Page 40 of The Crimson Lily
The bed with emerald pillows in my assigned room is actually much more comfortable than Maksim’s. I am counting the flowers on the wallpaper when his hand, which was caressing the side of my body, sneaks up to my breast. Maksim lies beside me, spooning me, stroking me, and giving me soft nibbles on my neck. I made him promise to stay until I fall asleep. As I examine the silver flowers, I suddenly think of the question I haven’t asked yet.
“What was the answer to de Loit’s riddle?” I pause for a second to recall it. “Pure and innocent, a carefree flower…” I search further into my memory. “Petals joined in a funnel…that can tame a glower!”
He chuckles a little. “You’d never guess…”
“Tell me!” I insist with a curious little girl’s voice.
“The answer was…” He keeps the suspense going. “Lily.”
“Seriously?” I laugh.
I roll over and kiss him. He holds me there, close to him. He’s already making his way back to my chest when my voice interrupts him.
“What happens when we go back to New York?” I ask. My tone has dimmed. I’m not looking in his eyes anymore. In truth, I’m a little terrified of the answer. I don’t know what I have with him, but I definitely don’t want it to stop.
Plus, there’s the whole William problem.
CanI even go back to New York after all of this?
“I take another job,” he declares, his blue eyes betraying no emotion.
“Oh…”
I don’t say more. Instead, I stare at his chest, tracing the curves of his muscles with my finger. The image of Béatrice and Alejandro comes into my mind, how they’d loathe me if I ever saw Maksim again once I’m back in New York.
“Alejandro really doesn’t like you,” I murmur with a whimsical smile.
“He’ll get over it.”
“True,” I whisper, almost falling asleep. “He got over me, after all.”
Maksim growls softly. “He didn’t.”
I’m not answering because my mind has already begun a journey down the valley of dreams. I hear his next words, though, spoken as he still holds me close.
“He needs to deal with the fact I don’t share,” he declares and squeezes me tighter.
11
2Mai 2001. That’s the date, in French, on the faded green folder I’m holding. It’s early morning and, having not found Maksim anywhere in the house, I went on a tour of his vacation home. I found the guest room upstairs, left of the master bedroom where I’ve been sleeping, covered in white sheets that make all the furniture look like ghosts. I found the office, the first door on the left when entering the apartment, where I now stand. Behind me is a large bookcase with over a hundred books about history, engineering, the chemical industry, and even a few copies of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky.
I have this file in my hands and I’m standing by the massive oak desk I uncovered just a minute ago. It’s some kind of medical report with the name and signature of a certain Jean-Michel Legrand, from Maison Blanche—literally: the White House—a psychiatric institution. I searched on Google for the name and discovered that Jean-Michel Legrand used to be a renowned psychiatrist specializing in…personality disorders. I don’t dare open the file because MaksimKavalyow, his last name in the Belarusian form, is also written on the front page, and I know what that means. I know I’m about to breach intoMaksim’s past, to a part he probably doesn’t wish for me to see. To a part that might explain who he is now.
But I just have to know.
I take a deep breath, set my anxiety aside, and open the file.
It’s all in French. I turn the pages one by one, looking for words I recognize.
Tendances sadiques
Sadistic tendencies.
N’éprouve aucun remords ni sentiment de culpabilité
No remorse or sentiment of guilt?
Agressivité intense
