Open Secrets

"Your hair looks almost red in this light," he says, staring at her, then leaning his head back, closing his bloodshot eyes, his legs stretched out before him in his gray trousers. He always wears his trousers too short, she thinks. Perhaps he will fall asleep, she hopes, but he stirs and opens his eyes.



"More like white-so many white hairs," she says, putting her hands to her head, though in reality she is proud of her thick dark curls. She feels young and lucky, so lucky to have this view before her, to live in this old villa that Michel bought for them so generously, ten years ago, with its beds of lavender and jasmine, the blue plumbago outside the dining room, the syringa tree in the circular driveway with its delicate branches and pale pink flowers, the yellow laburnum hanging over the iron gate that opens onto the road, the shiny frogs that hide at the edges of the pool.



She feels lucky to still be so slim at forty-two, to be able to play her violin every day, to perform frequently, to have a husband who loves her. She watches as Michel gets up to come over to her.



"No! No!" she says, alarmed, lifting up an arm, leaning forward to ward him off as she watches him sway. "You'll fall. Watch out! Stay where you are." She leans on the yellow folder on her desk.



"I won't. I'm not that drunk, though I've been drinking with that man for hours. I never thought I would escape! I didn't know I had such a hard head for alcohol-better than his!" He knocks his fist against his blond head and stumbles forward, coming toward her. "I don't know how much longer this can go on. He keeps wanting to give me more money! Heaven knows where it comes from."



"Dirty money?" she asks.



"Lots of gold," he says.



"Do people give you gold to keep?"



"Sometimes. Gold can be a good investment, but it fluctuates, of course, like everything else."



"And he has gold?" she asks, imagining the Russian with a briefcase filled with gold bars.



"'Don't you want my money?' he says and laughs. It's be