close the umbrella only by dint of a few acrobatics, and then he finally came into the restaurant, depositing the dripping umbrella in a corner.
He recognised her immediately as she stood there in the middle of the room, dressed in yellow, with her little waitress’s cap on her head and her green lock of hair, which by now had faded to a dusty grey. He gave her a soggy, weary smile. Penny welcomed him as if she were the evening’s hostess, even though this was not her home and Mr Malkovich was not her guest. Though he was definitely there for work. She had been expecting him to come; in fact, she was surprised it had taken him this long. She sat him near the jukebox and asked if she could bring him a coffee.
‘Yes, please – hot, if that’s OK? I’m worried I’m catching a cold. But . . . I’m here for another reason.’
‘I know,’ Penny answered.
‘I’d also like to see Mrs Grey. Up until now I’ve only been monitoring her, since I’ve always known Marcus pays her visits, but now I really need to speak with her.’
‘I know. I’ll get her.’
‘Wait, I’d rather talk to you first. Can you sit for a second? Why are you working here?’
‘I left my night job to take care of my grandma after she had a stroke. Sherrie almost saved my life by hiring me. She’s a wonderful person.’
‘I know. I don’t judge people by their past, only by their present.’
‘Maybe it would be better if you didn’t judge them at all.’
Behind the counter, Penny picked up the pot and poured coffee into a cup, then sat down across from him, aware of what was about to happen. Marcus had left over a week ago. He had fled in the night, silent as a cat, though even if he’d crashed his way down the stairs, Penny wouldn’t have been able to hear him over her sobs. That evening, as soon as he’d shown up at her place, Penny had understood that Francisca was right. Imprisoning him would have been like killing him, a slow death, a trickle of compromises, a slow progression of identical days, which would soon have led him to hate her. Lions must be free, even to live in a violent savannah, even to be killed – to die a savage death, a death in their prime. Seeing him wounded after assaulting Grant had been the tipping point. What if Grant reported him? Would he end up in prison again? So she had let him run off to chase after the wind. It wasn’t easy and she had cried for days. She still cried every time she came home and saw the spiral staircase that led up to the attic. She cried for all the cruel lies she’d had to spit out at him, and she cried for his sad eyes, because behind his shield of anger, the look in his eyes had been truly tragic.
‘So, where is Marcus?’ asked Mr Malkovich after a few restorative sips of hot coffee.
Penny answered him sincerely. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
He shook his head, displeased. ‘I was so hoping he wouldn’t do anything this foolish, and I was afraid Francisca might come back. She’s always made him do the dumbest things.’
‘She . . . she loves him.’
‘If she really loved him, she wouldn’t have let him violate his parole like this. If they catch him, they’ll send him back to jail.’
‘Maybe they won’t bother going after them? Marcus and Francisca are hardly terrorists or serial killers. They’re not exactly going to have the FBI breathing down their necks, are they? They’re small fry, and if they’re careful, they may just get away with it.’
‘But what kind of life can you live if you’re always on the run?’
‘An exciting one.’
Mr Malkovich looked astonished at this statement of hers, and a bit melancholy. ‘I really thought you two were close. I was hoping that you . . .’
‘I think we were close,’ Penny corrected him. ‘But no one can force someone to live a life they don’t want.’
At that moment, a voice interrupted them.
‘Table five are asking for their French onion soup, my dear,’ Sherrie said. ‘Can you take it over to them, please? Hello, Mr Malkovich. Have you finally come to question me? We don’t know where Marcus is, and even if we did, we wouldn’t tell you. And please don’t bother this poor girl any more, OK? She’s upset enough already. She’s