I snapped out of that and headed back to the apartment. Sophie was sitting in one of the chairs, wearing a loose top long enough that it covered most of her, folded up in the chair. My coming in caused her to straighten up and smile, revealing glimpses of smooth leg, the tan fading from having been indoors too much. Trying not to think about what she might or might not be wearing underneath, I looked at what she had been doing.
Playing cards were laid out in front of her, the twos and sevens set aside to create some a strange variation of solitaire. I recognized it from the long hours we spent together in the apartment when we had first arrived. The Balzac paperback acted as a base for the discarded cards. I thought about those long repetitive hours, sneaking out only to haunt midnight booksellers, afraid that the freedom Atwell had delivered might be rescinded at any moment. Now that he had found a use for me, and maybe for both of us, that worry was no longer there, but I was suddenly nostalgic for those not-long-ago days.
While Sophie brightened the room, the women being gone from the apartment left a palpable void. It was a relief, causing me to relax that I could feel exhaustion tug at me, pulling me towards the bed in the hopes of a warm embrace and a good sleep. I thought about how often Sophie and I sometimes slept together and nothing more, wondering how common an arrangement that could be in the billions of people across the Earth. Given how ordinary violence and spousal death was, the cause of our togetherness couldn’t be unique. Watching her then, in her beauty and her grace, I was certain that the resulting fallout didn’t provide most men any comfort. Or at least not like this.
I said hello and she replied in kind, asking me how I was. She spoke to me in French, causing me to grimace. Not because I didn’t enjoy speaking with Sophie in any language, but because of the tricky topic I wanted to discuss. However, after having let me off the hook so long on learning Italian, her delicate tenacity in sticking to French indicated she seemed was set not to repeat that with our new language in our new home.
I mumbled through a short description of the boring routine of work, then got to the point by asking, “Would you like to go to a party?” My French was poor enough and the question odd enough that Sophie brushed her hair out of her face, narrowing her eyes as if that might increase her perception. I took a few minutes and explained the rest of my day: The phone call from Mitnick and the conversation with Atwell and the resulting compulsion to attend the social event.
None of this information settled Sophie’s confusion. “You want me to escort you?”
I smiled, the idea of taking her out for a pretend evening of normal time sounding like more fun than I thought it would now that the notion was being suggested by her. I thought about how much time she had been spending in the apartment alone. Even though I was bored out of my mind with the job at the casino, at least it was something.
I put that aside, though, abandoning French with it so I wouldn’t get caught up on how to say what I was saying. “Not exactly. I want you to come with me. But I’ll be busy talking to Mitnick. While I’m wasting time with that you can see what’s to learn about the Corsican and his girl.”
I was sure Sophie had been to events like this in the past, on mens’ arms making them feel better about themselves, looking better by the virtue of having her with them there, basking in the envy of men and women who watched her go by. I don’t know if it was the idea of being free to get out of the apartment, out beyond the menial jobs she had managed to pick up despite the expired visa, or if it was the idea of heading to one of these parties on her own with her own agenda. Whichever it was she gave me a devilish smile and we sat there for a small eternity grinning at each other like happy conspirators.
We kept on like that until a real concern came across my mind, an image of her getting close to Mitnick or someone like him and a flash of crimson. I pointed at her in mock chastisement and said, “But no weapons.” She hardened in a way that a stranger wouldn’t have detected or thought possible so I added, “They’ll search people if they’re the least suspicious.”
A bit of unhappiness crinkled her nose, but then that changed into a wicked grin. Producing the Opinel knife seemingly from nowhere she put it down on the coffee table. “Nothing like this, yes?”
I nodded cautiously, unsure of where she was going with this.
“Va bene.” Standing, she left the knife behind to stand at a mirror that hung on the wall, pulling her hair into a single tail, then moving it atop her head, playing with how she might wear it this evening. Watching me for a reaction through the glass she said, “I will bring the girls.”
To read the next chapter go here.
To read the previous chapter go here.
See the author’s published work here.
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