Page 29 of The Crimson Lily

T he smell of coffee and fresh bread reaches my nostrils. I open my eyes, woozy, holding on to the feeling that the last ten days were a very long dream. Béatrice is already out of bed. I stare at the ceiling for a minute, clearing my thoughts, making room for the numbness I’ve grown accustomed to.

I hear a melodious woman’s voice coming from what I figure is the kitchen. It’s low—the pitch of an alto singer. Béatrice responds to it in French, and I hear a young man laugh.

I rise to my feet and stroll to my purse and suitcase, first to check my phone, then to grab some clothes and get dressed. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing. I don’t know what I expected. I don’t want to think of him. I don’t want to hear my mind scream his name at me.

To the left of the big white door is a large mirror. I decide that, should I go in public anyway, I’d better check how severe my bruises, and everything else, are.

It’s not too bad.

My black eye is fading. My neck looks all right. I can live with that. I turn around and gasp when I see the big black spot on my flank, probably from one of my falls. Man, I need to get my shit together. This really isn’t okay.

It’s already about 75 degrees Fahrenheit outside according to my phone, but I still put on my Columbia sweatshirt.

I walk out of Béatrice’s room and into the corridor.

There are framed pictures all along the way to the living room.

I see a tall woman with beautiful brown eyes and ebony skin.

I spot Béatrice and her little brother hiding behind the woman’s long skirt.

There is a lone picture of a handsome black man with a beaming smile, above a small shelf with a few candles that still burn.

I take a moment to look at this man with frizzy hair and the allure of a proud father.

I suddenly remember that summer of 2019, when Béatrice returned home, after cancer got the best of this man.

I remember how broken Béatrice was. Her father, a legal counselor and Wing Chun instructor, was always a role model for her.

A man who fought for what was just. I spent a week in Paris with her, after the funeral.

That’s how I know this house. I’ve been here before.

I already met Jér?me, Béatrice’s brother, and Marie-Claire, her mother, who is one hell of a woman.

I can now pinpoint exactly where Béatrice got all of that fire and tact from.

I enter the kitchen, which is small, with shelves full of pans of all sizes and huge bags of spices, rice, and flour.

Marie-Claire stands with her back to me with a large frying pan on the stove.

She’s baking French crêpes. She turns to me and takes me in her arms. I don’t have time to check her reaction to seeing me, but it looks like she hasn’t noticed how shitty I look.

She has a warm smile on her face, and her brown eyes sparkle.

She doesn’t speak English very well, but she tells me how happy she is to see me again.

I go sit at the small table by Béatrice, who sips on a cup of coffee.

“My mother insisted on making crêpes for you!” she announces, proud.

I blush. “Thank you,” I say when Marie-Claire hands me a plate of Nutella crêpes. “She really shouldn’t have,” I whisper to Béatrice.

“Try and tell her that!” Béatrice exclaims with a playful smile.

I smile back, then take a bite of the crêpe…

?oh, man, this is divine! Marie-Claire glows with pride upon seeing my reaction.

A few minutes later, Jér?me peeks into the kitchen to grab a crêpe before going to school.

He’s about nine years younger than his big sister but is much taller than both her and their mother.

He has the hair and eyes of his father and the energy of a sixteen-year-old.

Jér?me waves at me when he sees me.

“Hello, Liliana!” he greets with a smile and a French accent. “How are you?”

I chuckle. “I’m good. How about you? How’s school going?”

“I’m good too! The lycée is good too!”

He disappears with one or two Nutella crêpes and takes off to pack his things. When I’m done with the second round forced upon me by Marie-Claire, I check my phone and instinctively search for the next flight to New York.

“You know you can stay longer, Lili,” Béatrice says with worry in her voice.

I sigh. “I know, thank you, but I don’t want to be a burden, and…?I really want to go home.”

She gives me an understanding nod. The light in her eyes changes a little, and she lays her hand on my arm.

“Come live in Paris,” she proposes. “They’re looking for a professor! I could refer you. You could easily get the job and move here!”

I laugh nervously. “I can’t just leave New York!”

However, I begin to consider the idea for a second. I have nothing in New York, just a job I barely remember, and I’m on sick leave anyway. What if I moved to Paris? I could be close to Béatrice. I could be close to the Louvre. I could go to the Eiffel Tower!

Yeah…?I feel sad I didn’t see the Eiffel Tower from up close on this trip. I don’t want to think of the unforgettable sparkles I saw from Maksim’s apartment because that means I’ll have to think of Maksim.

“You know what?” I say. “I’ll think about it.”

She accepts my answer. There’s a flight at 4:20 p.m. leaving from CDG Airport.

I can take a taxi now and have time to buy a ticket and relax.

Béatrice has to get to work as well, so I shower quickly, pack my stuff, and get ready to leave.

I give Marie-Claire a big hug and tell her I’d love to see her again.

She assures me in her best English that I am always welcome here.

She caresses the side of my face, delicately avoiding my bruise, her eyes hiding a secret plea for me to be careful.

I wave at Jér?me, hoping I’ll one day get to see this boy grow into a handsome man like his father.

I know he will make Béatrice very proud.

I don’t want to let go of Béatrice when her tram arrives. I realize I don’t know when I’ll see her again, though the idea of moving to the City of Lights still flickers in my mind. We hug for a while until she finally decides to step into the tram.

I turn around, looking at my phone, waiting for the taxi I just ordered.

I amble down the street, dragging my suitcase behind, looking for the meeting point.

When I reach the little pin on the map, my taxi, which looks like a moving grain of rice, simply vanishes.

This is the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

I’m already shaken by these past several days.

I’m upset about saying goodbye to my best friend, and I’m deeply troubled by the idea of going home, to my old life, whatever life that was, as if all of this had never happened.

As if William never tried to kill me. As if all this isn’t linked to this stupid conspiracy Syndicate. As if I never met Maksim.

I am dead afraid, and I dread my return. Nothing will ever be the same. I hear a little voice in me. An intrinsic feeling settles deep within my gut. This is far from over.

I curse at my phone, then at the taxi app, then at my hands for shaking too much. I look up, looking for a car that looks like a grain of rice. Time stops. Against all expectations, I see the figure of Maksim standing at the end of the street, leaning against a large black car with tinted windows.

My heart takes the highest of leaps.

Tears begin to roll out of my eyes. The numbness I believed I’d settle for slowly slips away, out of my reach, like it’ll never return.

Maksim is there, just a few steps away from me, watching me.

My pace increases with my heartbeat. I can’t name the emotion I feel.

Anger. Happiness. Relief. Anguish. Joy. Some kind of mixture of all five.

I run into his arms.

“Oh, thank goodness!” I exclaim, the rapture muffling my cries.

Home. That’s what he feels like.

Maksim hauls me in, his arms pressing on the arch of my back. He squeezes me, diving his face in my hair, inhaling deeply to drench himself in my scent.

“How did you find me?” I ask, my lips trembling, hanging on his neck.

He takes another deep breath of me. “The phone.”

The Bratva phone! I still carry it in my purse. Thank goodness I still carry it in my purse!

“How long have you been here?” I wonder. I let him go and delve into his deep blue eyes.

“All night.”

I chuckle slightly with euphoria. “This doesn’t look like a neighborhood where you’d spend the night,” I said, referring to the fact that Maksim Kovalyov appreciates suites at luxurious hotels and apartments by the Eiffel Tower.

His eyes betray no emotion, but his chuckle shows some humility. “You should see Belarus.”

Yes, maybe I should. Can he show me? No, stupid, I’m not going to ask that. I only have one question left.

“Why are you here?”

He looks away for a second and veers back to me.

He releases me and steps to the side, opening the door of the black car.

He motions for me to get inside. I comply and wriggle onto the brown leather seats of this expensive car.

Maksim takes my suitcase and places it in the trunk.

He comes to sit next to me, and that’s when I notice the driver: a large bald man in a black suit who looks like Vladimir back in New York.

I understand where I am and what’s going to happen. I’m going to meet the Parisian Bratva.

Vladimir II rolls up the screen so I can no longer see him, so I can no longer see anything. The windows are pitch black, outside and inside, so I won’t see where we’re headed.

Am I going to get briefed?