"You think they'd have those little disposable cameras around here?"
"Only French ones."
He hesitated for a moment, then gave me a dirty look.
"I'll be back," he said.
Of course, he left his ticket and passport in the pocket of the coat draped over his chair, and when the announcement came that we were about to board, I got an urgent text message on my pager that no one would let him back inside the lounge. He was waiting at the desk, face flushed with anger, a security guard beside him.
"Sorry," I said, handing one of the attendants Marino's passport and ticket.
"Let's not begin the trip this way," I said to him under my breath as we walked back through the lounge, following other passengers to the plane.
"I told them I'd go get it. Bunch of French sons of bitches. If people would speak English like they're supposed to, this kinds, shit wouldn't happen."
Our seats were together, but fortunately, the plane wasn't full, so I moved across the aisle from him. He seemed to take this personally until I gave him half of my chicken with lime sauce, my sponge roll with vanilla mousse, and my chocolates. I had no idea how many beers he drank, but he was -up and down a lot, making his way along the narrow aisle while we flew twice the speed of sound. We arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport at 6:20 P.m.
A dark blue Mercedes was waiting for us outside the terminal, and Marino tried to strike up a conversation with the driver, who would neither let him sit in the front seat nor pay any attention to him. Marino sullenly smoked out his window, cold air washing in as he watched abject apartments scarred with graffiti and miles of switchyards draw us into a lit-up skyline of a modern city. The great corporate gods of Hertz, Honda, Technics and Toshiba glittered in the night from their Mount -Olympian heights.
"Hell, this may as well be Chicago," Marino complained. "I feel really weird."
"Jet lag."
"I been to the West Coast before and didn't feel like this."
"This is worse jet lag," I said.
"I think it's got something to do with going that fast," he went on. "Think about it. You're looking out this little porthole like you're in a spaceship, right? You can't even see the damn horizon. No clouds that high, air's too thin to breathe, probably a hundred degrees below zero. No birds, no normal planes, no nothing."
A police officer in a blue and white Citroen with red stripes was pulling a speeder near the Banque de France. Along the Boulevard des Capucines shops turned into designer boutiques for the very rich, and I was reminded that I had failed to find out the exchange rate.
"That's why I'm hungry again;" Marino continued his scientific explanation. "Your metabolism's got to pick up when you're going that fast. Think how many calories that is. I didn't feel nothing once I got through Customs, did you? Not drunk or stuffed or nothing."
Not much decorating had been done for Christmas, not even in the heart of the city. Parisians had strung modest lights and swags of evergreen outside their bistros and shops, and so far I had seen not a single Santa except the tall inflatable one in the airport that was flapping his arms as if he were doing calisthenics. The season was celebrated a bit more, with poinsettias and a Christmas tree, in the marble lobby of the Grand H8te1, where our itinerary let us know we were staying.
"Holy shit," Marino said looking around at columns and at a huge chandelier. "What do you think a room in this joint costs?"
The musical trilling of telephones was nonstop, the line at the reception desk depressingly long. Baggage was parked everywhere, and I realized with grooving despondency that a tour group was checking in.
"You know what, Doc?" Marino said. "I won't even be able to afford a beer in this place."
"If you ever make it to the bar," I replied. "It looks like we may be here all night."
Just as I said that, someone touched my arm, and I found a man in a dark suit standing next to me, smiling.
"Madame Scarpetta, Monsieur Marino?" He motioned us out of line. "I'm so sorry, I just now saw you. My name is Ivan. You're already checked in. Please, I will show you to your rooms."
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 cafй 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 cafй, 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."