The Book Artist Page 3

  “Go home. To bed. I’ll bring you soup later, if you like.”

  “I know how to heat soup, Hugo.”

  “Right, of course. Look, it’s not entirely my fault; Taylor told me to keep an eye on her.”

  There was a moment of silence between them. Then she said: “Look, it’s all right. Really.” And there she was, his Claudia, full of compassion and understanding. And logic. “And let me just say this. I know you’ve been chasing harder than I have, that I have no claim to you and no right to . . . you know. Go and have fun tonight. Dinner with a pretty woman . . . it’s fine.”

  “Dinner,” he said. “How did you know?”

  “Please, my love. I can almost smell the escargots from here.”

  “Oh, you’re good,” he said.

  “You’re not the only one who can profile people.”

  “Me and garlic,” Hugo said, laughing. “That’s a little obvious, a little too easy.”

  “Maybe, but I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “You are.”

  “Well, have fun and let’s talk tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, and that’s a deal,” Hugo said. “You should go home and get some rest.”

  “I will. And I meant what I said, you have fun tonight, Hugo, OK? Please don’t worry about me or chivalry, or doing the right thing. Have some fun.”

  They hung up, but immediately Hugo’s phone buzzed, and he considered throwing it in the nearest trash can so people would leave him alone for the rest of the night. He felt even more that way when he checked the screen.

  “Tom, hey, sorry—”

  “Fuckface, you were supposed to call me back.”

  “Yeah, I know. Something came up. Look, is there anything happening right this moment that I need to know about?”

  “This moment I’m standing in front of a window and underneath a red light.”

  “I’ll take that as a no. Let me call you in the morning.”

  “The morning? Why?”

  “Because I’m busy tonight.”

  There was silence for a second, then Tom laughed. “A glass of pinot noir and a book do not constitute busy, Hugo.”

  “Very funny. I mean actually busy.”

  “That so?” Tom sounded skeptical. “Do tell.”

  “I have to go. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.” Hugo looked through the bistro’s front window and saw Alia Alsaffar at a table for two, looking at a menu in her hands. “But I think I might be on a date.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The small restaurant was not even half-full, but it felt cozy thanks to the Christmas decorations, the green-and-red lights over the bar, and sprigs of holly on each table. Silver tinsel framed the large mirror at the back of the restaurant, and the large wooden coat racks were laden with jackets, hats, and scarfs. Waiters glided back and forth from the kitchen to the occupied tables, trays either loaded with plates and glasses, or tucked under their arms. Hugo ordered one of the better bottles of Bordeaux, silently thanking Ambassador Taylor, and then they turned their attention to the food menu, although Hugo had decided on his meal long ago. Alsaffar eventually concurred on the duck confit and ordered the same dish for herself, but she decided just to watch Hugo eat his appetizer of a half dozen snails.

  “It’s kind of funny that you like those so much,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “No reason. I just don’t think of snails as food.”

  “I’m happy with just five of them,” he said. “You should really try one.”

  “I probably should, this being my one and only ever trip to Paris,” she said. “But I think I’ll pass.”

  “Try the sauce at least.”

  She took a piece of bread from the basket, tore it into four smaller pieces, and dipped one into the garlic-butter sauce on Hugo’s plate. She popped it into her mouth and chewed slowly, and her eyes widened with pleasure.

  “That is good,” she said. “So very good. Can’t they find something other than slugs to serve with garlic butter, though?”

  “Snails,” he corrected. “And special ones, not just any old snail will do.”

  “I’m sure they’re honored to be chosen.” She looked up suddenly, over Hugo’s shoulder and out the front window. “Uh-oh, this could be trouble.”

  “What’s up?” Hugo turned and saw a man in his midtwenties walking into the restaurant. He was handsome, with a thick head of swept-back brown hair, but his face was like thunder, and he marched up to the table and glared down at Alia.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded, not even looking at Hugo.

  “Eating dinner.” She gestured toward Hugo. “Hugo Marston, meet my friend Josh Reno.”

  Reno continued to ignore Hugo. “‘Friend,’ now, is it? Not ‘apprentice,’ ‘assistant,’ ‘acolyte’ even?”

  “We’ve had this discussion, Josh. I’m not having it again. Certainly not here and now.”

  “Right, because you get to decide when and where we talk, and what we say. You get to decide everything because now you’re a fucking star, right?”

  Hugo stood, and when he spoke his voice was gentle. “Hey, Mr. Reno, I don’t mean to get in the middle of anything, but I’d love to finish my dinner without any unnecessary drama. Would you mind continuing this later?”

  Reno finally looked at Hugo with bloodshot eyes. “Would I mind? Yes, I’d fucking mind.”

  Hugo didn’t flinch, but there was no mistaking the alcohol sweetness on Reno’s breath. Their waiter, an older man with a shock of white hair that stood almost straight up, approached.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked in French.

  “Oui, monsieur,” Hugo replied. “Or if not, it soon will be.”

  The waiter moved away, eyes uncertain, but he gave them their space.

  Reno was an inch or two shorter than Hugo’s six-two, and probably thirty pounds lighter, but he didn’t back down. “Who the hell are you, anyway? Did she seriously just pick you up?” He looked past Hugo at Alsaffar. “Or is this someone you’ve had on tap for a while and just not mentioned to me?”

  “My name is Hugo Marston. I work for the embassy and was here to give Alia a ride to the embassy’s Christmas party.”

  Reno rolled his eyes, and when he spoke his words were slurred. “Jesus, now she’s too important to take the metro?”

  “She decided she didn’t want to go to the event after all, and, since I don’t like parties either, we’re having something to eat instead.”

  “Well, that sounds more like her, changing her mind last-second and leaving people in the lurch. Yeah, that part I can believe.”

  Alsaffar spoke up, her voice firm. “Josh, this is not helping. We’ll talk later.”

  “How dare you do this to me? You’re basically ruining my career— you know that, right?”

  “No, I’m not,” she said.

  “Destroying everything I’ve worked for.”

  “That’s a little dramatic, Josh.”

  “No, it’s not!” He was red in the face. “I’ve given up my life to help you, and now you’re the star, it’s bye-bye, Josh, thanks for all the help, now get lost.”

  “None of this was my call,” she insisted, “I told you that.”

  “Yeah, you did. And all that tells me is you won’t even take responsibility for your own actions.”

  “Josh, please,” she pleaded. “Go back to the hotel and we’ll talk later. This is not the time or place.”

  “You don’t get to tell me what to do any more,” Reno said, eyes blazing. “I’ll go where I want, and it’s not back to the hotel.”

  Hugo was about to intervene again, but Reno spun on his heel and stormed out of the bistro, and just about everyone inside watched him go.

  “I’m so sorry about that,” Alsaffar said. “Long story.”

  “Not your fault,” Hugo said, retaking his seat. “And if the service here is as slow as I hope, we have plenty of time.”

  “OK then,” she smiled. “I guess I can fill you in. He’s an ar
tist, Josh. A great painter, a good sculptor. Better with execution than ideas, but he has talent.”

  “As well as a temper.” Hugo refilled their wine glasses.

  “Honestly, I’m afraid he does. He’s not violent or anything, but he can shout and scream occasionally. Usually at some inanimate project that isn’t going the way he wants it to.” She took a sip of wine. “Anyway. He and I worked together on a project about three years ago, and we became friends. Then, when my work started to get attention, he traveled with me as kind of an assistant, setting things up, helping with travel logistics. Especially, with this book installation, it’s taken us all over the country.”

  “Driving the U-Haul, that kind of thing?”

  “Exactly. I was invited lots of places to show my work, but, since I’m not famous, it was up to me to get it there.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work,” Hugo said.

  “It was. Exhausting at times. So it was good to have Josh around. He’s strong, hardworking, and because he’s also an artist he understands how important it is to accept when you’re offered space in a gallery, even if it’s on the other side of the continent. And he’s been amazing in terms of setting up, too, because when I display my pieces, he just puts them where I want and doesn’t quibble with me.”

  “And what does Josh get out of this arrangement, if I may ask?”

  “There you go, Mr. Polite again.” She smiled to show she was kidding. “It’s not the pay, I can tell you that much.” She suddenly sat upright, almost blushing, Hugo thought. “And not . . . that either. Completely platonic, I promise you.”

  Hugo held his hands up. “Hey, none of my business.”

  “Well, if we had been, it’d explain why he interrupted our date with such drama.”

  So it is a date. “True enough.”

  She smiled. “Not that this is really a date, but you know what I mean.”

  Ah well. “Absolutely.”

  “No, he’s upset with me because of how this trip is working out. You asked what he got out of it . . . Well, in exchange for his help, I always arrange for some of his work to be on display too. Half a dozen pieces and a poster with his picture and information about him, some quotations from me about how awesome he is.”

  “So he gets to sell his work, too.”

  “Right. And get some exposure, which is incredibly hard in the art world if you’re not already well known.” She sighed and ran a finger around the top of her wine glass. “He thought he was going to get some exposure here, maybe sell some stuff, because this exhibition was organized by the same people who did the last one, in Washington, DC, and they were fine with it over there. But we heard today that they didn’t ship any of his work over. Neither of us read the fine print, or double-checked. It’s both our fault, but he’s the one left out in the cold.”

  “Literally.”

  “He wanted me to pull some strings, have his work delivered anyway and hope it gets here in time for the last few days.” She shrugged. “I tried. I called the man who is sponsoring everything, but he refused. Nicely, for the most part.”

  “Why?”

  “He doesn’t like Josh’s work that much. He didn’t say that, but I know, I can tell. He said that because we have the honor of having the exhibition at the Dalí museum, we shouldn’t dilute my work with his. Plus, he said that the museum itself hasn’t agreed, and wouldn’t.”

  “But why does Josh blame you?” Hugo asked. “None of this sounds like your fault at all. Certainly not any more than it is his.”

  “I know. But he’s a little paranoid.” She laughed gently. “All artists are, to some extent. We all feel like frauds, like we don’t know what we’re doing and are about to be exposed as shysters.”

  “I met the author James Ziskin last year,” Hugo said. “He said the same about writers.”

  “There you go, then. All artists feel that way. But we also tend toward envy, I’m afraid.”

  “A natural human emotion.”

  “But not always a pleasant one. When someone starts to rise out of the depths of anonymity, the artists around them are happy, of course, but also envious. Sometimes actively jealous.”

  “Josh Reno’s jealous of your success?”

  “He’d admit to slight envy, not to being jealous. But, yes, I think he is. And this trip isn’t helping, in more ways than I just told you.”

  They sat back as the waiter arrived with their food, large plates of duck confit served atop a pile of mashed potatoes, and surrounded by colorful vegetables.

  They both thanks the waiter, and Hugo said, “Go on.”

  “Well, he’s not been very useful here. My sponsors, Rachel and JD Rollo, paid for everything to be shipped over and set up.” She looked down. “They didn’t even want to pay for his airline ticket and hotel.”

  “Do sponsors usually pay for that?”

  She nodded. “Usually it’s just gas money, though. Maybe a cheap motel room in Kansas.”

  “Let me guess. You paid for his ticket.”

  “And hotel room. He’s been good to me. Good for me. It’s the least I could do, but . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “He found out today?”

  “We had a talk, yes, about all of it. Including that.”

  “And he didn’t take it well,” Hugo prompted.

  “He saw it as the end of our association. Not just me moving up and away, but him, as a result, moving down. I was his outlet.” She took a bite of duck and closed her eyes in appreciation for a moment. “Good choice. This is delicious.”

  Hugo was chewing his own mouthful and nodded in agreement.

  Alsaffar continued. “So, Josh thinks I’m leaving him behind. Abandoning him.”

  “You kind of are,” Hugo pointed out. “Except that it’s not your fault.”

  “That’s true, but now he has to go back to America and try and make it by himself. It doesn’t much matter whose fault it is, or isn’t, he’s on his own now.”

  “That’s how the world works. He doesn’t have a right to ride your coattails to fame. You made it on your own merit; almost all artists and writers do.”

  “Well, I had benefactors of a sort,” she said.

  “But in terms of talent and hard work, you got yourself here.”

  “You’re right, I know. And he’ll see it that way. Just not tonight, apparently.” She brightened suddenly. “But, hey, we’re in a bistro in Paris. Enough of my problems, we need to be enjoying ourselves.”

  “Yes, we do. Why don’t you tell me a little more about yourself.”

  “Well, I’m Alia Michelle Alsaffar. Half Iraqi, which explains the skin, and half Irish, which explains the hair. I trained as a social worker, but have been taking photographs all my life. I had a photography business for a while, weddings and the like. I dabbled with various art forms, painting and sculpture, and found I had a passion for the latter.”

  “When was this?”

  She laughed into her wine glass. “That’s your polite way of asking how old I am, right?”

  “No, I’d never do such a thing,” he protested.

  “I’m thirty-two. I’ve been pursuing my art career full-time for about the last five years.”

  “And now you’re the talk of the town.”

  “We’ll see after tomorrow, I guess.”

  “Ah, yes. Opening night of the exhibition. Are you nervous?”

  She threw him a look that said, Duh, of course. But she said, “I’ll be fine once it’s open and a few people show up. And once someone opens the champagne.”

  “A lot of people will show up—just you watch.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” she laughed. “After all, this is the biggest launch of my career. . . . People have to show up, right?”

  “Quite right. . . . So you have family to share this journey with?”

  “Not really. My father died when I was young, I never knew him, and my mother and stepfather died more recently.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Hugo said
.

  “Don’t be. I’ve accepted and dealt with my mother’s death, and my stepfather . . . well, he wasn’t the supportive daddy I’d have chosen.”

  “No?”

  “I don’t want to talk about him, Hugo, but I will say he did more for me in death than he did in life.”

  “I’m scared to ask what that means.”

  “He didn’t care for any art, let alone mine. But when he died, I inherited an apartment in London that I didn’t even know existed. Probably used it for his mistresses. I also inherited a ne’er-do-well stepbrother who got my step-dad’s cash, and who’ll be at the event tomorrow.” She flashed white teeth at Hugo. “And that’s all I have to say about family.”

  “Understood, then let’s move on from that. Do you have plans for after the exhibition?”

  “Do you mean next week or next year?”

  “Either,” Hugo said. “Or both.”

  “I have that apartment in London. There’s a guy renting it from me, but he agreed to terminate the lease early to accommodate me.”

  “That’s nice. Or did he do it because you’re famous and beautiful?” Hugo blushed. “Sorry, that was painfully corny.”

  Alsaffar laughed. “That’s OK, I’m happy for the compliment. But to answer your question, I’ve never met my tenant, John Smith. And, yes, that’s really his name. He’s some hermit who has no idea how beautiful, or not, I am, since we’ve done everything by email. He wouldn’t even talk to me on the phone.”

  “I imagine there are photos of you on the internet.”

  “Oh, yeah, good point. If hermits use the internet. Anyway, my plan is to live in London and do another show in Mayfair in about three weeks. Assuming all goes well here, of course.” She leaned back and looked at him for a moment. “Now tell me about you. Who’s this Hugo Marston I’m having dinner with?”

  “Not as exotic as Alia Alsaffar, I can promise you that,” he said with a smile. “I grew up in Texas, Austin to be specific. Joined the FBI like I’d always wanted to, then joined the diplomatic corps so I could see the world.”

  “What did you do for the FBI? Sounds exciting.”

  “Sometimes it was, sometimes not so much. I was in the Behavioral Analysis Unit, the BAU.”

  “Ooh, a profiler? That’s pretty sexy. You know, Hugo, next time you’re having dinner with a strange woman, you should lead with that.”