“Demiel ben Yusef must be destroyed before he casts the devil down upon all of humanity,” he declared in a voice so booming, you’d never suspect, if you weren’t seeing it for yourself, that it was coming out of the mouth of a wheelchair-bound octogenarian.
Ving came back on with a panel of windbags who were listed as “experts,” including clerics, professors of divinity, and ACLU types. I turned it off and opened the bottle of French Bordeaux that was sitting in the large fruit-and-cheese basket in the room. I needed a big, big glass of wine.
It was then that I noticed the note on the basket: “8:00 this evening in the bar downstairs. Y.”
I had just taken my first giant gulp when there was a knock on the door. I peeked through the peephole and saw it was that same bellman. He was carrying what looked like gift boxes.
I opened the door, and he said in perfectly accented English, “Madame, you have an admirer!” as he brought in four boxes with a small bouquet of exquisite lilies of the valley tied up in ribbons and enclosed in clear cellophane wrapping.
When he left I opened the first box. In it was a classic little black dress that looked like it might actually fit my American body. I didn’t need to look at the label to know it was vintage Chanel. The next box contained a pair of Prada spikes (in a size 37) and a Gucci evening bag.
The last box contained a red cashmere sweater, which was just about the right thing to go over these insanely expensive clothes. Tucked into the bottom of that box was a small gift bag containing a tiny, exquisite—did I mention tiny?—black lace La Perla thong.
Pantera. Pantera? He bought me this stuff? Does he think he’s going to get lucky because he shot our way out of Montségur? No. Sorry, buddy. I prefer my old-lady white cotton briefs, thank you very much.
But I must say, after wearing the same dirty clothes and banged-up boots for—was it a week yet?— the haute-couture duds did look pretty damned good.
You never wore an actual Chanel before. Shut up, idiot. Just stay in your room tonight. Yeah, but this is his town. He must know we’re safe enough to go out without being shot, grenaded, or exploded—right? Don’t meet him all tarted up in his blood-money rags. Are you insane? Order room service and eat like a pig—alone. No, you will not meet him. That’s settled. You’re taking a big, hot Jacuzzi.
Never had water felt that hot or good on my very, very sore muscles.
I dropped down and fell asleep on the wonderfully luxurious bed and didn’t wake until the fire had burned down to embers. It was 7:00 P.M. I popped another couple of logs onto the fire.
Then two things happened for which I have no explanation. The first is that my stomach began fluttering around as though I was nervous or excited or something equally inappropriate in my circumstances.
The second is that I found myself taking the Chanel dress out of the box and slipping it on. Perfect fit. I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t help it, and yes, I stepped into the very, very sheer black lace thong. Why are you doing this? The Prada heels followed. Expensive shoes are, I discovered, actually very comfortable. Or these were, at any rate.
I looked in the wall mirror.
Wow. Except for the ridiculous hair, you look pretty good. Near death, real death, and being chased internationally wears well. Wait a minute here. Do I look—please God!—thinner? Stop it and take the dress off. Right now.
I sat down at the dressing table, ran my fingers through my hair, and loaded up on the makeup, including insane Amy Winehouse eyeliner.
You’ve lost your mind. He’s old enough to be, ah, your stepbrother? Yesterday it was cousin. Where’s a straightjacket when you need one?
Eight o’clock came and went. I sat on the bed paralyzed with indecision. At eight fifteen it was either call room service and have Pierre think I was for sale looking like that, or go the hell down to the bar.
I picked up the phone, dialed room service, hung up, and put my tablet, wallet, passport, money, and the diary in the wall safe in the room. Then I walked out the door and into the bar, tottering on the impossibly high heels.
33
Pantera was sitting at the bar nursing what was probably a very, very good Scotch. He was decked out in his leather jacket, a starched white open-neck shirt, and dark blue trousers. He actually had a cigarette dangling from his lips like Daniel Craig or Humphrey Bogart or someone.
He glanced up and saw me staring at him as I entered the impossibly sexy bar area.
It’s the atmosphere that’s getting to you, not the man.
Unlike what I had been expecting, Pantera simply said, “I’m so glad you decided to join me. You deserve a night off. You won’t have one again for many, many days. Please, do sit down,” indicating the stool next to him. “Or would you prefer to sit on one of the easy chairs inside?”