White Apples (7 page)

It was the beginning of the end of his marriage. He could look back and say right there—that moment. He changed plans imme•diately and bought a ticket to Krakow. He had never been to Poland before. But that's what his life with Isabelle had become: He dropped everything and flew nine hundred miles to an unknown city deep in Central Europe on her excited say-so.

In this photograph, the two of them are standing in front of the full-length bathroom mirror. Ettrich holds the camera out from his body to take the picture. His other arm is wrapped around Isabelle. Both her thin hands are on his. Eyes closed, her head is turned up toward him. She is smiling beatifically—as if she were in the middle of orgasm. You can see her perfectly, but the camera flash obscures him. Ettrich is only a dark suit and the white of his lower jaw. But he loved that aspect of the picture—it was as if her radiance was the only thing allowed to show through the flash. He didn't know exactly why, but as he was leaving the house to go to the airport, he slipped the photo into the breast pocket of his sport jacket.

Because it was Friday night, the start of the weekend, Ettrich had expected the airport to be mobbed. It was notably empty. What's more, the few travelers there seemed in no hurry. People ambled about, no one ran, no one shouted orders or desperate last-minute instructions. Those who were flying moved toward their departure gates with the leisurely pace of window shoppers. It was nice to see for a change but also vaguely disconcerting.

As usual, Ettrich had arrived much too early. This man liked punctuality, liked to check in early for a flight, a hotel, for anything. He liked to be at a restaurant first, liked to be waiting for whomever he had a date with. This habit pleased certain people but exasperated others because if they arrived late they could see in his eyes that he was clearly not happy. Nevertheless Ettrich thought it was a proper and courteous sign of respect: a small gesture that said he cared. Isabelle was just like him in that regard—it was a game between them to see who would be the first to arrive. On their first formal date in Vienna, she had already been waiting inside the Café Diglas ten minutes when he arrived ten minutes early. He was already in love with her by then. It had never happened so fast to him. She wore a black cashmere sweater. She wore several thin gold neck•laces. Her white hands on the gray marble table were still.

At the airport he stood under one of the big digital boards that listed scheduled arrivals and departures. Djibouti. Buenos Aires. Dublin. Isabelle would arrive within the hour carrying their child in her belly. Dublin. He'd gone there with Kitty on their honeymoon. They stayed at the Shelbourne Hotel and had tea there every after•noon at four. He thought he would never again be so happy in his life. Staring at the board, its flickering yellow numbers and exotic names, he wondered for the hundredth time what was happening to him and why? Dublin. Kitty. Isabelle. Death.

Pregnancy...

With all this whizzing in his head, it took a moment to realize he was staring at her flight number—622—and the fact the plane had landed half an hour early.

Suddenly Ettrich was the only person running in the airport. He knew the building and its distances by heart but had no idea where she would be by now—clearing customs, baggage claim, or already out in the hall looking for him, dismayed to find he wasn't there.

All he could think to say while he sprinted toward her gate was "Perfect. Perfect. Perfect." The only time in the last five years he had been late for anything and it had to be
this.
Perfect.

Zooming along, he heard a man call out his name but Ettrich didn't even glance over to see who it was. The never-ending cor•ridor seemed as long as the one leading to the wizard in the film
The Wizard of Oz.
Perfect. Then someone else called his name, an•other man's voice. Was everyone he knew at the airport tonight?

Distracted, he actually jogged by Isabelle who was passing in the other direction on the moving walkway. She didn't see him because her head was down and turned away. One of the wheels on her brand-new suitcase wobbled badly and she was checking to see why. The only thing that stopped him was the jacket she wore.

Isabelle always dressed with great flair. She was vain. She liked clothes that showed off her graceful body and long legs. She wore tight slacks and thin jackets. Boots. Boots always, but the leather on them was thin, chic, and never practical. In the winter she was forever cold, often shivering so hard her teeth chattered. As a joke Ettrich ordered a fat goose-down jacket from the Lands' End catalog for her. It was navy blue and yellow. A road repair worker could have worn it in the middle of the freeway and never worried about being hit by traffic because the thing was so conspicuous. To his great surprise, Isabelle loved the jacket. When she wasn't wearing it, she allowed her dog Soup to sleep on it.

She was five feet past before he was able to get the surprise out of his mouth and say, "Hey you!" Their greeting always, the "you" stretched long and lovingly.

Isabelle's head came up fast and there was
the smile.
He once asked if she had a million teeth because her smile was that big and radiant. She put her pinkie on a front tooth and began counting them. He pulled her finger to his lips and kissed it.

Now she brought her hands together and held them under her chin. "I thought you weren't going to come, Vincent."

Instantly on guard, he had no rejoinder for that, witty or oth•erwise. Instead, he remained silent and only continued walking back•ward quickly to keep pace with her on her moving sidewalk. It was just as well that he said nothing because he saw that in spite of her smile, Isabelle was crying. Her beautiful blue eyes brimmed with tears that now spilled over and slid down her cheeks, making them gleam. "You weren't there and you weren't there and you weren't there, so I thought—" Overwhelmed, she threw her hand in the air to complete the sentence. She continued to smile but there was more sadness in her expression than he had ever seen. Ettrich almost fell to his knees with pain and pent-up longing for this woman. He had missed her so much. She was the only one who had ever mat•tered. For

months he had thought she's gone now, gone for good. He had honestly believed that. But now here she was near him again, saying she hadn't thought he would come. How could she believe that? How could Isabelle ever think he would not come when she called, wherever she was?

What happened next was without precedent. A big bearded man carrying a stained canvas duffel bag over his shoulder hurried down the moving walkway in the same direction as Isabelle. Once there, he banged into her so hard that she yelped in shock and staggered badly. Not even flashing her a glance, the man said "stupid cunt" and kept going.

Leaping over the barrier between the corridor and the moving walkway, Ettrich ran after him. When he was close enough, he timed it carefully and stuck out his leg, tripping the other perfectly. The man flew forward, landing on his head and elbow with a thick
clunk.
Ettrich wasn't finished. As soon as the guy hit the floor, Ettrich bent over and punched him in the face. Only once. Ettrich was cool—he was completely in control of both the moment and his actions. He was only doing what was necessary.
Nobody
touched Isabelle like that. Especially now, with the baby.

"Vincent!"

Still bent over, he turned slowly and looked back at his love.

At the same time, the big man came out of his daze and erupted. "What the fuck—"

Ettrich jabbed three stiff fingers into the guy's red cheek. "Don't move. Don't think. Don't do a thing." The tone of his voice would have frightened anyone. It said I'll kill you. The man's eyes widened and he froze.

Ettrich stood up and gestured for Isabelle to come. When she caught up, he lifted her suitcase over the fallen man whose eyes were now glued to the ground. She stepped over him and the two moved quickly away.

The man on the floor rode all the way to the end of the line sitting in that position without once looking up to see if they were gone.

"Is it really your car? The home of the headless Barbie doll?" Holding the sandwich in one hand, Isabelle looked slowly around the spotless interior of his car. Then she turned to him and eyes happy for the first time, took a big bite and moaned. "Umm, it's delicious, Vin•cent. Thank you."

It was one of their rituals—whenever she came through the gate in the U.S., he handed her a pastrami sandwich slathered with coleslaw and Russian dressing fresh from any nearby delicatessen.

Isabelle never ate on a plane because she said she was wary of food that came in rectangles. When Ettrich arrived in Vienna, she had an
Extrawurst Semmel
waiting, the best bologna sandwich he had ever tasted.

They had been sitting in his car for fifteen minutes and he had yet to put the key in the ignition. It was bliss having her there. His world had suddenly become whole again. For the moment life was perfect. The car was redolent with the striking aroma of her co•logne—Creed's Royal Water—the same kind Ettrich used. On their first date after smelling it on him, Isabelle literally demanded to know the name so she could buy and wear it "for the rest of my life." He loved the cologne but never wore it when they were together because he wanted to associate it with her.

Still admiring his oh-so clean car, she began to eat the bulging sandwich and drink from a bottle of cream soda, another favorite. While she ate she didn't say much but that was fine. She appeared just as content to sit there as Ettrich so he didn't worry about it.

After finishing, she carefully folded the piece of shiny wax paper the sandwich had been wrapped in. "I could eat another one of those right now."

He smiled until he saw she meant it. He didn't know whether he was impressed or dismayed because that sandwich had been as big as a dachshund. "Really? You want another?"

She nodded. "I need to eat something more, Vincent. These days I have the appetite of a sumo wrestler. I could eat the moon for dinner." She patted her tummy. Because she was wearing the down jacket he hadn't been able to see much of her body. Was she bigger now? Did the baby show yet? While she ate, he sneaked peeks at her stomach but couldn't see a difference.

"How do you feel otherwise? I mean, does your back hurt or have you had morning sickness or—

"The usual suspects?" Unexpectedly, she took his hand and held it in both of hers. "Yes, a little, the big differences are my appetite, and for some reason I'm cold all the time. Thank God for this jacket which I basically live in now. But my side effects are nothing com•pared to those of other women. The first three months are supposed to be the worst and I've been very lucky. I just keep lots of candy bars in my pockets and walk around wearing this blue igloo you gave me. No big deal.

"Look, do you want to talk about this now or can we wait a little while? I'm still kind of dopey from the flight and I really do want to get something more to eat. Preferably sweet, if you don't mind."

"A hot fudge sundae?"

She squeezed his hand. "Maybe two."

Ettrich reached for the ignition key and, sighing contentedly, turned it. Isabelle was
here.
She was sitting two feet away from him and now they were going to eat ice cream. How could life be any better?

"I heard that."

He looked at her. "Heard what?"

"Your sigh. Was it a happy one or a sad one?"

Before he had a chance to answer, she asked another question which changed the color of the rest of his life. "Vincent, what's it like to be dead?"

They were followed. If Ettrich had been paying any attention, he would have seen a perfectly restored 1969 Austin-Healey 3000 Mark III convertible in the rearview mirror when he drove out of the parking lot and onto the

highway. It remained three car lengths behind them the whole trip to the restaurant. What's more, the vintage machine was fitted with a muffler that made it sound as loud as a racing car. Plainly this Healey was never intended for surveil•lance assignments, but the woman driving didn't care. Now that Vincent Ettrich was aware of his situation to a certain degree, Coco Hallis was going to do things her way.

He did not know that she owned the car. Plus she had parked far enough away from him in the airport lot so that he probably wouldn't notice. Even if he had it wouldn't have been a problem.
Let
him see her—sooner or later he would have to know she was to remain very much a presence in his life for some time.

While waiting for them to come out of the airline terminal, she amused herself by thinking of ways she might introduce herself to Vincent's glorious girlfriend. "Hello I'm Coco, the woman he's been sleeping with while you were avoiding him." Then she could add in her most fawning voice, "Vincent's told me
so
much about you." Which was a lie because Ettrich almost never mentioned Isabelle to Coco. In general he was happy to talk about anything and anyone, but
that
woman was strictly off limits. Coco had repeatedly tried to worm details about Isabelle out of him but to no avail.

She lit a cigarette and realized halfway through smoking it that she was more than a little jealous of Isabelle Neukor.

Wasn't that funny? She wanted to laugh but couldn't because there is little laugh•ter in a jealous heart.

And then suddenly there they were. Coco sat up straight in her seat and flicked the cigarette out the window. It cartwheeled across the night and hit the ground in a bounce of orange sparks. She recognized their body language before she knew it was them. Lovers ahoy!

Ettrich was pulling a large suitcase that wobbled on its wheels. A thin blonde walking two steps behind him had her arms wrapped tightly across her chest as if she were very cold on this balmy fall night. The two of them kept bumping into each other like they couldn't get enough contact. And Isabelle kept reaching out to touch Ettrich—his arm, his hand, the back of his head.

Coco put on her large horn-rimmed glasses for a better look at Ms. Isabelle Neukor. Was she beautiful? Vincent sure thought so, but it was hard to tell in that humid chemical light. She was tallish and had very animated features. When they weren't locked under her armpits, her hands danced around like an orchestra conductor's whenever she spoke. A great open smile came often to Isabelle's face that would have delighted anyone. Blond hair fell to her shoul•ders but Coco couldn't tell if it was real blond because the light over the parking lot distorted everything.