The Forgetting Flower by Karen Hugg

Author:Karen Hugg [Hugg, Karen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Woodhall Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

On Wednesday, as evening fell, Renia entered the square Boucicaut. She felt glad because she wasn’t in Marx Dormoy, but worried that no one else was in the park. The sun set. Its faint glow dipped behind the trees and the shadows stretched together. She waited on a bench beside an exotic monkey puzzle tree, her leg bouncing as she tried to distract herself by counting its scaly branches. Soon, a lone family—father, mother and child—strolled through with briefcases and backpacks. They shared blond hair and pale, innocent faces. The father spoke warmly to the boy, pecking his head with kisses, reciting a poem. Renia couldn’t recall if her own father had ever read a poem. He certainly had never kissed her head. The air dampened, the wind bit every time it blew. She buttoned her overcoat, checked her watch: ten minutes after six. The park closed at sundown. She debated whether a city worker, soon to come and lock the gate, would help or hinder what was about to happen.

Five minutes later, a man emerged from the foliage on the less used western path. He wore a thigh-length leather jacket and jeans. He was broad and tall with a muscular neck and thick hands. He had a sagging mouth, a high bony forehead and thinning hair the color of wheat. As he advanced, he scanned the square, especially the bushes. He wore a gold ring with an ebony gem on his right hand and a gold chain at his neck that glinted in the park’s lights.

Renia took a few steps toward him, then paused, wanting to stay in the open and off shady paths.

He walked with a casual, confident gait, his hands away from his hips. His expression had a slightly tense smirk as if he expected someone to pop out of the shrubs and jump him.

As he approached, she addressed him with a code name. “Monsieur Fleur?”

He nodded with a wink, passed her, and went into the shaded path.

She scanned the park. No one was about.

“I prefer to stay in the open,” she said.

He turned around. He was a full head taller than she. He smelled like fried onions. “Come under trees, it’s better this way.”

“I prefer it here.”

He rubbed her shoulder. “Of course you do. But come.”

“I won’t. It’s getting dark.”

His mouth switched from a content smirk to a frowning crescent, dipping at the corners. “There are six-hundred euros here, not there.” His accent was Russian. Even in French, she could tell the difference between her own Polish accent and his. He smiled. “Come, I’m bigger than any of these Paris frogs. You have nothing to fear from them.”

With a reluctant caution, she followed.

In the shaded passage, thorny hawthorn branches hung low and spiky holly leaves bulged into the path. She assessed which direction would be quicker for escape.

His hand pressed on her lower back.

She spun around. “Don’t touch me. Please do not touch me.”

He came in close. His eyes were the color of a gray rock, dense and rough.

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