Page 46 of The Crimson Lily
Fuck. The safe. It all comes crashing down on my shoulders. I designed that stupid safe, that complex puzzle box William cherished. That explains how I kneweverythingabout it. But what the fuck does that mean? What is the Syndicate, and whatis it to me? I am petrified, caught in my own thoughts, in my own foolish attempts to make sense of all this.
Maksim flicks his chin at me to catch my attention. “Are you done?” he asks.
I just nod. I don’t have any more questions. I am in shock. William escaped. The Kinzhal Strastey vanished with him. Now, there’s even this weird-ass Syndicate in the picture, whatever that is. We are all puppets of a grotesque show bigger than us.
I am hauled back to reality by Béatrice, who pulls on my arm. Maksim faces Mr. Zhang, his big hands around the captive’s face. I only hear Yi scream. I see Maksim’s elbows peek out on his sides, as if he’s holding Zhang’s head and does something atrocious to it. I hear the sound of squeezed flesh between Zhang’s cries. I don’t see anything else.
Béatrice runs upstairs with me on the leash of her arm. Together, we go through the entire house to collect all my things. We stuff everything in my suitcase and head into the streets of Paris. I don’t have time to say goodbye to Maksim, though right now, I am in a catatonic state I can’t overcome. Béatrice fiddles with her phone. Two minutes later, a taxi pulls up to us, and we drive off into the night.
It’s pitch-black darkness when the taxi drops us off beneath a large rectangular building. We are outside of Paris, in a banlieue called Villeneuve-la-Garenne. I stand still for a minute, looking at this tall construction that looks like a Lego piece. We pass underneath an arch that leads us to a square, where I notice three more of these buildings surrounding us.
Béatrice opens a glass door that leads into a small hallway. We step into the two-person, or four-children, elevator and reach the eighth floor. I follow her until we face a reddish-brown door. Before she opens it, she looks at me and sighs.
“My mother and brother are sleeping,” she whispers, and I immediately understand she wants me to be silent. “Let’s go directly to my room.”
We enter an apartment with no lights on. Béatrice takes off her shoes and motions for me to follow her in the dark. She holds her phone’s flashlight as she leads the way. I carry my suitcase by the handle with both of my hands so it won’t make a sound. I see a few closed doors before we reach her bedroom, which is lit by tiny Christmas lights that adorn her bed’s headboard. There’s a desk to my left, a bookshelf to my right, and a giant pillow sprawled out on the floor. I want to sleep on it. The wallpaper has these cute and delicate strawberries scattered all over in all sizes. This is definitely the bedroom of a younger Béatrice.
She jumps into her pajamas, and I do the same. We sneak to the bathroom to brush our teeth together in complete silence, but we both burst into laughter simultaneously. The events have just caught up with our minds. We giggle, cry, panic a little. Her bed is just large enough to welcome the both of us. We hold each other for a little while, rocking ourselves to sleep. When I hear Béatrice’s faint snores, I roll to my side, tucking my hands under my chin. I think of Maksim in this moment, feeling the heartache again. I have a few tears waiting to swirl out of my eyes. I don’t let them. I’m not going to cry for something that never was and never will be.
12
The smell of coffee and fresh bread reaches my nostrils. I open my eyes, woozy, holding on to the feeling that the last ten days were a very long dream. Béatrice is already out of bed. I stare at the ceiling for a minute, clearing my thoughts, making room for the numbness I’ve grown accustomed to.
I hear a melodious woman’s voice coming from what I figure is the kitchen. It’s low—the pitch of an alto singer. Béatrice responds to it in French, and I hear a young man laugh.
I rise to my feet and stroll to my purse and suitcase, first to check my phone, then to grab some clothes and get dressed. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing. I don’t know what I expected. I don’t want to think of him. I don’t want to hear my mind scream his name at me.
To the left of the big white door is a large mirror. I decide that, should I go in public anyway, I’d better check how severe my bruises, and everything else, are.
It’s not too bad.
My black eye is fading. My neck looks all right. I can live with that. I turn around and gasp when I see the big black spot on myflank, probably from one of my falls. Man, I need to get my shit together. This really isn’t okay.
It’s already about 75 degrees Fahrenheit outside according to my phone, but I still put on my Columbia sweatshirt. I walk out of Béatrice’s room and into the corridor. There are framed pictures all along the way to the living room. I see a tall woman with beautiful brown eyes and ebony skin. I spot Béatrice and her little brother hiding behind the woman’s long skirt. There is a lone picture of a handsome black man with a beaming smile, above a small shelf with a few candles that still burn. I take a moment to look at this man with frizzy hair and the allure of a proud father. I suddenly remember that summer of 2019, when Béatrice returned home, after cancer got the best of this man. I remember how broken Béatrice was. Her father, a legal counselor and Wing Chun instructor, was always a role model for her. A man who fought for what was just. I spent a week in Paris with her, after the funeral. That’s how I know this house. I’ve been here before. I already met Jérôme, Béatrice’s brother, and Marie-Claire, her mother, who is one hell of a woman. I can now pinpoint exactly where Béatrice got all of that fire and tact from.
I enter the kitchen, which is small, with shelves full of pans of all sizes and huge bags of spices, rice, and flour. Marie-Claire stands with her back to me with a large frying pan on the stove. She’s baking French crêpes. She turns to me and takes me in her arms. I don’t have time to check her reaction to seeing me, but it looks like she hasn’t noticed how shitty I look. She has a warm smile on her face, and her brown eyes sparkle. She doesn’t speak English very well, but she tells me how happy she is to see me again.
I go sit at the small table by Béatrice, who sips on a cup of coffee.
“My mother insisted on making crêpes for you!” she announces, proud.
I blush. “Thank you,” I say when Marie-Claire hands me a plate of Nutella crêpes. “She really shouldn’t have,” I whisper to Béatrice.
“Try and tell her that!” Béatrice exclaims with a playful smile.
I smile back, then take a bite of the crêpe…oh, man, this is divine! Marie-Claire glows with pride upon seeing my reaction. A few minutes later, Jérôme peeks into the kitchen to grab a crêpe before going to school. He’s about nine years younger than his big sister but is much taller than both her and their mother. He has the hair and eyes of his father and the energy of a sixteen-year-old.
Jérôme waves at me when he sees me.
“Hello, Liliana!” he greets with a smile and a French accent. “How are you?”
I chuckle. “I’m good. How about you? How’s school going?”
“I’m good too! The lycée is good too!”
He disappears with one or two Nutella crêpes and takes off to pack his things. When I’m done with the second round forced upon me by Marie-Claire, I check my phone and instinctively search for the next flight to New York.
“You know you can stay longer, Lili,” Béatrice says with worry in her voice.
