Free The Seven Turns of the Snail's Shell: A Novel by Mj Roë Page A

as her representative. This latest coup, as he had called it, would bring in a sizable sum for them both, and it would fetch her international recognition.
    “So, you are going to be famous everywhere.” Mark had beamed at her.
    After the eleven-hour flight, they had arrived at terminal C at Charles de Gaulle. Four hours later, they had been through customs, exchanged their dollars, had a bite to eat, taken the airport shuttle to terminal D, and were aboard the one hour France Inter flight to Strasbourg.
    Mark woke as the plane tires hit the runway and roared to a stop. The airport was deserted, except for a few people having a cocktail at the bar. In no time at all, they were in a black Mercedes taxi, speeding through freezing rain into the center of the old city.
    “I found a very romantique hotel for us,” he had told her. She hadn’t known how to react to that comment. In fact, he had finally reassured her, his travel agent had recommended it, and he had no guarantees as to the romantic promise. It was owned by a German-based chain known as Romantik hotels all over Europe and had recently been renovated. What was important to him, he had said, was that the location was near the center of the city so he could easily take a taxi or walk, weather permitting, to his meetings and they would have easy access to restaurants, his other priority.
    The Mercedes pulled up in front of a quaint hotel on a quiet street just around the corner from the canal. The entrance was through a small cobblestone courtyard. There was no one in the tiny lobby when they arrived. The breakfast room off the lobby was darkened. Anna pressed the button on the bell at the front desk. A thin, blond-haired woman appeared. Anna guessed that she was in her late forties.
    “ Bonsoir, M’sieur , ‘ Dame . Ah, vous êtes les américains ?” the woman said, taking obvious note of Mark’s attire. “ On vous attends. Vous devez être fatigués . Jean-Michel, viens toute de suite. Ils sont arrivés, enfin .” Her accent was thick, and she sounded as if she had cotton balls stuffed in her cheeks. Anna remembered from her previous visit to Strasbourg that the regional Alsatian patois had been difficult for her to understand.
    “ Bonsoir , Madame . Oui , le vol de Los Angeles a pris du temps .”
    Mark stood by in silence as Anna apologized for their late arrival. A dark-haired young man, Jean-Michel, appeared from the back office and escorted them to the elevator. At the third floor, the doors opened to a long, darkened hallway. Jean-Michel pushed a button, and the hall lights came on. They walked down the hallway to a door at the end.
    “This light thing will take some getting used to,” Mark remarked to Anna.
    “They’re on a timer. It’s called a minuterie . It’s pretty common in hotels in France, especially in the provinces. Saves electricity. I think it’s kinda quaint.”
    “Actually, it’s not such a bad idea—saving energy, that is.”
    Their suite was decorated Alsatian-style with a low, wood-beamed ceiling. A large fireplace was surrounded by two upholstered loveseats. A writing desk stood beneath a window that overlooked the street. On a small, round table sat a silver bucket containing a bottle of Moët et Chandon champagne in a bath of melting ice.
    Mark looked around, his hands on his hips.
    “Umm, there’s something missing here. Where are we supposed to sleep? There doesn’t appear to be any bed.”
    Jean-Michel smiled and pointed his index finger straight up. “ Voilà , Monsieur . En haut .”
    Their eyes followed the direction of his finger. Above a small, open stairway, tucked under a large beam, could be seen the corner of a bed in a loft overlooking the room below. Anna climbed the stairs. Her slightly muffled comments floated down as she disappeared into the loft.
    “It’s got a down comforter and huge pillows. Euro style. Looks comfy.” She appeared at the top of the steps. “Where are you sleeping,