for that. However, Karl was sure that emotions would prevent us from acting cool and precise. So he kept emotions out of the picture. Under his guidance, I changed into a true huntress.

I spoke the kind of French they taught in school. Karl forced me to master the language perfectly, refusing to speak to me in German which I knew better. He bought me a forged passport and we pretended to be married and French citizens. Later, I learned Karl was terribly afraid of being recognized and packed off to Germany, where he’d land in a concentration camp.

Successfully operating in Monaco, Monte Carlo, Cannes, and Biarritz for three years, we made short trips to the casinos in Birmingham, England, and St. Vincent, Italy. To avoid stoking any interest on the part of overzealous hotel and casino security personnel, we never stayed longer than one week in any given locale. Despite this, we both started feeling the atmosphere around us getting denser, stickier.

From time to time, Karl had to appear at police stations to explain the sources of our income and the purpose of our visiting the resorts. He kept inventing stories about inheriting from his rich uncle but the police listened with mounting suspicion.

A few days ago, we had a serious conversation about our situation. Up till now, I hadn’t asked about the state of our finances and Karl appreciated my discretion. That evening, I said I dreamt of a rest and a change. Karl felt worn out too and, besides, our seeming impunity bothered him.

He confided we had put aside enough money to buy a home and wouldn’t have to worry about our financial status for a few years.
During this hiatus, we’d consider some way of earning a living. He thought of North Africa, one of the French colonies, where it was easy to start a business and the police closed their eyes to a
person’s sources of money. I liked this idea and was grateful to
him. As always before my hunt, we spent an enthralling night.

This evening in Monte Carlo is supposed to be our last. Once again, I will prove my talent and choose a rich victim. Then Karl and I will vanish into thin air. I spot my mark: he’s sitting at the roulette table and is about sixty years old. Everything about him speaks of boredom, emptiness. He’s betting casually, indifferently – win or lose.

I look at him over the shoulders of the players on the opposite side of the table. I’m not mistaken: after a minute, he raises his head and finds me staring at him. I note the slight confusion
in his eyes as he turns away and pretends to concentrate on the game.

It’s imperative I don’t waste my time with self-confident men. My
beauty must intimidate, cause a sense of confusion, and weaken their vigilance and intelligence.

I stand in the same place for the next few minutes, smiling, reacting to his stealthy glances. Eventually, I turn away and go to the bar.
When I order a martini, he follows me and meekly says, “I’ve won
a bit of extra cash. Would you like to spend it with me?”

I turn, smiling with surprise. Without a word, I tilt my head slightly and size him up. I notice the sagging skin on his cheeks and neck, his dyed hair and toupee.

“I don’t need money,” I say at last, in a low, modulated voice.

He musters up the remnants of his courage. “I didn’t mean that.
Please forgive me,” he answers quickly.

“What did you mean?” I ask saucily.

“If I offended you...,” he begins, all set to apologize and go away.

“You didn’t offend me. You just made me curious. I’m Eliza.”

I give him my hand. He clumsily squeezes my fingers with his small, sweaty hand and then lifts my hand to his mouth smothering it with a squishy kiss. He has nice eyes.

“Horace,” he replies, introducing himself.

Neither of us reveals our surnames, because anonymity is part of this unwritten convention. He doesn’t realize that soon his last name will become the stakes in my game.

“I’m bored just like you,” I say with a sad smile. I deliberately use
the words I have spoken so many times before to so many men. “I’m fed up with this crowd! I haven’t spotted a single human face here, except yours. Let’s get your winnings and ditch everybody else.”

His eyes sparkle; he’s as animated and delighted as all the rest before him. For me to pretend he’s an Adonis wouldn’t work – he
wouldn’t believe it. It’s his sensitivity and depth that must seem to impress me.

“What do you want to play?” he asks, barely able to contain his
excitement.

I deliberate for a moment. “Dice,” I say finally, with conviction.

I always have them play dice. Sitting at roulette or cards doesn’t
give me the chance to express myself as my part demands. Throwing the dice, leaning over the table, extending my body, my bursts of joy or mournful sadness – the whole show where I’m an enthusiastic participant distracts my partner from any lingering doubt he might have. This is how a liberated, carefree woman, without a hint of self-interest, plays.

Karl stands at the side of the table, as always admiring and rewarding my performance with applause. More men clap. There are more and more, some wanting to get to know me. They offer to play the game with me but I’m loyal to Horace. After each win or loss, I press myself up to him, grab his arm, laugh or pretend to be sad. He proudly catches spectators appraising me and basks in the company of such a woman.

Finally, the game bores me. But I’ve been lucky, since I was able to raise Horace’s take. He offers me the winnings but I graciously refuse.

“Where are you staying?” I ask, batting my eyes at him.

“Hôtel Hermitage.”

It amuses me to think that this adventure will take place in a hotel whose name means cloister. Hermits have sometimes been great sinners and he, too, will be punished for his sin of marital treason.

Besides, having survived a traumatic incident at the Hermitage where I witnessed both blood and death, I am pleased with myself for the self-control I’m now showing.

I notice Horace is becoming distressed. At his age, it’s easy to be
caught in a compromising situation with a young woman. I gently take his hand and look him in the eye.

“We don’t have to be lovers... not right now,” I say reassuringly.
“I don’t like young lovers. The mature man always figures out
what I need.”

“You’re unusual, Eliza,” he says with a muffled voice.

“Let’s go. The night is beautiful. Tell me about yourself,” I suggest.  “If this is the beginning of friendship, we must get to know each other better.”

I don’t feel the least remorse and don’t falter. For as long as I
can remember, I have been used and treated as an object.

***

Overly occupied with herself and her lovers, my mother exploited me. When time, alcohol and morphine began to gnaw away at her beauty, she didn’t hesitate to use me as bait to men as a reward for their readiness to continue their romance with her. A fifteen-year-old, such a promising beauty, became her popular stealth trophy among that milieu of officers and artists.

I was battered by my father, a colonel whose war record had earned him an esteemed place in society. Opting for a political career, he constantly lost in the bid for power. And he married a woman whom he had happened to make pregnant.

Blaming the world for his failures, he vented his anger and frustration on me. He learned about the lovers my mother arranged for me and one day declared I had to satisfy him, too. I was saved by my father’s arrest that same night, for his part in a corruption scandal.

He spent the next five years in a high-security prison. Neither my mother nor I ever visited him.

The loss of property and social status broke my mother, and morphine and alcohol finished the business. A year later, she suffered a stroke that paralyzed half her body. I’ll never forget her burning eyes as they carted her away in an ambulance to her parents’ house. For the rest of her life, she hated me for my beauty and for being sixteen years old. At the same time, her expression begged for my forgiveness.

I was officially on my own and our house was sold at auction. My
mother’s cousin, a quiet man, a closet homosexual who lived by
himself, took me in. I dropped out of school, where I had become the subject of ridicule and persecution after my father’s arrest. For three years, I worked in my relative’s shipping company where he taught me the trade and the German language. Then, he arranged for me to be married.

Fifteen years my senior, the man he chose had been married before to a wealthy woman. But all her money was lost in the Great Depression.
Disappointed that he was stuck with his wife, he blamed her for their financial bruising. They matched each other in their mutual hatred.

In the end, his wife died of tuberculosis. A beautiful nineteen-year-old woman was his reward for his many wasted years.

On my wedding night, I learned my husband had a deep need to injure to achieve sexual satisfaction. I held out for a year until the day I was beaten so severely I couldn’t get up for several hours. I regained my strength in the middle of the night, pulled a hammer out of the cabinet, went to the bedroom, and slammed it into my sleeping husband’s temple. I used all my strength and didn’t stop to check if I had killed him. I packed a small suitcase, took what money and jewelry there was in the safe, and headed off. This is why I went as far away from home, from Warsaw, from Poland, as possible.

***

Horace and I stroll along the brightly lit streets. It’s a summer night and the day’s heat evaporates on the sandstone walls, the sidewalks and the asphalt streets. The limousines with their curtained windows drive by and cabriolets are full of happy-go-lucky passengers. We pass young couples, groups of drunken men with prostitutes, and strolling retirees who can’t sleep.

Horace tells me about himself. Nodding, I assume the correct expression and listen to him offhandedly. I’ve heard this story so many times before, I could tell it myself.

He’s a Swiss businessman, trading in mahogany, ivory, and diamonds. He’s lost all appetite for life; it’s hard to bear his badly aging wife; he doesn’t understand his three children who argue over his money and are waiting for him to kick the bucket. He has no friends and his relationships with his acquaintances are marked by artificiality and cold calculation. He could start a new life with a woman like me.

I reciprocate with one of my tales. I choose the drama of the girl
whose parents died on the Titanic. Fortunately, she inherited their property after their deaths. Thus, she is guaranteed her
independence. She’s not interested in young men. They’re either
fortune hunters or windbags who haven’t experienced anything.

As I chatter on, I keep a close eye on the moon suspended over the sea.  At times, it dims because of the brilliance of all the streetlamps or recedes behind the walls of the houses. Tucked between the branches of plane trees, cypresses, and palm trees, it rises again in its full glory in the indigo sky, with millions of faithful stars.

We have a secret agreement, the moon and I. A long time ago, when I was fifteen, I hid from my mother and her lover in the attic of our house. Fixating on the moon and the sky full of stars, I prayed fervently for someone to take me away from that place – but no one came. They found me and I had to satisfy yet another man’s lust.

Suppressing my pain and disgust, even while pinned under the man’s heavy, sweaty body, I still sought the face of the moon through the window.  It promised it would wait with me until my nightmare was over. It took five long years. As I watched it inching its way across the midnight blue sky, my fear and loneliness vanished.

In the end, the night came when I freed myself from my husband with the help of that hammer. Keeping faith with me, the moon accompanied me like a watchful silver guardian, as a shining light on the side streets. It escorted me to the train station and continued in the sky until morning when I got on the first train to Paris.

I learned my friend’s paths. I know when it will appear, which day
of the month and in which part of the sky. I also see it during the
day when no one’s paying attention to it. I never work on moonless nights. Karl knows my weakness and jokingly calls me his lunatic or moon loony.

My parents sank in the icy ocean off the Titanic and the fate of the orphan moves Horace.

We arrive at the exquisite art nouveau Hermitage.
A few years ago, a luxurious hotel bearing the name hermitage would have shattered me; now I feel comfortable here. I just don’t like the stares of the desk clerks who remember me from my last stay. I glower back defiantly. Without a word, I let them know, if they dare interfere, my friend will make sure they lose their jobs. They’re savvy and look away, discreetly indicating their hostility and contempt.

Oblivious to all this, Horace asks for the key to his suite and orders champagne and oysters. We take the elevator to the third floor and the mute elevator operator receives a tip. He remembers me, too.

We exit the elevator. Through the huge, glazed roof, I spot the full moon and the myriad of stars. Showing Horace the sky, I cuddle up to him. I’m romantic and dreamy.

The last time I was here, thunderbolts lit up the rooftop and torrential rain poured down. My then companion proposed making love with the windows open; he was like Zeus, who comes on the wings of a storm.

He was a Greek millionaire from the United States, a small, plump, witty man in his sixties. For him, because of his charm, I made an exception and went to bed with him.

Then, before I could start the rest of the plan, he went to the bathroom and shot himself in the mouth. I learned from the police commissioner that my Greek’s investments in China bankrupted him after the Japanese invasion. The commissioner was unsure whether to feel sorry for me or to accuse me of causing the man’s suicide.
Karl helped him decide his quandary, with the offer of three thousand francs.

We walk into the suite. I throw my faux-leopard rabbit fur on the
floor, pass the big four-poster bed, and go through the open door out onto the terrace. There’s a breathtaking vista of Monte Carlo below with all its lights and the sea sparkling like diamonds
reflecting the full moon. The place is a great magnet attracting the wealthy from all over the world and people like Karl and me, fools dreaming of freedom from poverty.

Horace is next to me; his arm timidly encircles me. I turn around and kiss him on the mouth. I feel all of him trembling, as I press myself to his protruding belly. My hand moves over the inside of his thigh and I clasp the bulge in his pants hard. Horace moans softly, then shudders and holds his breath. The fabric of his trousers and my hand become wet. I’ve saved myself from the tussle in his bed. I whisper in his ear not to worry, because the night is long; there are many days and nights ahead of us. Grateful, Horace relaxes.

“I’m sorry, Eliza,” he says with an embarrassed smile. “It’s been a
while since the last...”

I cup my hand over his mouth, take his hand and lead him into the room.

Unzipping the side of my dress, I step out of it and stretch out naked on the bed. There’s a knock on the door.

“Come in!” I call out, covering up with the blanket.

A waiter in a white jacket comes in pushing a cart with champagne in a bucket and an oyster dish. Horace gives him a tip and closes the door. I note he hasn’t twisted the key in the lock. I reach out to Horace.

“Take off your clothes and come here,” I command with a bewitching smile.

Blushing like a boy on his first night with a grown woman, he awkwardly pulls at his cummerbund and pants. I’m amused by the fact they always stay in their pants and shirts. It’s all about covering the hanging belly the tuxedo cummerbund was squeezing in earlier.
Finally, he’s pulled it down and he’s next to me.

I pull the quilt aside to press my naked body to his side, stroking his hairy chest. I play with his inert organ. Horace lies still, afraid
to breathe normally.

“You don’t have to do a thing,” I assure him in a whisper.

I gently turn his head and kiss his lips. It’s critical not to let
him see the door opening up, so he doesn’t jump out of bed too
fast.

He violently jolts upright when there’s a blaze of light and the flash pops. Terrified, he sits up straight and, with his bulging, blinded eyes, scowls at Karl, who’s standing in the middle of the room with a small camera and unhurriedly changing the light bulb in the flash.

“What’s this?” Horace shrieks. “What the hell are you doing?”

The shouts and protests are always the same, with varying degrees of vulgarity. There are no acts of violence because Karl is tall and heavily built. I get out of bed, not hurrying to dress. I don’t look at Horace; I feel a kind of shame. But it’ll soon pass. I
hear Karl’s voice.

“You seduced my wife. As far as I know, you’re cheating on your own. I suggest that we come to an agreement if you don’t wish to have a scandal.”

“Blackmail?  Eliza...” Horace’s voice cracks.

I stand in front of the mirror, take a powder compact from my evening bag, and touch up my makeup. In the reflection behind me, I can see Horace, who’s sitting on a bed with his head down. His abdomen hangs below his crotch and his arms are folded on his bowed chest like a woman shielding her breasts.

Waiting noiselessly, Karl lights a cigarette.

“How much do you want?” Horace mutters.

“How much is your peace of mind worth?” Karl replies.

I know these exchanges by heart. This is the diciest part, guessing what the victim’s financial capacity is.

“Five thousand francs,” Horace says.

His voice betrays him, his lack of confidence, and his determination.
Karl laughs and then turns to me.

“What do you think, honey? He’s setting a pretty low value on your feelings.”

“It’s not like that,” Horace protests helplessly.

Now it’s my turn; I must share with Karl what I’ve learned. “He
owns a trading company in Geneva. Imports mahogany, ivory and diamonds from Africa.”

“Diamonds,” Karl echoes.

No one speaks for some time.

“Forty-two thousand francs,” Horace struggles to say.

I take my time applying red lipstick on my lips. “A strange sum,”
flits through my mind.

Nodding, Karl sits on the bed and pats Horace’s hand that’s resting on his naked thigh.

“We don’t want to ruin you. We’ll go to your bank together, so you
can show us your bank account balance. I suppose my wife’s honor is worth ten percent.”

Horace’s response is fast; the businessman’s spirit has awakened in him.

“Five percent.”

It’s always like that. Everyone’s reassured when the bidding starts.
Karl laughs again. I like his deep, honest laughter. He has an
extremely resistant nervous system and I feel safe with him. I
finish powdering my cheeks and dragging my brush through my lush chestnut hair.

It’s my turn to join the game. I approach, sit next to Horace, smile and kiss him on the cheek.

“You’re a wonderful man,” I murmur. “If it weren’t for Karl, I’d
like to be with you. Don’t get upset; everything will be fine.”

Horace looks at me. There’s no hostility in his eyes, only anxiety and something else that I can’t quite pinpoint. Amusement? I’m
surprised and telegraph a warning looking at Karl. We both pretend to be relaxed but, in fact, we’re focused and alert.

Our mark can react unpredictably at any time… like the Greek who shot himself in the mouth or the Russian aristocrat
émigré who got hysterical and began screaming, thus involving the security staff at the Windsor Hotel in Biarritz.

Before either one of us can say anything, the door is pushed open and four police officers are coming in, with the well-known Commissioner DuPont in charge. The short, skinny commissioner is wearing a long coat and his triangular face radiates self-congratulations.

I stiffen with fear but regain control immediately. If there isn’t
any wiretapping in the suite, they can’t accuse us of anything;
it’d be Horace’s word against ours. According to our well-forged
papers, I am Karl’s wife. Therefore, my husband caught me cheating on him.

“Good evening,” DuPont says with a venomous smile and turns to Horace.  “Welcome to Monte Carlo, M’sieur Paul Bertrand. Are you enjoying yourself in our city? I suggest you dress, so we can proceed with our trip to the police station.”

Doing our best to interpret these developments, Karl and I stare at Horace.
The four policemen are ready to use force. Horace gets up and
starts pulling on his pants without a word, not even trying to hide the dark mark on the crotch.

The commissioner spots the stain. “A passionate interlude,” he says with a straight face.

The policemen all grin from ear to ear. Horace dresses, looking
completely out-to-lunch and resigned.

DuPont turns to us. “You’re welcome to come, too.”

Karl unhurriedly pulls out a cigarette from his gold cigarette case, picks up a cigarette lighter and inhales the smoke.

“For what reason, if I may ask?”

“You may,” DuPont agrees. He removes a folded document from his pocket and reads aloud. “Order to arrest Karl and Eliza Virion in connection with accusations of blackmail and extortion of property.  By the way, your French has a strange accent. Are you Swiss or Belgian? Or maybe German?”

“Who filed charges?” Karl, still keeping his cool, asks.

“All this will be explained down at the police station,” the
commissioner replies and tucks away the document.

It’s time I spoke. “I hope it’s not Horace, aka M’sieur Paul
Bertrand,” I say ironically. “We’ve known each other for all
of two hours.”

The commissioner nods eagerly. “That’s true. M’sieur Bertrand is
the treasurer of the Socialist Party in Nantes. After his departure, it turned out that the party’s coffers were missing 84,000 francs.  At the request of the prosecutor, we traced M’sieur Bertrand’s trip and were interested in his visit to the casino. Along the way, our agent decided to investigate the identity of the woman tagging along with him. It turns out we’re old friends... It appears you’ve performed several times in Monte Carlo. Your actions were suspicious but, as we didn’t have sufficient evidence, we called the Monaco and Biarritz police prefects. You’re a class act: your style and beauty didn’t need a long, drawn-out description. You’re always in the company of wealthy men who are hastily leaving after a night with you.”

“You work very fast,” Karl says admiringly.

DuPont accepts this accolade with a slight bow and then points to the door.
One of the policemen takes the arrested man by the arm, ushering him to the exit. I register Horace’s last glance. It’s sad and amused at the same time. “The cheat cheated like a child,” his gaze says.

***

I was sure Karl would always be in control of the situation but now felt anxious. Maybe it was because, for the first time, my instincts had failed me. For far too long, I’ve been succeeding too easily and ignoring the warning signals.

Although Horace, aka Paul, was well-dressed and behaved flawlessly, I should have noticed he lacked self-confidence. Wealthy old men were timid with me but treated others with telltale snobbishness. Horace didn’t. Added to this, I hadn’t followed the simple steps Karl had taught me: I didn’t ask for his business card or for photos of his home, wife and children.

I’m spending the night in a cell with prostitutes and a young woman who slashed a casino manager with a knife. She insists the manager, under the pretext of accompanying her to her hotel, tried to rape and rob her of her winnings at the baccarat table. I believe her and know she hasn’t a chance.

Since she’s a stranger here, she’ll be tried and sentenced to prison.

Sympathizing with the woman, the prostitutes offer to have their
lawyer friend help her.

At dawn, a policeman comes to wake those of us who are sleeping. The prostitutes get to leave, because the lawyer working for their pimp springs them. The young woman is taken to the prosecutor’s office for questioning.

Waiting for my turn, I can guess why it’s taking so long. Karl’s
negotiations always end with a visit to the bank that opens at ten.
At long last, the cops take me out of the police station, to Karl
who’s waiting on the street.

We get into our red Ford convertible and drive out of Monte Carlo. We don’t talk. My freedom has cost us a lot.

We descend the winding road by the sea. The sparkling sunshine
highlights the red rocks from the dark, rippling water, as palm trees cast long shadows. With the fresh salty breeze on my face, I inhale the scent of salt and seaweed. I love the seacoast and this time of day.

If it weren’t for the previous night, I’d be happy now. Unable to
rest at all and now completely fagged out, I feel cramps mounting in my stomach. I give Karl a sign that I have to get out of the car.
He pulls over onto the wide terrace at the foot of the mountain. I
open the door, approach the rock rising at the end of the veranda, lean against the cool, rugged boulder and begin to vomit. My retching hurts. I haven’t eaten anything since the previous evening and all I can upchuck is bile.

The odious urge eventually recedes. Calming down, I wipe my mouth with a handkerchief and inhale deeply. I still have an upset stomach but I’m ready to hear the truth. I go back to the car, take his lit cigarette, inhale and exhale its smoke.

“Better now?” Karl asks with concern in his voice.

I’m not interested in his compassion. “How much is left?”

Spreading his hands out to the side, he tries to smile. “The Commissioner had a good day, the best in his life,” he says grimly.

I take another cigarette, trying to control my trembling fingers. I
look at Karl’s gold lighter, which he incessantly ignites and
extinguishes.

“Please!  Cut that out.”

His fingers stop fidgeting with the lighter. “I said it was a wedding gift from you.”

“DuPont’s a bastard,” I mutter.

Karl puts his hand on my thigh and looks me in the eye. “He gave his word to purge us from the records.”

“Do you believe him?” I ask.

“He took everything.”

For a few seconds, I can’t get my voice out of my throat.

“We have nothing left?” I ask to make sure.

“Just our little old selves,” Karl replies.

I want to hit him in the face. I chose Horace but it’s Karl’s job
to check my men. He’d just slip the desk clerk a hundred francs
for the skinny on them and, if Karl didn’t call to warn me, I would
always proceed. There’s no point in talking about it. I learned
long ago not to dwell on things that can’t be changed; people spend too much energy on that. I laugh, although I don’t feel happy.

“Poor Horace,” I say. “Here he wanted to give us half of his loot.
And you were happy to take ten percent.”

Karl shakes his head. “He was playing for time. He wasn’t afraid of haggling, only any confusion that might draw the attention of the police. It turns out there are only a few francs in the bank
account. He was flying the coop and stashing the stolen dough in some dark hole. DuPont let me know that much.”

“I wonder if Horace will get out with a bribe,” I muse.

“DuPont may be afraid to do that because the business is so widely known.”

Karl’s right. Besides, what do I care about Paul Bertrand? I’m trying to evade the truth about our situation. We sit without speaking for some time and smoke our cigarettes. Mine has the taste of disappointment and defeat. I flick the butt onto the graveled terrace.

There’s a flock of gulls bounding around the rocky outcrop, before taking off. I wistfully watch them circle in the air, squawk
stridently at each other, and then dive down into the undulating waves. I envy them. They live for the moment, unafraid of the future, and don’t give a hoot about their past.

I’d love to free my mind from fear but have no idea how to do it. Money would give me some peace. That said, I remember the rich who kill their depression with alcohol, drugs and sex. They confided in me the nightmares that catch up with them during their sleepless nights.
What were they afraid of? Someone once told me every fear is the fear of death.

“We have a job in Biarritz,” Karl murmurs.

I shrug. “If we fail, we’ll be behind bars,” I reply. “How
will we pay the police then?”

“This is our last job, honey. I swear.”

There’s tension in Karl’s voice. He’s afraid I’ll refuse, knowing he
can’t go it alone. He may have to go back to seducing wealthy
widows. But, then he’d have to live in luxury hotels, eat in
expensive restaurants, and bet in the casinos.

I don’t answer but look ahead. The gulls rise again and fly all the
way to the city. Is it to eat garbage from the ships in the harbor?
Or maybe they’re just flying for the pleasure of it. I envy them –
white brilliance on an endless background, without error, hesitation, or fear.

Karl speaks again. “I promised you’d be free and I’ll keep my word.  I’ll always free you, I swear,” he says slowly and ends with
words that hit me like an electric current. “I love you… like
nobody else in the world.”

I stiffen without looking at him. We’ve always dodged these words and treat love like a forbidden topic – until now. I’m boiling
mad. Crossing this taboo is Karl’s revolting trick. He wants to
break my will in such an ignominious fashion.

I try to conjure up loathing for my weakness and, despite myself, feel overwhelming warmth. Fighting to hold back my tears, I close my eyes and press my head against his chest.

“Promise me you’ll never say that ever again,” I say, my voice breaking.

Karl’s hand gently smooths down my hair. I’d be able to put a bullet into his head right now, with the revolver in the car’s glove
compartment. Then I’d shoot myself. Peace and freedom. Maybe
it’d be a flight over the rocky sea toward the sun-lit horizon.
What’s the meaning of this kind of life?

The author hasn't added any updates, yet.