The Kill Artist Read Free Page A

who played the guitar like Al DiMeola. The room sounded like the Tower of Babel. The conversation moved from French to English, then from English to Italian, then from Italian to Spanish. Emily watched Leila moving about the flat, kissing cheeks, lighting cigarettes. She marveled at the ease with which Leila made friends and brought them together.
    "He's here, you know, Emily-the man you're going to fall in love with."
    René. René from the south somewhere, a village Emily had never heard of, somewhere in the hills above Nice. René who had a bit of family money and had never had the time, or the inclination, to work. René who traveled. René who read many books. René who disdained politics-"Politics is an exercise for the feebleminded, Emily. Politics has nothing to do with real life." René who had a face you might pass in a crowd and never notice, but if you looked carefully was rather good looking. René whose eyes were lit by some secret source of heat that Emily could not fathom. René who took her to bed the night of Leila's dinner party and made her feel things she had never thought possible. René who said he wanted to remain in Paris for a few weeks-"Would it be possible for me to crash at your place, Emily? Leila has no room for me. You know Leila. Too many clothes, too many things. Too many men." René who had made her happy again. René who was eventually going to break the heart he had healed.
    He was already slipping away; she could feel him growing slightly more distant every day. He was spending more time on his own, disappearing for several hours each day, reappearing with no warning. When she asked him where he had been, his answers were vague. She feared he was seeing another woman. A skinny French girl, she imagined. A girl who didn't have to be taught how to make love.
    That afternoon Emily wound her way through the narrow streets of Montmartre to the rue Norvins. She stood beneath the crimson awning of a bistro and peered through the window. René was seated at a table near the door. Funny how he always insisted on sitting near the doorway. There was a man with him: dark hair, a few years younger. When Emily entered the bistro, the man stood and quickly walked out. Emily removed her coat and sat down. René poured wine for her.
    She asked, "Who was that man?"
    "Just someone I used to know."
    "What's his name?"
    "Jean," he said. "Would you like-"
    "Your friend left his backpack."
    "It's mine," René said, putting a hand on it.
    "Really? I've never seen you carry it before."
    "Trust me, Emily. It's mine. Are you hungry?"
    And you're changing the subject again. She said, "I'm famished, actually. I've been walking around in the cold all afternoon."
    "Have you really? Whatever for?"
    "Just doing some thinking. Nothing serious."
    He removed the backpack from the chair and placed it on the floor at his feet. "What have you been thinking about?"
    "Really, René-it was nothing important."
    "You used to tell me all your secrets."
    "Yes, but you've never really told me yours."
    "Are you still upset about this bag?"
    "I'm not upset about it. Just curious, that's all."
    "All right, if you must know, it's a surprise."
    "For who?"
    "For you!" He smiled. "I was going to give it to you later."
    "You bought me a backpack? How very thoughtful, René. How romantic."
    "The surprise is inside the backpack."
    "I don't like surprises."
    "Why not?"
    "Because it's been my experience that the surprise itself never quite lives up to the anticipation of the surprise. I've been let down too many times. I don't want to be let down again."
    "Emily, I'll never let you down. I love you too much."
    "Oh, René, I wish you hadn't said that."
    "It happens to be the truth. Let's eat something, shall we? Then we'll take a walk."
    Ambassador Zev Eliyahu stood in the grand center hall of the Musée d'Orsay, using every diplomatic skill he possessed to hide the fact that he was bored to tears. Trim, athletic, deeply tanned in spite of the