White Apples (15 page)

He went over to the phone and picked it up. "Hello?" "Vincent, this is Coco. Sorry to bother you—

"Who? Excuse me, who did you say you were?" "Coco. It's
Coco,
Vincent."

The name meant nothing to him. The woman's voice was un•familiar. "I'm sorry, but do we know each other?" "Look, Vincent, I know she's there and doesn't know anything about me, but just give me a minute, willya?" "You know
who's
here?" He looked at Isabelle.

"Your Isabelle. I know you picked her up last night—

His temper flared. "Is that right? Well, how do you know that? Who the hell are you?" "Don't be a jerk. Just listen to me for two minutes—

He hung up but kept his hand on the receiver. He glared at Isabelle as if she were the enemy. "Why do other people know you're here? Hmm? And why do they know who you are but I don't?"

"Who was that?" she asked as gently as she could.

"Coco. Whoever
that
is. But she knew you were here—even called you by name. Said 'I know you picked up Isabelle last night.' How did she know that if I didn't? And who the fuck is Coco anyway?"

The phone rang again. He snatched it up. "Hello? What?" As he listened his face softened. "Hi, Kitty. Sure, I can do that. It's no problem. In half an hour? Is that okay? Yes." He listened some more and then put the phone down. He cold-eyed Isabelle. "I have to take one of my kids to the doctor. I'm going to get dressed." He turned around and left Isabelle standing there.

She had no idea of what to do next, so she went over to the window and looked out. She was still there a few minutes later when he left without saying another word. With her back to him, she didn't see Ettrich stop a moment at the door, hand on the knob, look at her, frown, and leave.

What could he say—please take off? Or wait till I'm back and then we'll sort this out? How about—could you at least tell me how we know each other before I go? Forget it—if she was here when he got back he would take care of it later.

The next shock waited in the parking garage beneath his build•ing: His car had been stolen. He had an assigned spot. It was empty.

On seeing it and realizing what it meant, his stomach dropped. He was supposed to be at Kitty's house in twenty minutes. Ettrich couldn't believe it—why would anyone want to steal his car? It was new, but it was also a monumentally dirty, nothing-special Ford Taurus. A sexy silver BMW stood in the parking place right next to his empty spot. Why hadn't they taken that one?

He'd never had a car stolen before. It made him feel wounded and vulnerable, like life was no longer his friend. And then there was that woman in his apartment—Isabelle. What the hell was
she
all about? He had no memory of what had gone on between them, yet she knew way too much about him. More bewildered than he had been in a long time, he took the elevator to street level and hailed a cab.

While Ettrich rode toward the posh suburb where he'd once lived with his family, Isabelle cut herself another piece of cake and pulled a chair over to the window. Eating, she looked out at the city. She took too big a bite and a chunk of chocolate icing fell in her lap. Picking it up, she inadvertently looked at the windowsill. Her danc•ing frog figure was gone. They had taken it too, along with every•thing else that had to do with her connection to Ettrich.

"God damn it!" There had to be
some
trace of her here. Besides her body at his window and her knapsack by the door, there had to be some sign in Vincent Ettrich's home that she existed in his life. They couldn't have erased her completely—it wasn't possible. And if it was, she was going to put herself right back into it.

So she began searching.

When Isabelle Neukor was young she was an incorrigible thief. But because her then white-blond hair and

cobalt-blue eyes made her look like a sprite, Tinkerbelle, or a tiny angel, she fooled people for years. What she wanted she took. Money, candy, toys—whatever caught her fancy went into her pockets. The act never made her feel guilty or nervous either, usually the Achilles' heels of a young robber. When Isabelle pinched something from a store, her heart beat no faster than it had when she was walking down the street five minutes before. She didn't steal because she was wicked or deprived or because it gave her a naughty thrill. She simply took whatever it was she wanted and that was okay with her soul.

To be a good thief one must also be a consummate snoop. Have the imagination to ferret out
all
the hiding places people are likely to use to conceal the good stuff like money, cherished objects, and dirty magazines.

From the age of eight on, Isabelle had the knack and never lost it. She would have been a good watchmaker because successful snooping is like taking apart a complicated watch. You do it layer by layer, careful to place each part in an assigned spot so that nothing is ever mislaid or left out when you reassemble the mechanism.

Even as a child when she opened her mother's lingerie drawer (diaphragm, Dexedrine pills, lots of cash if Mom had recently been to the bank), Isabelle would first study the objects in there a long time, memorizing their order. Then she would go through the drawer (or the closet, the purse, the desk, school bag, her father's wallet... ) lifting and shifting things around, looking for goodies. But she always made sure everything was returned to its original place when she was done. It was not paranoia on her part—simply good sense. The only time she was ever caught was by a schoolmate who punched Isabelle in the face for stealing her pink ballpoint pen.

Tying the sash of her robe tighter, Isabelle walked into Ettrich's bedroom ready to do battle with those who would erase her and their relationship from Vincent's memory. A bedroom is always the emotional center of any house. The physical passion lives there. So does the greatest peace and sadness. Nor are we ever more alone than when we are in bed with only our secrets and inner voices to say good night or good riddance to a day. If Isabelle ever needed to examine a person's life, which was rare because she didn't care about most people, she began in their bedroom.

Although she no longer stole things, sometimes it was essential to get to the bottom of a matter and using her old talent was the best way.

His bedroom was large but just as sparsely furnished as the other rooms. There was the double bed, a thick oak dresser, Eames lounge chair, a black and pink Chinese carpet on the floor. Looking at these objects, she got no "read" on the person who lived here, other than the fact they were willing to spend a couple of thousand dollars for a chair. Next to it on the floor was a book. She walked over and read the title. She smiled and clapped her hands.
The Charterhouse of Parma
by Stendhal.

Vincent had a number of sweet quirks, one of them being a lingering desire to be a good A student. Years ago he had assigned himself the task of reading five classic novels a year. Often when they were together he carried some weighty tome that he was at•tempting to slog his way through like an explorer hacking his way through thick jungle vines with a machete. But this novel was his nemesis. In the time she had known him, Ettrich had tried to read it three times with no success. He usually reached around page 100 before giving up. Once he even threw a copy out a train window as they were arriving in Salzburg station. He looked at her and said, "I
will
read it. Just not today."

And here it was again. She never understood why he didn't just give up on Stendhal and read something else, but that kind of curious tenacity was Vincent too. Seeing the book now encouraged her though because she knew the history of that novel in her lover's life. She knew
his
history and the important part she played in it. Now she had to find concrete proof of it in this apartment.

Across town, Ettrich and the cab driver were thinking. As a lark he'd asked the man if he could name the three most memorable meals he'd ever had. While they passed through five green traffic lights in a row, the driver described in lively detail his all-time favorite breakfast and lunch. Ettrich didn't know what was more impressive—getting through five lights or the man's memory.

"How'd you know so fast? I couldn't come up with any of them."

The man lit a cigarette without asking the passenger if he minded. "Realize, those meals come with a maybe. Maybe in an hour I'll remember better ones, but I don't think so. That dinner is a pisser to choose though. I've had lots and lots of great dinners." They rode along in an amicable silence, thinking about the meals they had eaten.

Isabelle was sitting on the bed looking at a photograph when the front door opened. She was so deep in thought that she didn't hear it. The picture she held was of Vincent, his ex-wife Kitty, and their two children. They were on a beach in swimsuits; all of them tan as toast, smiling, bunched close together. The way they were placed was what interested her most. Isabelle had seen this picture plenty of times. Vincent often carried it in his billfold and she liked him for that. He always had a picture of his children with him. He loved them and they loved him. He was a very good father.

She had found the snapshot in his dresser and because it was so familiar she had to pick it up and look at it again.

But seeing it this time she noticed something new—in the picture, Kitty sat between the children. Vincent was squatting down behind them. His hands were on the kids' shoulders but he made no physical contact with Kitty. Did that mean something? She'd read a number of articles about how psychologists were now studying old photographs and analyzing things in them like body language and figure placement to get an idea of what was really going on in the picture at the time it was taken. It was an interesting concept and in many ways made real sense. With that in mind, she wondered if Vincent's squatting behind his family and not touching his wife "meant" anything. Or was Isabelle just seeing animals in the clouds passing overhead?

"Oh hello."

Startled, she looked up and saw a short pretty woman standing in the bedroom doorway. "Hello. How did you get in?"

"Key." Pretty woman nodded, as if that were sufficient. But of course they both knew that one word was its own atomic bomb in this situation. Why did this stranger have her own key to Ettrich's apartment?

"Vincent's not here?"

Isabelle's heart suddenly weighed a hundred pounds. She knew who this woman was without knowing who this woman was. An•other one of Vincent's tootsies. And she was an adorable-looking tootsie as well, which didn't make it any more fun to think about. She was lovely, she had a key to his apartment, and the tenor of her voice had the confidence of a woman who felt she had every right to be there. The facts all pointed to a tootsie. God damn it!

"His wife called and asked him to take one of their children to the doctor."

Tootsie did something unexpected: she came over to the bed and sat down next to Isabelle. "I'm Coco. Coco Hallis." She put out her hand. "And you're Isabelle."

Isabelle's heart now weighed two hundred pounds. "Yes."

They sat there silently. Coco reached over after a bit and took the Ettrich family photo. She looked at it but the expression on her face didn't change.

All of a sudden Isabelle twisted around, looked at something behind her and shot to her feet like she'd been bitten on the ass. The realization had just come that both women had fucked Vincent in this bed.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing." She headed for the door. "Would you like some coffee?" "No. Please stop, don't go. What's the matter?"

Isabelle didn't know this woman. What was she supposed to say to her? Coco put the photo down in her lap. "You want to know how I know you?"

Isabelle crossed her arms tightly, preparing for the worst. "I guess." After a short pause she blurted out, "No, no I don't! I don't want to know anything about you."

"Yes you do. Because it will make you feel better. Come, sit down." Coco patted the bed next to her. Isabelle wouldn't budge. She held up a stiff hand that said no— I'm fine where I am.

Coco stopped patting. "Was he weird with you this morning? Was there anything different in the way he acted?" "He didn't know who I was! He had no idea. He woke up and looked at me like I was a total stranger. He wasn't

joking. It was horrible." She described in detail her morning with Vincent. Ver•balizing the experience made it even more intolerable.

Coco paused and sucked in her lower lip, as if unable to decide whether or not to say the next thing. "What did Anjo say about it?"

Isabelle twitched.
"What?"

Coco pointed toward Isabelle's stomach. "What did Anjo say to do?" "How do you know about—'

"That's why I'm here, Isabelle. To protect you. Ask him. Ask Anjo who I am."

The two women stared at each other with a kind of wary cu•riosity. Coco wanted to see how the other would react

now. As usual Isabelle's first instinct was to run, but where? She knew this had gone too far and that there was nowhere to go. The next room? Back to Vienna? To the ends of the earth? With every bit of strength she had, she was able to hold it together enough to say, "I'm going into the other room. Please let me be there alone."

"All right. I'll stay here but please ask him now because we really do not have much time." "Time for what?"

Coco's voice remained calm. "To save the three of you. You saw what happened last night. It only gets worse now."

Trembling, Isabelle walked into the living room and sat down on the couch. A few hours ago, she and Vincent sat here kissing and touching again for the first time in three months. She looked toward where he had sat and noticed the pillows were still pushed down from his body. She touched them, remembering him there, trying to feel his presence. "I'm scared." She said it to herself, to Anjo, to God. But she forced herself to close her eyes and slowly felt the café take shape around her. This is how it invariably hap•pened and by now she was used to it.

The sounds always came first. Street sounds—cars, horns honk•ing, brakes screeching, fat trucks rumbling slowly by. The street in front of the café was busy and even when you were deep inside the building you could hear the ruckus out there. Next, she would feel the seat beneath her—sometimes it was hard, sometimes soft. She had no say about where she would be sitting in the room. Sometimes it was a hard wooden chair with no arms, other times in a booth with worn Naugahyde or soft velvet beneath her. When these things came she knew she was there so she could open her eyes. The Café Ritter in Vienna, where she met Anjo for the first time after her disastrous dinner with Berndt.