better than you."
"And Lucille. With her schedule—everyday, it's another project with them. Yesterday morning she asked Marc Laval if the children could gather the eggs. You should have seen the chaos! The chickens flying, Chloe and the boys screaming. Marc stood in the doorway, arms crossed. He wasn't angry exactly, but I could tell he wasn't pleased, either. . . . Do you know Georges and Émile set up a table at the end of the driveway to sell the eggs. For three hours they tried, but not a single car came down the road! Finally Laval bought the eggs himself."
"He didn't."
"He did!"
"But the man collects them every day for us. He has his own chickens!"
Claire propped her arm on a pillow. "What do the children know of that? They have a little money in their pockets and think they're rich. Lucille will have them up in the morning working on some new project. She's wonderful with them, Henri. Better than I ever was."
"That's not true."
"I didn't have her energy, and God knows I don't, now."
"You did." He kissed her hand. "You're just too senile to remember."
She poked him. "I've finished a painting—did I tell you? I'm in the middle of crating it for an exhibition in June. New York this time."
"What of?"
"You mean who."
"Alright. Who?"
"You, my dear."
Poincaré sat up.
"Relax. It's abstract, even for me. Not even Etienne will see you in it. But it's you just the same."
"And this is going to hang in some stranger's house?"
"We'll decide that after the exhibition."
"I'll buy it. Don't send it off."
"I've made a commitment. And I'm not selling—to you, anyway. Possibly to Etienne for a euro or two."
"Claire, please. . . . Have you titled it?"
"I'm considering 'A Serious Man.' Or just your initials, above mine. When we're back in Lyon, you'll come for a look." She slipped a hand beneath his shirt. "Did you see Etienne trying to be stern with them at bedtime? It's an impossibility, same as it was for you." She laughed, and Poincaré listened to her breathing and to the creaking of the farmhouse. Through the open window came a scent of honeysuckle and a fluttering of leaves. Claire turned, and he drew her to him and they kissed. Their lips parted, barely enough to let a secret slip through, and they lay like that for a time, breathing one another's air as moonlight slanted across the bed. Claire opened her gown. "I'm just a country girl," she said, "but I know some things." And with that, for a time, Poincaré forgot Bosnia and Amsterdam and every damned place that had ever claimed a piece of him. He was with Claire, and the world was right.
CHAPTER 12
Interpol had laid the thickest of blankets over Poincaré's family. Short of moving two households in two cities into a single fortress, the plan could not have been more thorough—with armed guards standing four-hour shifts around the clock; electronic surveillance of perimeters; and coordination with local police, with increased patrols. But Poincaré felt he could do more and took an indefinite leave of absence to coordinate his family's security. Well into that effort, with no end in sight to projects that were turning his apartment in Lyon and Etienne's in Paris into mini-police states, Claire's mood darkened. She warned against destroying villages in order to save them. She advised, gently, that he return to work. He ignored her complaints even though they triggered a painful memory of the time she took Etienne on a month-long holiday, alone. "Love us first," she insisted. "Love your family first, then your job." In time, they compromised: while his assignments might take him away for weeks on end, when he returned he would do so in body and mind. He would shield his family from the business of police work. For three decades, the agreement held—until Banović voided it.
In a
"And Lucille. With her schedule—everyday, it's another project with them. Yesterday morning she asked Marc Laval if the children could gather the eggs. You should have seen the chaos! The chickens flying, Chloe and the boys screaming. Marc stood in the doorway, arms crossed. He wasn't angry exactly, but I could tell he wasn't pleased, either. . . . Do you know Georges and Émile set up a table at the end of the driveway to sell the eggs. For three hours they tried, but not a single car came down the road! Finally Laval bought the eggs himself."
"He didn't."
"He did!"
"But the man collects them every day for us. He has his own chickens!"
Claire propped her arm on a pillow. "What do the children know of that? They have a little money in their pockets and think they're rich. Lucille will have them up in the morning working on some new project. She's wonderful with them, Henri. Better than I ever was."
"That's not true."
"I didn't have her energy, and God knows I don't, now."
"You did." He kissed her hand. "You're just too senile to remember."
She poked him. "I've finished a painting—did I tell you? I'm in the middle of crating it for an exhibition in June. New York this time."
"What of?"
"You mean who."
"Alright. Who?"
"You, my dear."
Poincaré sat up.
"Relax. It's abstract, even for me. Not even Etienne will see you in it. But it's you just the same."
"And this is going to hang in some stranger's house?"
"We'll decide that after the exhibition."
"I'll buy it. Don't send it off."
"I've made a commitment. And I'm not selling—to you, anyway. Possibly to Etienne for a euro or two."
"Claire, please. . . . Have you titled it?"
"I'm considering 'A Serious Man.' Or just your initials, above mine. When we're back in Lyon, you'll come for a look." She slipped a hand beneath his shirt. "Did you see Etienne trying to be stern with them at bedtime? It's an impossibility, same as it was for you." She laughed, and Poincaré listened to her breathing and to the creaking of the farmhouse. Through the open window came a scent of honeysuckle and a fluttering of leaves. Claire turned, and he drew her to him and they kissed. Their lips parted, barely enough to let a secret slip through, and they lay like that for a time, breathing one another's air as moonlight slanted across the bed. Claire opened her gown. "I'm just a country girl," she said, "but I know some things." And with that, for a time, Poincaré forgot Bosnia and Amsterdam and every damned place that had ever claimed a piece of him. He was with Claire, and the world was right.
CHAPTER 12
Interpol had laid the thickest of blankets over Poincaré's family. Short of moving two households in two cities into a single fortress, the plan could not have been more thorough—with armed guards standing four-hour shifts around the clock; electronic surveillance of perimeters; and coordination with local police, with increased patrols. But Poincaré felt he could do more and took an indefinite leave of absence to coordinate his family's security. Well into that effort, with no end in sight to projects that were turning his apartment in Lyon and Etienne's in Paris into mini-police states, Claire's mood darkened. She warned against destroying villages in order to save them. She advised, gently, that he return to work. He ignored her complaints even though they triggered a painful memory of the time she took Etienne on a month-long holiday, alone. "Love us first," she insisted. "Love your family first, then your job." In time, they compromised: while his assignments might take him away for weeks on end, when he returned he would do so in body and mind. He would shield his family from the business of police work. For three decades, the agreement held—until Banović voided it.
In a
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