I turn the knob and push the door made of cherry wood, hard and heavy enough to need a little more effort to open. A kind of warning or a second chance for me to rethink my choice. However, once again, it is fate dictating the rules of the game.
First, I hear the sound of someone walking in this direction and then a familiar voice.
Amélia!
So, indecision is overcome by the need for me to go inside and hide.
I place myself listening with my ears glued to the door while my eyes peek through the lock.
“ Marie, come to the main corridor, I need a favor and I can't go to the salon2, She uses her free hand to hold her cell phone and talk, as the other tries to hold the top of her dress so that she doesn't get half naked again.
Her face is with an unfriendly expression and her pacing from side to side is commanded by her impatience and nervousness. She also lurks on all sides and uses her cell phone to call again, only this time, it would be a secret call.
Her voice is low and I have a hard time hearing, I can't rely on sound alone, I have to read the movement of her lips to decipher what is being said.
“ Anthony, she found out about us…”, She runs her hand over her face, however, her incompetence in being a simple lover does not go away, “ I'll take a flight tomorrow morning, today is impossible. I'm working at a friend's house”
A second sound of walking is heard by both of us
“ The maid is coming, I have to hang up”
Marie is one of the ladies who greeted me immediately upon my arrival. Her face pales as she sees the state Amelia is in. Her heart must have stopped at the thought that the value of the dress that would provide her with a wonderful retirement is patchwork.
“ Mon Dieu, Lady Amelia…”
“No questions and it dies here. One word, one gossip, I'll get Jean to fire you with no right to anything”
His voice is so harsh it makes the woman cringe.
“ As you wish, madam!”
“ Good, now help me find a decent outfit for the deceased. I have to get back to the party.”
“ Mr. Jean has stored everyone in one of the guest rooms. It's this way, madam.”
The maid leads the way down the next corridor and they walk together until each other's silhouettes disappear. So I'm the next to make a connection:
“ Luigi!”, I speak as soon as I hear his voice on the other end of the line, “ Our suspicions were right. So do what you have to do…”
━━━━━━✧♛✧━━━━━━
Jean's office is empty. There is a dim light offered by a lamp that condemns all the furniture to live among shadows. Surprisingly, the shades of decoration are darker than the rest of the house I have seen so far. Against the wall is a huge leather sofa compared to the two others positioned, one on each side. In the middle is a rectangular table made of mahogany and glass that holds a silver ashtray that holds ashes with small sparks still lit.
Someone was smoking here before I arrived and I pray that he doesn't come back, not while I am here.
The bookshelves, also in mahogany, take up the most space, with the desk in second place. The first hold books on various subjects, although most are devoted to legal matters. They are not in alphabetical order as they would be if they were organized by the man who made Amelia's dress.
No doubt this Jean is organized, but not even half as well as his friend. I can see this from the paintings chosen that in no way match the drapes or the rugs under my shoes. On the other hand, the papers left on the table show only the reverse side of the sheet accompanied by exclusive pens that present him as a classic and discreet man.
What surprises me are the trophies he has won in tennis and golf matches that contradict his armchair, with its seat worn out by continuous use.
Spending hours locked in an office, how could he be an athlete?
Getting closer to the objects and portraits, I can dimly see a brunette woman dressed as a tennis player, thus testifying in favor of the armchair and my initial theory about Jean's habits. And as further evidence, I am joined by his image displayed by the next portrait, a tall, thin, brunette guy, hugging the same woman as in the previous photo. However, there are still two more faces: a woman and a man, separated by the main couple.
All are young, probably in their 20s, however, you can recognize the face of Amelia that has prevailed almost unchanged by time. And the man, well, I keep blinking to believe what my eyes insist on affirming: he is literally a copy of the Monsieur Arnault I saw die years ago.
He has my blue eyes, blond hair, and his father's charm and elegance. And there is no longer any doubt for me that Amelia's Affair is Adam Arnault...
“Have you lost something, mademoiselle”
The voice is cutting and I mentally scold myself for being so distracted.
“ I asked you a question!”
I turn to face the owner of the voice and it is exactly who I wished I would never meet: Jean, only now a little older than in the photo.
“ I don't think the excuse that I got lost trying to find the bathroom is worth it…”, I confess the truth, because it always impresses the so-called correct people.
“ I thank you for not making fun of my intelligence, even though you did of my notice I left on the door.”
“ Pardon, Monsieur! I…”, I pause to bring my hands together in front of my body, assuming a false posture of surrender and respect, while my eyes stare at the bookshelves, as if I were looking at a mirage, “I have always been interested in law, and when I heard that I was coming to work here, in the residence of one of the biggest lawyers in Paris, my heart wanted to jump out of my mouth just imagining that I would have a chance, no matter how small, to see what my life would have been like, my work, if I had a chance. But I know it was wrong, and I make it a point to ask for my resignation. I know how much Mistress Amelia does not tolerate faults from her employees. Bonne nuit, Monsieur.”
I am ready to leave and get rid of his presence when he signals for me to stop.
“ Calm down! Among all of them, I am the least extreme, with a few exceptions.”
He is not an idiot, he knows that I have been looking at the photographs.
“ What would they be”, I show interest.
People tend to dive headfirst when talking about what they like, and in effect forget everything around them, including the other party. Not that I am afraid that my face will be a clear memory in their minds. Because, fortunately, the dark predominates between our bodies because of the half light.
“ I don't like lies, uncertainties, unresolved situations…”
“ And you're still a lawyer?”
He laughed.
“ I try to do my best in the name of justice. I never take cases that are not for me to defend victims.”
“ And what guarantees you that a person is a victim, Monsieur”, I would say it is somewhat subjective, like seeing the number nine from opposite angles.
“ That's interesting to think about. Could you elaborate on his point of view?, He challenges me, typical of men who think they are invincible in an argument. - Pardon, I didn't even ask, do you want me to increase the light?
“ No, leave it like this! A touch of mystery to our conversation about the two uncertain sides of the same coin…”, I look at the books again, further fueling my lie.
“ You are good with words.”, He crosses his arms and leans against the wall. - And you're not a lawyer?
It's my turn to laugh and meet his eyes again with mine, which if they could speak, would say: I'm a killer, isn't that even better?
But instead, I reply:
“ I'm just warming up! Do you think I would have a future?”
“ Without convincing myself that during all these years of my career, I may be being unfair, I cannot give an opinion, mademoiselle.”
“ I thought it would be more difficult to beat a renowned lawyer…”, My smile is teasing.
“ We may be just getting started…”, He retorts, aware that he is using my tactic against me.
“ The answer is simple, Monsieur. Always the one who tells the story, forgets the reasons why he got into trouble that until then was the right way to go. But just because he becomes the losing side, he feels offended and needs justice just like a tantrum child from a mother to defend himself when he could have used his reason to avoid the predictable. If you purposely ignore the signs in the name of his will, how can I declare you a victim? “, I shrug, making it clear that this is not a negotiable point of view.
“ Are you sure you don't deal with criminal cases?
“ Only with the fork and knife in the kitchen fighting over which one is the main one.
We both laugh.
“ So I won't be prosecuted for trespassing?”
“ Non, you passed the test.”
“ What a relief! “, I bring my hand to my chest in a dramatic gesture. " Now, I must go, Monsieur. It was a pleasure!
“ It was a pleasure...your name is?”
“ Suzy!”
“ Mademoiselle Suzy, don't worry, I won't comment anything to Amelia about our informal conversation.”
“ I thank you, Monsieur, see you one day…”
I go to the door and give the last nod before closing it.
Until never again, I hope. Otherwise, Jean Laurent, you will be a stone in my shoe that I will have to get rid of....
I was supposed to go back to the kitchen, call it a night, and not give in to the temptation to pull this thread further and further. But, danger fascinates me and it remains to be seen to what extent this Adam Arnault would be my triumph against Amelia. With a bit of luck, he would go from being the target to my new toy that I would use to torture Amelia, or perhaps, in the end, both. It will all depend on how much she used my weakness as a mother to climb a miserable rung in life. So, nothing fairer than for me to use hers to get back on my feet in Paris with new schemes. And best of all, I would make my own rules. My intuition tells me that this was Amelia's plan with this man. However, it cannot be denied that there is some feeling on her part, still trapped in a possible youthful love that has never been reciprocated and has even become a laughingstock among the house maids. Poor my dear friend Amelia, better vanity than Love. An evil that should be uprooted with all the st
Leaving the Laurent mansion was as difficult as entering. I was searched and confronted with a gaze reserved especially for the poor. Because, to the security guards, all the mere mortals who set foot here tonight must have been born with a born tendency to steal and that one could never be indifferent to any object worth anything, when those who really move the world of crime wear a suit and tie or luxurious dresses, and not those who remove a mere candlestick that won't be missed.“ You are free to go, mademoiselle! “, He hands me my backpack and I remain indifferent without uttering a single word.It is not a good idea to exchange impressions with security guards. They have an excellent photographic memory just like the nos
I arrived in time to be welcomed by Winter. It is mild like a father who welcomes a son who arrives after a long journey. Instead of cooling, it warms my heart and awakens memories in me that make a lonely tear roll down my cheek. They are always as scarce as my genuine smiles or sincere gestures of affection. The last time they wet my face was the day my daughter was born. There are no memories beyond her crying that remains just like a song that still manages to lull my demons to the point of weakness. And in my world there is nothing worse than having one so exposed to the eyes of enemies, because becoming a puppet will be inevitable. That's what reminds me of these walls of this hotel. One of the secret family businesses managed by "ghosts" for emergency situations. Here were received friends, men whose lives were on a tightrope, and Lorena, so that her escape would not be discovered until the dark of night and then be thrown into the wheel of fate from which she was never to
Always before a new life, a death is necessary, not necessarily physical, but deeply existential, either to say goodbye to what is no longer part of our days or to what we once were and can never be again. “ Would you recognize her if you met her?”, Luigi is the first to throw away the silence that has prevailed since we left the Calderone mansion and drove to the cemetery. The normal thing is to bring flowers, but I carry with me a suitcase with my favorite belongings, used when I was Francisca. However, it's not me he's talking about, it's the photograph of Lorena Tatiane Calderone, still at the age of 17, very well preserved next to my father's photograph and both fixed on a cross.
Paris, present“Is that his house?”We had to blink a few times to believe it. Either Adam Arnault is a man who invites danger into his life or an idiot who denies to himself that nothing can happen to him. Only one of these options would explain the fact that his huge residence does not have cameras or multiple security guards as was the case in Jean's house.The modern architecture alternating in glass, wood and perfectly finished walls that confuse any pair of eyes that it is wallpaper and not paint and cement, accuse it of being his own house and not one he inherited from his family.
Luigi didn't have much baggage beyond the essentials. Always very practical and objective. He didn't bring his weapons or ammunition. That he could take care of once he arrived in the United States. So all that was left was a backpack with a modest amount limited by the legal restrictions governing the amount to be carried on trips.“ It's not goodbye!”, I speak excitedly, spicing up my promise to take my future business there.“I hope that in your case you can buy a couple of guys in uniforms”, he refers to the policemen, “Traveling as a good man does not suit an almost Calderone.”“ Not almost, you are a Calderone. M
“ Bonjour, un café, s'il vous plaît!”I am the first to arrive at the café in front of the newsstand where newspapers and magazines are sold. Unfortunately, it is still closed, which suggests that my anxiety has managed to beat even the sun this morning. I sip my coffee while my fingernails are tapping on the small wooden table, marking the seconds that this employee is late.It is already the second cup of coffee and nothing from him. I take a deep breath, mentalizing that I cannot behave like a stressed-out boss who converts every minute into money. Because anyway, the people I care about reading the fantastic good news are still sleeping wrapped in their imported sheets. And thank heavens I don't have to order a third cup of coffee, the clerk arrives and with him
“ Monsieur, Monsieur Adam Arnault is waiting for you in the living room. He sends word that you are running late”, Marise enters the scene, saving the day.“ I heard some noise from a cell phone ringing. It may have come from the garden.”“ Non Monsieur, it's mine. Sometimes I forget it, in the rooms of the house. Age is a fulminating thing for our minds. Please don't say anything to Monsieur Arnault.”“ D'accord, don't worry!”He decides to leave the room accompanied by the lady, but it is not safe for