A Bouquet of Rue Page 5

  “An avocat?” I said. “A criminal lawyer?”

  “In Éric’s case, yes. After he talks with Nabi and the police, if he isn’t the right person, he’ll know who to call. Besides, he lives down the street. He’ll be here as soon as he gets his pants on.”

  “Speaking of pants.” During all the commotion, I had forgotten that I was still wearing the T-shirt I slept in. Jean-Paul had the presence of mind to pull on jeans before he came downstairs. “If you don’t need me at the moment, I think I’ll go and get dressed.”

  He looked up at me with his upside-down smile, and said, “I think you look charming, but perhaps dressing is a good idea.”

  I went up to our room and made some calls before getting into the shower. Guido and I were to meet at Isabelle’s—my bio-mother’s—apartment to go over the rough cut of the Normandy film we were to show the senior producer at the network and her staff that afternoon after joining them for lunch. Guido was nervous about it, worried that we hadn’t read the French media market well. I thought the film was very good, for a rough cut, and tried to reassure him, but my mind was elsewhere. After he told me I sounded distracted, I gave him a short summary of the drama unfolding downstairs and we agreed that we would forgo getting together that morning because it was pointless to do anything more with the film until we had feedback from the producer. We knew what we wanted to do, and we knew from experience that the network people would likely have other plans for us. Why not let them go first and fight out the differences from there?

  Scrubbed, brushed, and dressed in a black skirt, boots, gray silk shirt, and my favorite red cardigan, I followed Dom down the stairs and back to the kitchen.

  “Who’s here?” he asked, looking back at me over his shoulder.

  “Ahmad Nabi, and maybe the police.”

  He seemed to find that interesting and hurried his pace.

  Detective Delisle leaned against a kitchen counter, arms crossed, her tight bun in perfect order though she looked exhausted. She barely glanced up when Dom and I walked in, all of her attention focused on the quiet conversation between Nabi and the other newcomer, a man of about fifty seated at the table with an arm draped protectively over the back of Nabi’s chair. The man had dressed hurriedly in slacks and a fresh dress shirt but hadn’t taken time to shave.

  “Comment ça va, Monsieur Aubert?” Dom said, giving the man a little wave as he headed toward the refrigerator. He received a smile and little wave in return. The question, How’s it going? I was learning, didn’t necessarily expect an answer beyond a wave, a nod, or les bises, or a repeat of Ça va.

  Delisle stifled a yawn. Without asking, I poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her.

  “Merci,” she said, sounding grateful.

  “Rough night?” I asked.

  Her only response was a glance over the rim of her mug.

  Ahmad Nabi was a minor. He was entitled to have legal counsel and a parent with him during questioning by police. Which brought the boy’s grandmother into the conversation. He told us that his telephone had been dead since Saturday afternoon because he forget the charger. That’s why he didn’t respond to Ari’s text. It also meant that he hadn’t spoken with his grandmother so she had no idea where he was both Sunday and Monday nights.

  “Maggie?” Ari said. “May I ask a favor? Nabi wants me to go to his grandmother and explain the situation. She comes from a traditional background so I think she would feel more comfortable if a woman were with me. Will you come?”

  “Happy to,” I said, glancing at my watch. I admit I was curious about the situation, as Ari labeled it, that had dropped on our doorstep. But I had a lunch meeting at noon that I could not miss. Not if I expected to stay employed, and by that particular situation keep my current visa so that I could remain in the country without going through further immigration folderol. No matter what, I had to be on the train to Paris by eleven-fifteen.

  We all decamped at once: Nabi and his entourage headed for the Vaucresson police station, his backpack and violin case in the custody of Delisle; Dom drove down our street on his Vespa in one direction while Jean-Paul, Ari, and I went in the car in the other. Ari and I dropped Jean-Paul at the train station before continuing toward the address on the far side of the haras that Nabi had given us.

  When the GPS on the dash announced that we had reached our destination, I thought that we must have made a mistake when we wrote down the address. Nabi and his grandmother, I was told, lived on a public stipend. Welfare. But the drive Ari turned down led to an impressive mansard-roofed château set among vast, green grounds. Not at all what I expected.

  As we got out of the car, I asked Ari, “Do I call her Madame Diba, or Madame Azadah?”

  “Neither,” he said. “Or both. Afghans don’t have surnames unless they decide to adopt one. Her name is Azadah Diba. Period.”

  I was curious about her. We all go into new situations with a package of preconceptions based on, what? Experience, prejudice, hope? All that I knew about Ahmad Nabi’s grandmother was that she was an Afghan refugee who had lost almost all her family in a desperate attempt to find a safe place for them to live. And that her late son—or was it son-in-law?—was a classically trained musician. I had learned that the current wave of refugees pouring out of mid-eastern war zones were, like Ari, more likely to represent their nation’s educated urban elite than any other group. Though I did not expect Nabi’s grandmother to be shrouded in a burka, when I thought of refugee grandmothers I conjured an image of white-haired rosiness. Azadah Diba was neither white-haired nor rosy-cheeked.

  The woman who answered the door at this film-set version of a château was dark-haired, slender, stylishly coifed, dressed in tailored jeans with a starched shirt under an apron smock. She also had a half-year-old blond baby on her hip.

  Ari, palms together at chest level, gave her a little bow. “Azadah Diba?”

  Before she responded, she gave us a hard looking-over. “You are?”

  “I am Ari Massarani, and this is Maggie MacGowen.”

  “Doctor Massarani?” she said, shifting the baby to her other hip. “You are here about my Nabi?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry, he’s fine.”

  “Tell me.” Stepping aside, she gestured for us to come in. We followed her through a large marbled foyer and out into the backyard where a toddler of about three was digging in a sandbox. Azadah Diba put the baby down on a pad spread on the brick patio, and said, “Sit. Please tell me, where is Nabi? I am worried.”

  Ari started to explain where the boy was now and where he had been since Friday but wasn’t far into the story before she raised a hand to stop him. “Please, more slow. My French not so good. You have English?”

  “Of course,” Ari said, and started over. She had little to say until he had finished filling her in on Nabi’s situation, and when she spoke her English had hints of a British accent, not surprising when I thought about it.

  “I am so relieved to have news,” she said, her voice quivering, though she somehow held herself together. “Nabi always calls to tell me where he is. But all weekend he didn’t answer his phone and my messages went straight to voice mail. That was not like him. Then when the police came on Sunday morning looking for him, I was afraid something terrible had happened to my boy. You know Nabi, Doctor Massarani. You know he’s a good boy. But adjusting here has been very difficult for him. Sometimes he gets so angry, and I was afraid that he had been—” She looked out across the lawn, checked on both children, took a deep breath. “Some of the boys become seduced by crazy imams and disappear into a hole for a while. They come back ready for war.”

  “Do you think Nabi is vulnerable to be recruited by a radical imam?” I asked.

  “I hadn’t,” she said. “Until he didn’t come home.”

  “As long as he has his music,” Ari said, “Nabi will be okay.”

  I asked, “Are you aware that a girl, a friend of Nabi is missing?”

  “The police told me that.” Her att
ention suddenly shifted to the toddler across the lawn. “Lydia, you must not throw sand.”

  “Yes, Miss Diba.” The little girl went back to digging.

  “The girl speaks English,” I said.

  “Yes. My employers are Australian. They wanted an English-speaking nanny, so that’s why they hired me.”

  “You’re the nanny?” I said.

  “Nanny, housekeeper, sometimes cook.” She laughed softly. “There was a time when I hired nannies for my children. And now, here I am. Please don’t think I’m complaining. My employers are quite generous, though they have some reservations about us. Nabi and I have the servants’ quarters to ourselves—I am the only live-in staff—and we are sufficiently comfortable. I feel fortunate.”

  She turned to Ari. “You said that a lawyer is with Nabi now. Is he very expensive?”

  “Don’t worry about that yet. If Nabi is honest with the police, I believe he has nothing to worry about. We should be able to get him back to you very soon.”

  “Diba,” I said, still feeling uncomfortable about which name to use, “do you know Ophelia Fouchet, the girl who is missing?”

  “I know who she is,” she said. “She and Nabi play in a string quartet at school. She’s a cellist, a fairly good one I think. They played a wonderful Mozart Divertimento at the Christmas program.”

  “But other than that?”

  She shook her head. “It is difficult for Nabi to bring friends here—my employers are quite strict about visitors—and it is difficult for me to get away until the children are ready for bed at night. So I haven’t met many of his school friends. I want to go to him now, but as you see, it is impossible. Nabi understands.”

  “Miss Diba!” Little Lydia came running across the lawn, grinding sandy fists into her eyes. “I have something in my eye!”

  “Don’t rub them, dear. We’ll take care of it.” Diba rose, swept up the baby and grabbed Lydia by the sandy hand. To us she said, “Please excuse me. I must tend to her. Will you see yourselves out?”

  And we did. When Ari and I were back in the car, I asked, “Thoughts?”

  “The resiliency of the human spirit never ceases to amaze me.”

  “I was right, you are an optimist.”

  “As I said, I am a work in progress. Now, where to?”

  “Train station, please. I have a meeting.”

  ] Four

  Guido was waiting for me outside the train station across the Seine from our new studio. He had a paper coffee cup in one hand, a croissant in the other, and earbuds in his ears. He was studying French, mouthing the words in his lesson.

  “Croissants, really?” I said, coming up beside him. “We’re going straight to lunch, and you’re snacking?”

  “Yeah, but croissants, you know, right?’ He pulled the buds out of his ears. “Want a bite?”

  Of course I did. Somehow in the middle of all the activity in our kitchen that morning, I forgot to eat, and I was hungry. He broke off about half of what he had left and shared it as we walked toward the bridge over the river, headed for the lunch meeting with our new executive producer and her staff.

  Guido was in his mid-forties, like me, beginning to gray at the temples, silver flecks in the curly black mass of his hair. His family came from Sicily, descendants of Aeneas and his Trojans, he insisted. He did look as if he could be carved in Greek marble. We had worked well together, on and off, for nearly twenty years, me taking charge of film topics and content, he with most things tech and camera related. We argued a lot, but it never meant anything in the end because our focus was always on what was best for the film; we were like family. The work we would be doing for our new employer was exactly what we had been doing for years, making investigative films. But that morning, Guido was more nervous than I had ever seen him. The hand holding his coffee cup shook.

  “What’s up, my friend?” I asked, putting my hand around his elbow. “Second thoughts?”

  “About working over here?” he said. “No way. No. I can’t remember ever wanting a job more than this one. Except maybe my first gig. I think that’s the problem, Mags. I’m afraid we’ll screw up. Or I’ll screw up; you’ll be okay.”

  “Guido,” I said, nudging his shoulder. “Just do what you know how to do, keep your hands off French women, and you’ll be fine.”

  He chuckled. “That second part’s a bitch, huh? Some of these girls, jeez, they’re so beautiful I want to go up and lick them.”

  I nailed him with a glare. “Promise me you won’t.”

  He squeezed my hand. “I promise, I promise, I promise. ­Maggie, I’ve learned my lesson. Hands to myself.”

  “Hands and all other body parts.”

  “Absolutely. Yes. Don’t worry.”

  “Uh-huh.” This topic was the source of several of our worst arguments over the years. In the past, there was an obnoxious, exploitative culture of slap and tickle—and worse—in the film and television industry. But not as much recently. Not without impunity, anyway. People didn’t get away with as much shit in America as they once did. Same was true in France. The French corollary of the American #MeToo movement was #BalanceTonPorc, which roughly translates as Out Your Pig. Guido needed to behave like a grown-up with our new employer or he could be outed right out of the country.

  That conversation, plus however much coffee he had swilled that morning, did nothing to settle Guido’s nerves. But ever the trouper, when it was time to go meet with our new bosses, he took a deep breath, smoothed his perfect hair, and put on his game face. He opened the restaurant door, bowed to me, and said, “Après vous.” He didn’t roll the R at the back of his throat and I did not correct him as I preceded him inside.

  The agenda set by our new executive producer, Diane Duval, and her production staff, called for lunch first. Business was not discussed during the meal, at least overtly. Instead, there was a swapping of stories, getting to know each other. Excellent food, interesting people, casual conversation; Guido and I both relaxed and enjoyed it. The staff seemed comfortable with each other and with their boss, an easy camaraderie that, if it were genuine, would make for a good working environment. Because Guido spoke little French, yet, much of the conversation was held in English with liberal smatterings of French at times that he needed to have translated. Most of the jokes and all the puns simply weren’t funny in translation, but we tried.

  It was afterward, over cheese and yet more coffee, that we finally got down to serious discussion about work. The first topic was the Normandy film.

  “We are very happy with what you and Guido have produced for us, Maggie,” Diane said. “I am confident it will attract an impressive audience share. When will you have the broadcast version ready?”

  “That depends on how much tweaking you want us to do,” I said.

  Nodding, thinking, she picked up a spoon and began rhythmically bouncing it on the starched white tablecloth. Studying me closely enough that I began to feel uncomfortable, she said, “So far, most of your success in America has been making hard-hitting investigative pieces. Homelessness, abandoned elders, sex trafficking, and most recently unexploded bombs left behind after war, yes?”

  “Yes, among others.”

  “This film you have brought us about your family’s Normandy farm is quite a departure for you. Very different in tone. What engages me—” With that spoon as a pointer, she swept her hand in a broad arc to encompass the other six people at the table. “—engages us, with this project is the expectation that the film will be both a powerful introduction of your work to the European audience and will establish your French roots. Or, to be more exact, your discovery of your French roots. I know that we talked about this piece as the first in a series examining family and niche agriculture within the eurozone. However—”

  Under the table, Guido gripped my knee. I could feel his hand shake, telling me that he, also, was waiting for the first shoe to drop. Or the axe.

  “However, after long consideration and much discussion, the pr
oduction staff have decided that we prefer for you to make for us the same sort of films that your career and reputation in America are built on. Don’t be afraid to tackle controversy.”

  “Oh.” I peeled Guido’s death grip from my knee. “Quelle surprise.”

  “Does that prospect make you uncomfortable, Maggie?”

  “Not at all.” I felt my shoulders come down away from my ears and I began to breathe normally again; we weren’t being given the sack before we began, after all. People who work in television don’t know the meaning of job security. Only a year earlier, two days before Christmas, Guido and I had been terminated just weeks after we signed a new contract. And then six weeks later we were rehired by the same unit. It happens. I turned to my old partner. “Your thoughts?”

  “Great.” He was smiling, at last. “Yes. If it works for Maggie, I’m fine with it. Dragging cameras through back alleys and homeless camps is more familiar to me than dodging cow pies at farms.”

  There was a puzzled exchange of looks around the table. As explanation I said, “Cow dung. Poop.”

  “Poop” echoed around the table, along with some laughter.

  On that note, we left the restaurant for a tour of the studio’s production facilities led by Diane and her personal assistant, Bruno, an excruciatingly young, painfully hip-looking man. The network building’s vast interior reminded me of an M.C. Escher drawing, a maze of hallways that connected, or didn’t, in a seemingly indecipherable and possibly impossible pattern. Because of Paris height restrictions, the structure extended as many floors below ground as it did above, with offices generally up where the sun shines, and production areas down where it doesn’t. After a brief stop at Diane’s office suite, and a peek into the partitioned space that would be mine and Guido’s, we coursed downward through layers deep below the left bank of the Seine until we reached the technical command center of live studio operations.

  Guido may not have understood very much French, but he certainly understood television technology. As soon as we walked through the door of a room lined with television monitors, four or five dozen of them, all live-streaming images from external video feeds, any remnant of a nervous, hesitant Guido disappeared; this was his professional milieu. Three technical engineers sat at the long video switcher console in the center of the room, pulling up and manipulating images on the monitors. As one of the engineers toggled between a highway collision in Portugal and a weather report from Kazakhstan, Diane was saying, with some pride, “The network is part of an international news sharing consortium. We bring in live feeds from all over the globe,” but my eye was drawn to a monitor near the top right labelled CCTV.