Columbus Read Online Free Page A

uninteresting as to rule out any follow-up questions.
    I set my face. “My work is boring. I work for an airline company. I buy and sell parts for airplane wings. I line up contracts all over the world.”
    “You see. That is not boring. You are an international businessman.”
    “A boring international businessman.”
    “But as you say, you travel all over the world.”
    “Doing a job any man can do.”
    “I think you are modest.”
    “Just telling the truth.”
    And the corners of her mouth turn up into a smile, this one stretching farther, because she is with a man who tells the truth, who is safe, who is humble about his life. The sadness below the surface has dissipated, at least a bit.
    She takes a bite of her pasta and makes a face.
    “My cooking is terrible.”
    “No,” I say and keep my gaze locked. “I mean, I can’t feel my tongue any more, but it’s really wonderful.”
    She erupts in laughter, the infectious kind, color coming to her cheeks.
    “Okay, we’re going to try something only one time,” she says as she pushes her plate to the center of the table, dismissing it.
    “What?”
    “We’re going to ask each other one question and no topic is how-do-you-say. . . . ”
    “Off limits?”
    “Yes, taboo. Off limits. And the other has to answer truthfully, no matter what is asked. Maybe we’ll learn something and want to learn more, or maybe after hearing the answer, we’ll decide we just aren’t . . . we just don’t want to keep seeing each other.”
    “Sounds dangerous.”
    “Possibly.”
    “Okay, I’m in.”
    “Okay?”
    I nod and she smiles.
    “Can I ask first?”
    I nod again.
    “Why do you want to see me, Jack?”
    I don’t have to set my face, don’t have to lie, not this time. “I want to know who put that sadness in your eyes, in your cheeks.”
    She leans back, the answer catching her off guard, and folds her arms across her chest. For a long moment, she doesn’t say anything, and even the air in the room seems to still.
    “Is that your question to me?”
    “That’s my answer to your question. I haven’t asked one yet.”
    She nods, forces a smile. Her voice stays low. “Okay, then, what is your question?”
    “We don’t have to—”
    “Don’t be silly. This was my idea.”
    “Okay. Are you ready?”
    She lowers her eyes like she’s bracing herself, and her nod is barely perceptible.
    I wait until she looks up, then arrest her eyes with mine. “My question is this. What is the recipe for this pasta?”
    She blinks, and then starts laughing again. It is a sound that will stay with me for the next few weeks, holding me afloat like a life preserver.
    The signs are there, if you pay attention. Little things: you bang your shin into the coffee table in the morning, or you step off a curb into a puddle of sewer water, or you can’t find your wallet, your keys, your jacket, no matter how hard you look. Bad luck has a way of building momentum, of summoning its strength like an ocean wave before crashing down over you, knocking you off your feet. If you can spot the signs, you might be fortunate enough not to drown.
    Paris is chilly and gray in February, though it is desperately trying to maintain its charm. There is something sad about it, like a hostess doing her best to keep a party together after the first guests start trickling away. Stores and restaurants are open, but outside tables are empty and silent. People shuffle by without talking, hurrying to get where they’re going, lighting cigarettes without breaking stride.
    I have seen Anton Noel four times. Once, at a charity auction where I monitored him from a crowd inside an art gallery. Once, at a business conference where he droned on in French about the necessity of product diversification in emerging global markets. And twice, I have watched him driving his Mercedes, heading out of the gate where the Rue du St. Paul meets the Rue St. Antoine.
    The gate is well guarded, with two dark-suited men perking up