The Frenchwoman in London 

А biting wind rolled in off the Thames. Near Westminster, the last evening buses sped toward the bridge while people made their way home. The block by Queen Victoria Park rang with jazz and the low murmur of gentlemen lingering at the entrances, smoking and talking. The sharp click of men’s shoes carried clearly through those icy streets, over the slick pavement.

The man was about thirty-five, with eyes that seemed to see straight through anyone he spoke to. He kept his hands warm in the pockets of his coat, occasionally adjusting his hat. His name was Berkley. He’d been fired after a scandal not long ago — he had worked as a private detective. Everyone knew he wasn’t guilty, but someone had to take the fall. Berkley’s son was studying humanities at one of the best colleges in America. However, he had lost his wife in a twisted heap of metal that used to be their family car. Since then, he wandered around London alone, searching for an answer to the one question that mattered: What comes next?

One evening, he stepped into a jazz club. Everything was as usual — musicians playing smooth, easy melodies, young gentlemen admiring women in dresses of varying boldness, cigar smoke drifting lazily beneath the glow of streetlamps outside.

«Can’t sleep, sir?» the waiter asked.

«Yeah… I find a bit of peace in late-night walks. A little whiskey, please. Not enough to knock me out, though… I trust we understand each other?» Berkley said, meeting the waiter’s eyes.

The young man got it right away — the gentlemen knew his liquor.

«Irish? Or do you only go for Scotch?»

«Either’s fine. Scotch. Not chilled. Got a light?»

The waiter immediately pulled out a box of the club’s branded matches. He struck one slowly, and Berkley lit one of his favorite Cuban cigars. He sat by the window, where he could see both the street and the entire room. When his whiskey arrived, he noticed a woman entering the club.

«Excuse me, monsieur… may I sit here?»

«Hm. I’m not expecting anyone. Go ahead, ” he replied calmly.

The picture was already nearly complete in the detective’s mind: Well, that explains it. French. Cute, young rebel, acting like a delicate little flower.

She was dressed in a Parisian style — a skirt, a blouse, a coat with a scarf, and a small hat. Nobody in Britain had dressed like that for twenty years, perhaps only in the counties. Clearly not local — and her eyes were darting everywhere. The man’s gaze dropped to her bag. Train station or airport? She looked a little tense, warming her hands over the candle on the table. It wasn’t shyness.

«What happened, mademoiselle? Someone hurt you — or take you for a ride? You don’t look so good… I’ve seen that look before. Had it myself after I got fired.»

The young woman met his eyes, serious now.

«No, nothing like that… It’s just… I didn’t get into college. I was trying to get into an advanced program, and they turned me away right at the door.

«Rough. What do you read? What are you planning to do?»

«Ahem… I graduated from Sorbonne not long ago. Literature. Bachelor’s.» She straightened her back as she said it.

«Well-read, then. We’ll have something to talk about.» He lit his cigar. «Mind if I ask your name?

«You tell me who you are and what you want first.»

There it is — a real Frenchwoman. Pushy right out of the gate, like I’m walking into a bank to pick up my pay. She’s hiding something. Napoleon’s girl — there’s a spark in those eyes. Berkley thought, slowly exhaling smoke.

«Berkley. Been in London a short while — Scottish by origin. Worked at one firm for what felt like forever, and they tossed me out over a scandal… Their loss. They let a good man go.»

Brushing back her hair, the girl replied.

«Jacqueline. Nice to meet you.» She held out her hand. Berkley rose slightly, turned her palm, and kissed it. The gesture clearly caught the Frenchwoman off guard.

«Now tell me more… What happened? Maybe I can help.»

«Ahem, your manners are… a bit too royal — you’re making me blush. And as for me… I doubt you can help. It’s not every day you get turned away at the door like that. After that, all you have left is enough money for one night at a hotel… and a ticket back home.»

«Hm. I don’t think you need to wander London tonight. The bed in my guest room isn’t exactly Napoleonic, but I assure you — it’s softer than most palace beds. Don’t be shy, cherie. I live alone, and there’s more than enough space in my humble place for you.»

The girl lifted the corners of her lips and straightened her back again.

«I don’t have much of a choice. Well then… shall we have a drink?»

«Order whatever you like. I’ve got a few coins to spare. Got lucky today — might as well make a night of it.»

Jacquiline rolled her eyes. They drank, listened to the music, and then set off for Berkley’s place. He started to offer to carry her bag, but she declined politelу.

«It’s fine. It’s not heavy.»

Hm. The way her fist tightens around that bag — you’d think it’s a dismembered body, bank money. or lingerie for pleasure. Whatever it is — clever lady… dangerously intriguing, beautiful. Not knowing that death and I… we’ve had tea together more than once, Berkley thought, slowly exhaling smoke.

An evening kiosk, a couple of shillings, a small note in the paper — earlier that day, one of the «street types», as Berkley called them, had been killed. A drunken German had tried to force himself on a foreign woman, and she shot him that same evening with a small pistol. A dead-end case — unlikely the killer would ever be found. It had happened after five. The paper even carried a photograph of the victim — the bullet had gone through the neck. Berkley immediately estimated the caliber and figured the shooter had fired blindly — yet somehow landed a perfect, fatal shot. He tensed and folded the newspaper. 

When they entered the house, he showed her the room.

«You live well. You even have a fireplace.»

«Can’t complain. Though I’m still missing a Napoleonic bed. I almost thought of taking his, but I figured it’s best not to disturb the old man.»

«Don’t speak of him like that. He may have been a crowned soldier who forgot the cause of the Revolution, but he’s the one who secured equality before the law. The Decembrists admired him, and we, the French, admire them.»

«Hm. We respect him too. We’re British… we have fondness for madness, and for madmen. Even I do…»

«Madmen? You’re far too proper for that. Though you are a bit dull, ” she said, sitting down on the bed.

«Perhaps you should get some rest. I’ll put the kettle on. If you feel like dazzling me with your literary knowledge again, I’ll be glad to listen.»

For a moment, the room held nothing but a quiet sigh. Berkley’s room, with the fireplace, was well kept: a good bed, a bookshelf, a desk. Papers lay scattered across it; ash filled the tray; the radio sat like a decorative piece in his modest dwelling. He set out two cups and a few candies. He slipped the photograph of his wife and son into the drawer. He couldn’t look at it with a stranger in the room, nor could he decide whether this counted as betrayal. He had told himself he would never love again… and he hadn’t. After his wife’s funeral, he hadn’t even looked at other women — they held no interest for him.

The detective could hear her changing, unpacking her things. He understood French but continued speaking to her in English. And he watched her through the slightly open door.

Jacqueline muttered to herself:

«What a bastard… staring at me without a shred of shame… Old gentleman — do you think I’ve fallen for you?.. Damn it, damnably attractive bastard… infuriating… even his voice gets to me… idiot…»

Berkley raised an eyebrow and allowed himself the faintest smile as he watched her search for something to wear to bed. He settled into the armchair. He already knew, she would come out and drink that tea. She’d wrestle with her inner Joan of Arc… and come out.

And she did. The doorknob clicked.

«Well then… tea, I suppose? Unfortunately, this is the only night robe I have, ” she said, taking a seat across from him.

It was a thin robe, cut above the knee; beneath it, her lingerie and stockings were visible.

Berkley looked her over with a detective’s eye and thought, taking a sip of tea:

Of course. As if I’d believe that. And even if I did — do you always wear stockings with seams down the back and walk around barefoot? Especially when there are guest slippers right there in the room?

«Why are you looking at me like that? You’re making me uncomfortable, ” Jacqueline said.

«Hm. There’s nothing there I haven’t seen before, mademoiselle, ” the man replied with a smirk.

At that, the Frenchwoman gave an annoyed huff and untied her robe, fixing him with a displeased look. Berkley watched and thought:

And yet… when she unties that robe, it makes me want to forget I was ever married at all… A pity this city is too full of secrets and darkness to afford the luxury of simply being here, now…

Looking her over once more, he calmly took another sip.

«Well then… I’ll admit it — I haven’t seen anything like this before. You may consider me surrendered… to the triumph of the Revolution. Beautiful. Truly. Your tea’s getting cold, drink.»

She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other.

«Good tea, thank you. Perhaps we could talk about something else? You’ve already reminded me of Napoleon.»

Berkley only allowed himself a faint smile.

«I suppose I won’t ask about Joan of Arc. You practically embody her.»

«I wouldn’t put myself on the same level as her. But thank you for the compliment.»

«Among the French figures, I respect Charles de Gaulle. And Robespierre, too — standing against the crown, ‘string them up on the lampposts’… a madman.»

«Hm. De Gaulle is our symbol of the Resistance. But that little ‘marshal act’ of his… Why do they all become corrupted after a while?.. And as for Robespierre — he betrayed the idea… He was afraid of his own blood!»

«Going all the way, are you? You’d have every right to call yourself a left-wing intellectual. Just don’t go near Trotsky — I hear he’s a bit rough with women.» Berkley leaned back in his chair as well.

Jacqueline rolled her eyes again.

«I know, you English pride yourselves on women who keep the home fires burning. And we… A Frenchwoman, giving up everything, followed her Decembrist to Siberia — head held high!»

«And you?.. Are you ready, Jacqueline?.. To step off the train for someone… and walk straight into hell?» He let the corners of his mouth lift slightly, never taking his eyes off her.

«If the man is worth it… And I decide whether he is.» Her voice wavered slightly, but her gaze remained steel.

Only the ticking of the clock’s pendulum could be heard. Nothing else. Berkley lit his cigar and exhaled slowly.

«Good ones. Cuban. Sir Churchill favors them — no wonder… As for you — you’re mad. But in your madness, there’s something you won’t find out there beyond the windows… You’ve seen our working districts, I imagine… That world outside. I know it well. But in you… I see a spark I haven’t seen in years… A flame that burns you, and everything around you.»

«No one’s ever paid me compliments like that, monsieur. This conversation is reaching… a rather different level. Perhaps we should talk about what you’ve read — what you enjoy. Do you know Dostoevsky?» She reached for the candies.

«Who doesn’t… I’ve read your Dostoevsky — unpleasant, at times brilliant, but all the while you feel like punching someone in the face — either the author or yourself. I won’t drag Orwell into this, though he’s worth the read too… Nineteen Eighty-Four… The world’s not ready for it yet. Something more… uplifting — I’ve read the memoirs of our Sir Winston, the Prime Minister. Strength, honor, spirit, and tragedy — it’s all there for the reader.»

«You think me mad. And what madness have you read, monsieur?»

Silence. He exhaled cigar smoke again.

«Nietzsche… Friedrich Nietzsche… It’s as if he’s speaking to God through a mirror in a dark room… That’s how he writes. Strong thoughts. I call it ‘wine for those who aren’t afraid of the hangover.’»

Jacqueline let out a soft laugh.

«Are you always so proper? This isn’t my first time in London — I’ve been here before. You’re all so careful, always hiding behind propriety. As for me… I read Freud in the library. He says your propriety is nothing more than a curtain — to cover your subconscious desires.»

«How elegantly you led us there, miss — you took the words right out of my mouth, ” Berkley smirked slightly. «Hm. Does science excuse every weakness these days?»

«No, monsieur. It simply tells the truth: we’re all… a little… monstrous. Even me. Even you.» She gave him a languid look, then instantly composed herself again.

So that’s it… Literature makes her want a man like me… Old Berkley, what a bastard you are… Mad bastard women barely know — and still want… What is it about me?.. Aside from my unmatched good looks, the detective thought, studying the curve of her figure.

«Have you read Camus?» she asked, looking away.

«Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday, I don’t know.» he replied unexpectedly. «Yes… I have. When I was younger… I also read Fitzgerald… Tender Is the Night… I wasn’t Dick Diver, but I knew a Nicole once. She wanted me to save her… I didn’t.»

«You were married? Please… tell me. What happened?» she asked softly.

«I’ll say this only once… One day, some drunk bastard slammed into our family car out in the country. My wife was driving… Catherine… When she smiled, the whole world fell silent… She didn’t stand a chance. I was in London on a job… I found that piece of trash and shot him without a word… The only thing he heard as I killed him… was that I was there on Catherine’s behalf.»

Jacqueline’s expression changed — there was something in his eyes she had never seen before. No tears, no trembling lips… only silence. And within that silence, a question lingered — one Berkley had never found an answer to: How do you go on?

«You know… I’ll tell you just one thing. I’ve carried this phrase with me since the Sorbonne… ‘If I go out, I’ll light up somewhere else — in someone else.’»

Berkley looked at her differently now. He rose from his chair and leaned against the wall near the clock. In that moment, everything in his head went quiet — every question he had ever asked himself, the world itself… all of it faded. Only his wife’s voice remained, from years ago, on the phone — the last time she had laughed.

«Who told you that?»

«I don’t know… It was written on a classroom wall. I liked it…»

«Of course… His favorite library was at the Sorbonne…»

She stepped closer and turned him to face her. The detective didn’t want to meet her eyes. She knew a way to bring them both some measure of comfort. She studied his tired gaze for a long moment — then kissed him. It caught Berkley off guard. Jacqueline could feel his heart pounding. They looked at each other again — and this time, it was he who pulled her into another kiss.

For a while, they simply stood there, looking at one another with a quiet calm.

«I like you, Jacqueline… You’re different… I was wrong about Frenchwomen when I was younger… There was one who left me once… A beauty from Marseille — that’s what we called her… She left and said I wasn’t her type… I’m sorry my past made you go through all this…»

«Easy… Nothing cuts deeper than being betrayed by what you believe in… It’s like bayonets — though… even a bayonet doesn’t wound the way some people and some words do…»

After that, she walked over to the radio and switched to a French station. Edith Piaf’s La Vie en rose began to play. Jacqueline didn’t just echo the melody — she sang along with it, blending into it, adding something of her own. Her voice was as velvety as the curtains in an old Parisian cabaret. She was like that kind of woman — the one who could make an entire room fall in love with her with a single glance — yet in truth, she was singing for only one man, sitting in the half-dark, sipping his tea.

When she finished, Berkley stepped close to her.

«Stay here with me, chérie… We’ll figure out how to help you tomorrow. I will help you. I think we’re on the same side.» His fingers brushed her cheek. Jacqueline went still, not looking away. She didn’t need explanations — the gesture spoke louder than words. In moments like that, even the strongest women wanted to be fragile.

Dusk settled in. Berkley lay in his bed and could hear Jacqueline crying in the next room. She seemed like a child then, as the detective stood by the slightly open door and saw… how she buried her face in the pillow, sobbing.

«My God… what is wrong with me?.. I’ve fallen for a bastard… Why is it always the ones who don’t just hurt you — they do it beautifully… Fool… why did I get myself into this… And he’s better than my past… better than that damned Provençal with his blue eyes…»

Berkley could hardly believe that his behavior had driven this «Joan of Arc» to cry into her pillow — as if it were the nineteenth century and some cruel emperor had sent the Decembrist heroes into exile… All those French words, tangled with sobs and broken muttering, were clear to him even without a dictionary. And yet the detective’s instinct kept pulling him toward one thought — she was the one who killed that drunken German…

He left her a note, which she read the next morning. When Jacqueline stepped into the kitchen, breakfast was waiting — simple, English — and a sheet of paper with the following:

«Jacqueline… I heard you crying last night — I hope it wasn’t because of my face or my talk about Dostoevsky. Or perhaps you read Jack London before bed — he gives one plenty to cry about. Don’t be upset, but the door is locked — I don’t want some drunk from the neighborhood wandering into the wrong building and barging in on you. I’ll be back in an hour — I have some business to take care of. And yes — the breakfast isn’t poisoned. The tea… well, I can’t make any promises. Who knows how you feel about an English breakfast? I left something sweet for you as well. Don’t be angry, chérie. — Berkley.»

Reading the note, the young woman exclaimed:

«There’s something about that bastard I’ve never seen in anyone before. Calming you down so smoothly after locking you in a dark apartment — that takes skill. God… how sweet, he can cook… Though it’s such a mess in here, hm… I should tidy up his workspace a little…

The detective wandered down the street. In his mind, two selves were at odds: the Queen’s subject — and the boy from Ulster, itching to throw a stone at the hated policeman who had once taken away his favorite sweet. At last, he stood outside the house of an old acquaintance — Martin Sheen, an Irishman from Dublin and the brother of a textile factory owner. Small house, fence, car — he was home. The detective didn’t bother with the bell; instead, he used the one phrase that always worked with the Irish:

«Derry. Come out.»

That city had seen a great deal — above all, the war between the Crown and the green leaf. A moment later, a man stepped out — Irish sweater, Irish face, and, as Berkley liked to say, an Irish heart.

«God be with you, republican, ” Berkley said with a faint smirk.

«You? And God’s mercy to you, Sir Berkley. Just finished breakfast. What brings you to my part of town?» Martin replied in kind.

There wasn’t a trace of hostility in their exchange. Only a few spoke that way — men who had lived through hard times and grown weary of London itself, its grayness, its dull weight.

«Martie, you hear about what happened at one of the bars in Soho? Yesterday, after five — a drunk got killed. And I think I may have seen the one who did it.»

«Weren’t you fired?» Martin asked, raising an eyebrow.

«Old detective’s personal business… Whether they take me back or not — I couldn’t care less. And you — I know you like your evenings with creative types, quiet music… That’s why I came to you.»

«He was killed in the alley behind the bar — I saw it. A girl. Tough one, though. Not over thirty, I’d say. Wore an old jacket but had that… stylish look about her.»

«You noticed the jacket too? Where were you sitting to catch details like that?»

«Across the street, by the window — facing that very black alley. I heard the shot — no one even paid attention… She ran out alone. Then some strange fellow started trailing her… That’s all I saw.»

He’s not lying — you can see it in his face, in his eyes. Clear, steady… But how did she pull it off so quietly? No one even reacted to the shot… Must’ve been a lady’s pistol. Shot him in the neck — clean, one round. Then ditched the weapon. Only way is down a storm drain… and it’s gone for good… the detective thought. 

«Thanks, old friend. I’ll head into the city. We should go fishing sometime… if your wife lets you, ” Berkley added with a hint of sarcasm.

«Or if you don’t end up with a new one yourself. No offense — but you’re barely past thirty… Don’t torture yourself over the past. Live your life… I know it’s hard… but I hope you hear me.»

They shook hands. A faint, almost invisible smile crossed the detective’s face. He walked toward his garage, not far from Martin’s place. Nothing special there — spare tires, and a car he hadn’t driven since his wife died.

A black sedan — a Mercedes-Benz W110, same year model. A simple two-liter engine, a modest car once owned by an average British family… But every time he looked at it, he remembered how he killed… and how, after that shot, he didn’t leave the house for a week — cooking, writing, reading, doing nothing at all.

He got behind the wheel and made up his mind:

«If it’s her… then it’s time to forget everything. I just need to know she’s mad enough — for me, a madman… You didn’t retrieve the bullet, that much is certain. And those policemen are probably still wondering where to find the gun… fools…»

He drove fast — faster than he had in a long time. When he reached the club Martin used to frequent, Berkley had no trouble finding the alley — dark, narrow, suffocating… As if Jack himself might step out at any moment, forcing him to reach for the pistol he always carried in his coat pocket. His instincts didn’t fail him — the casing lay by a cracked wall, on wet brick. He took out his glasses and examined it under magnification. Nine millimeter. That was enough.

«Serial starts with an F… No need to call on the Queen — this is obvious. Even the shape of the round — MAC Mle 50. A bit heavy for a woman’s hand… but a shot like that to the neck — instant death… One thing left — check the ammo at the shop on the corner. Their batches are serialized. That’s where I’ll get my answers… If I’m lucky, I’ll find out who bought them — and where.»

A gun shop stood on the corner — mostly frequented by policemen. The new clerk took Berkley for a detective. That worked in his favor.

«Good afternoon. Detective Berkley. I have a question.»

 «Of course, sir. I’ll help however I can.»

«Can you trace an owner by a cartridge number?» the detective asked calmly

The clerk set a ledger down on the counter.

«What kind of round?»

«French. Nine millimeter. For a MAC Mle 50.»

«Oh… then probably not. I do carry ammo for it, but any records — you’d have to look in France… Though there was a lady who came by. Parisian. Young, beautiful — asked about ammunition for a lady’s pistol. Said she had one back in Paris.»

«What did she look like?»

«Like something out of the 1940s — tailored jacket, hat, gloves… very feminine.»

«Thank you… I appreciate the information.»

«Anytime, sir.»

Getting into the car, Berkley exhaled. His analytical mind had finally gone quiet… For the first time in a long while, he remembered what it felt like to be simply a man — not a detective, not the best, not anything defined… just to be.

He drove home, thinking only of her.

When he opened the door, she said just a few words:

«Oh, finally — you’re back. I’m less surprised that you locked me in than I am by the state of your place. When was the last time you wiped your windowsill?»

«Ahem… Probably when His Majesty George VI retired… What’s that smell?»

«I made us something to eat. Sit down. I wanted to ask — will you be able to help me?»

He walked into the room without a word — everything neatly arranged. In the washroom, he splashed water on his face again and again, as if trying to convince himself this wasn’t a dream…

So that’s the end of my order… Everything’s changed — I won’t be able to find a thing now… It used to be simple… everything within reach… She’s tearing me apart — like an American soldier rushing the royal standard… I love her… And that’s madness…

Her jacket hung not far from the sink — and that was it. The detective understood everything. There was a bloodstain on the sleeve — she had tried to wash it out, likely with powder, just a simple cleaning. It was gone — but not for an experienced eye. He saw the faint outline with his tired gaze… and caught the scent.

Right… I’ve fallen for a killer… one who’s killed me too… Time to step out, old man… The French courts are waiting for their aristocrat… With that thought, he left the washroom. They ate, talked about anything at all — anything to avoid admitting the truth: that Berkley knew about the murder… and that Jacqueline loved him despite all of it.

After the meal, the detective stopped feeling his «inner investigator» entirely. He welcomed that release — yet beneath it, there was fear. He had forgotten what it meant to be simply human…

When he returned, changed into more comfortable clothes, he saw Jacqueline in her lingerie. She sat in the armchair as if posing for a painter — ribbons, stockings, a garter, that sly expression. On the table — a half-finished drink and an ashtray with his cigar. She picked it up with slender fingers, smiled, and slowly brought it to her lips, inhaling the smoke, letting it slip out a moment later.

«You have far too many royal habits, monsieur… for me not to try at least one, ” she said, a trace of mockery in her voice.

Berkley said nothing. His gaze drifted downward. He studied every detail of her attire, then lifted his eyes back to her. He stepped closer. She didn’t look away.

«Dangerous game, girl, ” he said, his voice rough. «The cigar’s mine. And so are you.»

She smirked, took another drag, and, without looking, shifted slightly — as if testing him, provoking. Rising from the chair, she set the cigar back and slowly retreated toward the window. Berkley moved after her, his gaze fixed, steady — almost predatory. She turned her back to him. Berkley casually parted her legs. Jacqueline gave the slightest shudder.

«Seems the crown has fallen within these walls… Long live the Revolution, is that what they say?» he murmured near her ear, his voice low, almost like an interrogation. They were already affecting each other — just by being in the same room.

Almost in a whisper, still smiling faintly at the corners of her lips, Jacqueline replied:

«Kill me gently…»

That room had never known such a concert — such breaths, such love. As if those walls had forgotten what «Freudian love» meant. Forgotten what it was to take a woman in a surge of passion, a strong hand at her throat, that same hand tracing her shoulder… her entire body. After a while, by the window, Jacqueline breathlessly stopped Berkley:

«Let’s go to bed already — we’re not in some cabaret on the second floor. I’d like to lie down too…» Her voice was playful — like it used to be, though she could hardly remember when she had last sounded that way

Afterward, she lay beside him. The room heard nothing but her uneven breathing. The man rose from the bed, pulled on his shirt, and flicked his lighter.

«Good thing I didn’t have to call an ambulance.»

«And here I thought you’d grown old.»

«Not that fast, girl. I’ve still got plenty left in me.»

«Oh, you’re still showing off. Hm… monsieur, are you sure you didn’t… see anything there?» she teased, settling against his shoulder.

Berkley answered calmly, with a faint smile:

«There’s nothing like that in the Louvre. No… I hadn’t seen it.»

«You didn’t go deaf from all that noise?» she said, licking her lips

«I think you can do better, ” he exhaled, releasing smoke. 

«Next time, you definitely will, ” she smiled.

He leaned back against the headboard; she followed, resting against his chest.

«Well… I suppose we both passed a course in Freud… Though I didn’t exactly ace it.»

«Hm. There’s still time. Freud would say I’m looking for my father in you. But that’s too simple, monsieur — I’m looking for a man who knows how to keep me in his hands.»

«Did I manage that? Do I pass?»

«Heh… perhaps. Now you understand, don’t you? Desire really does rule us. Say it… you love me.»

«And you?» he asked in return. «Do you love a madman like me?»

She answered only with a kiss.

«When you held me, I felt like both a woman and a child. Freud would call it a complex. I call it love…»

 «So do I… I love you, chérie… And there’s something I need to confess…»

He rose from the bed, took a drink from his glass, and sat down in a chair. The Frenchwoman watched him — somewhere between doubt and quiet thought.

«I… I’m a private detective… I worked for a royal department… I know you killed that drunk… It all came together in my head — no investigation needed… I don’t know whether you’ll reject me after this or not… but I’ve told you the truth.»

«How? Tell me… how?»

«There was blood on your sleeve the day we met… That was enough… I could smell the gunpowder… But what you don’t know, cherie — I never once thought of turning you in… Not from the very beginning…»

Silence. Only the clock marked time in the room. Tired, a quiet sadness in his face, he turned on the radio. A French song began to play — one Jacqueline had known since her youth: «Un jour tu ris, un jour tu pleures.» But what came next overwhelmed her — Berkley began to sing. He sang as if he had known French all his life. As if he had once confessed his love in that language for the very first time… as if he had recited verses of French glory standing atop a tank. Jacqueline could only look into his eyes, a tear sliding down her cheek.

When he finished, her lips trembled. He sat beside her, wrapped his arms around her, and said in French:

«I’ve read many French authors in the original… Forgive me, chérie, for not telling you sooner. I have a proposal… Run away with me. I’d like to visit my son — he’s studying in America. Shall we escape to your Paris first? And then… you can show me what it feels like to wake up as a man again — in a strange apartment, in a strange city…»

Jacqueline cried like a girl:

«You speak like no one else ever could… I love you… even if you are a bastard — and a madman.»

«Oh, come now — I think we’ll make a fine pair. You’re beautiful. I’m even better. I’m grateful to God we met. Thank you… for being in my life…»

Jacqueline smiled, kissed him, and said lightly:

«I’ll show you the real France… and then… we’ll show each other the real America. But now — I think it’s time to sleep.

«And what have we been doing until now?» Berkley smirked.

«Getting to know each other… and our bodies.»

And from there, the story remembers only a Mercedes racing toward the ferry crossing — and two people, finally happy. Jacqueline became a wonderful mother to Berkley’s son; the young man accepted her and was glad for his father and his love. A year later, he had a brother — and after that, the family chose to remain in America.