Die for Me

“Be right back, Kate,” Vincent said. “Oh, and this is Valerie, one of Jules’s models.” And having made that introduction, he followed Jules into the staircase, the door slamming behind him.

A gentleman even during a crisis, I thought, amazed at Vincent’s sangfroid in making sure I was introduced to Naked Girl before leaving us alone together. “Hi,” I said. “Bonjour,” she replied, bored. Picking up a paperback, she settled back to read. I lingered near the door, looking at the paintings while trying to hear what was going on outside.

Their voices were hushed, but I could pick up a few words. “ . . . couldn’t do anything without backup,” Vincent was saying, bitter regret in his voice.

“I’m with you now. Ambrose can be our third,” Jules responded.

There was silence, and then Vincent was speaking to someone on the phone. He hung up and said, “He’s on his way.”

“Why the hell did you bring her with you?” Jules sounded incredulous.

“I’m not on duty twenty-four/seven. She’s with me because we had a date.” Vincent’s low voice traveled through the thin wood door easily.

He called it a date, I thought with as much pleasure as I could derive under the circumstances.

“That is exactly why she should not be here,” Jules continued.

“JB only said we couldn’t bring people home. . . . I don’t see why she can’t come here.” Their voices were getting lower. I scooted closer to the door, keeping an eye on Valerie, who glanced at me and back down at her book. She obviously couldn’t care less if I was eavesdropping.

“Dude. Anywhere we have a permanent address is off-limits for . . . ‘dates.’ Or whatever. You know the rules. In any case, date’s over!”

There was a pregnant silence, which I imagined was taken up by lots of boy-to-boy stare-down action, and then the door opened and Vincent walked in, looking apologetic. “Kate. I’m sorry, I have to take care of something. I’ll walk you to the Métro.” I waited for him to give an explanation, but none came.

“That’s okay,” I said, trying to sound like I didn’t mind. “But don’t worry about seeing me to the Métro. I’ll do some wandering on my own. Walk up to rue des Rosiers for some shopping or something.”

He looked relieved, as if that was the response he had hoped for. “I’ll at least come downstairs with you.”

“No, really, that’s okay,” I said, feeling a little cloud of anger form inside me. Something was obviously going on that I didn’t know about. But it was still rude of Jules to demand that I leave. Not to mention cowardly of Vincent to give in.

“I insist,” he said, and opening the door for me, he followed me out into the hallway. Jules stood, arms crossed over his chest, glowering at us.

Vincent walked me down the stairs and into the courtyard. “I’m sorry,” he said. “There’s something going on. Something I have to take care of.”

“Like police business, you mean?” I said, unable to hide my sarcasm.

“Yeah, something like that,” he said evasively.

“And you can’t talk about it.”

“No.”

“Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you around our neighborhood . . . ,” I said, attempting to mask my disappointment with a smile.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said, and reached out his hand for mine. Though I wasn’t very happy with him, his touch warmed me to my toes. “Promise,” he added, looking like he wanted to say more. Then, giving my hand a squeeze, he turned to walk back into the building. My bad mood eased a little with his gesture, and I wandered through the gate feeling not quite ditched but not very pleased with how things had turned out, either.

I started walking north, trying to decide whether to visit the shops on the rue des Rosiers or stroll under the shady arcades surrounding the seventeenth-century square called Place des Vosges. I wasn’t even halfway up the block when I decided my heart wasn’t in it. I wanted to know what was going on with Vincent. Curiosity was killing me, and if I wasn’t going to get any answers, I just wanted to go home.

I stopped at the crepe stand outside the Dome café and waited as the vendor spread the batter on the piping hot circular grill. I couldn’t help but wish that Vincent were here getting a crepe with me as I watched people come and go from the Métro stop across the street. As if prompted by my wish, I spotted Vincent approaching the entrance with Jules. They began making their way down the stairs.

This is my chanceto find out what’s going on with the policeman charade, I thought. Vincent had said that there was something he had to take care of. Based on his behavior at the Village Saint-Paul, it seemed more like someone he had to take care of. I wanted to know who it was. I reasoned that if I was going to keep seeing Vincent, or whatever it was we were doing, I should be aware of any mysterious activities he was involved in.

“Et voilà, mademoiselle,” said the vendor, handing me a paper-towel-wrapped crepe. I pointed to the change I had left on the counter and called, “Merci,” as I sprinted toward the subway entrance.

Once through the turnstile, I spotted the boys heading down the tu

It was then that I saw the man.

Just a stone’s throw away from Vincent and Jules, a clean-cut thirtysomething man wearing a dark suit stood at the edge of the platform, holding a briefcase in one hand and pressing the other against his lowered forehead. It looked like he was crying.

In all my years of riding the Paris Métro, I had seen some weird things: Street people peeing in the corners. Madmen ranting about government persecution. Bands of children offering to help tourists with their luggage and then taking off with it. But I had never seen a grown man cry in public.

The whoosh of air that precedes the train came gusting through the tu

Jules and Vincent turned my way, not even glancing at the man on the tracks, though I was wildly pointing at him with both hands. Without speaking, they nodded at each other before each moving rapidly in a different direction. Vincent approached me and, taking me by the shoulders, tried to turn me away from the track.

Fighting him, I whipped my head around to see Jules jump down off the platform onto the tracks and push the now sobbing man out of the way. With the oncoming train just feet away, he looked up at Vincent and, giving a slight nod, touched his index finger to his forehead in a casual salute.

The sound was terrible. There was the earsplitting screech of the train’s brakes, way too late to avoid the disaster, and then the loud thud of metal hitting flesh and bone. Vincent had prevented me from seeing the actual crash, but a snapshot of the penultimate second lodged in my mind: Jules’s calm face nodding to Vincent as the train rushed up behind him.

I felt my knees give way and slumped forward with only Vincent’s arms to hold me from falling. Screams came from all sides, and the sound of a man’s loud wailing drifted from the direction of the tracks. I felt someone lift me and begin to run. And then everything was as silent and black as a tomb.

Chapter Eight

I AWOKE TO THE SMELL OF STRONG COFFEE AND lifted my head from between my bent knees. I was outside, sitting on the sidewalk, with my back against the wall of a building. Vincent crouched in front of me, holding a tiny steaming cup of espresso a few inches away from my face, waving it around like smelling salts.