The Terrorist, page 16
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It was the first day of spring. A soft, warm breeze ruffled the scalloped edge of the umbrellas on the terrace at the Hôtel de France. Daffodils and jonquils had come up in the beds around the square. A few were in bloom. They tossed their heads in the breeze, like young girls.
Louis loosened the collar of his coat and shifted his chair so the sun shone on his back. “Peter Sanchez called,” he said.
“Really?” said Renard.
“In a perverse way, it’s a hopeful sign,” said Louis. “It tells me we’re not enemies. I would not want him as my enemy.”
A waiter came over, a young man with a blond cowlick.
“Coffee,” said Renard.
“Tea,” said Louis. “Do you have chamomile?”
“Oui, monsieur,” said the waiter.
“Chamomile then,” said Louis. He watched the waiter go. “A new waiter?”
“Albert,” said Renard. “Chamomile tea?”
“Doctor’s orders. One of François’s precautions.” The two men waited in silence for their drinks to come.
“And why did Peter Sanchez call?” said Renard.
“To thank me,” said Louis.
“You’re kidding,” said Renard.
Louis had been working on a self-portrait, just drawing in the rough edges of the head, when the phone rang. “It’s Peter Sanchez,” said the voice at the other end.
“Is that your real name?” said Louis.
Peter laughed. “I called to thank you,” he said.
“That I made you a hero?” said Louis.
“Something like that,” said Peter. “But mostly because you were straight with me. Everything you gave me was good. Everything checked out.”
“That was Fareed,” said Louis. “You should thank him.”
“We closed down two cells,” said Peter.
“I saw it in the paper,” said Louis.
“And we’re working on others. They gave up other people. We stopped some seriously nasty business before it happened. That wasn’t in the paper.”
“Were they tortured?” said Louis.
“We don’t torture people,” said Peter. He didn’t laugh.
“What happened to Phillip Dimitrius?” said Louis.
“That hasn’t been decided,” said Peter.
“Why don’t you promote him?” said Louis.
“Promote him?”
“He might do less damage that way,” said Louis.
“Good-bye, Louis,” said Peter. He hung up the phone.
Renard stirred his coffee. “And is Peter Sanchez his real name?”
“I tried to call him back, just out of curiosity. I got a recorded message saying the number is not in use.”
Renard took a sip of coffee. He looked out across the square. “So,” he said. They sat in silence for a while. Then: “And what did François say?”
Louis took a sip of tea. “He said I’m the worst patient he’s ever had.”
“Which you took as a compliment.”
“Of course.”
“And the cancer?”
“Is gone.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“That’s wonderful news,” said Renard.
“But the tests…”
“Please,” said Renard. “Don’t start on that with me.” He signaled for the check.
The two men sat in silence. “You still haven’t talked to Pauline?”
“No,” said Louis.
“I’ve got to get back,” said Renard. He stood up. “Gerard Saint Colombe, do you know him? He got drunk last night and put Jules Nevière in the hospital.”
Pauline called in April. “I want to see you,” she said.
“Really?” said Louis. He heard the silly voice of hope inside his head. Zaharia had told him about the silly voice of hope. “I’m coming to Saint Leon. I’m bringing someone to meet you,” she said.
“Who,” said Louis.
“Wait and see,” said Pauline.
The day was sunny but chilly. A north wind blew hard along the station platform so that Louis had to turn up his collar and pull his hat down to keep the dust out of his eyes. He watched Pauline get off the train. She wore a down jacket. She had walking shoes on her feet and carried her small backpack over one shoulder. Then Fareed and Natalie got off behind her. Fareed was carrying a basket. Pauline kissed Louis. Natalie kissed Louis. So did Fareed.
Fareed held the basket while Natalie pulled the blankets aside to reveal a baby, a tiny, new baby with thick black hair and large black eyes. “This is Louise,” said Natalie.
“Really?” said Louis. “Louise?”
“Really.”
Peter Steiner, The Terrorist
