Flashback (18 page)

I stretched, craning my neck over the edge of the sill, looking for some way out, but there was none. Below me, the pisé wall dropped three long stories straight to the ground. Above, more smooth plaster rose to the roof. No way down. No way up. Somehow, I'd have to make my own way.

*   *   *

I had taken the top sheet from the bed and was tearing it into long, thin strips when I heard them, two men coming down the corridor. Working quickly, I tucked my project under the bedspread, then flattened out the wrinkles with my palm. It was Salim who entered first, followed by a man I hadn't seen before.

Salim leered at me, his eyes lingering on the scythe-shaped bruise that was his handiwork. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and I could see the gash my corkscrew had made along his forearm. The wound was slightly infected, the skin around it flushed hot and tender.

“Good morning, Leila,” he sneered, in a tone that confirmed what I had already guessed, that we'd met long before that day on the train, and that our acquaintance had not been a pleasant one. “How are you feeling?”

“Fuck you,” I told him.

He nodded to his shadow, and the other man came over and grabbed my arm, yanking me up off the bed.

“Nice try,” Salim said, pulling the covers back to reveal the strips of sheet. He said something in Arabic to his partner, and they both had a good laugh, apparently at my expense.

“What happened to your boyfriend?” I asked, motioning to my eyes to indicate the sunglasses of the second man on the train.

Salim reached forward and hit me hard in the jaw. My head snapped to the side, and I felt the warmth of blood on my tongue. No, whatever past we shared was not a happy one. He barked something to his partner, and the man pulled a hood over my face and hustled me toward the door.

I tried to keep my bearings as we navigated the villa, but somewhere in the curve of the stairwell I lost all sense of direction. By the time we reached our final destination, all I could be certain of was that we were still in Werner's house. A door was opened in front of me, and I was shoved forward; then I heard the lock click closed and Salim and the other man returning the way we'd come. Freed of my guides, I reached up and lifted the hood from my face.

The room I was in was dark and masculine, furnished in the same ubiquitous colonial fashion I'd seen at both the El Minzah and the Mamounia, the hallmark of expatriate good taste. Leather and dark wood predominated; there were hand-worked ottomans, overstuffed chairs, a red Persian rug, and a mammoth desk inlaid with ebony and cedar. Three of the room's walls held a staggering collection of weapons, everything from samurai swords to eighteenth-century rifles to medieval maces. An intricately carved
mashrabiyya,
made to hide the faces of women from the street below, covered the only window, though I couldn't see what purpose the screen served here, in such an obviously Western place. Outside, heavy iron barred the glass.

On the wall behind the desk was a conglomeration of photographs, mostly black-and-white, mostly taken sometime earlier. Many of them were hunting scenes, shot all over the world. Some had obviously been taken in Africa, the images studded with white canvas tents, Land Rovers, and native guides, the trophies savanna animals. Others showed glimpses of the American West or Canada, a mountain goat, a grizzly bear with monstrous claws. Still others were unmistakably Asian, their backdrops rife with grass huts, the prey here more exotic: a tiger with a single dark hole in its temple, a half dozen wild boars, their stomachs slit to reveal a bloody tangle of viscera.

The non-hunting photographs had been taken in equally exotic locations. In one, a small figure stood next to a giant statue of Buddha. Another showed a man shaking hands with a camouflaged soldier, while behind them, the downdraft from a helicopter's propellers bent a giant cowlick in waist-high jungle grass.

Though the cast of supporting characters changed, there was one consistent face in almost all of the photographs. He had aged greatly during the years they chronicled, but the essence of his face, the gray eyes and square jaw, had not changed. He was the same man I'd seen in the car that day. Bruns Werner.

There was one photograph, more than any of the others, that caught my eye. It had been taken in black-and-white, in the full-sun blaze of afternoon, and showed three young people at an outdoor café. The setting was Asian. A rickshaw driver sat idle at the edge of the picture. Opposite him, a woman in a plain white cotton shift carried a basket of fruit. A French movie poster behind her showed a young Peter Fonda in
Easy Rider
. Over the heads of the three friends, a sign told the name of the establishment.
Les Trois Singes.
The three monkeys.

The figure on the far left was Werner. He held a glass in his hand, lifting it toward the camera as if to toast. On the far right was another man, more handsome than Werner, dark-haired and trim, with the well-muscled physique of a swimmer. The sleeves of his white cotton shirt were rolled up, and he was sitting slightly back in his chair, at perfect ease with the world around him. Between the two men was a woman. She was dressed plainly, in a dark T-shirt, khakis, a canvas jacket, and leather boots. Her head was in motion, her face blurred beyond recognition. Both men were turned toward the woman, as if waiting for something from her, as if enthralled by some electric presence, something I couldn't see.

There was movement in the corridor, and I turned in time to see the door swing open. Bruns Werner came forward into the room, the soles of his perfectly shined shoes tapping the inlaid floor. He stopped at the edge of the red wool carpet, his hands in the pockets of his suit coat, as if seeing me for the first time. My host regarded me for a moment, his gray eyes revealing nothing.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked, finally.

“Werner,” I answered.

He nodded, then came forward and took a seat behind the desk. “Sit down.”

I did as I was told, taking the chair Werner indicated.

“You must be hungry,” he remarked.

“Yes,” I agreed, my hunger winning out over my pride.

My host punched an intercom on his desk and rattled off a command in Arabic, then turned back to me. “Your breakfast will be here shortly,” he said, sitting back in his chair, regarding my face. “I'm sorry about Salim,” he apologized. “I understand there's some bad blood between you. Old times.”

“I wouldn't know.”

“No. I guess you wouldn't.”

Werner lifted the lid of a small wooden case and took out a cigar. I could smell the tobacco from where I sat, the odor so rich it was almost unpleasant.

“Have we met before?” I asked.

“It must be difficult,” he said, ignoring my question. “A tricky situation, really, not knowing one's past.”

I shrugged. “What do you want from me?”

Werner produced a tiny hooked knife from the top drawer of the desk and snipped off the end of the cigar. “You really don't remember?” he asked, incredulous.

There was a knock on the door, and Werner called for the person to come in.

“Your breakfast,” Werner observed. “I took the liberty of ordering coffee. You do drink coffee, don't you?”

An attractive Moroccan woman in a cream-colored suit and matching high heels came forward and set a tray on the table next to me.

“Will that be sufficient?” my host asked.

I looked at the offering. There was a bowl of yogurt, a plate of fresh green figs, a
pain au chocolat,
a glass of grapefruit juice, and a small pot of coffee. I nodded and gulped down the juice, then took one of the figs. Something told me to eat while I could, that this might be the last food I would see for some time.

Werner slid the little knife back into the drawer, pulled out a gold lighter, and carefully lit the cigar.

“I'd like to arrange a trade,” he said, watching me take a bite of the
pain au chocolat
and a sip of coffee. “I can help you remember. But there's certain information I'll need in return.”

I looked past him to the menagerie of dead animals, the wild boars with their stomachs so cleanly slit. The pictures made me think of the sisters, and what Heloise had said.
I thought they were singing
. The pastry suddenly tasted rancid in my mouth, the coffee bitter.

Werner exhaled a thick cloud of cigar smoke. “Of course you don't recall, but you've taken something of mine, something I would very much like to recover.”

“Go to hell,” I told him.

He looked at me with curiosity. “You think I killed your friends, don't you?”

I didn't answer.

“I'll take your silence as a yes,” he said, “but I'm afraid you're wrong.”

“Who, then?”

Werner shook his head. “That's the million-dollar question, isn't it, Miss Brightman? Or should I call you Eve?”

I shrugged.

“I will tell you what I know,” Werner said. “But you'll have to help me first.”

“And this thing you claim I took. It would help if I knew just what it was you wanted me to remember.”

He leaned back in his chair and savored the cigar. “That's the problem, my dear. You see, it's information you stole, something that can take many forms. I'm afraid you'll have to remember just which form you've given it.”

“It's not that easy,” I told him.

“Don't worry,” Werner said. “I've arranged for you to have some help.”

He took a long toke on the cigar and rang his intercom again, this time summoning Salim.

SIXTEEN

Though the hormone that is its main component is tied inextricably to the brain's ability to recall information and events, the use of vasopressin as a memory enhancer is strictly experimental. The approved medical application for the drug and its more potent counterpart, desmopressin, is as an antidiuretic. Normally, the two drugs are given to diabetics or chronic bed wetters, to cut down on the frequency with which they urinate. As a result, an unfortunate side effect of the medication is that it greatly, sometimes dangerously, reduces the outflow of bodily fluids.

In other words, a person who drinks too much while using vasopressin runs the risk of literally drowning from the inside out. I experienced this nasty aftereffect firsthand one night in Lyon, when I'd had one too many gulps of water from the cooler in Dr. Delpay's office and ended up on my hands and knees in the bathroom, racked by uncontrollable vomiting. I escaped the seizures that would have been the next result of the internal deluge, but the episode left an indelible impression on me and gave me a new respect for the drug's hidden powers.

So when Salim and his nameless cohort appeared with a syringe and an inhaler, my mind leaped immediately back to each drink I'd had that morning. Three cups of water, the grapefruit juice, at least half a cup of coffee.

I looked at Werner, unable to keep my panic from showing. “You can't give me that now. It could kill me.”

Werner pushed the chair back from his desk and stood. “I'm afraid your comfort is not the top priority here,” he said, then made his way to the door.

“Don't worry,” Salim said when Werner was gone. He came forward and grasped my wrists in his hands, pressing my arms against the arms of the chair. “We've taken special care.” He nodded to his accomplice. “Hassan here is a doctor.”

Somehow the news was less than reassuring. “What's in there?” I asked, glancing at the syringe.

Hassan spoke for the first time. “Idebenone, pyritinol, piracetam,” he said proudly, jabbing the needle into my arm. “I call it a memory cocktail.”

Jesus, I thought, watching the plunger depress, I was in for a wild ride. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

Finished, the good doctor lifted the needle from my arm, set the syringe aside, reached back, and grabbed a handful of my hair. As he lifted the inhaler to my nose, I caught a glimpse of the label.
Desmopressin,
it said. With his free hand, Hassan primed the pump, then jammed the plastic tip into my right nostril, and I felt the sickening rush of the drug.

Keep us safe, Lord,
I prayed, though I wasn't sure what help, if any, the prayer could bring me now.

*   *   *

The real downside to overdosing on nootropic drugs is that they leave you with an acute and lasting memory of each unpleasant detail of the experience. I will never forget that room at Bruns Werner's house in Marrakech, the gruesome photographs, the three figures at the café Les Trois Singes. Nor will I forget the trip that followed, the vertiginous ride across the mountains, the color of my bile on the roadside, or the smell of the car we rode in, a mixture of aftershave and body odor, and some unknown sweetness I have yet to put a name to. Nor, try as I might, will I ever forget the constant, shivering, bone-deep ache.

Hassan, Salim, and I left the villa shortly after my meeting with Werner and, with Salim driving, headed out of town and up into the green foothills of the Atlas. Before we crossed the Oued Zat, I had regurgitated the entirety of my breakfast and was retching up mucus. By the time we reached the High Atlas, I was incapacitated enough by convulsions that my two escorts felt safe leaving me in the Mercedes at the Tizi n'Tichka Pass while they rinsed their feet and hands, unrolled their mats, and performed their midday prayers. Then we were on our way again, plunging down into the austere southern mountains, toward Ourzazate and the desert.

In its own spiteful way, the noxious combination of drugs was working, though what I remembered on that trip was doubtless not what Werner had hoped I would. Later, I would be tempted to think my prayer had worked, but at the time I didn't have the strength to question the source of my luck.

Though it was the beginning of November when the sisters found me, I spent the first six weeks of what I remember as my life in the hospital in Lyon, vainly trying to retrieve myself. It wasn't till the middle of December that Dr. Delpay suggested I might think about a more permanent home, and the sisters offered to take me in. I arrived at the convent just in time for the last week of Advent.