Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (23)

“It’s a surprise.”

“I hate them.”

“Yes,” said Anna distantly. “I remember.”





15

Chez Janou




The restaurant turned out to be Chez Janou, a bright and crowded bistro on the western fringes of the Marais. A low murmur passed through the dining room as they were escorted to their table. Anna took her time removing her coat and settling onto the red banquette. It was, thought Gabriel, a virtuoso performance.

When the commotion subsided, she leaned across the small wooden table and whispered, “I hope you’re not disappointed it isn’t more romantic.”

“I’m relieved, actually.”

“I was only joking, you know.”

“Were you?”

“I got over you a long time ago, Gabriel.”

“Two husbands ago, in fact.”

“That was needlessly vindictive.”

“Perhaps,” said Gabriel. “But entirely accurate.”

Both of Anna’s marriages had been brief and unhappy, and both had ended with spectacular divorces. And then there was the string of disastrous affairs, always with rich and famous men. Gabriel had been the exception to Anna’s pattern. He had survived her mood swings and episodes of personal recklessness longer than most—six months and fourteen days—and with the exception of a single shattered vase, their parting had been civil. It was true that he had never quite loved her, but he had cared for her a great deal and was pleased that after an interregnum of some twenty years they had renewed their friendship. Anna was a bit like Julian Isherwood. She definitely made life more interesting.

As usual, her perusal of the menu was hurried and her selections decisive. They threw Gabriel onto the defensive, for he had intended to order the same items. His fallback—ratatouille followed by liver and potatoes—produced a sneer of mild rebuke on the famous face of his dinner companion.

“Peasant,” she hissed.

The waiter removed the cork from a bottle of Bordeaux and poured a small measure for Gabriel’s approval. For all he knew, some of the grapes used to produce the wine had come from the vineyard north of Saint-Macaire where Valerie Bérrangar’s life had ended. He sniffed, tasted, and with a nod instructed the waiter to fill their glasses.

“What shall we drink to?” asked Anna.

“Old friends.”

“How dreadfully boring.” Her lipstick left a smudge on the rim of the glass. She returned it to the tabletop and rotated it slowly between her thumb and forefinger, aware that the eyes of the room were upon her. “Do you ever wonder how our lives would have turned out if you hadn’t walked out on me?”

“That’s not how I would describe what happened.”

“You tossed your meager possessions into a duffel bag and drove away from my villa in Portugal as fast as you could. And I did not receive so much as a single—”

“Please let’s not do this again.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t change the past. Besides, if I hadn’t left, you would have thrown me out sooner or later.”

“Not you, Gabriel. You were a keeper.”

“And what would I have done with myself while you were on tour?”

“You could have come with me and kept me out of all the trouble I got into.”

“Followed you from city to city while you basked in the adulation of your adoring fans?”

She smiled. “That about sums it up.”

“And how would you have explained me? Who would I have been?”

“I always adored Mario Delvecchio.”

“Mario was a lie,” said Gabriel. “Mario never was.”

“But he did the most wonderful things to me in bed.” She sighed and drank more of her wine. “You never told me your wife’s name.”

“It’s Chiara.”

“What does she look like?”

“A bit like Nicola Benedetti, but prettier.”

“She’s Italian, I take it.”

“Venetian.”

“Which would explain why you’re living there again.”

Gabriel nodded. “She’s managing the city’s largest restoration company. Eventually, I’ll go to work for her.”

“Eventually?”

“I’m on administrative leave until further notice.”

“Because of what happened in Washington?”

“And other assorted traumas.”

“There are worse places to recuperate than Venice.”

“Much,” agreed Gabriel.

“I think I’ll schedule a performance there. A night of Brahms and Tartini at the Scuola Grande di San Rocco. I’ll get a suite at that little hotel in San Marco, the Luna Baglioni, and stay there for a month or two. You can come by every afternoon and—”

“Behave, Anna.”

“Will you at least introduce me to your family someday?”

“Don’t you think that might be a bit awkward?”

“Not at all. In fact, I think your children might enjoy spending time with me. Despite my many faults and failings, all of which have been mercilessly chronicled in the tabloids, most people find me endlessly fascinating.”