The Woman in the Fifth (46 page)

T
HE SAME EVENING
that she opened her eyes, Megan began to speak again. The next day she was able to be fed by spoon. Forty-eight hours later, she insisted on getting up out of bed to use the toilet. Despite having a cast on her left arm and leg she still managed to hobble there on crutches. The following morning, the police found the driver of the hit-and-run vehicle. It was a messy story – a recently divorced woman in her forties; a lawyer in a big-deal firm in Cleveland, with 'alcohol issues'. On the morning of the accident, she had been drinking in her motel room during breakfast. She was blotto and smashed into Megan around five minutes after leaving the hotel. She panicked and kept on driving, eventually checking into a motel near the Kentucky border where the cops found her. She was heavily insured – and the lawyer now representing Megan threatened publicity if she and her law firm didn't settle quickly.

'The negotiation was very fast,' Susan told me in our daily transatlantic phone call. 'Our guy was a complete son of a bitch and very shrewd. Megan will be getting a check for half a million dollars. So that's her college education sorted out – and it will give us a little cushion until I find a new job.'

I said, 'The important thing is, she will have no lasting physical effects from the accident. The psychological scars, on the other hand—'

'—will be added to the large amount of shit that her parents have already dumped into her lap . . . and the fact that her mother is a slut who slept her way back into a tenured position at the college by fucking a pedophile.'

'I really think you should stop blaming yourself here—'

'But I do.
I do
.'

'Well, I blame myself too.'

'You're being magnanimous again . . . which is a way of making me feel bad.'

'You think that, by being reconciliatory, I'm actually trying to get at you? I just feel very sorry for you . . .'

Silence. I could hear her weeping into the phone.

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . .' she whispered. 'I've messed up so badly. I've . . .'

'Our daughter is alive and well. That's the only thing that matters right now. And I do want to speak with her again,' I said.

'I did tell her you rushed over to be by her side. She seemed happy about that, but couldn't understand why you had to hurry back so fast to Paris.'

Because the dead woman who had put Megan in the path of that car demanded her twice-weekly 'service'. If I had failed in this obligation, our daughter would have remained in her coma.

'As I tried to explain to you in that phone call . . . I had a job interview . . .'

'You could have told them your daughter was seriously injured,' she said at the time.

'I did tell them that – and they were very understanding, but also said that they had to fill the post immediately. I have no money. Nor do you. So I really couldn't tell them to wait—'

'That's right – rub it in again that I lost my job. Heighten my massive guilt about—'

'Susan . . . stop.'

'But if I stop, you won't have to listen to the truth. And the truth is—'

The truth is: these sorts of conversations are why I started hating this marriage . . .

'The truth is . . .' I said, interrupting her, 'I cannot travel anywhere now for the next six months.'

'
What?
' she said, sounding outraged. I explained about being caught in a fire at the place where I was a night watchman (she had a hard time accepting that bit of information), and that I was told by the specialist who treated me that I couldn't risk air travel now.

'So do you want me to congratulate you on risking your life by flying to your daughter's bedside?'

'Susan, I honestly do not give a shit what you think. What I do know is that, when I got back here I was coughing up blood. The pulmonary specialist has grounded me until after Christmas. This is completely maddening, as where I want to be right now is with Megan. But go ahead and think the worst of me. You always have. You always will.'

And I hung up.

Several hours later, as I lay next to Margit in her bed, she said, 'I liked the way you handled things today with Susan. Far more assertive that you used to be.'

'How do you know how I
used to be
with her?'

'I know everything about you. Just as I also knew you would do the honorable thing and be here today.'

'You call "coercion" honorable? I am only here because—'

'If you want to carry on with the delusion that you have been trapped into this, be my guest. But you will spend the rest of your life enraged by my alleged ambush of you. Whereas if you are in any way canny, you will see all the benefits our arrangement can bring you. And since you are about to run out of money in two weeks, we need to get you that job.'

'But I made that job up.'

'So you say.'

Three days later, while we were drinking our usual postcoital whisky, Margit said, 'You need to go back to Lorraine L'Herbert's salon this Sunday.'

'There's no chance of that.'

'Why?'

'Because as soon as Madame or her major-domo hears that it's me asking for an invite, they'll slam the door in my face.'

'Poor Harry – always thinking that people actually care about him. You didn't outrage Madame L'Herbert when you came bursting in on her, demanding to know if she knew me. Like all self-obsessives, she never muses for a great deal of time about other people, except in relation to herself. So your little scene in her apartment lasted about fifty-five seconds in her consciousness. Fear not – all she and her pimp are interested in is your twenty-euro admission fee. Call them tomorrow and be certain to be there on Sunday night. Then get yourself introduced to a gentleman named Laurence Coursen. He's the head of the American Institute in Paris, and he's been going to L'Herbert's salon for years to pick up women, as he's married to this very rich nightmare who weighs around one hundred and fifty kilos and spends much of her waking hours giving him a hard time. I know he's in the market for someone to teach film at the Institute. Just put yourself in his path and be charming . . .'

'Fat chance of that.'

'But Harry, you
are
charming . . .'

It was the first time Margit had ever paid me a compliment.

I did as instructed. I called Henry Montgomery, 'Madame L'Herbert's assistant'. He didn't verbally flinch when I said my name. He just gave me the door code and reminded me to arrive with twenty-five euros ('The price has gone up a bit') in an envelope on Sunday night. This time it was an easy twenty-minute stroll from my hotel on the rue du Dragon to her apartment down the street from the Panthéon.

When I arrived there at the appointed hour on Sunday night, the salon was in full swing. Henry Montgomery didn't seem to recognize me. But he did relieve me of my envelope and glanced at my name (printed as instructed on the front) and then brought me over to Lorraine. As before, she was standing under one of her nude portraits, holding court. Montgomery whispered something in her ear. Immediately she was all effusive.

'Harry, what a joy to see you again. It's been . . . how long?'

'Quite a few months.'

'And still here. So Paris has taken hold of you.'

'That it has,' I said.

'Now you paint, right?'

'I teach. Film studies. And I was wondering if Larry Coursen might be around tonight?'

'Cruising for a job, are we?'

'Actually, I am.'

'American directness. Nothing like it, pardner. Larry! Larry!'

She started yelling to a man in late middle age, dressed in an off-white suit that looked around twenty years old and was in need of a good pressing. He came over.

'Larry, you must meet Harry. He's a brilliant professor. Teaches . . . what was it again?'

'Film studies.'

'That a fact?' Larry said. 'Where do you teach?'

'Well, I used to teach at . . .'

And the conversation was off and running. L'Herbert drifted off. Coursen and I must have talked for around half an hour – largely about the movies (he was a serious film nut), but also about the Institute of which he was the Director. As he asked me a bit about the sort of courses I used to teach and my 'professorial style', it was evident that he was conducting an impromptu interview on the spot.

'What exactly have you been doing in Paris?'

'Trying to write a novel.'

'Have you published before?'

'Plenty of academic papers and the like . . .'

'Really? Whereabouts?'

I told him.

'And do you have an apartment here?'

'I did. I'm between them right now, staying at a hotel.'

'Would you have the number on you?'

I wrote it down for him.

'I might be in touch in the next few days.'

He started glancing around the room and then locked eyes with a woman around twenty. She gave him a small wave.

'Nice to meet you, Harry,' he said.

After Coursen had gone off with his very young friend, I drifted out on to the balcony. It had started to drizzle, so it was empty. I looked over at the spot where I first met Margit. Say I hadn't come here that night? Say I hadn't flirted with her and engaged in that mad embrace and taken her phone number and called her up? But I had done all that because I was lonely and sad and feeling unwanted and lost . . . and because I had so wanted to see her again.

'
I came into your life because you needed me, Harry
.'

Yes. I did. And now . . . we are together.
In perpetuity.

I turned and headed back into the salon. Lorraine was standing near the food table, talking to a Japanese woman dressed head to toe in tight black leather. Lorraine turned away from her as I approached.

'I wanted to thank you for your hospitality,' I said.

'Going so soon, hon?'

I nodded.

'Good conversation with Larry Coursen?'

'Yes . . . and I appreciate the introduction. We'll see if anything comes of it.'

'And I saw you out on the balcony. Still looking for your Hungarian?'

'No. But I didn't think you remembered me . . .'

'Hon, you barging in – asking about a woman who came here once in 1980 – was hard to forget. But want to hear something rather droll? After you left I did ask Henry about – what was her name? – Kadar? He actually remembered her rather well – because her husband Zoltan got talking with another woman the night they were here, and there was a scene out on the balcony with the Hungarian threatening to toss the other woman into rue Soufflot. Henry said he'd never seen such a jealous rage – and one that came out in whispers . . . a sure sign of insanity in my book. Hell, give me a proper screaming match any day. So consider yourself lucky you really didn't meet her. That kind of crazy – when they get their claws into you—'