The Obedient Assassin: A Novel (12 page)

E
nchantress, he kept thinking, enchantress. He dressed with extra care for the evening—his navy blue suit, a beautiful white shirt of the finest cotton, a silk tie in an orange-and-green geometric pattern with socks to match, his favorite cologne. He'd hesitated over the socks, but decided that a flash of unexpected color would be just the thing for surrealists.

On the way to his car, he did as Caridad said and stopped to buy flowers. “Get the biggest bouquet of flowers you can find,” Caridad told him. “Red roses are the best. That will get her attention. For someone like Frida Rivera no gesture is too large.”

He thought a prop would boost his confidence, but as he drove through the city he felt a twinge of guilt about Sylvia. He didn't like misleading her and leaving her alone. He would have much preferred staying at home with her. The flowers on the seat began to annoy and make him feel uneasy. The gallery, Pierre Colle, was on the Right Bank on a small street—Rue de Cambacérès just below the conjunction of the boulevards Haussmann and Malesherbes. By the time he arrived, flakes of snow drifted through the car's headlights. He parked and, carrying the bouquet, walked along Cambacérès until he came to the gallery where a placard in the window announced—
Mexique
.

Inside, the gallery, filled with people and smoke, looked like a greenhouse with tall tropical plants, pieces of primitive sculpture, what appeared to be colorful Mexican toys, and large black-and-white photographs. Jacques saw a familiar face across the room, a bald head and large blazing eyes. Realizing it was Picasso, he suddenly felt foolish with the roses, as if he were a messenger. He considered hiding the bouquet beneath his coat, but, deciding that to be impractical, he did his best to minimize the roses by carrying them at his side like a wet umbrella.

Eitingon had shown him a photograph so he recognized Frida Rivera standing alone and perhaps momentarily lost. She had braided her black hair and a thick scarlet ribbon into a crown. A scarlet cloak was wrapped around her shoulders; a cascade of ornate gold necklaces and embroidered fabric fell to a long black skirt that swept the floor with a stiff white ruff.

Burdened by the roses, he glanced down at one of the displays, his eyes settling on a small, brightly painted shadow box in which a trio of skeletons wearing sombreros played a guitar, accordion, and trumpet while two more skeletons, a man and woman, danced in the foreground. It was a cheerful domestic scene, amplified by two mirrors set into the sides of the box. His eyes drifting to a small painting, he blushed as he recognized the woman gazing out at him, naked, a strange object—her own head?—coming out of her vagina. She lay on a bed in some state of agony he couldn't comprehend, yet her facial expression was contemplative; the eyebrow exaggerated, batlike; the individual hairs above her mouth picked out to make a boy's pubescent mustache.

“Ah!
Quel surprise!
” a woman exclaimed behind him. It was Marguerite, an acquaintance of Sylvia's, a Parisian and a Trotskyite. She looked chic in a gray Chanel suit. “Jacques Mornard! And where is Sylvia this evening?” she asked in French.

He leaned forward to exchange kisses, one cheek then the other. “Sad to say Sylvia's working, slaving away on these reviews she's writing.”

“At this hour?” the woman asked, giving him a skeptical look.

“Yes, a deadline. The editor suddenly wants several reviews at once, and the money is too good to say no. Sylvia's so independent. She's afraid of being kept.”

“Americans!” the woman said and laughed.

“Yes, Americans,” he agreed.

She glanced in a pointed way at the roses all but dragging on the floor. “You intend to meet Frida? Or perhaps she's a friend?”

“Ah, these?” He held the flowers up as if he'd forgotten them. “Sylvia asked me to bring them. She hated to miss this evening. Her sister knows the Riveras in Mexico.”

“Look, that's André Breton talking to her. Do you know him? The man with the leonine mane.”

“No. And who is that at his side?”

“Marcel Duchamp. He looks like a saint, doesn't he? His face is so gaunt and ascetic. For a genius, he's said to be very kind. Are you going to the dinner?”

“Dinner?”

“No one received an invitation. Breton was supposed to make the arrangements and did nothing. Frida's furious with him. People are stopping at a bistro just at the end of the block. You should go if you like.”

She departed, leaving Jacques alone to observe Frida Rivera moving through the party. He considered presenting the roses, but they weighed him down like an albatross. Hoping no one would notice, desperate to unburden himself, he skulked out of the gallery for the street.

“Flowers?” He held them out to a passing woman who shied away. “Roses?” he said to a second woman, who avoided him as if he were mad.

He finally deposited the bouquet in a trash can and went into a
zinc,
where he had a cigarette and a brandy. By the time he ventured out, the crowd from the vernissage was moving down the street toward the bistro, Frida Rivera bringing up the rear, limping slightly beneath her great skirt.

She was pushed up against a very tall, soigné
blonde in the crowded entrance of the bistro. When the blonde turned away, Jacques offered his silver cigarette case. “
Puta!”
She said to him.
“Estas putas ricas no van a comprar nada. Ni una cosa! Nadita!”

Whore! These rich whores aren't going to buy anything. Not a thing! Not the smallest thing.

She accepted the cigarette, then, smoothly shifting gears, she placed her small ringed hand on his, leaned toward the lighter, pausing to look up from the trembling flame into his eyes. He recognized the move as a cliché, yet felt his cock stir against his expensive underwear, responding to transgression, the blatant signal. The mustache was real; the black bristles gave her the mouth of an adolescent boy, the upper lip curling slightly in a sneer. He saw the comprehension in her eyes, that they were in perfect communication, then realized he had slipped.

“Parlez vous Anglais?”
he said.

She looked at him more closely.
“Pero eres español
.
”

“No, Belgian.”

She exhaled, squinting against the smoke, then met his eyes again, raising possibilities, posing questions, starting a conversation that was sexual rather than verbal. “You're not French?”

“No. I'm from Brussels.”

“An intellectual? An artist?”

“No.”

“That's good. I'm sick of artists and intellectuals, all the big
cacas
. You know Breton?”

“No.”

“Then who are you? Why you wasting time here?”

“Friends said I should meet you.”

“These people know me?”

“Your reputation. They know me.”

“What reputation? That I'm some kind of big
puta
?”

“That you're not like anyone else.”

She looked away as if she'd heard another voice, as if he'd lost her. Then, turning to him, she dropped the cigarette on the floor, pulling back her skirt to step on it with the toe of her small boot. “Stay here,” she said, putting her hand on his arm and pressing firmly. “I'll come back.”

She disappeared in the crowd for several minutes, then returned to Jacques. “Okay, let's go.”

“You don't have to stay?”

“No one will notice if I'm not here. None of these
pinche pendejos
cares about a
chicua
from Mexico. They're all here for each other.” She pulled her red cloak closer as they stepped outside. “We need a taxi.”

“I've got my car.”

“Is it far?”

“No, just half a block.”

“I'll wait while you get it.”

Jacques trotted down the street to the Citroën, then circled the block. “Where are we going?” he asked when she got in.

“Montmartre, a small street, Rue Junot. I'll show you when we get there. You can find Montmartre?”

“Of course. It isn't far.”

She looked out the window as they drove, not bothering to speak, making him miss the kind of easy conversation he and Sylvia would have, the shared observations and references, the threads of other conversations weaving together to make a life. He was no longer sure where home was, but, for a moment, he yearned to be there.

In Montmartre, Frida guided him to Rue Junot, then a house, with a shining black door and tall windows looking out on a front garden. A foyer with black-and-white marble squares on the floor led to a salon with floor-to-ceiling books and long, moss-green velvet drapes. The lamplight was soft; the air smelled of flowers and leather and the embers of a fire smoldering in the grate. Removing her cloak, she went to a table where a collection of liquor bottles stood on a tray. “Brandy?” she asked.

“Yes, please. Whose house is this?”

“An American woman, rich but not a bitch. She saved me from that pigsty Breton calls home. You can't believe how Breton and his wife live, a filthy little apartment. They stayed with us for three months in Mexico when he came looking for Trotsky. Diego's not a rich guy, but at least our houses are clean and the food is good. We took them everywhere, introduced them to everyone in Mexico. We loaned them our cars and chauffeurs. We treated them like royalty, all the time Breton saying I must come to Paris, that little Frida was a surrealist without even knowing. If I would come to Paris, he promised to organize an exhibition for me at the best gallery there.

“I didn't care about being a surrealist or having a show in
pinche
Paris, but little
tonta
that I am, I believed him, shipped my paintings from New York, got on a ship, and came all the way to this
pinchismo
place. And what did Breton do?
Nada! Nadisma!
He didn't bother to get my paintings out of customs, didn't get a gallery. I was supposed to sleep in a tiny bedroom with his little girl.

“And then he drags in all of that junk he bought in the markets in Mexico to show with my paintings, children's toys, and his photographs. You can't even see my paintings. If it hadn't been for Duchamp, nothing would have happened. Duchamp's the only one around here who's got a foot on the ground. You know Marcel Duchamp? You must have seen him at the gallery. He's the
novio
of the
dueña
of this house.”

“What did Breton want with Trotsky?”

“If Stalin says art has to be realistic, what are surrealists going to do? Everyone is a Marxist. Trotsky is the only place to go.”

She settled on a sofa and accepted a cigarette. “Here, come sit with me.” She looked him over. “You're very
guapo
.”

“I'm what?”

“Don't tease. You know what I'm saying. How old are you? Twenty-five? I don't often sleep with such handsome young men. My husband Diego is a fat old pig.”

“You intend to sleep with me?”

“Isn't that why you're here?”

Dutifully—he knew how to play the game—he picked up her hand, pressing it to his mouth, then turning it to kiss the inside of her wrist. “Wait!” she said, rising from the sofa. “I have to make pipi.”

She went into the next room, closing the door behind her. He lit another cigarette and got up to look around, stopping to pour another brandy, paging through a portfolio of charcoal drawings. After what seemed an age, the door opened but rather than come out, she called him into the room, which was dark except for a candle burning next to the bed where she lay propped against pillows, her black hair falling down one shoulder, her nipples two black roses beneath a thin muslin nightgown.

She watched, her eyes dark and gleaming, as he sat on the edge of the bed at her side. As he leaned forward, he thought of Sylvia, her blue eyes, the trust. She wouldn't understand what he was about to do, but he had no choice.
Que puto soy yo
, he thought. This was his job.

A
nd?” asked Caridad. “Will she help you?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. It's difficult to tell.”

“Why not? She liked you well enough.”

“But that means nothing to a woman like her. She used me as a toy.”

“What does she say about Trotsky?” asked Eitingon.

“She had a long letter from him. Something happened in Mexico but she won't talk about it. Whenever I mention him, she changes the subject.”

They were in Eitingon's flat. Caridad looked ashen after making countless telephone calls and smoking countless cigarettes. Catalonia had fallen—Tarragona, Barcelona, Girona. It would be only a matter of weeks before Franco's troops took Madrid. Half a million Spanish refugees were pouring over the border into France.

Ramón believed that Lena would be safe. Her father had kept his distance from the Left and maintained alliances with Franco's machine in Barcelona. But in the chaos of a war zone there were always accidents and mistakes. One never knew what would happen. The wrong people were killed.

Ramón felt as if the earth were trembling beneath his feet, as if an avalanche had started as he was climbing a mountain. He listened as Caridad placed yet another call to Perpignan, trying to find a Party operative who could tell her what was happening on the border with Spain.

Eitingon stood up and began pacing back and forth across the room. “What do you want to do?” he asked Caridad when she hung up.

“I want to see the children. Jorge is old enough to take care of himself, but Montserrat and Luis are too young for this. I want to go to Ripollet.”

“I'll drive you,” said Ramón.

“What about Sylvia?” said Eitingon.

“I'll tell her I have to go to Brussels to see Mama. I won't be gone long.”

“Ramón, don't forget you've broken with your family. We don't want to lose Sylvia. At this point, that's all we have. And you couldn't get across the border.” Eitingon got up and started to pace. “All of this is taking too long. We've spent months and we're still in Paris, no closer to Mexico.”

“Is Sudoplatov unhappy?” asked Caridad.

“No, not yet. But we need to show signs of progress.”

“We've had to wait for Siqueiros,” said Caridad. “There's no point in going to Mexico without him. How often have we told him this? He won't take orders. He doesn't listen to us.”

“Of course he won't. Siqueiros is an artist, Mexico's greatest hero.” Eitingon stopped at a window, parting the curtain to look out. “But we chose him. The plan is ours. Our heads are on the chopping block.”

“Should we replace Siqueiros?” asked Caridad.

“No, that would send the wrong signal to Moscow, draw their attention. They aren't thinking about us—at least not yet. The war in Spain will be over soon, and David will have to go back to Mexico.”

“Speaking of going back,” Ramón interjected, “Sylvia's still threatening to leave.”

Caridad and Eitingon looked at each other. “What do you think?” he asked.

“Let her go,” said Caridad. “Tell her you will follow. We might as well start moving toward Mexico.”

“I'll need a Belgian passport. I can't use my Spanish passport.”

“We'll have one forged. That's not a problem.” She shook a cigarette from a pack to light from the end of one burning in an ashtray.

W
alking back to the flat, Ramón thought of Lena. She and her family would suffer hardships in Barcelona but thousands would be executed, the blood would pour, bodies scraped into mass graves. Hundreds of thousands Spaniards would be displaced.

Caridad had seen it coming. She told him what was going to happen the day she appeared at the front in Aragon. Now she was walking half a block ahead of him on the sidewalk, a precaution should they encounter Sylvia coming from the flat.

It was cold out, gray, but spring would come, the tiny acid green buds making a haze on the trees. He had been in Paris a year and what he had pretended—to be a resident—had become a reality. He felt divided, as if he had become two people. He had told the story of Jacques Mornard and the aristocratic family in Brussels so often that it was as real as his past in Spain. He looked at the Parisians he met on the street, studying their faces, wondering how they could go calmly about their business. Surely they felt the tremors of their own coming avalanche.

He stopped at an outdoor flower stall to buy a small bouquet of violets for Sylvia. He avoided looking at the newspapers on the kiosk as he approached his building, fishing keys from his pocket. He opened the heavy wooden door to the street, stepping into the cold interior of the building. The blue-and-white check curtain in the concierge's window flicked to the side, revealing for a moment the woman's eyes. He'd tipped her generously to assure that Sylvia—
l'Américaine
,
sa femme
—didn't learn that his mother was also living in the building. “Ah, the wife, the mother. It is not a good situation,” the concierge surmised. “Well, what she doesn't know …”

He switched on the light for the first flight of stairs, then for the second. Caridad would by now be in her flat, lighting a cigar, heating water for coffee. As he opened his door, he heard Sylvia typing. She looked up, removing her pale blue glasses.

Did she seem distant? Cold?

“I brought you a gift,” he announced, “a little bouquet of violets. They're very humble but sweet.”

“You thought of me.”

“Of course, I'm always thinking of you.”

Noticing the thick airmail envelope on the table and that she didn't come to greet him, he felt a different variety of anxiety sweep through him, the fear that she had seen through his charade.

“You went out for the mail.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Anything interesting?”

“A letter from my sisters.”

“What do they say?”

“The usual. They're worried about Germany and think I should come home.”

“Yes, that is the usual.” He went into the bedroom to hang up his coat, then to the kitchen to get a small glass of water for the violets. “I'm pouring a glass of wine. Would you like some?”

“No. Not yet. I have more to do.”

He sat down on the sofa with his wine, lighting a cigarette. “Darling, come and sit with me. I've missed you.”

She looked up from her work. “Just a moment. Let me finish this one sentence.”

“No, please. We need to talk.”

He held out his hand as she joined him, taking hers in both of his. “That's better. You know, these are not just words that I say. I really did miss you.”

She moved closer to snuggle against him.

“I wish you wouldn't work so hard. It must be something about Americans. It doesn't seem natural.”

“I'm sorry, Jacques. It's just that … You wanted to talk about something?”

“Perhaps your sisters are correct. Perhaps it's time you leave.”

“But Jacques, what about us.”

“Paris is safe for the moment but we shouldn't take chances.”

“And what about my work?”

“Yes, there's also that. I happened to speak to our editor today. He says he won't be needing any more reviews.”

“Why not? Isn't he happy with them?”

“I asked him, but he was evasive so I knew something was wrong. I assume it has to do with what's going on in general.”

Sylvia looked stunned, taken aback. “Jacques, what will we do?”

“I will follow you, of course. You're my wife. I'm your husband. We'll be together.”

She smiled but with hesitation. “But what would you do in New York?”

“The World's Fair starts in New York before long. A friend told me the French Pavilion needs people who speak English. That's a possibility.”

“Oh, Jacques, that would be wonderful. You'd like New York. It's not Paris, but we could be happy there.”

“It will take a while for me to arrange my documents. I could follow you in a month or two.”

“But you would come? You wouldn't disappear again?”

“Darling, I never disappeared.”