Her cheeks reddened as the Citro?n’s heated leather seat began to warm her derrière. “Desolée, Saj, I didn’t think—”
“Comme toujours,” Saj interrupted, exasperation in his tone. “Isn’t it time you started thinking of the consequences before jumping into these dangerous schemes?”
Guilt assailed her. This was worse than her usual tactlessness—she’d been plain stupid. She needed Saj more than ever right now; she couldn’t afford to lose him. Or stress him out. “Saj, I only had two hours to put this together. But you’re right,” she said, trying to sound contrite.
“What about my thumb-drive prototypes? I’m supposed to test them.”
“I only borrowed one.” She unclipped her hoop earrings, wondering how to make it up to him. “La police kept it as evidence. You’ll get it back with the court files erased and good as new.”
A crow cawed from outside the car window. There it was, looking down on the church, perched on the charcuterie’s fa?ade. She caught its beady black-eyed stare. Bad luck, her grand-mère would say.
“I won’t hold my breath,” Saj said, shifting into first.
“Consider the thumb-drive a rental. Morbier needs me to testify.” She cringed at the thought. She hated the cold marble-floored tribunal, the smell of fear and authority.
Saj didn’t reply, just nudged the Citro?n out into the street. Aimée ran her fingers through her blonde-streaked shag-cut hair, wishing she hadn’t run out of mousse. An evening of reports stretched ahead. They were barely coping with René’s workload.
“It’s a good time for you to start being honest with me about your other side-jobs.” A thick envelope landed in her lap. The second tonight.
“What’s this?” she asked, surprised.
“You tell me,” Saj said.
Inside the envelope she found a bundle of worn franc notes and a card embossed with YURI VOLODYA, 14 VILLA D’ALéSIA and a phone number. On the back: Accept this retainer. Contact me. Urgent.
She had no idea who this Yuri Volodya was. “Out of the blue, this man gives you … when?”
“This afternoon.”
“Une petite seconde, did you speak with him?”
Saj said, “I told him to call you.”
She’d turned her cell phone ringer off. Now she checked for messages. The same number had called twice but left no message.
“Some scam?” Another five thousand francs tonight. “We’re busy. How could you accept this without an explanation?”
“I didn’t—he mentioned being a family friend. Protecting his painting. Said you’d understand.”
“Understand?” She shook her head. “What did he mean, family friend? You think an old colleague of my father’s?”
“Your mother, he said.”
For a moment everything shifted; she felt the oxygen being sucked from the car. Her pulse thudded. Her American mother, who was on the world security watch list? “How did he know my mother?”
Saj downshifted. “So he’s trouble, non?”
She hit the number. No answer. “What else did he say?”
“That’s all.” Saj shrugged. “Even if his money’s good, this smells bad. Alors, Aimée, we need to keep on track. We need to spend our time figuring out how to juggle all René’s projects and keep our existing clients happy. We don’t have time for whatever this is.”
Anxious, she tried the man’s number again. She needed to know more. A friend of her mother’s? But no answer.
“We will sort it all out, Saj. But turn around. Let’s meet this Monsieur Volodya.”
“Didn’t you say takeout?” Saj said.
The last thing Aimée was in the mood for was food. But she needed to do something for Saj. She also needed to talk to this man Yuri, and return his money. Her nerves jangled.
“Yes, takeout,” she said. “My treat.”
Saj downshifted off the boulevard into the honeycomb of tiny lanes of small houses, ateliers, and old warehouses. A longtime resident, he knew the best routes to take at this time of night. The quartier was a less well-heeled bourgeois-bohemian version of adjoining Montparnasse, complete with mounting rents. Saj complained that the former ateliers of famous Surrealists like Picasso now belonged to bohemian-chic residents whose trust funds couldn’t quite afford the 6th arrondissement.
Twenty minutes later the couscous végétarien takeout sat on the backseat, the turmeric and mint smells reminding Aimée she’d forgotten dinner. But she had no appetite. Yuri Volodya still didn’t answer his phone. Was it worth going to the address on the card? Part of her wanted Saj to drop her off at the Métro so she could head home and collapse in her bed. The other part knew she wouldn’t be able to rest until she discovered why he’d sent this, and what his connection was to her mother.
The Citro?n bumped over the cobbles. She wished Saj would slow down. He unclipped his seat belt, reached in the backseat for his madras cloth bag. Popped some pills from a pill case.
“What’s wrong? Your chakras misaligned again?”
“Try some.” He dropped a fistful of brown pellets into her hand. “Herbal stress busters. Works every time, remember?”
“Bien s?r,” she said, chewing her lip. His fungus-scented pellets reminded her of rabbit droppings. “We’ll make it work without René,” she added. “We should think of his amazing job offer. This opportunity for him.”
Inside she thought only of the hole he’d leave. Selfish Aimée, as usual.
“René didn’t trust me or the business, Saj. Avec raison,” she said, hating to admit it. She couldn’t compete with René’s job offer—six figures, stock options, and the title of CTO, Chief Technology Officer.
“Maybe René doesn’t trust himself right now,” Saj said, pensive. Apart from the purring motor, quiet filled the car. He was right; René had moped around, couldn’t concentrate after his broken heart.
“We should do some more asana breathing sessions,” Saj went on. “It will expand your awareness and you’ll feel less stressed.”
Not this again. She almost threw the pellets at him.