Read Online The Same River Twice by Ted Mooney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ted Mooney
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phones. A salesman showed her a palm-sized computer that could download and display electronic books. “This,” he confided, “is the quintessential Anglo-Saxon invention. I myself would never own one.”
When she spotted Turner—he was at the computer-peripherals counter, trying to return a pocket scanner—her first thought was to slip downstairs and out to the street. But it was too late for that; she’d already taken a step in his direction, and with it committed herself to the whole encounter and whatever might follow.
She walked straight up to him, assuming nothing. “Remember me?” she said.
Turner looked at her in surprise, but not just surprise. “I do, Odile. Most definitely.” His face struggled for a suitable expression.
“Because that job I did for you recently? There are problems.”
“Excuse me?”
“Problems that don’t belong to me, problems I don’t want.” She shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they’re your problems. Shall I tell you about them?”
“No,” he said. “I’d really rather you didn’t.”
She tilted her head thoughtfully. “The police, then?”
“Wait.” He cast an unhappy eye over the sales floor and the customers wandering across it. “There’s a café next door.”
Ten minutes later, when they were ensconced at a corner table amid dark wood, tourists, and immaculate linen, Odile began to be alarmed at what she’d set in motion. She had not planned for this meeting, didn’t even know where to begin, and her earlier confidence threatened to desert her.
Their waiter deposited two espressos on the table in passing.
“So, Odile. You were saying?”
She let a small silence go by. “I am very curious to ask you, did the other courier, my partner, ever show up to collect his fee?”
“He didn’t, now that you mention it. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” she said quickly. “I just wondered.”
Turner leaned back in his chair and considered her, frankly and at length. She fidgeted with her coffee spoon, turning it over and over on the tabletop: concave, convex, concave again, convex. “Problems,” he said finally. “The subject was problems, yes?”
“Okay.” She forced herself to look at him. “I’m being threatened by two Russian guys—thugs, gangsters, I don’t know. They pretended to be police at first, but it’s not true. They know about the flags, and my part in getting them out of the country. I think they also wrecked my apartment, but to prove this would be difficult.”
He was nodding slowly, as if to suggest a distant familiarity with unrelated but similar events. “And what is it that they want from you?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. They’re not entirely rational.”
“Did my name come up?”
“No. They know about the flags, but your name as such didn’t come up.”
“Then, in all candor, Odile, what do you expect me to do about it?”
She held the espresso cup a little away from her lips, steadying it with her left hand, and looked into his eyes. Dark as they were—brown almost to black, the pupils a darkness within darkness—she found herself quite able to negotiate their depths. He had told a lie to match hers, a lie of omission. It didn’t matter what he thought he was concealing, or if he’d succeeded. What counted now, the only important thing, was what the two of them had recognized, each in the other.
“I was hoping we could talk about that,” she said.
MAX STOOD at the back of the theater watching his film’s final scenes.
It is dusk. The protagonist brings his battered sports car to a screeching halt on West Street, where a half-ruined pier juts nine hundred feet into the Hudson. At the end of the pier a woman stands silhouetted against the dying light, her back to him, her arms folded, her hair lifted in the wind. The man runs toward her at full speed. Here the camera reverses angles so he’s seen from her point of view—she has turned to face him—and no longer in full motion but in a
When she spotted Turner—he was at the computer-peripherals counter, trying to return a pocket scanner—her first thought was to slip downstairs and out to the street. But it was too late for that; she’d already taken a step in his direction, and with it committed herself to the whole encounter and whatever might follow.
She walked straight up to him, assuming nothing. “Remember me?” she said.
Turner looked at her in surprise, but not just surprise. “I do, Odile. Most definitely.” His face struggled for a suitable expression.
“Because that job I did for you recently? There are problems.”
“Excuse me?”
“Problems that don’t belong to me, problems I don’t want.” She shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they’re your problems. Shall I tell you about them?”
“No,” he said. “I’d really rather you didn’t.”
She tilted her head thoughtfully. “The police, then?”
“Wait.” He cast an unhappy eye over the sales floor and the customers wandering across it. “There’s a café next door.”
Ten minutes later, when they were ensconced at a corner table amid dark wood, tourists, and immaculate linen, Odile began to be alarmed at what she’d set in motion. She had not planned for this meeting, didn’t even know where to begin, and her earlier confidence threatened to desert her.
Their waiter deposited two espressos on the table in passing.
“So, Odile. You were saying?”
She let a small silence go by. “I am very curious to ask you, did the other courier, my partner, ever show up to collect his fee?”
“He didn’t, now that you mention it. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” she said quickly. “I just wondered.”
Turner leaned back in his chair and considered her, frankly and at length. She fidgeted with her coffee spoon, turning it over and over on the tabletop: concave, convex, concave again, convex. “Problems,” he said finally. “The subject was problems, yes?”
“Okay.” She forced herself to look at him. “I’m being threatened by two Russian guys—thugs, gangsters, I don’t know. They pretended to be police at first, but it’s not true. They know about the flags, and my part in getting them out of the country. I think they also wrecked my apartment, but to prove this would be difficult.”
He was nodding slowly, as if to suggest a distant familiarity with unrelated but similar events. “And what is it that they want from you?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. They’re not entirely rational.”
“Did my name come up?”
“No. They know about the flags, but your name as such didn’t come up.”
“Then, in all candor, Odile, what do you expect me to do about it?”
She held the espresso cup a little away from her lips, steadying it with her left hand, and looked into his eyes. Dark as they were—brown almost to black, the pupils a darkness within darkness—she found herself quite able to negotiate their depths. He had told a lie to match hers, a lie of omission. It didn’t matter what he thought he was concealing, or if he’d succeeded. What counted now, the only important thing, was what the two of them had recognized, each in the other.
“I was hoping we could talk about that,” she said.
MAX STOOD at the back of the theater watching his film’s final scenes.
It is dusk. The protagonist brings his battered sports car to a screeching halt on West Street, where a half-ruined pier juts nine hundred feet into the Hudson. At the end of the pier a woman stands silhouetted against the dying light, her back to him, her arms folded, her hair lifted in the wind. The man runs toward her at full speed. Here the camera reverses angles so he’s seen from her point of view—she has turned to face him—and no longer in full motion but in a
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