“How bad is it?”
“Deep enough to annoy me and serve as a frequent reminder to not fuck it up.”
“All right. Make sure you treat it ASAP.”
“Roger.”
I pour myself a second glass. I need to drown this heart of mine.
Chapter Thirty-Five
SARAH
We’re finally ashore, and just like the Frenchman predicted, I stink.
I look even worse. I need a shower to get rid of the stench, yet somehow I doubt my wish will be granted.
“Where do we go from here?” I ask.
“We’re off to a safe house.”
“Is it really a safe house or more like ‘just a house’?” I air quote while he moors the boat at an old abandoned, dirty dock made of concrete. This place looks haunted. A few sailing ships sit on the dry side of the marina, with sails so old they are ripped and yellowed.
“It is,” he remarks as the wind blows and therat,–owners of this place– run between our feet.
“According to whom?”
“To me, American Girl. France is older than the US, and therefore wiser. That will never change.” He is visibly irritated.
A black car with tinted windows waits ahead of us. I can’t tell if it's occupied, but judging by the Frenchman’s relaxed posture, I guess it’s not an immediate threat.
“Come on. There’s our ride.” He points toward the car.
“What? No limo after all that bumpy ride? I thought you said you were wiser,” I say sarcastically.
“Ha-ha.” He mocks a laugh as he kneels in front of the left wheel and pats the space between the tire and the inner fender. “Found it!”
He pulls a key from it, and that brings a big smile to his face. He opens the vehicle. Only one seat has been installed – just the driver’s seat. The rest of the inside is bare metal, not even mats.
Fuck it, whatever.
I start to sling the bags inside and sit on them.
“We’re a few miles away, then we’ll switch cars.”
“Is the other car equipped with wheels or am I going to have to tow it myself?”
“You Americans always complain about everything.” I like this passive-aggressive friendship we have.
“Well, you are not wrong there,” I agree.
We get to the safe house in about fifty-something minutes.
The Frenchman pulls over and parks the piece of shit on wheels a few feet away from an alleyway. We gather our things and head to the dark, narrow passage. Judging by the color, the walls are made out of clay. Above me, washing lines partially obscure the night sky.
The only sound we hear is the soles of our shoes slapping on the ground.
The Frenchman comes to a halt in front of an old wooden door with two concrete steps underneath it. He knocks twice.
