The Last Weynfeldt (28 page)

And he really had just waited in the breakfast room for her to appear, had sat with barely concealed impatience till she had drunk her orange juice and espresso, eaten her croissant, then packed her off in a taxi.

Lorena had tried to give him her cell phone number. He had said, “You call us; we don't call you.”

The morning with Adrian had been like a morning with any other man. Had she destroyed everything that was special about him?

And fallen for him at the same time?

Could she only fall in love with men who treated her badly?

Bullshit.

Lorena tackled the next box. And the next. And the next. Soon she was standing, hot and bothered, red-eyed and tearstained, surrounded by clothes and books and CDs and kitchen things and the clutter of her entire worldly goods.

And then, knee-deep in the chaos from which her new order was meant to arise, she knew how to go on. She would travel. Get all this crap picked up and put in storage. And go traveling. After she'd paid rent and other expenses, she'd still have over ninety thousand. There were places where that was a lot of money. Asia, Africa, South America. There you could start a new life. Brazil. She knew a Brazilian woman, Iracema or something. She had her address somewhere.

There was nothing to keep her here. She'd ruined Adrian. And Pedroni? She didn't need any more Pedronis in her life. Yes: Pedroni should also be included in the tidying up operation.

She looked for her phone, found it under the clothes on the bed, dialed his number and arranged to meet in the
piadini
bar where he spent his breaks.

The bar was virtually empty. There were just a few salesgirls dotted around at the little tables; like Pedroni, they couldn't take their lunch breaks at lunchtime. Pedroni was eating a
piadino
with cheese and
Parma
ham, and apologized that he'd already ordered; he had to go back to the boutique in a minute.

“It won't take long. I just wanted to say good-bye,” Lorena said casually.

Pedroni swallowed a mouthful. “Where are you going?”

“Brazil.”

“And Weynfeldt?”

“I expect he's staying here.”

“I thought you wanted to do a bit more …” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

“That's dried up,” she imitated the gesture.

“Why?” Pedroni put the
piadino
he had just raised to his mouth back down.

“It's over. We've split up. He's got no reason to get me out of trouble anymore.”

Pedroni grinned. “He's still going to need to get himself out of trouble.”

“What kind of trouble is that?”

“The thing with the forged painting.”

“Oh that. Forget it. They were kidding me, Weynfeldt and the painter. The picture was genuine.”

“I see,” Pedroni said, raising an eyebrow. “Strange sense of humor. For a senior employee of a renowned auction house, I mean.”

“That's what I thought,” Lorena said.

“And I was hoping we could make some serious money there.”

“Me too. Bad luck, huh?”

“Shame.”

“A crying shame.”

A few moments later they said good-bye—a parting of the ways which clearly came easily to both of them. Pedroni returned to Spotlight; Lorena returned home, to continue establishing order in her life.

But when she got back to her half-tidied studio, she had an uncertain feeling. Something wasn't right. Pedroni had swallowed the story too quickly. Hadn't asked questions, hadn't doubted her at all. It had all gone far too easily.

A
BUS WITH A
C
ZECH LICENSE PLATE WAS WAITING OUTSIDE
the Belotel. The tour group, mostly middle-aged couples, was standing at the side of the bus, by the open door to the luggage hold, trying to retrieve their bags. No one was helping them; the Belotel was only a three-star hotel, and the driver was exhausted from the journey.

The weather had taken a turn for the better around midday. It had stopped drizzling, and the sooty blanket of cloud had developed holes. Stretches of streets and buildings were singled out by blinding sunshine, then submerged again in the afternoon's egalitarian gray.

Weynfeldt pushed his way through the tour group to the reception desk, murmuring apologies. He was wearing a raglan coat and carried a cheap attaché case he had bought that morning in a discount store near his office.

In front of him, surrounded by several Czechs, the tour guide was arguing in broken German with the only receptionist on duty. It seemed not all the rooms were ready, although it was already half an hour after check-in time.

Adrian waited.

This morning he had had his first serious quarrel with Véronique. He had to admit he had left her in the lurch a lot recently, arriving late and leaving early without warning her. But that had happened before, with no consequences other than a few pointed remarks—even in phases like this, when she was starving herself.

But this time, not in the best of moods himself, he had become so spiteful he immediately regretted it. Responding to her embittered, “Nice of you to come by,” he had said, “Why don't you just start eating again!”

At this she had raised the mouse she held in her hand as high as the cable allowed and smashed it down on the desk with all the strength she possessed. Its components split in all directions, leaving something small and metallic dangling from the arm of her chair for a few seconds, swinging, till it became inert.

“Well, that was that,” she said drily, and Adrian wasn't sure if she was referring to the mouse or their working relationship.

He parried it with a dry, “Quite,” likewise leaving her to interpret his comment.

The argument about the rooms hadn't been resolved. Weynfeldt butted in front, ignoring the Czech protests. “Please tell Room 412 I've arrived.” Pedroni had given him only the room number, and officially Weynfeldt didn't know his name.

The receptionist gave him an angry sideways glance. “Just a moment.” She turned back to the tour guide.

“No, now,” Adrian said, with his new resolve.

The receptionist refused to look at him. But she did pick up the receiver, dial a number and say, “Your visitor is here.”

She put the receiver down, looked briefly toward him and muttered, “Fourth floor,” turning straight back to the new arrivals.

In the elevator it smelled of sweat and aftershave. Adrian regarded himself in the mirror. Like a contract killer, he thought. The weapon in his case might not be deadly, but it would certainly cost its victim a few years of his life.

In the corridor was a musty smell of floor surfaces and vacuum cleaner bags. The thin veneer beneath the lock on door number 412 had been worn in a semicircle by the clunky key tag.

Weynfeldt knocked.

Pedroni opened and invited him in with an ironic bow. Perfumed Marlboro smoke hung in the air, the butts filling half the ashtray. Pedroni was nervous—Weynfeldt was pleased to see.

“Do you want to take your coat off?”

Weynfeldt shook his head.

“Is it in there?” He pointed to the attaché case.

Weynfeldt handed it to him.

Pedroni took it and placed it on the table which served as a desk. He flipped open the catches and opened the lid.

There it was, one million, two hundred thousand francs. Slightly askew from the transport, as they nowhere near filled the case. But there they lay.

Weynfeldt observed Pedroni from the corner of his eye: he looked disappointed, like a small boy who hadn't got what he wanted for Christmas. He said nothing for a long while. Then he looked over at Weynfeldt and surprised him with an embarrassed, almost apologetic smile.

“You have to count it now,” Adrian told him, almost patronizing.

“I'm sure it's correct.”

“I insist.”

Pedroni counted the packets, then took one and counted the notes it contained. He checked the others simply with his thumbs, like a cardplayer.

Then Pedroni offered Adrian his hand. “It's a pleasure doing business with you, Dr. Weynfeldt.”

Adrian actually condescended to shake hands. “The feeling is not mutual,” he said, and headed for the door. They parted like conspirators.

The Czech tour group was still being checked in as Weynfeldt walked back through the lobby, so swift was the handover.

He made a brief attempt to get the stressed-out receptionist to book him a taxi, gave up and made for the exit.

The sky was now virtually cloudless, a false blue, as if painted by Lugardon. Adrian decided to set out on foot. He had time; Pedroni could be given a head start; he wouldn't get away.

He was unfamiliar with the area where the Belotel was situated, and walked now through unknown residential districts, saw bus routes he never knew existed, hit four-lane streets he was unable to cross and passed restaurants, noting their names, then forgetting them a few streets later.

He felt unfamiliar to himself too. Like a man with orders. An automaton executing a task rehearsed a thousand times with practiced ease. Someone who, once dispatched, nothing could halt.

Even as he approached the city center, beginning to recognize his surroundings, finally feeling at home, his distance from himself remained; he observed himself with polite indifference: the way he turned onto his street, mechanically fished the keys from his pants pocket, opened the heavy front door and, slipping the keys back into his pocket with his left hand, took his wallet out with his right, took his magnetic card out with the freed left hand, then slid the card through the reader on the security door and replaced it as he walked through the opening glass doors toward the elevator.

The apartment had also become an unfamiliar, impersonal place. His steps on the parquet sounded like someone else's. The furniture seemed exhibited, just like the paintings, and the smell of newness from the renovated room had spread throughout the space.

He checked the time. Another hour.

He went to the main sitting room and sat in one of the creaking leather chairs, too low for his long legs, which his father had bought in 1936 from their designer Fritz Lobeck. The “Island Chairs” had later been placed in Adrian's playroom, probably because of their size. He had put one on top of another, climbed the lookout tower thus created, and used it to conquer the seven seas.

He picked up an art magazine lying on the cherry wood coffee table, began browsing through it and killed the hour like a forgotten patient in the waiting room of a doctor's office that had closed.

The yellow light of the unexpected afternoon sun gradually changed color and drenched the room in a warm red. Weynfeldt watched as the light became weaker, duller, went gray, then went out entirely. He roused himself, put down the magazine and went to his study. There he picked up the telephone, called the police and reported a case of blackmail. When he was finally transferred to the person responsible, and stated the sum demanded and paid, the officer promised to send someone over.

Only ten minutes later the doorbell rang. Weynfeldt pressed the intercom and said he'd be straight down, then took the elevator.

Outside the door stood Lorena. “I have to talk to you,” she said, and pushed past him.

This was enough to knock the automaton Weynfeldt out of kilter. Instead of sending her away, he led her through the security doors and up into his apartment, even asking if she wanted a drink. She declined, but he still had enough presence of mind to take her to the Von der Mühll room, the place with the least comfortable seats.

She didn't notice, she wanted to say what she had to say so urgently.

She opened her handbag, the unbranded number he remembered from their first encounter, took a pile of thousand-franc notes out and threw them on the table. “There are six missing,” was her only comment.

“What's this?”

“It's yours. My share of the five, my share of the hundred and twenty. My share of the four point one.”

Adrian didn't understand.

“Actually I would quite like something to drink,” she asked. “Perhaps a vodka and tonic? Would that be okay?”

“No,” he said. “Explain.”

“It's very simple: I've been collaborating with Pedroni.”

“Pedroni?”

“The debt collector. Only he isn't. He's a salesman. And a little crook. Like me: a filthy little crook.”

Weynfeldt was knocked off guard by this confession. “Just a minute,” he said, stood up and left the room. He went into the kitchen, found tonic in a fridge, vodka in a freezer. Then he spent several brainless minutes looking for something—he couldn't remember what. No, not this, he thought. I don't want to hear it, no confessions please. Anything but confessions now.

It was only as he opened the drawer of one of the climate-controlled cupboards that he remembered what he was looking for. Lemon! Somewhere he found a plate for the lemon slices, and a knife to cut them, a glass, ice cubes. As he finally returned to the room with a tray holding all the ingredients, he paused outside the door and played for time.

When he entered she was standing with her back to the room, looking out the window. As soon as she heard him, she turned around and continued her confession where she had left off.

“He's a salesman at Spotlight. He saw how generously you rescued me from that situation, and had the idea of inventing a few other situations you could rescue me from.”

Weynfeldt had now mixed the drink and handed it to her. She took a thirsty gulp. “Wrong. It wasn't his idea. It was mine. You see, I lie as soon as I open my mouth. That's what I'm like.”

Please stop, he wanted to say. But once again he couldn't utter a word. He reached out a hand and held on to her shoulder, in a comforting, reassuring gesture.

She shook his hand off. “You shouldn't have any sympathy with people who have betrayed you and lied to you and ripped you off.” She was virtually screaming it. “Do you know Baier offered me fifty-thousand if I could persuade you to put the forged Vallotton in the auction?” She picked the pile of notes up and let it drop again.