“I’m working on it. I wouldn’t count on anything.”
“I’m sure Daddy can do a deal. Commerce is his bailiwick.”
“If anyone can, it’s Dickie.”
Delphine returned to her room, waited an hour as per his instructions, and came back with the key to the locker. “Little Havana is in Chinatown. You won’t find a sign. It has a secret entrance.” She told him the name of the street and what to look for. “There will be a doorman across the street. He’s Cuban. Raúl is his name. You can’t miss him.”
Simon thanked her and told her he would be in touch in the morning.
“Get him out,” she said. “Don’t break my heart twice.”
Chapter 21
Bangkok
Simon left the Oriental hotel and walked north along Charoen Krung Road. He was in old Bangkok, the quarter built nearly two hundred years earlier in the hook of the Chao Phraya River, home to Dutch and British trading houses, Chinese hongs, the province of thieves, grifters, smugglers, the flotsam and jetsam of every nationality that washed up at the end of the world. He passed along narrow roads and narrower alleys, rickety, tin-roofed shanties crowding in, neon lights reflecting off puddles in the road, everywhere stalls selling fried fish, chicken livers, and eels. The streets coursed with purpose, pulsing as the clock struck midnight, a constant human traffic. He charged ahead, a foreigner never more at home than when lost on foreign streets and surrounded by foreign people. He walked like a man pursued, but by what?
A woman, of course.
Another memory of Delphine. The opposing bookend, not the beginning but the end.
A long weekend in Paris. Late March. The first leaves had sprouted on the London plane trees lining the Champs-Élysées. Painterly clouds scudded fast and low across the sky, brushing the top of Les Invalides, cloaking the Eiffel Tower. The Seine ran full with spring melt, its waters a milky green and rough, riding high on its banks. In the Tuileries, the first tables had been set out. A hopeful ice cream vendor awaited the first customers of the year.
So Paris, as always.
It had been a weekend to celebrate. Simon had finished his training at the bank. Delphine, four years younger, had taken a new post at Chatham House, working as a research assistant helping craft papers that would shape European policy. More important, it was their first anniversary as a couple, if they were keeping track, which neither was, or so they claimed.
Simon had spent time at the Sciences Po studying mathematics and knew the city well. Where to get a cheap ballon de rouge that wouldn’t kill a man and where he could eat like a prince for ten euros and like a king for fifteen, where he could dance all night for next to nothing and where he could find a wonderful crêpe suzette at dawn.
Delphine also knew Paris well, if from a different economic vantage point. She’d come often to shop and dine and visit museums and dance at the trendiest clubs. It was she who insisted they try the tasting menu at L’Arpège and the pressed duck at La Tour d’Argent. Mais, il faut! She bought him a cashmere sweater at Balibaris and tickets to La Comédie-Française (Simon’s first play in any language). Of course, they went to Castel’s afterward.
They made love in the morning, after lunch, before going out in the evening, as a prelude to sleep. He had only himself to give. He held back nothing.
On Sundays, they visited the Louvre. He thought of it as “his museum.” As a student, he’d whiled away long, rainy winter afternoons there, a baguette smuggled inside his raincoat. What cheaper entertainment? His destination never altered. The Pavilion Denon. The paintings of the Renaissance weren’t for him. Neither the Baroque. He preferred the large-scale historical works of Delacroix and David and Ingres. Works like Oath of the Horatii, and Liberty Leading the People. And his favorite, the larger than life Coronation of Napoleon. Delphine laughed at his taste. “Pedestrian.” “Juvenile.” “Cartoonish.” The words bounced off Simon like water off a duck’s back. Emperor Napoleon gave him a wink and let him know that he was the one with good taste.
And then, later that afternoon, crossing the Jardin du Luxembourg, an incident, in and of itself, as Parisian as buying an éclair at Stohrer. A Roma woman, a gypsy, approached the lovers, a baby in tow, her hand extended. A