Days passed with little to say for it.
The sidewalks of Nice were packed with carnivalers from all over the world and rented vehicles linked together on its narrow streets to form trains of slow-moving sedans broken only by traffic lights and intersecting trains of pedestrians. The weather warmed quickly, and jackets and sweaters were abandoned for short sleeves and shorts, at least for visitors from more northern climes for which a late-winter Nice seemed balmy and pleasant. The Carnival was in full swing now, with the opening day-time parade having come and gone on a bright Saturday, marching in colorful procession from the Place Masséna, where Cal's grandfather had parked his M4 Sherman tank and been christened with garlands, around the Jarden Albert public park, and down the famous beachside Promenade des Anglais.
Cal had done his research.
Every year brought a new theme for the Carnival, presided over by the King and his court, represented by giant papier-mâché sculptures mounted on floats. Each character in the court was brought to life in a very French style with exaggerated, almost grotesque proportions and pastel colors that were both soft and vibrant. The King was the tallest of these floats, towering over the crowds at nearly fifty feet tall, and this year he was adorned with a cartoonishly large Mad Hatter's hat and a giant clock.
This year's Carnival theme was the King of Time.
The rest of the royal family followed behind. The Queen's float was a towering, buxom woman in a pastel blue dress reminiscent of Alice, and the royal prince, called the Carnavalon, was a giant Humpty Dumpty in a schoolboy's uniform wobbling from side to side as the float moved down the street. The Royal Court followed the family, each float a masterpiece of creative design that incorporated the theme of Time in imaginative ways: old men and babies, hickory-dickory-dock and grandfather clocks. Troupes of dancers and colorful characters filled the spaces between floats and interacted with the crowd in humorous ways. Confetti filled the air and the famous giant heads brought up the rear of the parade: cartoonish exaggerations of French and international celebrities including a wide-eyed Vladimir Putin being chased by a grim reaper carrying a giant scythe and hourglass.
Frank Fumagalli had left, he said, to watch the parade.
Cal had stayed home and watched clips on YouTube.
They'd circled around each other that weekend with the shadow of Eeva's confession filling the space between them like the white rabbits dancing between floats in the parade. Eeva was, indeed, a spook of sorts—an analyst for the Estonian government, which she had told him in the weeks before, but what she had neglected to say was intelligence analyst. Weeks earlier, Cal remembered saying that he admired Eeva for many of the same reasons that he admired Frank.
And they'd both burned him with secrets and half-truths.
Cal wondered what that said about himself, that he was falling in love with a woman that was so similar to his best friend. Frank Fumagalli with no mustache and longer legs. It would make Cal laugh if it also didn't make him sick.
And it wasn't supposed to happen.
No matter what he'd promised Molly beside her hospital bed when she was near the end.
She had taken him by the hand and looked at him with bright eyes still shining from deep within her thin, sunken face. She said she couldn't pass away in peace thinking that he'd be stuck there—miserable—forever without her. She needed him to find a way to move on; to heal. He remembered blinking away tears and thinking that her gaze was so fierce for a woman who was wasting away on the inside. How could he say no? So, he'd promised.
But really, he had lied.
There was no question that he'd be miserable without her and stay miserable for the rest of his days. How could she make him promise such a thing? She knew how he felt about promises—it was a family motto to keep them, passed down from Grandpa Mac when he'd promised his parents he'd return home from the war. His words were enshrined on the postcard Cal kept as a family heirloom. And she'd used that sentiment against him to force a promise—force a lie—that he could find happiness again without her.
But maybe he hadn't lied. Maybe it had just taken him four years and a drastic change of scenery to see it, but the truth was like that, wasn't it? Always there in front of you, waiting to be accepted.
And the truth was he was falling for Eeva. Even after the revelation that she was a spook, his feelings hadn't changed. There had been more to Eeva than met the eye when they'd first met, and Cal suspected that there was more to her even now. Cal wasn't sure what, but there was still more to the situation than what he could see hiding in his bedroom watching YouTube videos of a parade happening without him just blocks away.
A memory came to him, from a summer night after high school graduation—right before Cal would go off to FSU and Frank would ship off to the army. They were driving home from a celebratory weekend in Orlando, two teenaged country mice in the big city. The fog on Interstate 4 was so thick they could hardly see the taillights of other cars ahead of them and Frank had been too stubborn to slow down or pull over. They'd ended up halfway to Tampa before Cal had realized they'd missed their exit home.
Cal was just as lost now.
He needed to talk to someone outside the fog.
Reluctantly, he turned off the parade videos and made a call.
Lilith answered immediately.
"Hey, Cal!" she said. "How's France?"
A day later and it was mardi après-midi, as Cal was again practicing his French. Tuesday afternoon. The sun barely hung in the sky, hesitating just before the carnival's first Night Parade. Cal wasn't sure what to expect but he was determined to find out.
He was alone in the apartment salon tying the laces of his new shoes, a French brand called Veja. New chinos and a dark, button-down sweater with big buttons completed his outfit. He looked like a Frenchman now. He looked like Frank.
"Well, look at you, Sundance!" Frank said after he barged through the apartment door. He looked wild. His carefully coiffed hair had grown long, its curls dangling across his brow. A day's stubble graced his cheeks and neck, and his eyes were red.
"I'm trying something new," Cal said matter-of-factly. "Where have you been? You look like shit."
"So, Eeva's back in your good graces?"
"She is. I know you don't approve—" Cal said.
"—Oh, I like her*.* She's beautiful and foreign and mysterious," Frank said as he came more into the room and emptied his pockets onto the mantel where Cal kept his framed photos. Frank's apartment keys jostled Grandpa Mac's postcard out of place.
Not this again. Cal summoned what little patience he had remaining with a calming breath.
"And, of course," Frank continued. "She's a spook so we have that in common."
"Actually, she's not a—"
"—It's just that her extracurriculars nearly got you killed, is all. Call me crazy, but when I planned to retire in France with my best friend, I counted on him being alive for the rest of our lives. I guess I could Weekend-at-Bernie's your smiling corpse down to the beach and work on our tans together."
Frank was in a mood. Manic was the word that came to mind.
"Stop," Cal said firmly and Frank froze. "Eeva and I worked it out. Neither of us were upfront about our extracurriculars. It's kind of funny, if you think about it."
"Ha-ha, you almost went over a cliff. Funny."
"If any of us were more honest, we could've been working together."
"It's a real Gift of the Magi situation," Frank spat. He was pacing the room again, walking all over Cal's last nerve.
"Besides," Cal said, "I talked to Lilith, and, after some digging, she says Eeva is clean. She's not a spy."
Frank froze.
"You talked to Lil?"
Lilith's name was like a six-shooter pulled from the holster on Cal's hip.
"I needed some clarity," Cal said.
Frank slumped onto the couch.
"Lil did some background work for you?" Frank asked as he absently smoothed his mustache. "Damn, I should have considered that option."
"She confirmed Eeva wasn't on any Estonian intelligence registry or whatever. She worked in a non-intelligence government agency—analyzing financials. Everything Eeva said is true. She's divorced. No kids. Sadly, she lost a younger brother in a helicopter accident not long ago."
Frank seemed to consider this. "What about Marat Solonik?"
Cal shrugged. "He's not on Lil's radar, but she promised to keep digging."
Frank jumped up from the couch and marched into the kitchen, no doubt to pour himself a glass of something red. "So, her cover story checks out, complete with an irrelevant but interesting detail—her dead brother. Was he the pilot or a passenger, I wonder?"
"I don't know. I could—"
"See? That's how a good cover story works. It gets you asking questions, but the wrong questions. My cover checks out, too, if anyone looks."
Cal rolled his eyes, but followed Frank into the kitchen anyway, and indeed Frank already had a glass half-full or half-drained in his hand. "And what exactly is your cover story, Frank?"
"International wine critic, of course. You think I drink this much for fun?"
Frank smiled, but it wasn't friendly.
There was so much to say, but Cal stopped himself before the conversation spiraled any further. What once seemed like dancing now felt like circling the drain.
"Well, this has been fun," said Cal eventually, "But listen—I like Eeva and the whole point of being out here is to live life and make new memories. Maybe I'm not ready to be in a relationship. Maybe part of me still can't get over Molly—okay a big part—but I can't stand still. You've shown me that, Frank. And I appreciate it."
Frank's stare was fierce, but it didn't last. With a sip of wine, whatever anger was there had gone.
"You're right and you're welcome. I'm sorry."
Cal blinked.
Frank smiled. "Hug it out?"
Cal relented and squeezed Frank around his shoulders.
"Thank you, Frank."
This was them. Forty-five years of friendship. The good, the bad, and the never-ending quest for peace in Bolivia. Butch and Sundance. Never mind that the movie ended with a shootout, the cowboys outnumbered by Bolivian soldiers. But this was France and there were no soldiers. Just two best friends, a woman, and Russian gangsters that Cal hoped to never see again.
"So, listen," Cal said, releasing Frank from the hug. "I'm going to continue seeing Eeva and see where it goes. Maybe it goes nowhere, but I'd like the two of you to get along while I find out."
"I can do that."
"Good. And Eeva and me? We're staying out of the spook business. For good. The situation's too dangerous now and—Frank—I suggest you drop it, too."
"Well, about that..." Frank said and wheeled away with his wine in hand. "While you've been sulking and trying to figure your life out, I've been doing some leg work. Check this out."
Frank pulled out his phone and handed it to Cal. On the screen was a photo of a man wearing a slim, tailored suit. Designer shades shielded his eyes. He was standing on the rear deck of the Kosatka. The man was incredibly thin.
"I present to you, Marat Solonik: yacht owner, art connoisseur, delivery service entrepreneur, and international smuggler."
"Fuck me. That's our guy?"
"That's our guy."
Cal couldn't help himself. For weeks they'd known his name but were unable to find any public photos, and not once during their investigation had Cal or Frank been able to set eyes on him. The image on the phone was not what Cal had expected. According to Eeva, he was a Russian gangster and black-market kingpin, but he looked more like a French politician.
"Zoom in on his wrist," Frank said.
Cal used his fingers to zoom in, but there was nothing obvious to see. Cal shrugged.
"Now try this one," and Frank swiped the screen to show another image, this one with Zebra and Marat Solonik together on the deck. Zebra's giant frame emphasized Marat's slenderness. Cal zoomed in on Zebra.
"Motherfucker!" Cal cursed at the phone. The bronze square and green circle of a Bell & Ross on Zebra's wrist was plain to see.
Cal handed back Frank's phone and paced around the kitchen. He could feel his face burning. He'd shoved the photo away, but the image still burned in his mind. How he could he ever unsee his watch on that fuck's wrist?
"Frank, I can't do this. I almost died. According to Eeva—"
"According to Eeva—" Frank mocked with a kissy-face.
"—According to Eeva, this Marat Solonik is a real player. He's Russian mafia through and through. He's a killer. And you know what? He's not our problem. We should just give all this information to the authorities, but even then, he's probably paid off the police to look the other way, just like in Estonia. We need to leave it alone."
But his watch. The image still obscured everything.
"No, fuck that!" Frank said. "We're going to get this guy! We're going to nail him to the wall of his own art gallery and then auction his skinny ass to the highest bidder!"
Cal froze.
"He is skinny, isn't he?"
Frank frowned, confused.
Cal started pacing the room again. "When Eeva and I were on the hilltop, she was taking photos of the Kosatka with her crazy zoom. We saw a shirtless man walking around casually on the bridge. There's no way he was a crew member."
Frank raised a bushy eyebrow.
Cal continued. "And the dude was big, Frank, like fat. And, in all our snooping, we never saw him hanging around any of Marat Solonik's properties or henchmen. Which begs the question—"
"Who's the fat man hiding on Marat Solonik's luxury yacht?"
"Exactly."
Frank grinned. "Please tell me you have that photo, old buddy of mine."
Cal shook his head. "She must have forgot to share the photos after everything else that happened up there. I certainly did."
Frank tried to speak, but Cal cut him off.
"—Speaking of Eeva, I'm headed to her apartment now. We're going to the Night Carnival if you want to come."
Frank smoothed his mustache again, thinking. "I'll pass. But go and have a fabulous time with your spook girlfriend. The Night Parades are legendary, and the perfect cover for your new mission . . ."
"Woah, what?"
"I need that photo, Cal. We need it."
Both men watched each other in silence.
Cal shook his head. "Absolutely not."
"We need it!"
"You're trying to suck me back in, Frank—no—I'm not doing it!"
"Cal!"
"I love you, Frank. You're my best friend in the entire world, and I'm not going to be part of some obsession that gets either of us killed. You don't want to Weekend-at-Bernie's me around Nice? Well, I don't want to bury another person I care about."
Frank's mouth dropped open and Cal left the apartment before he could close it.