I couldn’t place his accent, but it certainly wasn’t French. He led us through the lobby to minor-polished brass elevators, where he pushed the button for the third floor.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“All over, but I have been in Paris many years.”
We followed him down a long hallway to rooms that were next to each other, but not connected. I was startled and unnerved to find our baggage was already inside them.
“If you need anything, call for me specifically,” Ivan said. “It’s probably best you eat in the café here. There’s a table for you, or of course, there’s room service.”
He briskly walked away before I could tip him. Marino and I both stood in our doorways staring inside our rooms.
“This is weirding me out;’ he said. “I don’t like secret squirrel shit like this: How the hell do we know who he is? I bet he don’t even work for this hotel.”
“Marino, let’s not have this conversation in the hall,” I said quietly. I thought if I did not have even a few moments away from him I might become violent.
“So, when you want to eat?”
“How about I call your room;” I said.
“Well-, I’m really hungry.”
“Why don’t you go on to the café, Marino?” I suggested, praying he would. “I’ll get something later.”
“No, I think we better stick together, Doc,” he replied.
I walked inside my room and shut the door, astonished to discover my suitcase unpacked, my clothes neatly folded and already in drawers. Slacks, shirts and a suit were hanging in the closet, toiletries lined up on the counter in the bathroom. Instantly, my phone rang. I had no doubt who it was.
“What?” I said.
“They got into my shit and put everything away!” Marino blared like a radio turned up too high. “Now, I’ve about had it. I don’t like nobody digging in my bags. Who the hell they think they are over here? This some French custom or something? You check into a ritzy hotel and they go through your luggage?”
“No, it’s not a French custom,” I said:
“So it must be some Interpol custom;” he retorted.
“I’ll call you later.”
A fruit basket and bottle of wine centered a table, and I sliced a blood orange and poured a glass of merlot. I pulled back heavy drapes and stared out the window at people in evening dress getting into fine cars. Gilt sculptures on the old opera house across the street flaunted their golden, naked beauty before the gods, and chimney pots were dark stubble on miles of roofs. I felt anxious and lonely and intruded upon.
I took a long bath and thought about abandoning Marino for the rest of the night, but decency overruled. He had never been to Europe before, certainly not to Paris, and more to the point, I was afraid of leaving him alone. I dialed his extension and asked if he wanted to have a light dinner sent up. He picked pizza, despite my warning that Paris wasn’t known for it, and he raided my minibar for beer. I ordered oysters on the half shell and nothing more, and turned the lights very low because I’d seen enough for one day.
“There’s something I’ve been thinking about,” he said after the food had arrived. “I don’t like to bring it up, Doc, but I’m getting a really oddball feeling, odd as hell. I mean, well”–he took a bite of pizza-“I’m just wondering if you’re feeling it, too. If the same thing might be floating in your head, sort of out of nowhere like a UFO.”
I put down my fork. The lights of the city sparkled beyond my windows and even in the dim lighting I could see his fear. I responded in kind.
“I haven’t a clue as to what you’re talking about,” I said, reaching for my wine.
“Okay, I just think we need to consider something for a minute:’
I didn’t want to listen.
“Well, first you get this letter delivered by a United States senator who just happens to be the chairman of the Judiciary Committee, meaning he’s got about as much power with federal law enforcement as any other person I can think of. Meaning he’s going to know all kinds of shit going on with Secret Service, ATF, FBI, you name it.”