Chapter 17

OUTSIDE, IN THE DAMP air and the gathering dusk, standing in the doorway of the St. Séverin church with the gargoyles arching above their heads, Rowland said, “I need a drink. You need a drink. Don’t argue.”

He walked her, fast, toward the Sorbonne, then turned off the boulevard St. Michel into a quiet street and into a small, old-fashioned bistro, almost empty; they were given a booth with high-backed seats, so they were enclosed as if in the cabin of a ship. There was a red-and-white-checked tablecloth, with a white paper one placed diagonally over it: two knives and forks, two ordinary glasses for wine. Rowland ordered brandies, and when Gini hesitated, made her drink. He watched her; for the first time that day, some of the tension left her body, and faint color returned to her face.

Her face seemed so lovely to him, he found he had to turn away, study the menu, consult with her, with the short, plump patron, anything to wrench his attention away from her mouth, from the mauve bruising across her cheekbone, and from the flare of her eyes, her wide-spaced, expressive, and very beautiful eyes which seemed to him to ask an unspoken question yet fear his possible response.

He ordered the food. Work, he thought: if he could just keep the conversation on their work. He began speaking, and she began speaking—both at once.

Rowland smiled, hesitated, then leaned back.

“You first.”

“Nothing—I was just going to say—you were very good with Chantal. She liked you—insofar as she’s capable of liking a man. Did you realize that?”

“No.” Rowland shrugged. “It seemed to me I was getting nowhere with her. Every question blocked.”

“No. You’re wrong. You were patient, and quiet—and polite. She was grateful for that. Maybe it doesn’t happen to her too often. Maybe—” Her eyes flickered up to his face.

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe she liked your appearance. I imagine you’re used to that.”

Rowland leaned forward.

“Shall I tell you what made her decide to talk? It wasn’t me or what I said. It wasn’t even because she needed a fix desperately. I was watching her, and I know precisely the second when she decided.”

“When we showed her the photographs?”

“No.” Rowland looked at her, touched that she did not realize. “No. You used a particular phrase. It touched an immediate chord. Maybe you hit on something Star had actually said to her, maybe not—either way, it went straight to the heart.” He paused. “You asked her if she believed she was the constant in his life.”

Color washed into her cheeks. “Are you sure?”

“I’m absolutely sure. In any interview, any conversation like that, there’s always one moment when the questioner breaks through. That was it. What made you hit on that phrase?”

“I don’t know. It just came to me. We knew she was different from the other girls—she was older, for one thing. She’d known Star for some time, Mitchell said that. And I just began to wonder—if that was how she saw her role in Star’s life. It’s something women like…”