Excerpt
Paris finally returned to its splendor at dusk. The lights from the
bateaux-mouches cruise boats caressed the buildings on the Left Bank. The bridges cast wavering shadows on the waters of the Seine. At the corner of the Rue Dauphine, a few patches of half-melted snow, curiously saved despite the passing footsteps, were shining under the streetlights.Benjamin Cooker had felt deprived of light all day. He awaited this miraculous hour, when everything could be reborn in the fleeting glow of night. As he got older, he had less tolerance for the unchanging leaden sky that covered Paris in winter. Everything, from the pallid faces of café servers to the hotel concierges waxy complexion, the bare trees in the Tuileries Gardens, and the homeless camping out on the subway grates, seemed dull and gray. He had loved this city in his happy-go-lucky days, and now he found it suffocating.
Here, even the snow was hoary, dirty, and reduced to mud in a few hours with the constant comings and goings of the city. He missed peaceful Médoc, and he was impatient to return to his home, Grangebelle, the next day. The vineyards would be superb, all white and wrapped in silence. The cold would be dry and refreshing, and the sky nearly royal blue. He would go for a solitary walk along the Gironde just to hear the snow crunch under his boots. Elisabeth got cold easily and would probably remain in front of the fire in the living room, her hands around a steaming cup of tea.
Benjamin Cooker drove slowly, letting his gloves glide over the steering wheel while he whistled along with a Chopin nocturne on the radio. According to the too-ceremonious radio host, it was Opus 19. He was comfortable, settled into the leather seat of his classic Mercedes 280SL. He turned onto Pont des Arts to get to his hotel, which was near the opera house. The red light was taking forever. He lifted the collar of his Loden and turned up the radio. Someone approached the car, flicking his thumb to mimic a lighter. Cooker squinted to get a better look at the mans face. It was hidden under a hood, but he seemed young, despite his stooped, somewhat misshapen form. Cooker shook his head and waved his hands to indicate that he did not smoke.
The light turned green, but Cooker did not have time to accelerate. His car door opened suddenly, as if it had been ripped off, and cold air rushed in.
“Take that, rich bastard.”
The man pulled out a switchblade. Cooker did not move. Dont panic. Stay calm. Breathe slowly. Think fast. He felt the tip of the knife on his Adams apple and gulped. A second man opened the other door and searched the glove compartment.
“Get rid of him,” he said, unbuckling Cookers seat belt.
The hooded man hit Cooker twice in the jaw, grabbed him by the tie, and dragged him to the ground. Then he started kicking him in the stomach, head, and ribs—“Take that, asshole.” The taste of blood and thick grit from the pavement burned his lips—“Your mothers a bitch.” A final glance, a few notes of Chopin—“Eat shit, dirtbag!”—and screeching tires. Then nothing.