Blue with Black Dots (The Caprice Trilogy Book 2) (40 page)

              Georgia could hear Simone’s slippers sliding against the concrete floor of the wine cellar.  Simone left the room, as if it were a wine cellar.  Georgia stayed, as if it were a hospital.  She sat staring at the man and his bed.  There was something desparate about the feeling.  The kind of desperation that would have her see the neon sign for a fortune-teller and turn around, go inside.  He was a fortune told.  He was the ghost of the future, what Arthur Witt meant for her.  And he was an opportunity missed.  He didn’t see her on the train to Le Havre.  Maybe she didn’t look like the photo he had been shown.  She had dyed her hair.  Maybe his mind was set on meeting her at the closed café storefront.  Maybe he meant to find her before that.  She would have to ask him when he woke up. 

              Georgia decided to spend more time in the bricked-tunnel with the blanketed-man.  He had taken three bullets for her.  That was personal in an industry where temptation and sex were professional.  She was decidedly aware of her situation.  She was outside the business for a moment.  But she made frequent visits to his hospital room.  She wanted to be there when he woke up. She felt close to the man in the bed.  They hadn’t had the opportunity to meet but their lives crossed.  Now they were in the same house—one a patient, the other a guest.

Chapter Fourteen    A Guest

Georgia was in a rare position.  She was a guest with a constantly renewing invitation.  She knew her stay at
Chateau Constance
wasn’t indefinite. Simone meant to put her to work at some point but she had her run of the place for weeks.  There were always at least two of Simone’s retainers at the house, which was a twist of irony.  The retainers kept an eye on her but they also waited on her.  They gave her choices of service:  soup or salad; beef or pork; chicken or fish.  She had access to a fresh baguette every morning.  Cheese was in the fridge along with leftovers—goose.  She could make her own cappuccino, espresso, sandwich or sliced cheese, anything she wanted, anytime she liked.  She spoke French only but she didn’t speak much.  She kept a comatose patient for company.  She spent most of her time down in the wine cellar, the hospital.  Comatose patients could feel the presence of other people in the room. She had read it somewhere.  She tried it.  She sat in the same chair for a few hours at a time, thumbing through French lifestyle magazines, reading to him in French.  She didn’t know if he knew French but French magazines were all she had.  They were the same as American lifestyle magazine, mostly throw-away advice.  But there was a side effect.  Her French got noticeably better, vocabulary especially.

              Cedric was a capable nurse and Georgia had her training.  She could find a pulse.  But Cedric taught her how to monitor EKG machines, how to check blood pressure, and how to switch IV bags, including puncturing a vein.  After some weeks, Cedric didn’t check the patient’s vitals.  He still came down to the wine cellar but Georgia was always there.  She checked vitals every few hours.  When Cedric came down, he just asked Georgia for the results.  Cedric jotted everything down on a scratch pad and told Georgia the night’s dining menu.  And then he asked the question,
Es-que Madamoiselle voulez quelcun d’autre?
—
Does miss want something else
? 
Café seulement
was the usual reply.  Before long Georgia didn’t have to ask for coffee anymore.  Out of all of
Le Poq
’s hens, Cedric became her favorite.  The others were polite but they were ordered to be.  They all had broad shoulders and groomed hair but Cedric had charm.  Cedric had chemistry.  His affection for Georgia was something he couldn’t hide and he didn’t hide it.  Before long, Georgia told him not to call her
Madamoiselle
.  He called her Georgia.  It all became regular.  Georgia developed a routine.  She woke up at the same time everyday and “ran the vines”.  There were sixteen rows of grapevines making a course of eighteen lanes.  Each lane was about 140 meters long.  Georgia ran all eighteen lanes.  One of the hens would leave out a carafe of water for her, usually Cedric.  She could see the carafe everytime she came back toward the house.  But she didn’t stop running.  She showered after running and spent hours in the hospital room with Gavril.  She reread a lot of the same French magazines, reciting them outloud.  It was as much for Gavril as it was for Georgia.  It gave her the opportunity to work on her pronunciation.  Gavril either liked it or hated it because on a Tuesday afternoon he opened his eyes.  He stared at Georgia, a stranger.  She went to him and held his hand.  His eyes followed her.  From the time he woke up, Georgia made Gavril her priority.  He didn’t speak and he had to be fed until he could feed himself.  When he was strong enough to lift a fork, Georgia stood by to make sure he didn’t miss his mouth.  If he did, Georgia cleaned up after him.  They interacted but Gavril didn’t speak.  Georgia spoke to him.

              Georgia made guarantees for herself.  She promised she would stay at fighting weight. 
Chateau Constance
was comfortable.  Georgia didn’t take the hint.  She refused to get lax.  She ran the vines everyday, weekdays.  Then she showered and spent time talking to Gavril. 
English.  French.  Russian.
  He just listened and made motions to communicate, no speaking. On the weekend she usually had a visitor, Simone herself.  During the week, Simone was in Paris.  She had to be.  She was
Le Poq
.  But she could usually make it back to
Chateau Constance
on Saturdays driving her 1972
Peugeot
504 Coupé
.  It was black.  Simone used her black
Peugeot
to take Georgia to the Catholic Church seven kilometers down the road from the Chateau.  Simone was classic on Sundays.  She wore a floral Sunday dress with gloves and kept her hair in a lonely Chignon.  She tied a headscarf over her hair before entering the stone-stacked church.  Georgia understood Simone had drawn back the curtains, fully.  The church had a name, Saint Benoit.  Simone had given everything away.  Simone kept Georgia in luxurious ignorance for weeks.  Georgia stayed at
Chateau Constance
exactly like a princess.  She was waited on and served but like a princess she was overly protected.  She had no clue of the world around her.  In taking Georgia to church, Simone had relented.  The church could be traced and it was a little ways from the Chateau itself.  If set free, Georgia could find her way back.  Simone wanted it that way, obviously.  She couldn’t ask Georgia to become her double agent within the CIA without trust beforehand.  And it had to be mutual.  Simone gave away all her tricks.  She showed Georgia how she kept a shadow cast over herself, even in perfect daylight.  Simone was Jewish. Georgia wasn’t Catholic.  But they were devout.  Simone Gagnon was a fictional character and she practiced a religion she didn’t really keep.  The thing she kept was her own cover.  Her Jewish roots lay hidden under her headscarf.  The church was more holy on the inside than the outside.  The outside was stone and concrete matched with masoned brick at the corners.  The uncut stones were fit like a mosaic on the front side of the church.  Pieces were put where ever they fit.  The façade was regular.  Many of the churches in France fell under the same description.  A carved statue of the church’s namesake saint jutted out above the solid wood medieval door.  The inside was Romanesque, arched-windows, stone forms and solid walls.  The church was small enough.  It didn’t need pillars.  It suffered three archways and four pillars as a matter of fact, not purpose. 

The entire service, Georgia watched Simone out of the right side of her eye.  She didn’t notice the other parishoners.  There were over thirty people gathered for the service.  But devine inspiration in the Loire Valley seemed to skip a generation.  There were elderly parishoners and young children but no young adults.  Simone leaned toward Georgia and whispered in her ear.

              “
Practice your French
,” said Simone.  Georgia had no choice.  The service was in French. The service was surprisingly short, a little over an hour.  Georgia chalked it up to the age of the audience, extraordinarily old and young.  The service wasn’t long enough for Georgia.  Her French was at an advanced level but liturgical language wasn’t a general necessity.  But Georgia did the best she could.  Before the priest released the parishoners, Simone tapped Georgia on the thigh. 
Nous sommes pretons aller
. 
We’re ready to go
.

The sun came down as they reached the peach-colored gravel that lead to the house.  Sunlight echoed off the small pebbles from the moisture still leftover from early morning.  Georgia noticed because it was cloudy when they left for morning service.  Simone was silent the entire ride back.  Her demeanor seemed different, as did her behavior.  She was usually verbose.  She would say more in an average day than Georgia in an average week.  But it suddenly became a competition, who could say the least.  Simone set her handbag down on the kitchen island.  The boys weren’t around so she went in the fridge for herself.  She found a mound of cheese.  She made slices out of the cheese both careful and careless.  She cut enough slices for herself and kept cutting until there were enough for both of them.  But she didn’t stop.  Georgia was seated at the dining table in her original spot.  She had a view of the kitchen but not of Simone.  She didn’t ask Simone if she needed help but she did think about it.  She had been in play for a little less than a year but she had learned about inhaling what was up in the air.  Simone was at home.  And she had let Georgia know how much was involved in being able to call the chateau her home a second time.  Simone had an odor of sudden apprehension.  It was hard for Georgia to get a grip on it.  It was still in the air, something Simone hadn’t said. 

It was significant.  Georgia knew because of all places where Simone would feel comfortable, there was
Chateau Constance
.  She was born into it.  It was hers by birthright.  She fought to get it back.  It was a spoil of her private war.  Her sudden silence made Georgia uneasy.  If Simone didn’t want to talk, there was something that was very difficult for her to say.  Georgia could only guess.  Simone came from the kitchen to the dining room and set a porcelain plate in front of Georgia.  She shoveled several slices of cheese onto Georgia’s plate without asking.  She scooped a slice of cake onto the outer edge of Georgia’s plate.  As she departed, she left a boiled egg on the left hand side of Georgia’s plate.  She then went to the opposite end of the table and set a plate for herself. 

It was as before.  They were at opposite ends of the table and meters apart.  Georgia waited on Simone.  But when Simone sat down, she didn’t look up.  She started putting forks full of cheese into her mouth.  Georgia took it as a sign that it was ok to start eating.  Georgia didn’t mind silence.  She wasn’t shy but she was naturally introverted.  What she found odd was the fact that there wasn’t silence.  There was a lack of conversation.  Simone’s fork clanged against her plate as she stabbed at slices of cheese.  She smacked on her food so loud, Georgia could hear it from the other end of the table.  It was as if Simone was trying to be rude.  There was no accident.  There was no mistaking.  Afterall, she was
Le Poq
.  She hadn’t entirely lucked into the role.  If there was anything out of character about her behavior she meant for it to be that way.  Georgia had always had her inner confidence.  It had been rattled over the last few weeks but not shaken.  Not even
Le Poq
was enough to shake it—not even her tantrum. 

“The cheese is soggy and the cake was in the fridge too long,” said Georgia, “You should have left it out a bit to get soft.  It has the consistency of ice cream.”

“So I take it culinary criticism was part of your training with Arthur Witt,” said Simone, “It wouldn’t surprise me.  He’s been a step ahead of me for a while.  I don’t like men being ahead of me.  You, you’re ok.  But not a man, not a man.”

“In this game, what difference would it make?” asked Georgia, “Man or woman.  You’re either ahead or behind.  Why does it matter who’s ahead of you?”

“In this game,” said Simone, “It makes no difference at all.”

“Then why comment?” asked Georgia.

“Because it matters to me,” said Simone.

“Why?” asked Georgia.

“Because of what I’ve come to realize,” said Simone.

“What?” asked Georgia.

“If you look at history,” said Simone, “You will see examples of women who have lead. 
Jean D’Arc
. 
Cleopatra
. 
Sheeba
.  If you look at them you will realize something.  And when you look at Napoleon, Hitler or Louis XVI you see something else.  And when you do the calculation you come up with a solution.”

“That women are better leaders,” said Georgia.

“If you come up with that, then you should redo your calculation,” said Simone, “Because that’s not the conclusion to be drawn from history.”

“Then what?” asked Georgia.

“When you look at Hitler, Napoleon and Louis XVI, you see they were the worst.  Napoleon was a great General but that doesn’t make him a great leader.  He lost tens of thousands when he marched into Moscow with the approaching winter.  He was so obsessed with victory that he didn’t pullback at Waterloo until his Advanced Guard, his best, were nearly decimated.  Hitler was the same.  Louis XVI, well he only lasted as long as he did because his predecessors had restored faith in the French monarchy.  Of course it eroded.  But if you look at these three you see so much upheaval that you wonder if it was worth having these men alive at all.  Georgia, it’s not that we are better than men when it comes to leadership.  It’s that we are certainly not worse.  If you look at female leaders around the world, we are not the worst.  Maybe not the best but we are the safer bet,” said Simone.

“What Arthur Witt has done, has nothing to do with your leadership of the
DST
,” said Georgia.

“Compromised is compromised,” said Simone, “And I am compromised.  I can’t even reach out to my son and warn him.  I can’t even phone the Mossad to tell them about a threat to one of their parliament members.  There is not supposed to be a connection between this man and I, except for the fact that he is my only child.”