The Covenant (17 page)

Ariana made it a point to make a nightly round of her customers, greeting each one personally, making them feel like guests in her home. As a result, over the years the direct, personal phone numbers of some of the most powerful and dangerous people in the world had poured into her Filofax. On occasion, she contacted them. Most were only too happy to hear from her and to be of help.

As for those who were not, they soon found that they had made a very serious mistake. To make an enemy of Madame Feyder was no small thing. To be banished and permanently exiled from Chez Ariana was extremely inconvenient at best, and at worst, absolutely crippling to certain types of business activities. Her reputation for discretion, the guarded privacy of Chez Ariana, the cachet of membership—along with the unbelievable roster of members and their acquaintances—had made the club a unique and indispensable watering hole in the jungle for a wide variety of clandestine dealings. Ariana did not like the word “commission.” She did not see herself engaged in anything as crass as commerce when she introduced people in her club to one another. She was a hostess, and these were her friends. If she helped one friend by introducing him to another who shared his business interests over a pleasant glass of the best
pastis
, well, that was her pleasure. And if she knew how to contact a certain modeling agency to arrange a discreet rendezvous between a smitten and most generous billionaire and a young Victoria’s Secret catalogue model, she did them both a favor. If they then expressed their appreciation with a token of their esteem… well, that was a different story.

The jewelry, the apartment on the He St. Louis, the lovely chateau in St. Jean Cap Ferrat, the silver Jaguar, the jaunts on private jets to private Caribbean resorts, were all part of the tribute that regularly flowed in her direction, the way far-off colonies had once sent tribute to their emperor in Rome.

It was a system Thierry had worked out when he’d helped her open the club, and for many years, it had worked perfectly. But given present circumstances, these days she really preferred cash over lavish jewels to adorn her wrinkled flesh and tropical vacations in far-off places. These days she hardly went anywhere. Recently, she’d even set up a bed in her office and had a private bathroom installed.

She didn’t like being in her apartment by herself. Without Thierry beside her in the huge canopied bed, its vastness and luxury had taken on a Louvre-like coldness, every nook and cranny shadowed by imminent dangers. She’d lie awake, chills crawling up her spine, reacting to every creak of the furniture or settling of the walls like the intrusion of a dangerous stranger. Not that sleeping anywhere else was that much easier.

She was haunted by memories, wracked by regret. She regretted never getting married. Four years ago, when Thierry’s wife had finally passed away, he’d asked her. But after thirty-four years as his mistress and his love, she’d thought: Do I really need a piece of paper? Will it stop him from dying and leaving me? But now that it was too late, she wondered if it hadn’t been a mistake. As his widow, people would have respected and understood the great hole in her heart.

She regretted too never adopting a child. She had wanted so much to be a mother, to lavish kindness and generosity and protection on some small, helpless creature. She wasn’t the type that could get a dog and treat it like a baby. She was also haunted by the idea that no one would say prayers or light candles for her when she died, except for her Covenant friends. They were the only family she had. Perhaps, aside from Thierry, the only ones she’d ever had.

She took out a cigarette and lit up, then took a sip of her vodka and orange juice, both habits that a succession of young, dedicated doctors had assured would kill her. She liked young doctors. She enjoyed watching their hair turn gray, their flat stomachs inflate, their chins sag. At that point, she always replaced them. It would soon be time for a new one, she thought,
draining the glass. It gave her immediate heartburn. Everything gave her heartburn.

She hated being old. Her legendary beauty was all but gone now. To compensate, she’d taken to dressing with theatrical overstatement. Today she wore a turban and a caftan of flowing green silk that matched her still exquisite eyes. Her long, slim fingers sparkled with rings, drawing attention from the faded blue numbers and the numerous needle marks that climbed up her arms. From her ears hung two chandeliers (the best description she had ever heard, and one she loved), handmade by her private jeweler on the Ponte Vecchio: a cascade of yellow and brown diamonds that dangled down to her shoulders, a gift for playing matchmaker between a Russian exporter of enriched uranium and an oil-rich dictatorship.

But what she hated most of all was butting up against her dreams, feeling how empty and flat they were. It was like opening a beautifully wrapped present and finding it was a sweater in the wrong color that made you look fat. Surrounded by all those riches Thierry’s tutelage had brought her, she wondered often now if it hadn’t been his dreams she’d been living out, her own having gotten lost somehow along the way. It was ironic, even tragic. All through the camps, she’d struggled against the downward pull of death and misery, allowing her dreams to float above her like a warming sun, something to look up to, bask in, follow. But as soon as the war was over, their light had turned to cheap glitter, almost tawdry. What did fame matter? Hitler had been famous. Millions had adored him. As for riches… she’d learned there was only so much you could buy. Only so much… The best part of being rich was being free. But what good was that freedom if you were free and childless? Free and unmarried? Free and wretched?

Thierry had never really understood that. Or her. And perhaps she’d never really understood him. Few did. In his obituary, they’d called him “a key figure in politics and industry whose image had been tarnished by persistent rumors of connections to underworld figures, bribes and payoffs.”

He’d been a man the most ruthless criminals had feared. Yet for her, he’d always been the most indulgent father, the most protective big brother, and the tenderest of lovers. She’d met him in some ugly Left Bank cabaret where they were letting her sell cigarettes and sing through the smoke and noise. He’d nursed a few drinks, watching her as she sang, applauding, making
the others shut up. And afterward, he’d bought some cigarettes. That was how he’d seen the blue numbers on her arm.

His mother had also been a Jew, he’d told her. She had died before the war, of TB. She too had sung in a nightclub. He never spoke of the people who’d raised him, except to say that he’d made them pay for everything they’d ever done to him. She’d never wanted details.

He’d hated so many things, her Thierry, and loved so few. And she was one of them. He’d come along at a point in her life when she’d never been more vulnerable. After the brutal rape, the botched abortion, he’d taken her under his wing, taught her how to protect herself by making others need and fear her.

She looked down at her rings. He’d taught her so well how to get everything that money could buy. Yet the ability to turn wealth into happiness had been something that eluded them both.

I have missed out on all the important things in life, she sometimes thought. Baby carriages pushed in the park, a man’s shirt on the ironing board, his coffee mug steaming next to mine on a cold, weekday morning… A life of ordinary joys.

She stared at herself in the little mirror she carried in her purse, reading the story of her life in the wrinkles that crossed her face like hieroglyphics only she could interpret. The one near her temple, for example, was from the time she’d stood on the platform with Maria, Esther and Leah waiting for that train to the front. The one in the corner of her right eye was from lying in the snow unable to move, waiting for the bullet to her head. The ones on either side of her mouth were from hearing the doctors say that the brutal, backstreet abortion had cost her her womb.

She sighed, writing out her monthly checks to the myriad orphanages, women’s shelters and child-care organizations she supported in France and in Israel. She placed them into the white envelopes and licked the stamps. I should have adopted a child, when it was still possible. But I never thought it was fair, with things being as they were… Thierry, the nightclub, all those gangsters and low-lifes… I should have done more good in the world…

But it was too late, too late. All too late… she thought, taking out her mother-of-pearl box. All she wanted out of life now was some peace. A life of massages and spas and witty companionship. Some release from the horror of memories and regret, the horror of constant pain, of Thierry’s loss, of phantorn
children that haunted her in the darkness, her unborn babies that cried like kittens mewing in a box, shut out of her life by force. Release… She opened the box, sniffing the white powder and rubbing it along her teeth.

She heard a knock on her door. “Madame.”

“What is it?” she growled. “Didn’t I tell you never to bother me when my door is locked?!”

“You have a phone call, Madame. It came through to the front bar.”

“Can’t you deal with it!?”

“She says she’s your friend. Esther from California. She says it’s urgent. A life or death matter…” The bartender improvised, prudently rephrasing “Tell Madame Feyder if she doesn’t get on the phone, I’m taking the next plane to Paris and will pull her out by her trademark earrings.”

She stared at the desk, fingering the little box.
“Alors.
Put her through immediately, Maurice.”

“Of course, Madame.”

“Esther? Is this about the tape again? The tape, the tape. And Mr. Spielberg. I will do the tape! I don’t want to, but
Mon Dieu!
you will never leave me alone, so I do it. Will you call me now every day?”

There was silence on the other end.

“Esther? Don’t be angry. I’m just tired. I don’t sleep…”

“Didn’t you see the tape that BCN aired?”

“I never watch the news. They lie and report only horrors.”

“That’s my Ariana. Dreams are always preferable to reality,” Esther said in a strangled tone. “The tape about the kidnapping in Israel. The doctor and the child taken by the terrorists…”

She remembered something on the radio. “Yes, now I recall. Terrible story.”

“Ariana… it’s Leah’s granddaughter. Elise…”

“La petite
in Israel? The one who is
enceinte
. . .
?”

“Yes. It’s her husband, Jonathan, her child, liana…”

“Mon Dieu!
And you say there was a tape? They ask for the ransom money? Because if it is money…”

“It’s not money they want. They say in forty-eight hours they will kill them both…”

“Mon Dieu!”

“I already have men looking for the kidnappers’ hideout in Israel. But they
need time. We have to somehow get Hamas to extend the deadline…”

Ariana played with the empty glass of vodka. “If we can find out who the head of Hamas operations in Europe is, the one who gives the orders, I can make sure he gets a special invitation to my club. And once he is here, my friends and I will give him such special ‘treatment,’ he will do whatever we tell him.”

“Can you ask around?”

“Of course. But it will take time. Call your granddaughter! The Saudis, they give money to Hamas. They will know exactly how to find him.”

“I’ve thought of Elizabeth…” Esther said hesitantly. “But we haven’t spoken in years, Ariana. Do you think she’ll even… speak to me?”

“Mais oui! Are
you not her
grandmere?”

“It’s not what you think, Ariana. Children, grandchildren… They are not your good friends. Sometimes you give and get nothing back…”

“Call her! It is time. She will get her husband to help.”

“Will she? Can she?”

“She is a good girl, your Elizabeth,
n’est-ce pas?
She will do the right thing. And this man, if he loves her…”

“But what…” she lowered her voice, “if it’s dangerous? If I involve them and something happens…”

There was a long silence at the other end of the line.

Escaping the death march. Running through the woods, the gunshots ringing over our heads. Hiding in the straw, the sharp knives, the deadly pitchforks rammed in viciously just above our heads.
“We choose our steps, make our choices. Elizabeth and her husband will choose theirs.”

“It could be dangerous for you too, Ariana. All those
dreks
wandering around in your club. If you start up with Hamas…”

Ariana Feyder closed the box with a determined click, then slipped it into her pocket.
“Alors.
How do the
Americains
say: Make my day! Besides,
cherie
, what does any of this matter…? We made a Covenant. They are threatening to kill Leah’s family… her child. We made our choices long ago.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. There was nothing left to say.

“Bonne chance, cherie!”

“To all of us,
cherie”

Chapter Fifteen