7
T
HE NEXT FEW WEEKS
passed in pleasant routine.
Nicholai woke early and went into the garden to meditate. When he came out, Solange had a café au lait and a croissant ready for him, and while it took him some time to get used to the concept of bread for breakfast, he came to enjoy it. After breakfast they engaged in conversation, during which she corrected his accent and suggested current slang and vernacular. Solange was an exacting taskmistress, which Nicholai appreciated.
For her part, Solange knew that the slightest slip, a careless anachronism or a lapse into a stilted formality, could cost him his life. So she pushed him hard, insisted on perfection, challenged his intellect and considerable talent for languages. He exceeded her expectations — his pride made him a superb student.
They conversed through lunch, and then Nicholai took his customary walk in the garden. Knowing that he needed solitude, she was discreet enough never to accept his polite invitation to join him. Instead, she had a small rest before starting preparations for dinner. When he came back, they would go over maps of Montpellier, photographs of certain cafés, restaurants, and landmarks that a native would know. She quizzed him about the Place Ste.-Anne, the marketplace, who sold the best peaches, where one could get a decent bottle of wine for a price.
Following the afternoon study session, Nicholai repaired to his room to rest, study, and bathe, which he did in a gloriously hot Japanese tub. He emerged from the near-scalding water delightfully refreshed, and then dressed for dinner, which was always French and always superb. After dinner they had a coffee and a cognac, conversed casually, perhaps listened to a little radio until Solange retired to her bedroom.
Then Nicholai changed into a
gi
and went out into the garden for his nightly ritual. At first, Solange peeked through her window blinds to watch him perform the intricate maneuvers of the
kata
— the repetitive martial arts routines — of
hoda korosu,
“naked kill.” He appeared to be dancing, but after a few nights of watching Solange started to perceive that he was fighting numerous imaginary enemies coming at him from all directions, and that the motions of the “dance” were in fact defensive blocks followed by lethal strikes. If it was a dance, it was a dance of death.
Nicholai enjoyed these sessions very much — it was a joy to exercise in the garden, it calmed his mind and spirit, and besides, his instinct told him that he might very well need to polish his rusty skills to survive the mission, the target of which Haverford would still not disclose.
So Nicholai exercised with a purpose, glad to find that his mind and body responded even after the years of relative inactivity — although he did thousands of press-ups and sit-ups in his cell — and that the complicated and subtle movements of the
hoda korosu kata
came back to him.
He had started studying “naked kill” during his second year in Tokyo. The rarefied form of karate — which itself means “empty hand” — was taught by an old Japanese master of the lethal art who at first refused to teach an apparent Westerner the ancient secrets. But Nicholai persevered, mostly by kneeling in a painful position at the edge of the mat and watching, night after night, until finally the master called him over and administered a beating that was the first of many lessons.
Essential to
hoda korosu
was the mastery of
ki,
the internal life force that came from the proper management of breath. It was
ki,
flowing through the body from the lower abdomen to every vein, muscle, and nerve in the body, that gave the
hoda korosu
strikes their lethal force, especially at close range.
The other necessary element was the ability to calm the mind, to free it for the creativity to find a lethal weapon among common objects that might be at hand in the suddenness of an unexpected attack.
As he resumed his practice now, the first few nights were brutal in their clumsiness and would have been appalling had he not found his ineptitude almost comical. But his quickness and strength developed quickly and it wasn’t long before he reacquired some skill and even a measure of grace. His master had taught him — sometimes with a bamboo rod across the back — to train with utter seriousness, to picture his enemies as he dispatched them, and Nicholai did this as he slid back and forth across the garden, repeating the lengthy
kata
dozens of times before he stopped, his
gi
soaked with sweat. Then he treated himself to a quick bath, collapsed into bed, and was soon asleep.
One morning, two weeks into his stay, Solange surprised him by saying, “This is a big day for you, Nicholai.”
“How so?”
“The unveiling, so to speak.”
“Of …”
“You, of course,” she said. “Your face.”
He had gone to the doctor’s office once a week for the hefty Irish nurse to change his wrappings, none too gently at that. But she had deliberately kept him away from a mirror until the healing process was complete, so this would be the first time that he would see his reconstructed face.
If he was at all nervous or anxious, he didn’t betray it. It was as if Solange had told him that they were going to see a photo exhibit or a film. He seemed detached. If it were me, she thought, I would be a mess — he was as cool as a March morning, placid as a still pond.
“The doctor said that I could do it,” Solange said.
“Now?” Nicholai asked.
“If you wish.”
Nicholai shrugged. It would be nice to have the bandages off, certainly, but he wasn’t really all that curious about his face. He had sat in solitary confinement for those years, where it really didn’t matter what one looked like — there was no one there to react except the guards.
But suddenly he felt a twinge of anxiety, which surprised and displeased him. Suddenly it did matter to him what he looked like, and he realized that it was because of her.
I care what she thinks, he marveled to himself. I’m afraid of how she’ll react when the bandages come off and I am still ugly. He didn’t know that such feelings still resided in him.
Remarkable, he thought.
“I’m ready,” Nicholai said.
They went into the bathroom. She sat him down on a stool in front of the mirror, stood behind him, and gently unwrapped the bandages.
He was beautiful.
There is no other word for it, Solange thought. He is a beautiful man. His emerald green eyes stood out now against the high, sharp cheekbones. His long jaw was strong, his dimpled chin cute without being at all effeminate. And he was youthful-looking — far younger than his twenty-six years, even with all he’d been through.
“Bravo, Doctor,” Solange said. “Are you pleased?”
I’m
relieved,
Nicholai thought, seeing the smile on her face. She would have feigned the smile in any case, but he was relieved that the surgeon’s apparent skill had saved them both that indignity. He said, “I’m not sure that I recognize myself.”
“You are very handsome.”
“You think so?”
“Listen to you, fishing for a compliment,” Solange said. “Yes, I think so. You are very handsome. But now you make me feel so old.”
“You’re beautiful and you know it.”
“But fading,” she says. “Perhaps I should go see this doctor …”
8
H
AVERFORD CAME
that afternoon.
He inspected Nicholai’s face as if it were a product to be testmarketed and then pronounced it satisfactory. “He did a good job.”
“I’m pleased that you’re pleased,” Nicholai answered.
They sat down in the dining room. Haverford spread a file out on the table and without preamble began, “You are Michel Guibert, twenty-six years old, born in Montpellier, France. When you were ten years old your family moved to Hong Kong to pursue your father’s import-export business. You survived the Japanese occupation because your family were residents of Vichy France and therefore at peace with the Axis powers. By the time the war ended you were old enough to go into the family business.”
“Which was?”
“Arms,” Haverford said.
“La famille
Guibert has been in the weapons black market since the ball-and-musket era.”
“Is there an actual Guibert family,” Nicholai asked, “or is this a total fiction?”
“Papa Guibert is quite real,” Haverford answered.
“And does he have a son?”
“He did,” Haverford answered.
He spread out photographs of what certainly could have been a young Nicholai happily playing in a Chinese courtyard, helping the cooks, smiling over a birthday cake. “Sadly, Michel was in a terrible car crash. Disfiguring, I’m told. Requiring massive reconstructive surgery. He looks somewhat like his old self.”
“Did you arrange for this ‘accident’.?” Nicholai asked.
“No,” answered Haverford. “My God, do you think we’re monsters?”
“Mmmmmm … The mother?”
“She died just recently. You were very torn up about it.”
“You amaze and appall me,” Nicholai said.
“You’ve matured quite a bit,” Haverford continued. “You used to have quite the reputation as a gambler and ladies’ man and Papa banished you back to France for the last three years. You blew a shitload of the family’s money at Monaco, repented of your profligate ways, and have returned to redeem yourself.”
“How so?” Nicholai asked.
“You don’t need to know yet,” Haverford answered. “Study the file. Solange will help quiz you on the details. When you’re thoroughly conversant with your new past, I’ll brief you on your new future.”
My “new future,” Nicholai thought. What a uniquely American concept, perfect in its naïve optimism. Only the Americans could have a “new” future, as opposed to an “old” one.
“Now we need to take some photos,” Haverford said.
“Why?”
Because they were assembling a file on Guibert, explained Haverford. No one in the arms trade would go very long in this day and age without acquiring a jacket in every major intelligence service in the game. The photos would be placed in CIA, Deuxième Bureau, and MI-6 files, then leaked to the Chinese through moles. Photos of Michel Guibert would be inserted into old Kuomintang police files that the Reds were currently sifting through. The “wizards in the lab” would make Guibert appear on streets in Kowloon, casinos in Monaco, and the docks of Marseille.
“By the time we’re done,” Haverford chirped,
“you’ll
believe you’re Michel Guibert and that you sat out the war in Hong Kong. As a matter of fact, from now on you answer to ‘Michel’ and only Michel. Not ‘Nicholai.’ Got it, Michel?”
“As difficult a concept as that might be,” Nicholai answered, “I believe I have a grasp of it, yes.”
Solange came back into the room carrying a stack of clothes that she draped over the back of a chair. “Your new wardrobe, Michel.
Très chic
.”
She went back out to get more.
Nicholai examined the clothes, which appeared to be secondhand. Of course they were, he thought. It makes perfect sense — when you step into someone’s life, you step into his clothes, and those clothes would be worn, not new. He examined the labels. Some of the older clothes were from a tailor in Kowloon, but most were French, and mostly from expensive-sounding shops in Marseille. A few of the shirts and two of the suits came from Monaco. All of them were expensive and of lightweight fabrics — silk and cotton. There were several pairs of twill khaki trousers, pleated, of course. It seemed that Michel favored white and khaki suits with colorful shirts and no ties.
And the clothes smelled — of sweat, tobacco, and cologne. You have to give the devil his due, Nicholai thought. Haverford had been nothing if not thorough.
Solange returned with more clothes, stood with the tip of her index finger to her lips and contemplated the wardrobe and Nicholai. “Let me see, what shall you wear for the first shot? It is set in Hong Kong, no?” Her serious concentration on this make-believe was quite charming. She selected a shirt, put it back, chose another, and matched it with a suit. “This, yes?
Oui—parfait.
”
She handed the selections to Nicholai and ordered him to go change. When he came back from the bedroom dressed as Michel, Haverford had a camera ready. They went out in the garden to get a “blurred, outdoor” background. In what became a painfully tedious afternoon for Nicholai, they repeated this process numerous times, Solange having a wonderful time, however, selecting Michel’s ensembles.
“That was excruciating,” Nicholai said after Haverford finally left.
“It was fun,” Solange answered. “I love fashion, and Michel has a sense, no?”
“You chose all those clothes, didn’t you?”
“Of course,” she said. “You don’t think I’d let them dress you out of fashion, do you?”
After a dinner of
suprêmes de poulet à l’estragon
with green beans
à la provençale,
a dessert of
tarte aux poires et à la frangipane,
and the requisite espresso, cognac, and cigarette, Nicholai studied the Guibert file. The fiction was impressive in its volume and detail, but Nicholai had no trouble memorizing apparently important trivia such as which
tabac
Michel favored in Montpellier, his father’s choice in whiskey, or his mother’s maiden name. His mind crammed with such detail, he changed into his
gi,
went to the garden to perform his
kata,
bathed, and went to bed.
9
H
IS PROXIMITY SENSE
woke him.
During his years in prison he developed an almost extrasensory awareness of the presence of another living being, a radarlike perception of the intruder’s exact distance and angle of approach.
Now someone was in the room.
In the space of a second, his mind ran through the possibilities and he selected the vase on the bedside table as the best, most easily reached weapon. Then he smelled the Chanel No. 5 and felt her presence. Enough moonlight came through the shutters to reveal Solange standing in the doorway, her body more revealed than hidden by the filmy black peignoir.
“Three years is a long time to be without a woman,” she said. “Too long, I think, no?”
Her perfume filled his head as she came to the bed and kissed his mouth, his ears, his neck, his chest, and then slid down. He was dizzy with pleasure as she did delicious things with her mouth and long elegant fingers and it wasn’t long before he gasped, “Solange, please stop. I’m afraid I’ll … and I don’t want to … before —”
Solange stopped, laughed gently, and said, “After three years,
mon cher,
I think you will recover quickly, no?” She resumed her ministrations and soon he felt the unstoppable wave roll through his body, his back arched like the most powerful samurai bow, and she held him tight with her full lips until he sank back onto the bed.
“Très fort,”
she whispered in his ear as she slid up his body.
“Well, after three years …”
She laughed and rested her head on his chest. Her hair felt wonderful on his skin. They rested for a little bit and then he felt himself recovering. “I told you so,” she said as her hand reached down to stroke him. “I want you inside me.”
“Are you …”
“Wet?” She guided his hand for him to feel for himself. “Oh yes, my darling, for
weeks
now.”
She lowered herself onto him.
Nicholai couldn’t believe her sheer beauty as he watched her rise and fall on him. Her blue eyes shone with excitement, pinpoints of sweat appeared on her long neck, her rich mouth smiled with pleasure. He reached up and caressed her heavy breasts, so different from the delicate Japanese women he had known, and she moaned her approval. Her loveliness, the wet heat of her, wrapped him in pleasure. He took her by the waist and turned her over so that he was on top of her, then pressed his lips into the crook of her neck and thrust into her, steadily and insistently but without hurry.
Vocal in her arousal, she throatily whispered and then shouted the dirtiest of French obscenities as she encouraged him, dug her long nails into his buttocks, and pushed him harder. His sweat mixed with hers, they slid together, and then she announced her
petite mort,
her hips rose off the bed, she held him inside her and said,
“Vous me faites briller. Vous me faites jouir.
Come with me. Now.”
Her voice and words sent him over the edge, there was no holding back, and he poured himself into her, then collapsed on her and felt her breasts flatten beneath him. They lay there for quite a while, then he heard her say, “I suppose it would be cliché to want a cigarette.”
Nicholai got up, found a pack, put two cigarettes into his mouth, lit them both, and handed her one.
So lovemaking was added to their daily routine, although the sex was hardly routine.
Solange delighted in dressing up for the boudoir and had a seemingly inexhaustible repertoire of lingerie that she enjoyed modeling for him. Nor was Nicholai loath to be the audience for this erotic fashion show, as she changed her hair, her makeup, and even her scent, to suit the outfit. Her taste was exquisite, daringly erotic without ever crossing the line into the burlesque, always stylish, never obvious. Her tastes in bed were eclectic as well, and she gave Nicholai every part of herself, reveled in his taking her. As genteel as she was at the dining table, she was equally, surprisingly earthy in the bedroom.
“You have the mouth of a sailor,” he told her one night without a trace of disapproval.
“But you love my mouth, no?” she answered, and then proceeded to prove to him that he did. Nicholai did love her mouth, her hands, her fingers,
sa cramouille, sa rose.
He was fast coming to the truth that he simply loved
her.
One night after a particularly robust lovemaking session, she inhaled her postcoital cigarette and said, “No offense, Michel, but you make love like a Japanese.”
Nicholai was a bit taken aback, but more curious than offended. “Is that bad?”
“No, no, no,” she said quickly. “It is not bad, is just different than … a Frenchman. A bit …
comment vous dites
… a bit ‘technical,’ no? If you are a Frenchman, you must make love
d’une manière plus sensuelle,
a bit more like music than science.”
She knew, sadly, that he would soon leave to perform the errand for the Americans. And as a man, he had needs, and would satisfy those needs, perhaps in a brothel. The girls would talk, and if they talked of a Frenchman who made love like a Japanese, it would not do.
“Is this part of my training?” he asked, staring hard at her. He looked hurt. “Are
you
part of my training?”
“For all your boyish looks,” she said, refusing to lower her eyes in shame, looking right back at him, “naiveté nevertheless does not become you. Are you asking me if I am a whore for the Americans? My darling, we are
both
whores for the Americans. I fuck for them, you kill for them. Don’t look so hurt, I adore making love to you.
Vous me faites briller.
You make me shine, no?”
He heard the formal
“vous,”
as opposed to the more intimate
“tu
,” and wondered if she perceived their relationship as only business.
In any case, Solange taught him how to make love like a Frenchman.