John already knew how to ride a motorcycle, but hadn’t been on one in years. So he bought a used sport bike from a local mechanic, and practiced for days on end, in all sorts of weather, on the quiet country roads near Ariel’s house. He rode the thing into the city and tore along congested city streets, up and down the steep hills in the Bronx, through the tight lanes and sharp turns and thick crowds of Wall Street.
Meanwhile, Lucy did the fieldwork. Her life as a petty criminal in Marrakesh offered her plenty of relevant experience. She spent weeks at a stretch scouting locations in nearby Lisbon, noting the position of security cameras, the size of the crowds at tourist attractions, the location of funiculars and taxis and trams, the back doors of restaurants and bars, the one-way streets and back alleys and dead ends, the surveillance-free spots in the Seville airport’s parking garage. She purchased the car, she stole old license plates, she found a secluded abandoned house on the far side of the Tagus where she and John could hide for a few days during the supposed kidnapping. She bought herself the full Halloween-costume hippie getup, one item at a time, including the wig of blond dreadlocks.
When the time came, Lucy was the one who showed up at the square at four in the morning to disable various security cameras; she drove the kidnapping car; she took the photo of Ariel at the embassy; she manufactured the social-media blitz. Lucy choreographed every detail: the early-morning abduction, Ariel’s progression from police to embassy and back again, John’s delivery on motorcycle of the burner, Ariel’s evasion route, and the ransom handoff in the alley behind a bar. Lucy herself was the woman in that alley, collecting the cash, then walking straight through the bar and out again, her backpack filled with euros, melding seamlessly into the crowd out front while uniformed cops rushed by, frantically looking for her.
That alley was the only time the two women ever met, other than the wedding and the so-called honeymoon weekend, events that were spent largely on plotting out everything.
Ariel and John did of course exchange a single kiss, in front of the justice of the peace. How could they not? They were getting married. But it was just a peck, mouths closed, lips pursed. Eyes wide open.
*
The toughest challenge was George. The boy had never known a father; he’d never lived with anyone other than his mom; he’d never even met any of her prior lovers, relationships that had all been conducted at arm’s length, with limited expectations, predictable expirations.
“You’re going to be seeing more of John for a while. He’s going to stay with us sometimes.”
George tried momentarily to pretend that he didn’t care, but failed. “Is John your boyfriend?”
Ariel didn’t know what George’s understanding was of boyfriends, girlfriends, sex, marriage. His mind had become impossible to see into, at just the moment when these ideas were taking shape. This was maybe not happenstance.
“No, Sweetie, we don’t have that type of relationship.”
John had come over a few times, lunch, dinner, an afternoon sitting at the teak table under the old oak, drinking iced tea, talking about the plan. He’d never spent the night. He’d never even been upstairs.
“I don’t love John, and he doesn’t love me. But we are actually going to get married, temporarily, just for legal reasons.”
Ariel needed to tell George the truth, but it didn’t need to be all of it. Enough for him to not feel betrayed; for him to accept what she needed him to accept.
“He’ll spend a couple of nights per week at our house, in the guest room downstairs. But it’s important for people to think that we have a real marriage. Do you understand?”
George continued to stare through the truck’s windshield. “Sure. You want me to lie.”
“Maybe just a little. And only if people ask. Which they probably won’t. Is that okay?”
He shrugged. “But he’s not going to become my stepfather?”
“No. Like I said, it’s just temporary.”
“For legal reasons.”
“That’s right.”
If Ariel had to, she was prepared to tell her son everything. But this was one of those very rare instances when tweenaged taciturnity and anti-parent frostiness were assets.
“Whatever,” he said, and turned his attention back to his phone.
*
Ariel and John told each other the truths about themselves: tastes in movies, in books, in wines, their favorite TV shows and restaurants and preferred positions of sex. It was impossible to know what sort of interrogation they’d eventually be subjected to, by what authority, in what circumstance, risking what peril. Sure, it was highly unlikely that anyone would ever quiz them separately about their sex life. But if that unlikely interrogation ever did come to pass, the stakes would be high. This was like training to eject from the pilot seat of a fighter jet: If you’re going to climb into the cockpit, you need to know how.
Then, finally, it was the eve of the kidnapping. Their supersonic jet was about to take off.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. This was something she’d come to love about the real John: He always wanted to know how she felt. He always asked; he always listened to the answer.
They were walking home from the restaurant where they’d been seen by many witnesses enjoying a romantic dinner, holding hands, sharing dessert with a single spoon, looking a lot like two people who were about to tumble into bed. If you pretend with all your energy and focus, you can forget that you’re pretending. The leading man and the leading lady very often end up in a real bed. They sometimes even get married, have children, the whole thing.
“I feel excited,” she said. What she felt like was a giant bundle of nerves, practically pulsating with energy, with hormones, with anticipation. What she felt was aroused.
“Me too.”
She hadn’t planned on consuming any alcohol; she wanted to stay sharp. But when they sat down at the restaurant, they agreed that they needed a drink or they’d explode. So they’d split a bottle of wine, and Ariel felt loosened by it. Not enough to be dangerous, just enough to be free.
They turned a corner onto a beautiful vista, the old buildings, the spires, the river, the moon. They stopped walking to drink it in.
“Oh look at this place,” he said. “It’s spectacular.”
“Yes it is.”
Then she felt his eyes turn to her, and she looked over at him.
“So,” he said, “are you.”
A lot of questions went through her mind in the brief moment before anything else happened: Is he telling the truth? Is this real? Do I want this? What is this?
Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe it was just the wine, just the situation, just the undeniable thrill of the night before a heist that might change the course of world events, all in their hands. So maybe it didn’t have anything to do with Ariel and John as real people living real lives. Maybe this was just part of the act.
The last question she asked herself was: Does it matter?
*