Half an hour early, she found the visitors’ café, a glassed-in affair with plastic chairs that gave one the illusion of sitting outdoors. Before she could order an espresso, a tall man in a green bloodstained gown joined the line. A doctor? But those weren’t scrubs. Her craving for espresso evaporated and she edged out of the line. No one looked twice at the man.
At Allée de Franz Kafka, she sat down under the pillared pavilion on a wood bench framed by green metal. Now she wondered what to do. Her Tintin watch, its face clouded with moisture, had stopped again. Great.
Muffled moans, a sob. Aimée cocked her head forward to see a woman seated further along the bench. Her face was buried in her hands, and she was rocking back and forth. Alone.
Sometimes she felt like that too. Forlorn, adrift. But this was no time to read her own story in the woman’s suffering.
“It can’t be that bad,” Aimée said, feeling inadequate the moment the words came out. Banal and patronizing. “I mean …” She hesitated. “Can I help you?”
“Only if you weren’t followed,” came a reply. But the voice issued from behind her, by the entrance to the old underground operating rooms. Struck by the accent, the inflection, she turned around. Alert.
“No one followed me,” she said.
In the shadows stood a tall figure. A woman in a doctor’s coat. Aimée mounted three steps to the glass overhang.
“You’re the fixer?” Her throat went dry.
Aimée felt her hands being grasped, squeezed in the warmth of another’s. And she was enveloped in a hovering muguet scent. Familiar, so familiar. She felt a jolt like electricity as her eyes fixed upon the unlined face of the woman looking back at her: the chiseled cheekbones, the dark brows and large eyes, the carmine lipstick. She’d always thought she’d know her mother the moment she saw her. Feel a connection like molten steel, the bond resurfacing. But she wasn’t sure.
“Maman?” Warmth emanated from this woman.
“Curious, always so curious,” she said. “When you were little, you asked questions day and night.”
Aimée felt a sob rising at the back of her throat. A weight pressing into her. Her breathing went heavy. It couldn’t be … but it was.
Her mother lifted Aimée’s hands to take a look at them. “Ink stains on your palms,” she said, her American accent tinged by rolling r’s. “You had crayon marks on them the last time. Even your father.…”
“Papa?” she said. “You know he never got over you.”
Her mother glanced away.
“The company lied. As usual.”
The CIA. “You work for them. A hired killer.…?”
“Not any more, Amy.”
Aimée’s throat caught. She hadn’t denied it.
“I’ve led a double life. Done ugly things.” A shrug. “Dealt with devils. Paying the price to keep you safe,” she said. “Now I’m rogue and I can’t protect you. I counted on the wrong people. There’s no one left to trust now. But years ago I saved Yuri’s life.” A cough. “He thought selling his painting through my channels, the contacts I knew, would buy my freedom.”
“You’re a fixer. Make things happen. Buy time.”
A twist of her mouth. “I don’t have much, Amy,” she said. “Yuri shouldn’t have involved you.” Footsteps sounded and she stepped back in the shadows. Silent. Then a whisper. “Let me say what I need to.”
Everything bubbled up—the hurt, the cold afternoon, the empty apartment she’d come home to when her mother abandoned them. Never a word in all these years.
“Every day after school I looked for you.” That eight-year-old’s whining voice came out; she couldn’t stop it. Did the shared blood coursing in their veins mean nothing? But Aimée didn’t know this woman. “Why did you leave?”
“I was protecting you,” the woman said.
“Protecting me?” The words rose like a tide. “But I wanted you. My mother.” She looked down, her shoulders heaving.
Warm fingers stroked her cheek. Rested on her chin, and with a feather softness raised Aimée’s face to hers.
“You think I didn’t want to be there? To be with you?”
The moment of silence was filled by the shooshing sounds of wet leaves running in the gutter. Her mother’s eyes darted back and forth. Watchful. For the first time, Aimée noticed a metal door standing ajar on the side of the building.
“I don’t care if you sold arms and traded with terrorists,” Aimée said, her insides wrenched. “But now you come back and say this? What do you expect?”
A deep cough. Her mother’s face stayed in shadow.
“Not everyone deserves to be a mother.” A little sigh. “But I’ve followed you for years.”
“Through Morbier, non? But why lie?”
Her mother opened her palm to reveal Aimée’s old charm bracelet. Hadn’t she lost that years ago?
“Your first tooth, a lock of your hair,” her mother said. “Don’t make my mistake. Find the right man, have babies.”
“That’s rich coming from you. You found a wonderful man,” she said, her voice shaking. “You had a baby.” No way would Aimée have babies. Sometimes she’d wake up at night terrified that she’d do what her mother had done. Couldn’t face the responsibility. “So why would you reappear now? Don’t tell me you feel guilty.”
“I wanted to see you once. Selfish, you’re right.” Her eyes darted around, checking to be sure they were alone. Then bored into Aimée’s. “Everything you’ve said is true.”
“Mais non, you wanted the Modigliani—a painting people have been killed for. You planned on it to finance more dirty deals.”
A small shrug. Her mother’s thin shoulder bones stuck out in the white coat. “You have no reason to believe me. But maybe you’ll take my advice. Learn to cook, quit criminal work,” she said. “There’s an account set up so you won’t need to worry for a while. Travel, live life, find a man, do something else.…”