Obsession (Year of Fire) (8 page)

“Good night. Are you tired, Matilde?”

“Not at all,” she admitted.

“Neither am I.”

He had all the attributes of a frivolous, womanizing man. A rake, as her grandmother Celia would say. Still, she was hoping that her newfound attraction would take her down a path where she’d never dared to venture.
It’s just for a few hours
, she justified to herself. When they got to Paris, they would say good-bye and never see each other again. This certainty, which on one hand emboldened her to give herself up to the pleasure of feeling desired by this magnificent man, also saddened her because she
wanted
to see him again. But she also knew that she would make sure that there was no chance of that happening.

“Do you live in Paris?”

Eliah, who had withdrawn to the far left of his seat, quickly leaned forward again.

“Yes, it’s my home.”

He smiled and she felt butterflies in her still-sensitive stomach. She was seduced by his frank, almost innocent smile, which contrasted with a face that exuded experience and cynicism. Was this smile unusual? Did he only allow certain people to see it? He hadn’t smiled that way at the flight attendant.

They passed the next few hours absorbed in a whispered conversation about Paris and the character of the French people, which developed into an analysis of the idiosyncrasies of Argentineans, the excellent quality of the country’s beef, the custom of drinking
mate
and the superiority of
dulce de leche
over Nutella, which Eliah didn’t agree with.

Eliah was witty and Matilde had to stifle her laughter in her little pillow. She felt her spirits soar; all her problems had disappeared.
With her seat reclined, curled up into a ball, she rested her left cheek against the edge of her seat, very close to him, so close that she could smell the cologne that Juana had noticed as soon as they boarded. She shivered suddenly, and Eliah rubbed his hand over her naked arm before pulling the blanket over her.

“Did you bring a coat? It can be very cold in Paris at this time of year.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, and sat up with the awkwardness of someone waking up from a dream. “I’ll be right back.”

What had broken the spell? Was it that he had touched her?
Merde!
He had stayed up all night when he should have been resting. When he got to Paris, he would meet with Shiloah, who would pester him with questions and problems. He rubbed his face and stretched his arms and legs until he heard the joints crack. He had no regrets; he hadn’t even noticed the hours passing. It had been a long time since he’d felt so happy in the company of a woman, since he’d felt so docile toward the opposite sex. It wasn’t that he wasn’t attracted to her; it was just that she brought out a relaxed air in him that allowed him to be completely genuine—he felt that he didn’t have to pose as macho, or a conqueror.

Matilde went to wash her face and, as she dried it, studied her reflection in the mirror. The horrible lighting accentuated the shadows under her eyes and her gaunt cheeks, giving her a sickly look.
Is this the monstrous face I’ve been using to talk to an Adonis?
She pinched her cheeks, rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and rinsed her mouth. She undid the rest of her braid and tucked the loose hair behind her ears. Why had she left her seat at such a bad moment? He had touched her. For the second time in a few hours. First he had dried her tear, then he had stroked her arm. She closed her eyes as if trying to get rid of the images and the thoughts that were smothering her. In vain she tried to get control of her brain, which was replaying the sensation of his hand on her arm. She took a deep breath and grabbed hold of the sink. She shook her head. No, she couldn’t like him, she couldn’t have any feelings for him, she couldn’t desire him.

She pushed back the folding door and bumped into him. He wasn’t smiling. He just stood there, unmoving. The camaraderie of a few minutes before had disappeared. The intensity of his stare frightened her. She moved toward her seat and he intercepted her.

“I want to hear you say my name. Say
Eliah
.”

She had avoided doing so on purpose; her lips hadn’t betrayed her once, because if she said his name, he would have a place in her life.

“Eliah,” she said in a clearly.

“Excuse me!” the flight attendant called, just as light flooded the plane and passengers started to stretch and mumble.

Al-Saud had to move aside, and the woman went through with her little cart for the breakfast service. Matilde followed her and sat down next to Juana.

“What’s going on, Mat?”

“Don’t ask. I’m staying here.”

“
Okay
, it’s none of my business.”

Matilde forced herself to swallow the food the flight attendant brought her. Juana was right, they wouldn’t find anything to eat in her aunt Enriqueta’s apartment and, since it was the first of January, it wouldn’t be easy to find an open grocer or supermarket.

“Maybe Ezequiel has bought us supplies,” Juana wondered.

“Maybe.”

Eliah listened to Juana as she spoke, but he couldn’t hear Matilde’s whispered answers. Who was Ezequiel? Jealousy, combined with annoyance and lack of sleep, formed an explosive mix that he was only able to master thanks to fifteen years of training in the philosophy of
Shorinji Kempo
. The breathing techniques helped him to relax his muscles and reach a state of deep meditation. When the plane landed, Al-Saud opened his eyes and made sure he had restored his internal equilibrium. However, he had nonetheless been unable to cast Matilde out of his thoughts.
She can lead me to Blahetter
, he reminded himself. He helped to lift her shika down from the overhead compartment.

“Put on a coat. It’ll be very cold outside.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her wrap herself in a black poncho with a red lining and pull matching gloves over her hands.

“Eliah,” Juana said, “it was a pleasure to meet you. I hope we meet in the streets of Paris!” She kissed him on the cheek and strode off toward the front of the plane.

Matilde made as if to follow her, but he planted himself in the middle of the aisle. He stuck out his hand and gave her a personal business card.

“If you need anything in Paris, absolutely anything,” he remarked, “you can reach me at these numbers.”

Matilde lifted her face.
He’s so tall
, she thought and, summoning her courage, looked him in his severe eyes rimmed in shadow. Her hands were shaking and she was afraid her voice would come out distorted and insecure.

“Thank you, Eliah.”

He leaned toward her and kissed her in the same place as he had done before, just below the left corner of her mouth. Matilde inhaled his fragrance, half-rancid after hours in flight, and allowed herself to enjoy the feeling of his rough cheek rubbing against hers. She lingered there, waiting for him to take his face away.

“Good-bye, Eliah.”

He didn’t answer. Moments later, as soon as he got into the airport, he was met by his friend Edmé de Florian, an agent from the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire, the French domestic intelligence service. Al-Saud had called him from Ezeiza and, in code because they hadn’t been speaking on a secure line, asked him to escort him through customs and immigration. The Sig Sauer nine millimeter was still strapped under his jacket.

They greeted each other with a warm handshake. Edmé appreciated opportunities to help Eliah Al-Saud, although he knew that he would never be able to repay his old colleague from L’Agence, who had saved his life in Mogadishu. Edmé had been hit in his chest by a bullet while his commando group, led by Eliah, was attempting to escape an ambush; they had been betrayed. Edmé de Florian was not a small man: he was six feet tall and weighed two hundred pounds. Still, Al-Saud had thrown him across his back and run for over an hour with him slung across his shoulders in addition to sixty-five pounds of equipment.

“What are you doing in De Gaulle? You always land your planes at Le Bourget.” Edmé referred to the airport seven miles north of Paris, reserved for general aviation, which meant private planes, aerial taxis, ultralights and cargo planes with irregular itineraries. Al-Saud explained
the circumstances of his return to Paris, and Edmé commiserated with him over the inconvenience.

“There’s a reason for everything,” Eliah declared and suddenly said, “Let me make a phone call before we go.” He walked away, dialing the number of his chauffeur, Medes, who would be waiting for him as agreed at the entrance to the airport. As Medes was an Iraqi Kurd, Al-Saud spoke to him in Arabic. “It’s me. Survey the passengers from flight AF 417 and find two women, one tall, thin and brunette; the other small and blonde, with long hair and wearing a black poncho. Follow them and call me in an hour at the George V.” He hung up and went back to his friend. “Edmé, I find myself without a driver. Where can I rent a car?”

“No way. I’ll take you. Where are you going?”

“To the George V.” He pronounced the second word, for “five” in French, “sank.”

CHAPTER 3

Once they had gotten through all the formalities and claimed their bags, Matilde and Juana walked out into the greeting area, where they spotted Ezequiel Blahetter. As it was eight a.m. on January first, the airport wasn’t very busy.

“Baby doll!” Ezequiel lifted Juana up and spun her around in the air. “You’re looking gorgeous, baby!”

“And
you’re
divine! Even more divine than before, if that’s possible. You’re a loss to our gender!”

“Juana!” Matilde chided her, embarrassed. In doing so, she caught Ezequiel’s attention and he hugged her in silence with his eyes closed and a smile on his face. He bent down and kissed her on the crown of her head. He was always struck by how tiny Matilde was; her very daintiness filled him with peace.

“Hi, Mat,” he greeted her, and stroked her cheek with his index finger.

“Hey, Eze,” she responded; she hugged him again, burying her face in his leather jacket. “Thanks for coming to get us so early on January first.”

“My pleasure,” he assured them. “You’re looking pretty cute too. Your hair’s so long!”

“Uf!” Juana snorted. “You know she hasn’t cut it since she was sixteen. She’ll barely let me snip off the split ends, no more than an inch.”

“It’s beautiful. There are plenty of models who would die for hair like yours. Shall we go? My car’s in the parking lot. Here.” He took Matilde’s suitcase from her.

Twice, Juana’s excited squeals could be heard bouncing off the walls of the arrivals terminal, both of them upon seeing ads featuring
gigantic photographs of Ezequiel, for Davidoff perfume and Gauloises cigarettes; both were burnished with the image of his rippling arms and chest.

“Oh, that bitch,” Juana muttered, gesturing at a poster for Organza by Givenchy, with a photograph of a model in a white dress.

“That bitch,” Ezequiel noted, “is your best friend’s sister.”

“Matilde
knows
that Celia’s a bitch.”

“Here they call her Céline. And I’ll have you know that right now she’s one of the top five models in Paris, Milan and New York. The most prestigious designers want her in their campaigns and on their runways.”

“And she just had to do the ad for my favorite perfume, the idiot.”

“If you’re nice to her,” Ezequiel speculated, “maybe you’ll get her to give you a free bottle.”

“Never! I’d rather use Mat’s Upa la-lá. Oh, it’s freezing!” She complained as soon as they got through the doors of the airport.

“I hope your aunt Enriqueta’s apartment has good heating, Mat,” Ezequiel said. “I don’t understand why you didn’t want to stay with me for these next few months. I think you would have liked the Septième Arrondissement better than the Quartier Latin.”

“The
septième
what?” Juana asked.

“The Seventh District,” Matilde interjected. “It’s one of the nicest neighborhoods in Paris. The Eiffel Tower is there.”

“So you’ve been reading up on Paris,” Ezequiel commented. Matilde didn’t tell him that the information had come from her traveling companion. “My place has a great view of the tower. If we find that your aunt’s apartment isn’t fit for winter, you’re coming to my house.”

“We don’t want to put you out,” Matilde protested, “or disrupt your life with Jean-Paul.”

“We also don’t want to freeze to death, Mat!”

“Let’s wait and see what the conditions are like at my aunt’s flat. She promised me we’d have a great time.”

The heating in the BMW 850i relaxed their muscles. Matilde, in the backseat, quietly observed the countryside while Juana set about admiring the car’s instrument panel and interrogating Ezequiel.

“Didn’t you tell me that you had a Porsche 911 Turbo?”

“I
have
a Porsche 911 Turbo. But it was a little too sporty for this mission. Where was I going to put your luggage in my Porsche? A friend lent me his BMW.”

Like a child with stolen chocolates, Matilde snuck Eliah’s handkerchief out of her shika. She had wanted to return it to him; he, on the contrary, had insisted: “It’s a souvenir for you to remember me by. I want you to keep it.” She fixed her eyes on the white silk, which suddenly shone white hot, blinding her. She didn’t realize that she was smiling at the memory. Eliah was already part of the past; their meeting, though intense, had been fleeting and serendipitous. Why was she thinking about him when she would never see him again? What did she know about Eliah? Only his name and that he lived in Paris. She remembered his card and fished it out of her pocket. It just said
Mercure Inc. Information and Security Services
; there were two numbers. In the center was the logo of the god Mercury, identified by his petasus, winged sandals and caduceus. She put the card in her shika after wondering whether it wouldn’t be better to throw it away.