Paris Twilight by Russ Rymer

Author:Russ Rymer [Rymer, Russ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Literary, Thrillers, General
ISBN: 9780544003071
Google: ytDIQq0qpO4C
Amazon: B008LQ1RKC
Barnesnoble: B008LQ1RKC
Goodreads: 15814392
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Published: 2013-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

“So . . . activist,” Emil said. We were back amid the plausibilities.

“I said organizer.”

I wasn’t sure of the distinction, and Emil ignored it, surging on without pause to render his verdict on activists, a category that, diplomatically speaking, constituted a special case. Their passion on public issues masked a personal stake, he said, and if you were negotiating with them you had to remember to address the hidden personal issue, not the declared public one. “They like to think they’re saving the world, because saving themselves is far too hard in a world that has no values.” They weren’t wrong about the world, Emil said, “but they want its values to be more absolute, because only then will they be safe” from demons closer to home.

“Well, there’s more than one kind of demon,” I said. “It still doesn’t mean she’s in love,” and I suggested Corie’s studies again, or that maybe she was reliving some terrible childhood tragedy, like a deadly disease that felled a dear friend. Or an accident.

“The train wreck,” Emil said.

“The freak train wreck,” I said, accepting the invitation to improvise. “The favorite brother killed in the collision.”

“The trestle washed out by the flash flood. And he ran back into the burning car to rescue the toddler from the mangled mom.”

“Exactly!” I exclaimed; now we were getting somewhere. “Something like that. Or how about her music? She’s a musician, you know. A good one.”

“What sort?” Emil asked.

“Piano. Classical.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “I don’t know. Classical music, destroyer of young adults.”

“Too improbable?”

“Not at all,” he said. “In 1830.”

“She cares about it,” I offered, defensive. “Do you know what she practices?” I ran through some of the titles stacked beside the Bösendorfer. “Duets,” I said. “Advanced stuff. Of course she only plays half of—”

“Et voilà!” Emil declared. He practically bounced off the bench seat.

“Oh, come on!” I said before he got the words out; I know when I’ve got myself good and cornered.

“But it’s obvious!” he gloated.

I reminded myself I wasn’t hitting Emil anymore. “So, go on,” I said.

“Well, let’s see. He’s tall, blond, brooding. Concert pianist, international circuit, and he’s run off with another.”

“Why assume he’s a he?”

“Good point. She’s tall, blond, and brooding. And your Little One will never, ever replace her.”

“And she cannot believe the pain,” I said. “And she will spend her life playing over and over her half of all the duets they used to play together.”

“Aïe!” Emil exclaimed, stricken.

“Ouch!” I agreed.

When we’d driven a while longer, he said, “She will, though.”

“What?” I asked. We’d turned a corner, and the shadows had shifted inside the car.

“Find another. Everything that happens, happens over again.”

I agreed with an “Uhn” and dusted off my Marx to suit the premise. “The first time as tragedy, the second time as farce. That’s in history.”

“Life, just the same,” Emil said. I’d made him laugh. “Except that in life the first time’s a tragedy and the second time is too.”

A ways farther, and he said, “What if she’s facing something worse?”

“Than?” I said.

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