Dark Angel (91 page)

My attempts at conversation were stilted, probably; Frank Gerhard’s replies were mechanical, and I had the impression his mind was neither on my questions nor on his own replies. He seemed to be watching me; I could feel his eyes upon my face. He also seemed oddly tense. From time to time, when he glanced away, I stole a look at him.

I was then twenty-five; Frank Gerhard was twenty-seven or-eight. He was very tall and, for his height, thin. He had a narrow and intense face, very black hair, which fell forward across his forehead, and eyes of so dark a brown that they, too, could appear black. He was an observer, by training, as all scientists must be; he was also one, I thought, by temperament. His gaze, first intent, then impatient, missed little. I knew him to be very bright; in the past I had also judged him arrogant.

That day, I was less certain of my verdict. Having brought us here in that impulsive way, he seemed as uncertain as I was how to proceed. Our conversation continued like a poor tennis match between two hesitant players: a series of lobs across an invisible net. My replies became duller by the second. Hating myself, wishing I had been gifted with Constance’s wit and verbal pyrotechnics, I could feel myself miserably dwindling into monosyllables. It was at this point that, having glanced away, he turned back. He did so suddenly, giving me no time to avert my gaze. Our eyes met.

I saw him truly then, I think, for the first time. Having done so, I could not look away—and it seemed he could not do so either. I think he said my name, and then broke off. His hand, which lay on the table close to my own, gave an involuntary movement and then lay still. I could see in his face no sign of boredom or preoccupation or indifference or hostility. This confused me. His expression seemed at first tense, then inexplicably joyful, then grave. He seemed to be waiting for me to speak; when I did not, I saw his face change.

You know the expression
to read a face?
I thought of it then. It is an odd phrase, for a mysterious process. When we read in that way, what grammar do we use? What sentences do we trace? His features did not move; he did not speak; he made no further gesture. Nonetheless, I could read the change in his face. Some dulling in his gaze; a transition from concentration to sadness, and then an attempt to disguise that sadness with a brisk
froideur.
I read all those things in the second or two that passed; then he began to speak.

He had been about to say one thing, I felt—then changed his mind and embarked on a different topic. I cannot now remember what it was. It is not important. He spoke for the sake of speaking, his words a barrier between me and his thoughts. As he spoke, I listened—not to what he said, but to his voice.

He spoke, first, in a stiff, then rushing way, and with a trace of an accent that sounded very like that of his mother, Rosa. Rosa Gerhard was by birth a Catholic, her family a branch of the minor south-German aristocracy. Her father, losing both his lands and his money by the end of the first war, had emigrated with his family to America. There he amassed a considerable fortune. Rosa, an only and a pampered daughter, educated at a restrictive and exclusive Catholic girls’ boarding school, kicked over the traces at eighteen when she met, and shortly afterward married, Max Gerhard, also of German descent, born in Leipzig and—to the horror of her parents—a Jew.

Rosa, with exuberance and determination, converted to her husband’s religion, embraced his politics (radical), and having inherited a good deal of money, proceeded to marry the bourgeois to the academic life. As a child on the Upper East Side, she spoke German at home; she spoke German at home as a wife. She was impossible to classify; she could not be pigeonholed by nationality, class, religion, or race. She was, she herself would cheerfully say, a hybrid—and this mixture of influences could still be detected in her voice.

They could be detected, also, in her son’s. Listening to him that day in Venice, I could hear both Europe and America, a prewar voice, and a modern one—two cultures, and two eras, wedded in one voice.

I liked this; I would come to love it. I was thinking this and trying to remember: Frank Gerhard reminded me of someone, but I could not place who it was. Then I realized he had asked me a question—a question I had not heard. His elbows were on the table, his eyes intent on my face.

“I’m sorry?”

“The war. I was asking you about the war. Were you in England then?”

“Oh. No, I wasn’t. I left in 1938. After my parents died. I went to live with Constance then.”

“Do you go back? Have you been back?”

“Where? To England?”

“Your home. England. Yes.”

“Not to my home. We go to London sometimes. Not very often. Constance prefers Italy, and France.”

“And you? What do you prefer?”

“I’m not sure. I like Venice. I love France. Usually we go to Nice, or Monte Carlo. But there was a place we stayed one year, a very small place, a fishing village near Toulon. Constance took a house there. I liked that best. I used to go to the open-air markets. Walk along the beach. Watch the fishermen. You could be alone there. I …”

“Yes?”

“Oh, it’s not very interesting. It was just a place. We didn’t stay there long. Constance found it dull, so—”

“Did you find it dull?”

“No, I didn’t.” I looked away. “Anyway. We left. We went on to Germany. I wanted to go there, and Constance knew that, so—”

“Germany?” This seemed to interest him. “Why should you want to go there?”

“Oh. My parents’ death. The accident—I’m sure Rosa must have told you about that—”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “I believe she did.”

“It was never explained, you see. What happened. I used to think, in Berlin, somewhere, there must be records of some kind. I might be able to find out … how the accident happened. No, not that.
Why
it happened …”

“And you didn’t?”

The gentleness of his tone surprised me. I had never spoken of that grim journey before, to anyone—and I regretted doing so now. Sympathy brought me closer to tears than indifference would ever have done. I looked quickly away.

“No. I didn’t,” I continued in a brisker voice. “The records had gone—if there ever were any. So that was that. It was foolish to have gone, in any case. Constance warned me, and I should have listened to her. The records were irrelevant. It’s just that I felt—” I stopped. I said, in a bright polite voice: “Have you ever been there? Have you visited Germany?”

There was a silence. His face hardened.

“Have I visited Germany? No.”

He drew back from me as he said this. His voice was curt. A moment before, his hand had been lying on the table, very close to my own. A few inches between them, only. Then, abruptly, the hand was withdrawn, and his attention as well. He began to look about for the waiter. I had obviously offended him in some way. Foolishly, I attempted to make amends.

“I just thought—perhaps you might have gone there. Since the war. With Rosa, or with your father. I know Rosa once said—”

“Hardly. You know my father was Jewish. If you think about it, I’m sure you can see: jaunts to postwar Germany were not too high on his list.”

I blushed scarlet. Frank Gerhard rose and paid the bill. He gave no sign of repenting this reprimand, or the harsh way in which it was made. Indeed, he seemed anxious to be rid of my company as soon as he decently could. We left the restaurant and set off at a fast pace. I said I would rejoin Constance’s party; he said he would return to his hotel. There was a river-bus landing stage near Harry’s Bar; he would walk back with me as far as there. This he insisted upon; miserable, confused, I had no heart to argue. We walked along in silence. At the end of the street that led down to the bar, he stopped.

In the distance, with their backs to us, I could see the figures of Constance and her acolytes. Conrad Vickers was talking and gesturing; Constance laughed; the Van Dynem twins, decorative and indolent, lolled against a wall. Rosa was not with them. As we stood there, waiting for the
vaporetto
to arrive, fragments of Conrad Vickers’s conversation drifted to us on the air.

It was at once horribly apparent that he was discussing Rosa.

“… thirteenth house,” we heard. “Tell me, dah-ling, how can you
endure
it? That dress! Like a big red mailbox. An ambulatory mailbox. Terrifying! I thought you said she was a widow? She
can’t
be a widow. Is she a
merry
widow—is that it?”

I tried to edge us both out of earshot, but it was obvious that Frank Gerhard had heard the comments on his mother. He turned away, walked a few paces, then swung back, his face stiff.

“Shall I tell you why she wore that dress? That red dress?” His voice was tight with anger. “Today happens to be her wedding anniversary. Red was Max’s favorite color. So today she wore a red dress—”

“I understand. Please—”

“You do?”

“Of course.”

“Are you sure?” The sarcasm was now undisguised. “After all, that man is
your friend,
isn’t he? Conrad Vickers. The Van Dynem twins. Your constant traveling companions. Your close friends—”

“I travel with them sometimes, yes. They’re really Constance’s friends. That is—”

“Bobsy van Dynem—he is your godmother’s friend?” The word
friend
was said scathingly. I was not sure whether my godmother’s relationship with Bobsy was being queried, or my own.

“Well, not exactly. He’s my friend too. And I’ve known Conrad since I was a child. I know he sounds affected, but—”

“Affected? Oh, yes. Also malicious.”

“He is a fine photographer. Frank—”

I stopped. I acknowledged to myself (and for the first time) that Vickers—whose praises Constance was always singing—was a man I disliked very much. I could have said so, but I did not. To dissociate myself from Vickers might be tempting, but it was cheap. Besides, I could see it was pointless. By their friends ye shall know them: It was clear from Frank Gerhard’s expression that as far as he was concerned, Conrad Vickers and I were tarred with the same brush.

He was staring back down the street, one hand clenched, a dark flush of anger on his cheeks. For a moment I was afraid he was going to walk back, confront Vickers, possibly even strike him. Then, with a look of loathing and an angry shrug, he turned aside. The
vaporetto
approached.

I know now that his reaction was far more complex than I understood, that jealousy was involved, and that not all of his anger was directed against Vickers. I did not know it then. Already confused and distressed, feeling I was losing something that mattered to me but which I could not define, I started forward. I said his name. I think I held out my hand. The motorboat drew alongside. Frank Gerhard turned back.

“How old are you?” he said.

When I replied that I was twenty-five, he made no comment. He did not need to; I knew what he thought. At twenty-five, I was more than old enough to exercise my own judgment.

Grow up:
he might just as well have said the words. He said a chilly but polite “Goodbye,” instead. I could have told him then (and some years later, I did): I was trying. But it was difficult to grow up, hard to break free. Constance had loved me as a child; Constance liked me to remain … a child. Even physically—and that had long been absurd.

“Stop
growing
,” she would say to me as, in my teens, I mounted to that five feet ten inches at which I would (mercifully) stop.

“Don’t grow so
fast
,” she would cry, half-mocking, half-serious—and I, desperate to retain her affection, would have stopped if I could.

“Oh, you make me feel a
dwarf
,” she would complain. “It’s horrid. I hate it. I shall never catch up.”

“You’re so tall for your age.”

It was one of the first things she ever said to me, the day I arrived in New York. My first day with my godmother. My first day in a new world. I was quick to be enchanted.

We were standing in that hall of mirrors, looking at our reflections, while Jenna waited silently to one side. I had been on an ocean liner for several days. I had just been in an elevator for the first time. I still felt in motion; beneath my feet, the carpet was waves.

“How many Victorias can you see?” my new godmother said. She smiled. “How many Constances?”

I counted six. I re-counted and found eight. Constance shook her head. She said we were infinite. “How tall you are for your age,” she said. I looked at our reflections. Aged eight, I already reached almost to my godmother’s shoulder. She was very perfect and very tiny. I wondered why my height should be a cause for regret.

She had sounded regretful. She took me by the hand; she led me through the hall into a very large drawing room. From its windows I could see the tops of trees. I thought:
We are in an aerie.
The floor of the aerie rippled.

“You must meet Mattie,” Constance said, and Mattie, wearing a white uniform and white shoes, came forward. She was the first black woman I had ever met. There had been no black people in Wiltshire in 1938. There had been none in first class aboard ship. I stared hard at Mattie’s skin. There was a purplish hue to this blackness, like the skin of a hothouse grape. Her cheeks were round and taut; they looked polished. She was enormously fat. When she smiled, her teeth were whiter than white. The room hefted me about.

“Like as two peas in a pod,” said Mattie mysteriously. “Just like you said.”

She gestured as she spoke. There, on the table next to her, was a photograph of my father. I knew this photograph; the very same one always stood on my mother’s desk. There was my father, in some long-ago time: He looked careless; a croquet mallet swung in his hand. I stared at this photograph. I thought about my father, and my mother, whom I had left behind at Winterscombe; who were dead.

A large black bear came into the room; he licked my hand. This was Constance’s latest dog, a Newfoundland of profound gentleness. This was Bertie.

Three thousand miles. I was still traveling. I felt the air lift me up and propel me toward something very obvious, but something I had had to travel across an ocean to discover. There I was, eight years old, tall and skinny, with bones that stuck out. I had a high bridge to a thin nose. My muddy-green eyes did not quite match, one being greener than the other. Three thousand miles, and I could see a new Victoria. There she was, receding into a tricksy infinitude, a girl who looked exactly like her father.