The Same River Twice (20 page)

“Maybe you can get them copied,” Odile suggested. “Wouldn’t that be cheaper?”

“In theory, maybe. But finding someone to do the work isn’t easy. Once the machinery goes out of production, you’re pretty much at the mercy of the spare-parts market.” She took a packet of sunflower seeds from her knapsack and poured some into Odile’s cupped hand. “One way or another,
though, we’ll get her fixed up. That much I know.” She began shelling the seeds and eating them, dropping the husks in a bandanna she’d laid open in her lap. “How are things with Max?”

“Not bad. Better, I think. He’s in his
auteur
mode.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Definitely. I finally saw the footage he shot of you and Groot during the flood, by the way.”

“You did? Is it like totally dramatic?”

“Yes, it is. The two of you come across very well—understated, connected, fateful. You’re yourselves plus something extra. It’s what happens when Max gets serious behind a camera.”

“Really? Is he serious about making a whole film?”

“He wants to, yes. Does that bother you?”

“No, I guess not. But it’s not a straight documentary, is it?”

Odile shrugged and dropped some husks into Rachel’s bandanna. “I don’t know. Probably he hasn’t made up his mind yet. Anyway, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Just tell him no.”

“Right. I bet you do that all the time.”

“But of course I do.” Odile frowned. “Well, once in awhile. Sometimes. To keep him guessing.”

They had a giggle together. Sunlight dappled the grass around them, and the water in the fountain’s elongated pool shimmered a deep bosky green.

“There’s something else I’ve been wanting to tell you,” Rachel said, “but you have to promise not to repeat it, even to Max. Okay?”

“I won’t say a word, I promise.”

She studied the ground at her feet, took a deep breath, and said, “Groot proposed to me.”

“Oh Rachel, that’s—” But seeing her eyes brim, Odile cut short her congratulations. “When?” she said instead.

“The night the boat got loose, after all the excitement. We sat up late celebrating the rescue, and then, out of nowhere, more or less, he asked me to marry him.”

“And what did you say?”

“I …” Rachel took off her glasses. “I told him I needed time to think about it. I don’t know why I was so surprised, but I was. Somehow marriage just hadn’t entered my mind. He was hurt, of course, but what could I do?”

“You did the right thing, Rachel. Groot wouldn’t want you to answer impulsively. I’m sure he understands.”

“I mean, I know I’m twenty-five, and it’s normal to think about where we go from here. But marriage! That just sounds so … drastic.” She lifted one corner of the bandanna to clean her glasses, forgetting about the sunflower husks, which fell to the grass without her noticing. “Truthfully, I can’t see past this summer. Fixing up the boat, living day to day. That’s what I want. Am I being totally infantile?”

“Not at all. Just tell him.”

Rachel held her glasses up to the sylvan light, sighed, then resumed polishing them. “I think it’s too late for that. Whatever I decide, I don’t think there’s any going back to the way it was before he asked me.” She blinked back tears. “I mean, is there?”

Odile reached out and caressed her friend’s cheek. “No, probably not. But you can still have your summer.”

“I’m selfish and pathetic, I know.”

“Listen. Groot is the soul of patience. He’ll understand.” She drew back to look at Rachel. “And of course there’s the boat, which is the perfect distraction. You said it yourself.”

Rachel nodded dutifully. “You’re right. There’s always the boat.”

They talked for awhile about Groot’s plans for the overhaul, and Odile, recalling Max’s worry that the boat might escape his lens prematurely, was counseling caution when a small voice interrupted her.

“Excuse me, Madame.”

Odile turned to find herself addressed by a blond-headed little girl, maybe five years old, in a floral-printed pinafore and red Mary Janes.

“Hello, little one. What do you have there?”

The child thrust forward a folded slip of paper. “It’s for you.”

“Well, thank you. What a surprise! Is it a present?”

“No, Madame. That man over there sent me.” She pointed across the fountain’s basin and, emitting a shriek of delight, ran off.

Several people were seated on the opposite side of the fountain, and at first Odile recognized none of them. She opened the folded paper and inside, handwritten in English, the message read:
Circumstances have changed. My apologies for earlier misunderstanding. May I speak with you and your friend?
Looking up, she saw a man refold the newspaper he’d been reading. He wore wraparound sunglasses, black leather pants, a linen shirt striped silver and navy blue, and a black linen jacket. Smiling at her, he requested her indulgence with a stylized cringe.

“Oh my God, Rachel. It’s that guy. One of the Russians who, you know, threatened me.”

“Where?” The man nodded at Rachel. “Oh.” She touched the clip in her hair and carefully refastened it. “What do we do?”

“He wants to talk to us.”

“I’ll get the police.”

“No.” Odile stayed her with a hand on her knee. “I think … I think it’s okay.”

“What, are you kidding?”

“There are people around. Let’s find out what he wants.” She lifted her chin to the man.

He got up from his chair, walked around the fountain, and, standing somewhat formally before the two women, held his hand out to Odile. “I am Sergei Dmitrovich.”

Ignoring the proffered hand, Odile said, “This is Rachel, whose boat you tried to burn down.”

“I am very sorry,” he said, turning to Rachel. “Was terrible mistake. Procedural error.”

Rachel gave him her hand. “Charming,” she said as she scrutinized him.

The man looked quickly around, spotted an empty chair, and brought it over to where they were sitting. “Now is ideal time to talk. I think maybe we all will benefit.”

“Where’s your bad-smelling friend?” asked Odile.

“Ah,” said the man, “your complaint is noted. And I am most pleased to tell you that he is undergoing aromatherapy as we speak.”

“The other guy,” Odile informed Rachel, “was the muscle.”

“So this guy’s the brains?” Rachel asked her. “I’m waiting to be impressed.”

Dmitrovich tilted his head and smiled. “I understand you may think badly of me. Sometimes my manners are not what they should be, but you see I work under imperfect conditions, very often with pressing time constraints as well.” He produced a pack of cigarettes, offered it to Odile and Rachel in turn, then lit one for himself. “So it is in this present case, involving Thierry Colin.”

“You say circumstances have changed,” Odile reminded him. “How?”

“The criminal Thierry Colin remains at large,” said the man, “so my office has decided to take you into our confidence. For the greater good, as we say.”

“Us?” exclaimed Odile, touching a hand to her chest. “But how flattering! How very nice!”

The Russian drew deeply on his cigarette and considered the two
women without favor. “These are the details,” he said, taking a small leather notebook from his breast pocket. “First. As previously mentioned, the Frenchman Thierry Colin has violated international statutes regarding the export of national patrimony. While it is known that you, Madame Mével, participated in this illegal activity, no action against you is contemplated at this time.”

“Ah,” said Odile, “so suddenly you are police again.”

“Second,” continued Dmitrovich, consulting his notebook. “Thierry Colin’s trip to Moscow had as its primary object not acquisition of aforementioned objects of national patrimony but instead illegal transport into France of Belarussian nationals for purposes of prostitution and conscripted labor.” Here he paused to look evenly from Odile to Rachel and back again. “Most unsavory objective, do you agree?”

“What proof is there?” asked Odile.

“You were in Brest station. I leave you to judge if citizens of Belarus enjoy lifestyle so impeccable they cannot be persuaded to leave by cheap promise. Third. The fugitive Thierry Colin is compulsive gambler with many debts in Paris and elsewhere which he has attempted to pay off through above-mentioned trafficking in illegal immigrant labor. Other activities are suspected. Most interesting at present is identity of his representative in Paris, who continues to carry out his instructions. This is you, perhaps?” he asked Odile.

“No.”

“Okay. Already we know it is not you. Fourth!” Sergei Dmitrovich took a long drag on his cigarette. “Fourth. We have informations that Thierry Colin will contact you, Madame Mével, in very near future regarding his uncollected fee of thirty thousand francs for illegal import of Russian patrimony as previously discussed. Question, please: have you heard from this man since your return from Moscow several weeks ago?”

“No, I haven’t.”

The Russian nodded and put away his notebook. “My request is simple: I ask only that you inform me when Thierry Colin contacts you. Most likely he will call you by phone, so please, you will say you must call him back. You will reach me at this number”—he handed her a business card—“and my office will handle the matter from there. This is agreeable?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Odile, looking at the card. “First you say one thing, then you say another.” She turned to Rachel. “This whole affair is getting very confusing, don’t you think?”

“Really,” Rachel agreed.

Dmitrovich took a last pull on his cigarette, then flicked it into the fountain. “So,” he said to Rachel. “How is this film? You like being the movie star?”

“I’m no star,” she said, blushing. “It’s Max’s film. He shoots what he wants, but I don’t even act. Not that it’s any of your business.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “It must be expensive, shooting film.”

“What are you suggesting?” Odile asked him.

“Nothing.” The Russian displayed his palms. “I am just a fan curious about how movie business works. He is good filmmaker, Max?”

“The best,” answered Rachel. “He’s got tons of awards, and plenty of people would give their eyeteeth just to work with him. He takes risks, real risks, because he’s an artist, not some Hollywood hack.”

“And you like this type, Rachel? Guy who takes risks?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do.” Her eyes flashed darkly, and she seemed on the point of saying more when Odile intervened.

“Excuse me, Monsieur Dmitrovich. My friend and I are very busy, so unless you have something to add—”

He smiled and got to his feet. “Please, you will think about what I said. Trafficking in illegal peoples is most egregious crime, crude but very lucrative. You have no reason to protect Thierry Colin. If you help us, I personally guarantee you a small honorarium for your trouble, okay? We will be in touch.” He looked at each woman for a moment as though to fix their features in his mind, then headed off.

“What on earth was that?” said Rachel when he was out of sight, the fountain before them gurgling on.

“That,” said Odile, “was desperation.”

In her mind’s eye she saw Brest station. All was as it had been—the dimness, the silence, the crowd, the ruin—but now she imagined she also saw Thierry Colin passing through the unruly crowd and distributing squares of pink paper with numbers on them. She saw those who received a number stop their shoving, inspect their slips of paper, drop away from those still trying to buy a ticket, then leave the station by a service gate.

“Desperation for sure,” Rachel said. “But smuggling people out of Belarus? Does that kind of thing actually go on?”

“I don’t know. I guess it’s possible. It’s true that Thierry had gambling debts; I read that in his notebook.” Odile recalled hiding in Thierry’s closet, a memory she found troubling. “I probably should’ve never gotten involved in this,” she said after a moment.

“Don’t think like that,” said Rachel. “It’s stupid.”

MAX, Jacques, and Eddie Bouvier sat watching Rachel on the video monitor in the screening room. The screen showed her organizing her neighbors at the crest of the flood, splitting them into two teams to haul the
Nachtvlinder
back to safety, one by the bow line and the other by the line Groot had moments before swum out with and made fast to her stern. Rachel exuded cool authority and a low-key charisma that the camera captured very well. Those she pressed into service seemed to drink her in with their eyes as she addressed them. It wasn’t hard to imagine them going into battle for her, primed to do or die.

Glancing furtively at Eddie, Max saw that none of this was lost on him. He watched the sequence raptly, his lips slightly parted, one fist tucked under his chin. His attention appeared to be complete, and Max felt a surge of certainty that what his camera framed, others would recognize.

He let the sequence run to the end, when the boat was again secure and Groot back on the steps with Rachel, then he flipped on the lights. Eddie turned to him and nodded briskly. “Really good, Max. Dramatic but subtle. Real.”

“Yeah?” He had shown most of the raw footage he’d shot of Rachel so far. “Glad you like it, Eddie.”

Jacques got up to turn off the video monitor and roll it back to its dormant position against one wall. “Everything you just saw was shot with available light,” he volunteered. “Not to mention available budget.”

“Very persuasive.” Eddie leaned back in his chair, arms folded, and seemed to address the ceiling. “Especially the interior scenes. They have a kind of elegiac quality that on film might be too much. But on video …”

“How about the girl?” Max asked him. “Rachel. Or am I completely deluded?”

“No, no, not at all. She’s everything you said. Absolutely. But, when one is working in a
vérité
mode, or some version of it, so much depends on events over which one has no control.” He rocked back on his chair’s rear legs. “It’s one thing to have a script and not use it, another thing entirely to discard all pretense. Here I’m speaking solely as your business manager, you understand. You may find investors reluctant to commit themselves until you have a finished film. But that you knew already.”