The business would suffer eventually—but he no longer cared. He could keep it operating, and by the same means. He would simply continue to employ, at inflated salaries, the two anonymous gifted young men who tried to imitate the inimitable, and who had produced pastiche Cazarèses these past five years. If they could just survive these coming collections, he would reactivate the negotiations begun a year before. In due course he would sell the company, and then he and Maria would—would what? He realized suddenly that he could see no future for them unless some doctor somewhere, some magician he had not already consulted, could find a cure.
On the bed across the room, Maria stirred. She sat up, pushed back her hair, and regarded him calmly.
“Jean,” she said, “where is my paper? Where are my pencils? My special pens?”
“They’re over there, darling,” he replied wearily. “On the table, where they always are.”
To his astonishment, she said nothing further, but crossed to the table, drew the paper toward her, and began sketching. She was still half naked. He rose, fetched a robe, and draped it around her. She shrugged him aside irritably.
“Don’t fuss over me, Jean. Turn the light on. Go away.”
He switched on the lamp beside her and moved a few paces away, watching her with painful concern. It was the first time she had attempted to draw in more than a year. How long would it be before she tore up the papers, tossed them aside—an hour? Half an hour?
For the moment she seemed completely absorbed. He moved to the far side of the room, where she need not be aware of his presence, and sat down. There were books on a table next to him. He picked up one of them and began to turn its pages quietly, though the content did not register with him at all. In this way, her pencil strokes and the ticking of a small elaborate gilded clock the only sounds, one hour passed, and then two.
Late in the afternoon he rose and moved to the windows. He looked out at the dark. Behind him he heard a sudden movement; the scattering of papers; one long, high, thin cry of utter despair.
He crossed to her quickly and crouched down, encircling her with his arms. Her drawings were tossed down on the floor all around him. At first, trying to soothe her with his embrace, he scarcely noticed them. Gradually first one, then another, swam into his vision. He tensed, then bent down to pick them up. He looked carefully at the washes of color, the quickly sketched lines. To an outsider they would have been almost meaningless, and perhaps unimpressive, but these sketches were a private language he and Maria shared. He could read assurance in a stroke of the pen, and it was assurance he read now.
He looked up at her, his face blank with astonishment and with the effort of suppressing hope. He thought: they work, those White Doves do work, after all.
Maria’s head was buried in her arms. She was weeping bitterly, her body racked with sobs.
“Darling, don’t cry,” he said in a low voice. “These are beautiful—the most beautiful drawings you’ve done for years. You see? I always told you, darling…”
She was not listening. She lifted her face; tears spilled from her eyes.
“I want my baby back,” she said. “Jean—please. I want my son. I have to see him. I need him. Jean, it’s breaking my heart.”
He felt the pain knife through him, as he always did when she began on this plea. Putting his arms around her again, he explained quietly and gently, as he always did, that this was the one thing he could not give her.
“The baby’s dead, Maria,” he said. “Darling, you have to accept that. The doctors explained—”
“You’re lying. The doctors know nothing. You took him away, Jean. You banished him, the same way you banished Mathilde. You were ashamed of my baby.” She buried her face in her hands. “I want to see him. I want to see him now.”
Lazare fought to control himself. This refrain had first begun at the time of her operation, five years before. Once she realized she could no longer have children, something snapped in her heart and her brain. Before that he had always believed she had accepted her loss and left her grief behind. Then it had resurfaced; this past year and particularly these past few months, wild scenes of pain and accusation had become more frequent. She was now half choking with tears. He found the grief and the intransigence unbearable. In a sudden rage he swung around and slammed his fist down hard on the table. The lamp fell and the pens scattered.
“Stop this,” he shouted. “For the love of God, stop this. The baby’s dead, Maria—he’s been dead for over twenty-five years. I can take you to his grave. I can take you to the church where the funeral was held.”
“What funeral? I never went to a funeral.”
“Maria—you were too ill. I went. I organized everything. I can tell you the name of the priest. I have the death certificate. Do you want me to fetch it? Do you want me to make you read it? Dear God, how many times do I have to prove this to you?”
She was still not listening to him. The tears had stopped, and her face had set in an obstinate mask. She lowered her eyes, then gave him a sidelong glance he found almost sly. Bending down, she began to pick up her papers and pencils and pens.
“Go away,” she said in a flat, sullen tone. “I don’t love you when you shout at me. You’re lying. I won’t listen. Go away.”
He left her then, in a fury with himself and with her. When he returned, an hour later, Maria was sleeping deeply, and the new maid was just leaving her. With an apologetic look, she informed him that Mademoiselle Cazarès had been telephoning; she had summoned Mathilde.
Lazare was beyond caring: let the damned woman come, he thought, and turned to examine the scattered drawings left on the table.
During his absence, he saw, Maria had not been sketching clothes. She had covered page after page with random hieroglyphs, random words. Interspersed with these, and drawn with the utmost delicacy, were little pictures from their past. A crucifix, a cradle, and row upon row of vaulted graves.
One drawing in particular caught his attention: on the largest of the tombs, she had printed the name of her son, Christophe, and his age at death, which was three months. Perhaps she was at last beginning to accept what he told her, he thought, forcing back the tears that started to his eyes as he read this boy’s name.
Other details of this drawing puzzled him, however. There seemed to him to be a meaning in it which he could not grasp. To the right of Christophe’s tomb, Maria had drawn a sun; to the left, a crescent moon. Above his grave, drawn as boldly as if it were some biblical sign, there was a large multipointed star. The rest of the drawing was in black and white: as if to emphasize the star, and proclaim its significance, Maria had colored it gold.
Chapter 10
APPROACHING NOTTING HILL GATE that Sunday evening, Lindsay was beset with nerves. She signaled right, turned left, and narrowly missed a post. She stole a glance at Rowland, who sat beside her, his long legs stretched out as far as the confines of her small car permitted. He looked unperturbed.
She slammed on the brakes outside her own house and peered up at its façade. The couple who lived on the lower floor appeared to be out, but lights burned at the windows of her own apartment: Tom might be home, and Louise would certainly be in, she thought with a sinking heart.
“I’ll just run up and find that photograph and my article,” she said. “I can’t explain properly about Lazare until you see that picture. So I’ll just grab it, then I’ll run you home—where did you say you lived?”
“In Spitalfields,” said Rowland. “It’s in the East End. It’s miles away. Why don’t I just take the tube? Anyway, you can’t park here, you’re blocking the street.”
“Nonsense,” said Lindsay, who was only half listening, and whose knowledge of London’s East End was vague in the extreme. “It’ll take us—what? Fifteen minutes? I told you—this is exciting, Rowland, wait until I explain.”
“What about our lunch tomorrow? Why can’t you explain then?”
“Because this could be important—urgent. Besides,
I’m—I’m not going to have time for lunch tomorrow, I realize now. It’s too much of a rush. I have to pack for Paris, and—Look, Rowland, just wait in the car, will you? Then if someone wants to get past, you can move it.”
She leapt out before Rowland could argue further, ran inside, and began charging up the four flights of stairs. Halfway there, she paused; she realized she might have sounded rude, inhospitable. Too bad, she decided. She had had the entire journey from Max’s house to make up her mind, and she was determined on two things: first, she was going to see Rowland McGuire’s home at all costs, and second, Rowland McGuire was not, under any circumstances, to encounter Louise.
She flung open the door of her apartment to a rich smell of frying onions and hamburgers. She could see Tom at the kitchen stove, and a sink piled high with unwashed dishes. She could see Louise on the living room sofa, her feet up. She was dressed to kill, and drinking a glass of wine.
“Hi, Mum,” said Tom.
“Where is he?” said Louise.
“He’s outside in the car, I told you,” Lindsay said, hugging Tom, then moving through the room at top speed. “I told you when I called. I just need to pick up a couple of things, then I’m giving him a quick lift home.”
“Darling, how dreadfully rude. What can you be thinking of?” Louise, who was fast on her feet when she wanted to be, was already at the window. “Look. The poor man’s parked the car for you. Goodness—he’s devastating, darling. Why didn’t you say? And now he’s standing down there like a lost soul—and it’s freezing cold.”
“Louise…”
“Coooeee…” Louise was leaning out the window and waving her glass. “Hello, Rowland,” she called in siren tones. “Lindsay can’t find those papers. Come up and have a glass of wine.”
“Please, God, don’t do this to me,” Lindsay muttered under her breath. Louise closed the window and turned around.
“What was that, darling?”
“I was praying,” Lindsay said. “I was praying my life might change. I was praying you might change. Never mind…”
“Answered prayers are always the most dangerous, as Truman Capote put it,” said Louise. “Or was it Capote? It sounds Catholic. A bit Jesuitical. Maybe it was Graham Greene?”
She was reaching for the buzzer to open the front door.
Lindsay gave her one last desperate look, her fair, sleek, impossible mother, and fled into her bedroom. She went on praying that she’d find what she was looking for quickly: she tugged drawers open; she scattered files. Vogue, she thought. English Vogue, and an article that was one of the first she’d ever written, when she was starting out and still working freelance. Was it 1978, or 1979? Had she filed it under “Freelance” or under “Vogue”?
“Darling, what a noise you’re making in there,” Louise called. “There’s no need to hurry. I’ve introduced myself. Tom’s introduced himself. Goodness! It does smell awfully oniony in here. Tom, open the kitchen window. Can you cook, Rowland? No? And a very good thing too. It’s a woman’s province, in my opinion, but then, Lindsay has these advanced ideas. Poor Tom manages very well. Sit here beside me, Rowland—just toss those magazines on the floor. I hope you like the Chardonnay—Australian, of course, madly cheap but quite fun. Now, tell me, have you known Lindsay long?”
Lindsay dropped a stack of files. Dear God, she thought; even Louise, a fast worker, was not usually this unsubtle. Deciding she could not bear to overhear any more, she kicked the door shut. From beyond it, as she searched, came the interchange between Louise and Rowland, a blessedly indistinguishable stream of words. Rowland was being forthcoming, she thought, as she caught his lower tones. Damn; the article was not filed under “Vogue”; it must be in “Freelance,” then—and it was that file she had dropped. Its contents were now scattered all over the floor. With a moan of exasperation she sank to her knees and began scrabbling among the papers. They were back to front, upside down. It took her almost ten minutes to find the article and its accompanying photograph. The instant she saw it, she knew she had been right. She felt a surge of triumph and excitement. Clutching the papers to her chest, she opened the door.
“…and so you’ve never been married, Rowland?” she heard. “A handsome man like you? What’s wrong with modern girls? Why, in my day you’d have been snapped up, Rowland, long ago.”
“Evasive tactics,” she heard Rowland reply. “I have them down to a fine art.”
“Nonsense!” Louise cried. “You just haven’t found the right woman yet. I can always tell—you’re a romantic, Rowland, I’m sure.”
“You’re right,” Rowland said astonishingly. “Louise, you see into the secrets of my heart.”
“Without her glasses,” Tom put in, “which she’s too vain to wear, she can’t see the wall opposite. So I doubt—”
“Now, Tom, don’t advertise my frailties.” Louise gave a gusty sigh. “Though it is true, Rowland. I have to admit it. I am getting older, and I am getting rather frail.”
“Never,” said Rowland in firm and gallant tones.
“Now, Rowland. No flattery. You’re a sweet man, but the truth is, I’m not getting any younger, and without Lindsay I couldn’t manage at all. I feel I’m a terrible burden to her, though she never complains.”
“It wouldn’t occur to her, I’m sure.”
“Yes, well, I depend on her,” Louise said, her voice sharpening, as if she objected to something in Rowland’s tone. “It’s a case of whither she goes, I go. Like Ruth. In the Bible. You know.”
Lindsay, who had remained frozen in her bedroom doorway throughout this not-unfamiliar recital, could stand it no longer. Usually, it took Louise several weeks to work through this repertoire; why on earth had she accelerated to this degree?
She entered the living room, face set. She wondered if Rowland had noticed that the room, though large and pleasant, looked as if it had recently been struck by a hurricane. Would he notice what two days of Louise and Tom could do to a room, and if he noticed, would he care?
Tom was sitting opposite Rowland and Louise, amid a pile of books on Ingmar Bergman. He was wearing no shoes, and had holes in his socks. On his lap was a tray on which was a giant-size squeezy bottle of ketchup, and a plate piled high with burgers, french fries, and onions. Louise and Rowland, meanwhile, looked distinctly pally. Louise’s blue eyes were fixed on Rowland, and Rowland’s face wore a relaxed, easy smile. Tom met Lindsay’s gaze with an expression of profound sympathy. He even remembered, loyally, to attempt to rise.
“Don’t get up, Tom,” Lindsay said rather wildly as Rowland beat him to it. “Rowland, I’ve found the article.”
“And we should go, alas.” Rowland had already put down his wineglass and was now extending his hand, with extreme courtesy, to Louise.
“Louise, it’s been a pleasure to meet you. Tom, I’ll send over those books I mentioned.”
Louise was busy mouthing the words wonderful man, and making sure Rowland saw her do it. With surprising difficulty, considering how nimbly she’d nipped across to the window earlier, she allowed Rowland to help her up from the sofa. She gave him a brave grimace, then a brave sigh. “No, no, it’s nothing…” She waved Rowland aside. “Just this little pain I get in my spine. Rowland, I’m so glad to have met you. Of course, I felt as if I knew you already. Lindsay talks about you all the time.”
“Yeah. She bad-mouths you,” Tom put in, loyal and truthful to the last.
“Does she indeed?” Rowland said with a cool green glance in Lindsay’s direction. “Ah, well. The hostilities are over, Tom. We’re at the peace negotiation stage now, isn’t that right, Lindsay?”
Rowland contrived to make this process sound curiously erotic. Lindsay, who found his glance and his tone were affecting her body in a number of inexplicable ways, averted her gaze. Louise made an odd chirruping noise that possibly indicated parental indulgence and possibly indicated rage.
Lindsay had to admit that Rowland was both decisive and manful when he chose. Before Louise
could launch her next salvo, he had Lindsay by the arm, had steered her through the door and led her down the stairs.
“She does that,” Lindsay said, getting into her car, which Rowland had parked perfectly, in a tiny space, with two inches to spare. She began hauling on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, Rowland. She does it to everyone. She does it all the time.”
“I could see that,” he replied, unperturbed. “Hard left, Lindsay. Take it slowly. Well done.”
Scarlet with exertion and shame, Lindsay finally extricated them and set off up the street.
“East?” she said. “If I just keep going east, will you direct me from there?”
“You’re going north at present, Lindsay. Make a right, here.”
Lindsay obeyed. They bowled along for a considerable distance in silence. Lindsay had a slight run-in with a blind taxi driver, and a brief altercation with a battered Ford Cortina, occupied by four youthful comedians. The comedians overtook her on the inside; they appeared to object to her lane procedure at the last traffic circle. As they barreled past four arms were extended from the Cortina’s windows simultaneously, and four fingers were stabbed up at the air.
Lindsay hit the horn as the Ford disappeared into the distance. She glanced toward Rowland, who was still looking calm.
“You’re a pleasure to drive, Rowland. I can’t stand backseat drivers. People will tell me when to brake, or signal; it drives me mad. Gini’s impossible. Nervous as a cat. The whole way down to Max’s, she kept her eyes closed.”
“I don’t blame her,” Rowland said in easy tones. “You’re a terrible driver. You’re one of the worst drivers I’ve ever encountered in my life. Your only rival, as far as I’m concerned, was a one-eyed taxi driver who once drove me in Istanbul. He was smoking hashish at the time. He had something of your style.”