The Book Artist Page 4

  “Duly noted.” And why do I care so much that you find it sexy? “That’s basically my story.”

  “No wife and kids?”

  “Correct, no wife and kids. A needy friend named Tom, if that counts.”

  “We all have one of those. Oh, I remember now.” She snapped her fingers. “Why the ambassador was telling me about you, that is.”

  “And why was that? How did you two connect, even?”

  “Ambassador Taylor is friends with JD and Rachel, or knows them at least. They’re at your Christmas party, I expect. Anyway, because of my medium, books, the ambassador got to talking about you.” She gave him a small smile. “He suggested that you might be slightly less interested in sculpture.”

  “Well, it’s not my strong suit, a little bit like poetry.” Hugo heard the defensiveness in his own voice. “I’m sure it’s my fault, and I’m probably missing out on a lot.”

  “You are. How about you come to the opening tomorrow? I’ll explain some of my work in person.”

  “My boss already told me I was going, actually.”

  “Under duress, eh?”

  “No, I’m looking forward to it, really. I’m a big fan of the Dalí museum.”

  “Good.” She gave him a mischievous smile. “I should probably have a date for my own opening, don’t you think?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it, but sure.”

  “OK to call it a date?”

  Hugo’s mind went to Claudia, who had been the last person to give him butterflies in his stomach. The smartest, sexiest, and most independent woman he’d ever met. But, as he’d discovered, he was never quite sure where that independence left them, which is why he’d wanted to talk to her about it. They certainly weren’t in a steady relationship, but they were also . . . some kind of item, at least when they found time for each other. And as he gazed at the smiling Alia Alsaffar, he realized he had no idea what the rules were anymore, not between Claudia and him, anyway. Was she seeing other people? Hugo hadn’t so much as had dinner with another woman until tonight, let alone shared any intimacy with anyone. But he felt something with this young woman, a chemistry that set his blood fizzing and fogged his mind.

  And he was suddenly very glad the ambassador had offered his services as a driver.

  “Sure, a date. I’d like that,” he said. “So, I’m curious, why books?”

  “I was an addict growing up—couldn’t read enough. Even after lights-out, I had my nose in a book under the covers. And when it came time to clean out my bedroom, I’d throw out clothes and toys before books.”

  “So why not become a writer?”

  She laughed gently. “Writing is hard. I mean, I tried it for sure, even took creative-writing classes, but I never produced anything very good, certainly nothing I wanted other people to read.” She shrugged. “But I was good with my hands. And making things, fixing things. I used to help my neighbor with his car. So it seemed natural for my interests to turn toward painting and sculpture, and even more natural to incorporate books.”

  “Now I’m curious to see your work,” Hugo said.

  “Oh, you don’t have to say that.” Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “But since you’ve already committed, there’s definitely no backing out now.”

  Hugo held his hands up in surrender. “I’m already there, I promise.”

  “Good. And thank you. All artists have this fear that no one will show up to their exhibitions. I gather authors have the same terror when it comes to their signings.”

  “I can imagine.”

  She took another sip of wine and smiled at him. “But now I know there’ll be two of us there, at least.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next evening, Hugo and the ambassador took a taxi from the embassy north into Montmartre, and the driver let them out by the metro stop on Rue des Abbesses. The cold enveloped them immediately, and Hugo handed over too much cash so he could quickly put his gloves back on.

  “Lovely evening for a stroll,” Taylor said into his scarf. “I think it’s about to rain, too.”

  “Maybe it’ll be snow, that’d be beautiful.”

  “And even colder,” Taylor grumbled.

  “Stop complaining.” Hugo started toward the cobbled square ahead of them. “Here’s the market I want to stop at. Claudia said one of the vendors makes incredible fudge.”

  “Fudge, really?” Taylor hurried after him. “Hugo, are you going to tell me or not?”

  “About?”

  “Last night. I already asked, and you wouldn’t tell me in the car because the driver was listening.”

  “Right.”

  “Now he’s not listening, you can tell me.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “There’s a bounce in your step that tells me something different.”

  “I’m excited about the fudge,” Hugo said.

  “Right, and you’re rushing to buy Claudia her favorite fudge not out of guilt after something happened, but because you want to carry a packet of fudge with you all evening at an art show.”

  “Yep.”

  “Jesus, slow down.” Taylor was panting by the time they reached the small square that was filled with colorful stalls. “And that’s another thing.”

  “Here we are.” Hugo stopped walking and looked around. “Isn’t this neat?”

  A dozen parents stood around smiling as their children whirled past on a colorful carousel, waving from their perches atop carriages, planes, and flying squirrels. Around the carousel, street vendors were bundled against the chill, their eyes roaming over the browsers, eager to pounce on an interested party. Two beautiful Indian women, sisters maybe, were selling scarves of every color, and next to them a young man with a thick beard offered samples of his honey. Cheese from the Pyrenees was being sold next to him by a burly older man, who stood back from his wares with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

  “This is very cool,” Taylor said. “Now tell me what happened last night?”

  Hugo gave him a sideways look. “Do you have romantic intentions yourself, boss?”

  “If I were twenty years younger, maybe. Scratch that, definitely.”

  “You just seem real interested in my evening, is all.”

  Taylor sighed and explained it slowly, like he were talking to a child. “Because I live my safe, boring life vicariously through you.”

  Hugo laughed. “Well, you’ll be disappointed then.”

  “Seriously? You meant it when you said nothing happened?”

  “We had a nice dinner, then I walked her back to the hotel.”

  “And . . .?”

  “We had a drink at the bar. After that, I left.” Hugo left out the details he knew Taylor would want. The occasional touches, the laughing at silly jokes, and the lingering looks they’d shared. He wouldn’t have minded letting Taylor in on some of this, but not yet. These memories needed to remain as just Hugo’s for now, something for him to savor and enjoy all to himself until something more happened. Or until they disappeared into nothingness, if that was how it was to be.

  “You didn’t walk her to her room?” Taylor suggested.

  “She actually knew the way, she’s a pretty remarkable woman.”

  “Funny.” Taylor sighed again. “Well, let’s go find that fudge. And it damn well better be good.”

  It was. Both men thanked the seller for their samples and stood there with their eyes closed as the surprisingly light delicacy quite literally dissolved in their mouths.

  “Wow,” said Hugo. “I’ll take a pound of that, please.”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  “And I’ll take two pounds,” Taylor said. He turned to Hugo. “Claudia, eh? What did you tell her about last night?”

  “We haven’t spoken today. I left her a message and she left me one, we’ve not connected.”

  “She coming tonight?”

  “I invited her, but her return message said something about a training run, for that marathon she’s doing,” Hugo said. “
I hope it was all right to invite her, in case she does show up.”

  “One of the benefits of being the United States ambassador,” Taylor said, puffing himself up. “We can get anyone into anything as long as we’re there.”

  “Must be nice.”

  “The flip side is, we have to go to lots of places we don’t want to.”

  “Like art exhibitions?” Hugo asked.

  “Which reminds me. You were pretty quick to agree to this one.”

  “You ordered me to go, I didn’t agree to anything.”

  “Oh, right, I forgot.”

  “Plus, she asked me nicely last night.” Hugo nudged his boss. “In fact, I’m her date for the event.”

  “You never mentioned that part. Also, I didn’t order you, I asked nicely.”

  “As you always do.” Hugo was serious for a moment. “Which reminds me, what was the trouble, something about a car you said?”

  “Back in DC? She thought she was being followed, then the car following her almost ran her over when she crossed the street. Probably just some lunatic.”

  “Why would someone want to hurt her?”

  “She was with her assistant, Josh Reno, and he managed to get the car’s license plate.”

  “I met Josh last night,” Hugo said.

  “You did? I thought he and Alia were on the outs.”

  “They are. Were. Quite publicly. That’s how I met him.” Hugo figured he’d go into that later, if need be. “The license plate, you were saying.”

  “Yeah, it didn’t exist.”

  “A plate with fake numbers?”

  “Numbers, letters, maybe both. But, yes, the driver had altered the plate.”

  “Interesting,” Hugo said. “Shows premeditation of some illegal act. Either the driver was following and trying to hurt Alia, or he was up to some other illegal activity and the rest was coincidence.”

  “But we couldn’t really come up with a suspect or a reason why someone would do her harm. She certainly couldn’t think of anything. So we’re left with that coincidental run-in with someone up to no good.”

  “And a nagging doubt in the back of your mind.”

  “Correct.” Ambassador Taylor clapped Hugo on the shoulder. “We’ve been in this business too long, we see ghosts and ghouls around every corner.”

  “But when you’re in the business,” Hugo said, thinking of Tom hunting a real or an imaginary Rick Cofer, “it’s better to see them when they’re not there, as opposed to not seeing them when they are.”

  Hugo was pleased to see a line of maybe fifteen or twenty people at the entrance to the small Dalí museum, all wrapped up in wool coats and long scarves. He was happy to be seeing Alia again, too, and would have been content getting a personal tour from her, let alone being her date, whatever that meant under the circumstances. He was excited for her, wanted her exhibition to do well, especially the launch.

  But someone in the line was less than happy. He stood three people ahead of Hugo and the ambassador, a frown on his face and his feet kicking at the ground. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, and every now and again he’d shake his head.

  Hugo nudged Taylor and gestured forward. His voice was a whisper when he spoke. “That’s Josh Reno.”

  “Ah,” Taylor replied. “Doesn’t look happy.”

  Just then, Reno looked over his shoulder and spotted Hugo, who gave him a friendly nod. Reno looked down, then straightened himself up and stepped out of line. He walked up to Hugo, who readied himself for a confrontation.

  “You were with Alia last night,” Reno said.

  “That’s right.”

  “I . . . I owe you an apology.”

  Hugo was taken aback, not expecting that from Reno. “Oh, it’s OK, please don’t worry about it.”

  “No, really. I had a few drinks, and I was upset. But I was out of line, and I’m sorry if I ruined your dinner. I feel like an idiot.”

  “We all do dumb stuff from time to time,” Hugo said. “I appreciate the apology; it takes a brave man to do that.”

  “Yeah, well.” Reno shrugged. “That’s all, I just wanted to say sorry.”

  Hugo offered his hand and, when Reno took it, Hugo said, “No hard feelings, Josh. Now go claim your place in line, I think that couple is holding it for you.”

  “Thanks, man.” He gave Hugo a brief smile, and nodded at Taylor before sidling up to where he’d been standing. The couple let him back in, and they all continued the slow shuffle forward toward the doors.

  Once inside, Hugo and Taylor swapped their hats and coats for a ticket with the coat-check clerk, a heavy-set man with thinning hair and ruddy cheeks. He looked a little old to be doing the job, and seemed to Hugo more interested in reading his book, The Paper Trip, but he gave them both friendly nods and smiles when handing them their tickets. Hugo held out a five-euro note as a tip, but the man didn’t take it, instead pointing to the small plastic bucket that sat next to a bottle of hand sanitizer.

  “Merci,” the man said with an obvious American accent, and then he turned his attention to the couple behind Hugo.

  A museum employee checked their names against the list of invitees and then directed them downstairs to the exhibit space. Hugo had visited the museum once before, but not for several years, and when he reached the foot of the stairs he looked around. It was a relatively small space, one large room with several smaller ones at the end of short corridors that led off it. Most of the Dalí sculptures looked to have been moved out, or perhaps shifted to one of the smaller rooms.

  “Books, eh?” Taylor said. “This is actually quite impressive.”

  “It is,” Hugo agreed. He was relieved, too, because he didn’t want to not like Alia’s work, and he didn’t want to have to lie and say otherwise.

  The main floor was dominated by what looked like a thick tree trunk, ten feet tall with its largest branches chopped down to nubs, and all of the bark flayed off. It was, though, made of books laid flat on top of each other, the spines inward so the pages showed the look of wood. It was textured and real-looking, yet obviously a clever piece of art.

  He moved closer to study it, see if it had a name, and suddenly felt a hand on his arm. He turned to see Alia Alsaffar smiling at him.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “It’s exceptional, it really is. And if I may be so bold, you look stunning,” Hugo said with a smile.

  She did. Her eyes sparkled with the excitement of the evening, and her beautiful coffee skin glowed, untouched by makeup as far as he could tell. But it was her dress that took Hugo’s breath away. It looked, at first glance, to be made of small strips of leather sewn together, the top one tight around her neck like a collar, connecting to the web-like dress that hugged her body. It was revealing, daring, and very sexy, yet it showed less than it seemed to, and, standing close, Hugo could see that it was, in fact, made from rectangles of leather that had once been the spines of classic books. The faded gold and colored lettering that spelled out the titles of the books and authors glittered subtly as she moved. The look was bondage, but the details were purely literary, a deceit that tickled Hugo’s sense of humor greatly.

  “I meant the art, silly,” she said. “And thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself.”

  “The dress is genius—did you come up with the idea?”

  “I did, and sewed it myself. Is it too revealing?”

  “No, it’s absolutely perfect.” He gestured to the tree made of books. “And I like this a lot, too. It’s clever but also looks amazing. How did you ever think to create such a piece?”

  “I always hated seeing books thrown away, even being sold off for pennies. Not just because it seemed like a waste of literature, but because of the waste of wood. Paper can be recycled, but once a tree has been cut down, well, I guess you can replace it, but that particular tree is gone forever.”

  “This was your way of returning those used books to their original form,” Hugo said.

  “Exac
tly.”

  “I think it’s brilliant, then. Show me something else.”

  “With pleasure.” She looked around. “Hey, have you seen Josh? We didn’t talk last night, and I have no idea where he’s been all day.”

  “I saw him outside, in line to come in here. He actually apologized for making a scene last night; I was impressed.”

  “Really? If he’s not mad, I wonder why he’s not returning my texts or phone calls.”

  “There he is,” Hugo said.

  Reno was at the back of the main room, leaning against the wall with two glasses of champagne in his hands. He was looking around at the thirty or so guests, but Hugo couldn’t read his expression. Somewhere between bored and annoyed, if he had to guess.

  “I should go talk to him,” Alsaffar said. “Make sure he’s not angry with me.”

  “Want me to go with you?”

  “No, I don’t think he’ll cause a scene in here.”

  “OK. I’ll hover close by just in case,” Hugo said. He moved away, giving her space to approach Reno, but circled back and placed himself in front of another of her pieces. This one was a bookcase, made of books of course, but each outward-facing cover contained the word case. It took him a moment, but when he studied the books on the shelves, all of which had their spines showing, he saw that the titles spelled out a message when read in sequence, telling mini stories. A different story for each shelf, each with its own theme. The top one read:

  What was she thinking? / Embracing danger / While I was gone / As if / Nothing mattered / When / The killer inside me / Once / Out of sight / Beneath the surface / Struck / Forced to kill /

  “You have to add in the punctuation yourself,” a voice beside him said. “Commas in the top one.”

  She was tall and slim, and she wore a long-sleeved black dress that had a mock turtleneck, with a keyhole opening in it, and a daring slit up the side. Her long brown hair was down over her shoulders, parted expertly to the side and framing her fine, and very beautiful, features. Large, blue-gray eyes held Hugo’s for a second, appraising him.

  “It’s very clever,” he said.