The Clasp (32 page)

F
rom the outside, the Dieppe jail looked more like a car rental outpost. The letters police municipale were painted on the pavement and compact police cars were parked in a row. Inside, the waiting area was covered in pictures of retired policemen and service plaques. The room itself was bare except for a desk, a cactus (an odd choice for a jail plant), and an ATM, which Victor found comforting. What happened here demanded temporary capitalism, not permanent incarceration.

Two cops, a woman with a low ponytail and a man with a goatee, chatted by a water cooler while Victor and his left wrist were handcuffed to a bench. Stuck to the wall behind him was a poster of known Norman criminals, one of whom Victor was pretty sure was Face Veins. At least he had been kneed in the face by a professional.

It was about an hour between when the Ardurats locked him in their daughter's bedroom and the arrival of the police. Another few minutes passed while Victor pleaded his harmlessness in
choppy French and, somehow, even choppier English. Finally, two cops burst into the room, one holding a gun. Victor had his arms up and his head down, so he didn't get a good look at the gun. He was escorted in the semidarkness down the marble stairs. Alexia and her mother were in another wing of their house now, Mrs. Ardurat probably trying to curtail permanent psychological damage (fear of entering one's own bedroom, say).

The cops shoved Victor into a car and yelled in French through a mesh barrier. Mr. Ardurat had to fill out a police report and so he got in his own vehicle and followed them out the driveway, through aisles of gnarled trees and bushes, their branches scraping against the window. Victor's rental bike was somewhere in those woods. He twisted around in his pleather seat and watched the château recede. There was something up-and-down about the silhouette of the roof, as if it had been sketched by a cardiogram needle.

At first it seemed like they might question but not arrest him. His story was too outlandish to be menacing. But things took a turn for the worse when they asked Victor to provide a second source of identification, in addition to his passport. He had no other identification. The tracksuited thugs of Rouen had stolen his wallet. They were roaming free, the actually dangerous criminals, while Victor was sitting here.

There were three
chambres
in the back of the jail. Two of which were meant for one, maybe two people. They had flimsy plastic chairs and low urinals. The third was big enough to accommodate an entire gang of looters and rapists. All the rooms were empty but it was only 2:00 a.m., 8:00 p.m. in criminal hours. They put him in the biggest room. He saw Mr. Ardurat at the end of the hall being interrogated by a police officer, reenacting the evening's
events with his hands. His bald head was flush with anger—a better emotion than fear, for both their sakes.

Victor's line of vision was interrupted by a stout female officer. She held a piece of paper through the bars. He took a step back. He didn't know much—this was obvious—but he had seen enough movies to know not to sign anything. She shook the paper and winked at him.
Winked
. Just like the woman on the Métro and the girl at the bicycle shop. He leaned forward and saw that instead of an affidavit, she held a blank piece of paper.

“Le pianiste, ouais?”

“What?”

“J'ai adoré
Minuit à Paris,
Monsieur Brody.”

“No, no . . . I'm not—”

She shook the paper again.
Like pigeons
.

“Fuck it,” he said, taking her pen and signing Adrien Brody's name. The male cop who had done the head-shoving back at the château whispered hotly at her and shooed her away, but not before she had the chance to blow Victor a kiss.

The cop pulled up a plastic chair, scraping it along the concrete floor. He had a disproportionately square head, like a human Pez dispenser. Victor's face was healing and his eye was beginning to itch around the perimeter. The cop sat in the chair with his legs open, and dropped Victor's duffel in between them. He did not want Victor's autograph. Victor stood as the cop unzipped the duffel.

“C'est quoi, ça?”
He held the nose-hair trimmer.

“It's for nose hair.”

“Nose hair?”

“
Follicules
of
le nez
.” Victor tilted his head and made a scissors gesture.

The cop gave him a look of amused pity and leaned his clipboard against his knee.

“Do you want to contact the U.S. consulate?”

“Do I need to contact the U.S. consulate?”

“Has it been explained to you adequately that you may consult a French lawyer?”

“I mean . . . you're explaining it to me now. Do I need a lawyer?”

Victor could not afford a lawyer in any currency.

“I do not know.” The cop clicked his pen and leaned on the clipboard. “I am not you. Tell me, why were you on the château property?”

“I had taken the tour earlier that day.”

“Did you pay for a ticket?”

So deep ran Victor's criminality, he'd lost track of his crimes. Now was probably a bad time to mention the bicycle.

“Why did you not leave after they closed?”

“I was looking around and I must have fallen asleep in the garden shed.”

“Surely the shed was not open, not part of the official tour.”

“It wasn't locked, there was just a little metal latch and I unhooked it.”

“And this looked like a good place to nap for you?”

“I haven't been feeling well.”

The cop raised his eyebrows and leaned his head back on his Pezy neck. Then he checked off a box on his clipboard and scribbled something in the margins.

“Physically.” Victor wanted that note erased. “Mentally, I'm okay.”

“Why did you not stay in the shed until dawn?”

“My cell phone died, so I thought I could use the phone in the main house.”

“Monsieur Wexler, it is a crime in France to lie to a police officer.”

“Even if we're not in court?”

“Where are you staying when you are not breaking into châteaus?”

“I was staying with a friend—”

“Not a very good one if you are forced to sleep in garden sheds.”

“He lives in Rouen.”

“And you came to Rouen by train? Do you have your ticket stub?”

“No, it's in my wallet.”

“You told the arresting officers that you were mugged in Rouen. Your friend did not report this to the police there?”

“I seriously doubt it.”

“What is his information please?”

“I don't have it. I just met him that night.”

“Where?”

“In a bar. I don't know the name of the bar.”

“Is that how you got the bruises on your face?”

“Sorry?”

“Because of a . . . rough encounter? You and this man had the sex?”

“What? No. Do you think I'm a prostitute?” Victor felt a flicker of flattery.

“I do not think anything of you. What is the name of your airline?”

“United.” Victor gulped, and the cop scribbled. “Are you going to keep me over the weekend for questioning?”

“Au contraire.”
The cop retracted his pen. “We want to confirm that you are leaving. You are very lucky. Monsieur Ardurat is not going to be pressing charges and we cannot compel him to testify even though you are guilty of breaking into government property.”

Victor couldn't believe it. Mr. Ardurat would not press
shahjiz
. He began to thank the cop, as if he personally had done him this favor, but then it occurred to him—he was still behind bars.

“Get some rest, Monsieur Wexler, I have to finish your paperwork.”

“Okay, thanks,” Victor said, eyes on his duffel, still in the cop's grip.

S
he got up in slow motion and brought her phone with her to the bathroom, using it as a flashlight. It was late morning but the room's heavy curtains had helped them sleep in. She had four missed calls from Sophie and two messages, both left in a barely concealed tone of panic. The first was about the website. It was loading to 75 percent (
Other people are just beads on the thread . . .
) and freezing. But the next one contained an actual problem. All the samples for the upcoming season should have been in by now. But a pair of earrings had been lost in the mail and their replacements wouldn't arrive until after the collection had been photographed. Should the earrings therefore be left out of the catalog entirely? Or was it worth delaying the press materials? Decisions, decisions. Sophie professed her desire “not to bother” Rachel with “such a teeny thingy” while she was in Japan.

Let Sophie solve her own problems like a grown-up. There would be another Sophie along shortly. New York was swarmed with Sophies. This week had been a nice break from them. Kezia
was sick of being bombarded by them, tired of their childlike sexuality dictating how she should
be
. “You know what's important?” the Sophies said. “Finding yourself! Whatever self you had when you were twelve? That's who you are. That girl. You should have stuck. Any movement past twelve was a move in the wrong direction. True, this means you've completely wasted
decades
becoming an adult, but it's not too late for you to prioritize the polka dot, adopt a bunny, name him Miu Miu. If there is no ironic picnic spot near your home, one can be provided for you.”

She would never be a Sophie. She was a grown woman who got uneven hairs around her nipples, who did not want to give herself daily affirmations in the mirror, who wouldn't dream of stepping on her bathroom scale without peeing first, who got tested for diseases, and engaged in genuinely nasty fights with the cable company. Was this so wrong?

She believed, in some indirect way, that last night could be blamed on the Sophies. It was their fault that for years she had let herself believe she was in love with a man who showed no interest in having a relationship. A childlike crush. They did this. They (with the help of several bottles of French wine) had made Nathaniel Healy her romantic ideal: a boyish emotionally unavailable man-child who lived across the country. They had infiltrated her mind. But where were they now that she and Nathaniel had slept together? Back in New York maybe. They were not here to tell her what came next. She would have to leave this bathroom without them.

She strummed her toes on the tile. She thought Nathaniel was teasing when he said he loved everything about her. Once she realized he was being sincere, she couldn't say it back. She wanted to give the gift of him saying it to her younger self, the one who needed to hear it. She wanted to wrap up the words in a ribbon and leave it outside nineteen-year-old Kezia's dorm room. The truth
was, as recently as last week it would have been a pretty solid gift. But something deep down had grown bored of wanting him, tired of being more interested in his life than he was in hers. Only now did it occur to her that her maternity ward dream was not about heartbreak. It was her subconscious, waving goodbye.

“You fall in?” Nathaniel rapped gently on the door. “We gotta check out.”

“Right.” She pushed the “cold” faucet. “Be right out!”

She took a wrapped bar of soap from the shelf above the sink. In tiny print at the bottom: “
Une propriété de Markson
.”

An almost invisible rain began to fall, heavy enough to mist up the scenery but not enough to increase the speed of the windshield wipers. It took them a while to find the Château de Miromesnil even after they found Tours-of-David-Arquette, driving back and forth over rural routes and through the woods until Nathaniel pulled over in frustration and took the map from her. They had driven in tight circles around a statue of Guy de Maupassant.

“We're obviously close,” he huffed.

While Nathaniel roughly folded and unfolded the map, Kezia consulted the picture from Claude's office. Just to make sure that, after all this, she hadn't gotten the address wrong. Then she spied an elegant wooden sign, partially obscured by branches.

“Ahem.” She knocked a knuckle on the window.

“Oh, thank the Lord.” Nathaniel tossed the map over his shoulder.

The grass was dewy and cold on her ankles as they approached. A rabbit waited until they were within frightening-enough proximity to bounce across the lawn. Had Victor really come here? The
idea of him coming here suddenly seemed as ludicrous to her as it had seemed to Nathaniel this entire time. Birds debated one another in the trees. The air was still, the house arrestingly pretty. Nothing about this pristine pile of bricks suggested they had witnessed anything so unusual as an off-the-reservation American.

When they got to the gate, it was locked. Nathaniel rattled it.

“Maybe it's not open to the public.”

“But it is. I checked before we left. Or it should be. I don't get it.”

She tried the gate as well, checking his handiwork. Finally, a woman emerged from the glass doors of the house and walked determinedly toward them, the gravel beneath her feet getting louder as she approached. She had feathered hair that flopped in time with her steps.

“I'm sorry,” she said as soon as she was close enough to say it without shouting, “but there are no tours of the château today.”

“How'd she know we were American?”

“Because we
are
American.” Kezia turned her attention back to the woman. “But it's Saturday.”

The weekend struck Kezia as the worst time for a remote château to close. Then again, she had become intimate with French logic. If all the museums here were shut on Saturdays and open on Mondays at 2:56 p.m., she would have bought it.

“Classic.” Nathaniel was quick to accept defeat. “
Allons-y
. Back to Paris we go. Sorry to bother you, Madame.”

He turned to leave and so did the woman, both of them walking away in opposite directions. Kezia imagined them counting paces on the gravel.

“Wait,” she shouted, “is it always closed on Saturdays?”

“Non.”
The woman whipped around. “You are welcome to return next Saturday.”

“May I ask why it's closed today?”

“We had a break-in last night.” She was somehow stoic and exasperated at the same time. “So no tours today.”

That, Nathaniel had heard. He stopped and turned, his frozen expression mimicking that of the rabbit. Kezia strummed her fingers against the gate. Nathaniel threw up his hands and brushed them through his hair, groaning.

“That's terrible.” Kezia shook her head. “Um, I hope this isn't a strange question but was the intruder American?”

“Yes.” The woman crossed her arms protectively.

“And was he about this tall”—Kezia reached up—“and thin?”

“Yes,” the woman said.

Kezia tried to think of more effectively leading questions but she didn't have to think long because:

“He had a big nose.”

“Holy shit.” Nathaniel walked back to the gate. “Did he find anything? I mean, did he take anything?”

“No . . . but he has frightened our daughter and she is the one who gives the tours, so there will be no tours today. Is he a friend of yours?”

“He's a friend of hers.”

Kezia kicked him behind the knee, forcing him to curtsey.

“Of ours,” he said. “We're sorry for his behavior.”

“Where is he now?”