Eric Lustbader - The Testament

Camille ventured a glance his way. "Je ne comprends pas. What do these people want with you?"

"I have no idea," Bravo said deliberately. "At my father's insistence, he and I met just before going to my sister's house. The fact is, he wanted to talk to me about something he said was important, but my anger got in the way and I put him off."

"Oh, Bravo." Camille signaled, moving right across the lanes of the A11. "And in this state your father was taken from you. Quel domage!"

The large gray modern office buildings of the northern outskirts of Paris had given grudging way to green fields interspersed with clusters of residential housing no less ugly, unfortunately, than their industrial brethren.

She exited and took the turn for Magny-en-Vexin. They passed between two magnificent alle'es of black-leafed hornbeam trees, a darkened bower with the sky lowered and the air heavy as seawater, arriving at length in the city proper. In the old city, they exited the car to the rumble of thunder and a livid flash of lightning somewhere in the turbulent gloom of the northern sky.

Bistro du Nord was on the rue de la Halle, a small, cozy restaurant three steps down from street level. It was long and narrow, filled with dark wood beams and the simple whitewashed walls of a mas, a French farmhouse. Framed paintings of the countryside, colorful and pleasingly primitive, were hung as if at random.

A young woman showed them to a table at the back, near the blackened mouth of a massive unlit fireplace. Bravo could not help but be reminded of the hearth in Jenny's house behind which was the vertical passageway that had saved them from Ivo Rossi's initial attack.

When Camille went to freshen up, Jenny leaned across the table and said in a hushed voice, "What do you think you're doing?"

"What are you talking about?" Bravo said.

"We shouldn't be taking her-or anyone else-with us to St. Malo."

"You heard her, Jenny. She had a good point. Renting a car might call attention to ourselves."

"There are a million rental cars on the road in France at any given time," Jenny said hotly. "Besides, I very much doubt your father would approve of involving this woman in your hunt for the truth."

"Why would you say that?"

"I simply mean-"

"Do you know your cheeks are flushed?"

"I simply mean," she persevered, "that knowing your father I think he'd feel that it's far more insecure to have her with in than for us to have rented a car, that's all."

"You're sure that's all?"

She picked up the menu, held it in front of her face and muttered, "Bastard."

Bravo took hold of the top of the menu, bringing her face out of hiding. He smiled winningly, but she wasn't about to be charmed.

"Why are you so determined to make fun of me?"

"I like you," he said.

She snorted and was about to make a nasty reply when Camille returned.

"Am I interrupting something? A lover's quarrel, perhaps?"

"Not at all," Jenny said, her eyes lowered to her menu.

Camille sighed. "Lovers are allowed to quarrel as long as it doesn't last long. Alors, you must now kiss and make it up with each other."

"I don't think so," Jenny blurted out, while at the same instant, Bravo said, "We're not lovers."

"No, of course not." Her tone of voice as well as her expression revealed that Camille did not believe him. She took both their hands. "My dears, life is too short to stay angry. Now listen to me, I won't be satisfied until you've kissed and I know all is well between you." She squeezed their hands. "Come on now, there has been too much sadness in your lives lately."

Jenny's eyes were clouded by anxiety, all the worse because she could tell nothing of how Bravo felt. Nevertheless, both understood that there was no getting around this profoundly awkward moment. With Camille looking on, her lips curved in a mysterious Mona Lisa half smile, they both rose and moved tentatively toward one another. Bravo pushed a chair away but even so they halted with a handsbreadth between them.

All at once, he took her in his arms and pressed his mouth to hers. Much to her astonishment, she felt her lips opening under his, felt his tongue enter her mouth, felt her own twine for a moment with his. The breath whooshed out of her and her heart seemed to stop. Then they were apart, standing close but no longer touching, and Jenny's heart rate slowly returned to normal.

"There now, isn't that better?" Camille said with an enigmatic smile.

As they sat Camille discreetly signaled the waiter, and they ordered.

Bravo was again engaged in conversation with Camille, telling her where they needed to go, but not why. Jenny saw this withholding of information as a small victory for her side, as she'd come to think of it. Instead, they discussed the best route to take to St. Malo and where Bravo wanted Camille to drop them once they had arrived. Camille wanted to wait for them, but Bravo refused, telling her that he had no way of knowing how long he and Jenny would need to be in St. Malo and where they might be going after that. In the meantime, the food arrived.

"You're being terribly mysterious," Camille said between dainty bites of raw shellfish.

Jenny, who had an aversion to mussels, clams and oysters in any form, struggled to keep her gorge down while slicing into her steak frites.

"Not that I mind," Camille continued, "but I worry that you're in more danger than you're willing to admit. That is why you don't want me to stay in St. Malo with you, isn't it?"

"Frankly, yes." Bravo put down his fork. "You've already done more than could be expected. I won't put you in harm's way."

"But, my love, it's my decision-"

"No, Camille, it's not. In this instance I'm afraid I must insist. You're taking us to St. Malo, which is more than you ought to be doing. But that's the end of it. Understood?"

Camille regarded him neutrally for a moment. Then she sighed and turned to Jenny. "Dessert, my dear? The tarte Tatin here is not to be missed."

After lunch, Camille took them to the pharmacy she had spoken of, where she bought them various creams and unguents for their bruises, cuts and abrasions. Then they went clothes shopping, changing into the new outfits as they went and consigning their old torn shirts and pants to the trash bin.

Back in the car, Camille drove at high speed, circumventing Rouen. They turned onto the El, heading west, where the road became the EB1. Paralleling the coastline, they passed just south of Honfleur, where in the early nineteenth century the Impressionists reigned, and the posh seaside resorts of Deauville and Trouville. Twelve miles past Caen, the sky that had grown dark just before lunch now lowered enough to touch the tops of the bristling hawthorn trees. The buildings on either side of the highway grew black and menacing. In the distance, the horizon had disappeared in a muddy haze of rain, and then the downpour hit them, drumming against the roof of the Citroe"n, sluiced off to either side of the windshield by the wipers. The car's headlights cut through the hissing gloom like gas lamps on a coal-dark night.

Within an hour they had made the All. The rain had lessened to a heavy drizzle, but the world outside appeared to consist of colors smeared with an Impressionist's brush. They were approaching Avranches when Jenny began to complain of severe stomach cramps. Glancing over his shoulder, Bravo noticed that her face was pasty, beaded with sweat. Several moments later, he spotted one of those peculiarly European travel restaurants whose setting was a bridge over the highway. In the same rest area were bathrooms and several thousand yards further on, a gas station.

Camille pulled over, Bravo helped Jenny out. Camille grabbed a raincoat and, holding it over Jenny, insisted on going with her. Jenny did not have the strength to argue, and together the two women hurried into the low, squat building. Bravo went around to the driver's side of the Citroe"n, the better to keep an eye on the traffic. The light rain was cool, and he enjoyed the feel of it on his face as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed an overseas number.