Angelology(157)

veritably flooded over each spring with rain, filling the sewers and the gardens and the Seine. I

remember the afternoon exactly. It was one o’clock, April seventh, a Friday. I had finished my

morning classes and, as usual, ventured out to find something for lunch. What was un usual about this

day was that I had forgotten my umbrella. As I was fastidious to a fault, it was a rare spring day when

I found myself unprotected in a downpour. Yet this was the case. Upon walking out of the Athenaeum,

I realized that I would be soaked to the bone, and the papers and books I carried under my arm would

certainly have been ruined. And so I stood under the great portico of our school’s main entrance,

watching the water fall.

“From out of the swirling deluge of rain, a man emerged with an enormous violet-colored

umbrella, an unusual choice for a gentleman, I thought. I watched him saunter across the courtyard of

the school, elegant, erect, and exceedingly good-looking. Perhaps it was the longing I felt for the

hollow, dry sanctuary of the umbrella, but I stared at the stranger, hoping that he would come to me,

as if I had the power to cast a spell upon him.

“Those were very different times. If it was unseemly for a woman to stare at a handsome

gentleman, it was equally unseemly for him to ignore her. Only the most ill-mannered rake would

leave a lady in the rain. He paused halfway through the courtyard, discovered that I was staring at

him, turned sharply upon the heel of his leather boot, and came to my aid.

“He tipped his hat so that his great blue eyes met mine. He said, ‘May I take you safely through this

torrent?’ His voice was filled with a buoyant, seductive, almost cruel confidence. This one look, this

single phrase, was all that it took to win me.

“‘You may take me wherever you wish,’ I replied. Instantly aware of my indiscretion, I added,

‘Anything to get out of this terrible rain.’

“He asked me my name, and when I told him, I saw at once that the name pleased him. ‘Named

after an angel?’

“‘The messenger of good news,’ I answered.

“He met my eyes and smiled, pleased with my quick response. His eyes were the coolest, most

pellucid blue I had ever seen. The smile was a sweet, delicious smile, as if he knew the power he had

over me. A few years later, when it was revealed that my uncle, Victor Lévi-Franche, had disgraced

our family by working as a spy for this man, I wondered if his delight at my name was tied to my

uncle’s position and not, as he suggested, its angelic provenance.

“He offered his hand and said, ‘Come, my messenger of good news, let us go.’ I gave him my hand.

In that moment, with the first touch of his skin, the life I had been leading fell away and a new one

began.

“He later introduced himself as Percival Grigori III.” Gabriella glanced at Verlaine, to catch his

reaction.

“Not the same—” Verlaine said in disbelief.

“Yes,” Gabriella said. “One and the same. At the time I had no notion of who he was or what his

family name meant. If only I had been older and had been exposed to more at the academy, I would

have turned from him and run away. In my ignorance I was charmed.

“Under the great violet umbrella, we walked. He took my arm and led me through the narrow,

flooding streets to a motorcar, a shiny Mercedes 500K Roadster, an amazing silver car that shone

even in the rain. I don’t know if you admire automobiles, but this was a gorgeous machine, with all

the luxuries available at the time—electric wipers and locks, opulent coach-work. My family owned

a car—which was quite a luxury in itself—but I had never seen anything like Percival’s Mercedes.

They were exceedingly rare. As a matter of fact, a prewar 500K was auctioned off a few years ago in

London. I went to the event so that I could see the car again. It sold for seven hundred thousand

pounds sterling.

“Percival opened the door with a grand gesture, as if placing me into a royal carriage. I sank into

the soft seat, my wet skin sticking to the leather, and took a deep breath: The car smelled of cologne

mixed with the slightest hint of cigarette smoke. A tortoiseshell dashboard gleamed with buttons and

knobs, each one waiting to be pressed and turned, while a pair of leather driving gloves lay folded

upon the dash, waiting for his hands to fill them. It was the most beautiful car I had seen in my life.

Nestling deep into the seat, I was consumed by happiness.

“I remember quite vividly the feeling I had as he drove the Mercedes along the boulevard Saint-

Michel and across the Île de la Cite, the rain falling with increased violence, as if it had been waiting