Lovers and Liars Trilogy (134 page)

He stopped. His face worked. Mina was so afraid, she could not move. He lifted his hands and clasped them tight around her neck. “Shall I kill you, Mina?” he said, his voice steadier now, and the blue-black eyes looking directly into hers. “I could. I could snap your spine, just like that. Break your neck—then I could leave you here in the church. I could put your body on the altar. Lay you out, Mina, with candles at your head and candles at your feet…” He paused and drew in one long, slow breath. “So, shall I kill you? Maybe I’ll kiss you, Mina? What do you think?”

Mina could not speak. She tried to move her lips, and he increased the pressure on her neck, just for an instant, then he moved, bent, kissed her very hard on her closed lips.

“You’re safe,” he said. “I’m merciful. Anyway, I need you. I need you more than ever now. I’ll have to change my plans. Adjust. I can do that. I’m resourceful. I’m quick.”

He took her by the arm as if nothing had happened, led her out into the street, and took her back to the attic room. All the way there, Mina could sense his mood was changing yet again. She could feel a new electricity in the pace with which he walked, in the light in his eyes; he looked—bright, she thought, as if he gave off rays of invincibility.

“Sweet,” he said. He had been laying out the tarot as soon as they entered; he was still in his long overcoat, and Mina was crouching on the bed.

“The cards are
sweet.
I knew they would be. It’s okay—I can do it now. I have the means—look.”

Then he took out the gun. Mina knew very little about guns except what she had learned from his catalogue games. This was small, a nickel color; he tossed it down onto the patchwork quilt between her legs.

“It’s not loaded. Don’t be afraid. Pick it up. Isn’t it beautiful? That’s what I had to collect tonight.”

Mina touched the gun, then withdrew her hand. Star picked it up. He caressed it. He held its muzzle against his temple. “Bang,” he said, smiling now. “One bullet in the heart. Another in the head.
Au revoir,
Jean Lazare. Simple. This fires fifteen rounds a second. Nasty ammunition. It rotates, after impact, inside the body, inside the brain. You don’t survive. You get lacerated—and that’s not nice, Mina, I know all about that. My life’s been one long laceration, they took my heart and they tore it into little, little strips. One day, I’ll tell you about that…”

He talked on, and Mina watched him and the gun. She was afraid, but she was thinking hard. Star needed help, she could really see that now; he needed help from doctors, but he’d never agree to see one, she knew that.

“Wednesday morning. Two more days—less,” he was saying, and Mina lay beside him, as still as a mouse. She was trying to work out how and when she could escape from this room, this house. The door was not locked, but there was a problem she could not see around. As far as she knew, as far as she had been able to judge in the three days they had been together, Star never slept.

“W
AIT,” MARKOV SAID TO
Lindsay. “I promise you. This is the place Quest always comes. And she always eats late…”

“This late? It’s nearly one o’clock in the morning.”

“Trust me. One-fifteen—no later. You could set your watch by her. That’s what she’s like.”

“Markov, I
know
what she’s like. She doesn’t
talk,
for a start. About the most I’ve ever heard her say is ‘Hello’ and ‘Good night.’”

“She talks to
me
…If anyone knows anything about Maria Cazarès’s death, Quest will. She’s Jean Lazare’s favorite model. He
found
her. Come Wednesday, come the Cazarès show—”

“Which will be canceled. Come
on,
Markov.”

“—she’s due to be the star of the show. I’m telling you—she’ll know
something.
What’s the alternative? You want to sit around the hotel with a whole pack of airheads listening to
rumors
half the night? With Quest, we
mainline,
right? We tap right into the power source.” He paused; his dark glasses turned in Lindsay’s direction. “What’s the matter with you, Lindy? You’ve been as jumpy as a cat all night.”

“I’m upset. Shocked. That’s obvious, surely? Who wouldn’t be? I can’t believe she’s dead. It doesn’t seem possible.”

“And?”

“And I ought to call the hotel again. Markov, I told you. I need to talk to Rowland McGuire.”

“Lindy. You have tried five times this evening to reach McGuire.”

“He was
out,
Markov. He might be back now.”

“—And
when
you call him, Lindy, there’s these little signals I’m picking up. Like, serious agitation…”

“He’s my
editor.
I need to talk to him.”

“Sure.” Markov gave a huge yawn. “And editors edit. They sit at a desk—in London, in his case—and they edit away. Ring, ring, fax, fax, kill those Markov pictures, I don’t like waifs… I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, Lindy, but I seem to remember that around fifteen seconds ago it was war. I seem to remember you were going to wipe him out.”

“That was last week, Markov. I’ve changed my mind.”

“Just your mind, Lindy? And how about McGuire? I mean, how come he’s abandoned his desk, how come he’s suddenly on a plane, in Paris? I’m revising my ideas of this man, Lindy. Like I had the wrong angle before, the wrong aperture, wrong shutter speed, wrong
film.
What’s brought him hotfooting to Paris, Lindy, my love? Is it work? Is it a woman? Fill me in.”

“Don’t be so damn stupid, Markov. Of course it’s not a woman. I’ve no idea where you get these ideas.”

“Looking at you, sweetheart, that’s where I get them.”

“Well, if you knew McGuire better, you’d know you were wrong. It’s
work,
Markov—pure and simple. And I’m not sure why he’s here. His deputy is holding the fort in London. I spoke to Max, not Rowland.”

Lindsay hesitated. She had finally reached Max about an hour before, and Max had been in diplomat mode. According to him, someone now needed to be in Paris urgently, and since Gini was unavailable, it had been jointly decided by Max and Rowland that Rowland should go.

“What d’you mean, Gini’s unavailable?” Lindsay had said. “According to Pixie, she was flying here this evening—at least that was the plan.”

“Sorry, Lindsay. You’ll have to ask Rowland. My other line’s ringing. I have to go.”

When Max had mentioned Gini’s name, Lindsay had detected some
froideur.
With a sigh, and a glance at Markov’s maddening dark glasses, she rose.

“Look, Markov, let me try the hotel again. Rowland must be answering now.”

“Lindy. Lindy. Never chase them. It’s a very bad idea, you know.” Markov wagged a finger and gave her a look that might have been motherly.

“I’m not damn well chasing him.” Lindsay hesitated, then sat down again. “Get this straight, Markov. I work with him. I need to talk to him about work. About Maria Cazarès. That’s it. End of story. That’s all.”

“You can’t lie to me, Lindy. You never could. I see it all. I see the light in the eyes, the flush in the cheek. You know Aphrodite, the goddess of love? You know she had children? You know what those children were called?”

“No, I don’t. I never even knew she had children.”

“Well, she did. As a result of an adulterous affair with Ares—the god of war. She had five children by him, Lindy. You know what they were called?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“You bet I am. They were called Eros and Anteros—that’s love, and reciprocal love; Harmonia—that’s easy enough to understand. And then there were two others. Their names were Deimus and Phobus.”

“Meaning?”

“Terror and fear.”

Markov gave her one of his small, sad, flickering smiles. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

“Worth remembering, yes? The children of love. I think about that particular union from time to time. I think about the
offspring
of that union. Terror and fear.”

“Are you giving me a warning, Markov?”

“Sure. Oh, sure. You won’t listen, no one ever does. So, I’m just kind of sliding in a little reminder. On account of the fact that I can’t stand most women, but I’m pretty fond of you. Also, you’re unhappy, aren’t you?”

There was a silence. Lindsay considered Markov. It did not surprise her that he should be so well acquainted with Greek myth. It would not altogether have surprised her had Markov leaned across the table and begun speaking Greek. Markov might go to extreme lengths, both in his appearance and in his manner of speech, to suggest he was a fool, a gadfly, a fashion victim: in reality, he was none of these things. Markov was astute, sensitive, gifted, and intelligent, also both resilient and brave. His long-term partner had died of AIDS two years before; Markov had nursed him through the final stages of his illness. Markov was indeed in a position to understand why terror and fear should be the offspring of love.

Watching her now, as the minutes ticked by, he was wearing his habitual disguise. Black clothes, head to foot, black sunglasses despite the fact that this restaurant allegedly favored by Quest was a small, dingy neighborhood place on a Montmartre back street, with lighting rather worse than that of most cellars. On his head, as usual, was a hat—Markov was rarely seen without one, and this, Lindsay thought, was a particularly ridiculous example, wide-brimmed, velvety, a fin-de-siècle hat, an Oscar Wilde hat. From beneath it escaped long, fair, wavy tresses. The final touches were two silver crucifix earrings and a fistful of silver rings. Markov, who hailed from Los Angeles but claimed to have been born on a jumbo jet, had been, since the death of his lover, rootless. He spent his life moving around the world, from shoot to shoot. He could make any woman he photographed look ten times more beautiful than she actually was. Some of his pictures, transcending fashion, haunted Lindsay, who considered him the best fashion photographer in the world—not a view that was widely shared, for Markov’s work was too subversive, too strange for many tastes. In Lindsay’s view, as man and photographer, Markov was a kind of enchanter. Looking at him now, she realized with a sense of surprise that not only was he almost certainly her closest friend, but that she wanted to talk.

“Oh, very well. You’re right,” she said, giving Markov a troubled look. “I like Rowland. Maybe more than like him. The other day—I went to his house. I was just talking to him, and—something happened. You know, Markov. One of those little rebellions of the heart.”

“Sure. I know those. Go on.”

“There is nothing more. I thought I’d cured myself—it’s been years, Markov, years since that happened. I’m not a child. I’m not a fool. I’m almost thirty-nine years old. I have a son who’s seventeen. I have
stretch marks,
Markov. If I go to bed with someone, I make sure the lights are turned down low.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Lindy…”

“It’s
true.
I know it’s stupid. I tell myself, it doesn’t matter, there must be someone out there who doesn’t care about all that. Someone who won’t mind about the lines on my face, because he’s not looking at my face, or my bottom, or my breasts, he’s looking at me, at the person inside.”

Lindsay stopped; she could feel distress inches away, and she despised herself for that. She gave an angry gesture. “You don’t want to hear this. I can feel self-pity coming on.”

“I do want to hear it. I understand.”

“Well, I don’t meet them, that’s all. If they exist, these miraculous men, I never get an introduction. The men I meet fall into three categories: they’re already married; they’re liars; or they’re bores. It’s my
age,
Markov. Only the rejects and the walking wounded are left. At least that’s what I thought. And then I met Rowland McGuire.”

“The dark, tall, and handsome McGuire?” Markov smiled.

“Yes. But that’s not the reason. I hope it’s not the reason…”

“So give me a few others.”

“He’s intelligent—very. I think he’s kind. He’s amusing. He has an edge to him.”

“Very good. And the main reason?”

“Oh, all right. He’s been hurt. Something’s happened to him, and I don’t know what it is, but I can sense it. He needs love. He
deserves
love. He needs the right woman, Markov,
the right partner.”

“Don’t we all?”

Markov glanced down at his watch; Quest, late now, if she was ever coming, had still not appeared.

“So why shouldn’t you be the right partner?” Markov removed his dark glasses and met her eyes. He gave her one of his quick, squirrelly looks, then replaced the glasses. “You’re smart. You’re kind. I like the way you look. Plenty of people like the way you look. You look—boyish, peppy, you’ve got these really honest eyes. You’re funny—you make
me
laugh. You’ve got this sunny nature, you don’t sulk, you don’t have moods, you give a lift to the day. You’re interested in other people, you’re not some fucking egomaniac like most people I know. You’re
generous,
Lindsay, you’re not tight, you’re not mean—and I’m not talking about money, right? You give. I remember. You gave a whole lot to me two years ago.”

Lindsay was touched by this. She took the hand Markov held out to her and squeezed it. “Thanks, Markov. That’s the nicest testimonial anyone’s ever given me. Maybe you should pass it on to McGuire.”

“If he’s what you say he is, he wouldn’t
need
a testimonial. He’d just have to use his eyes.”

“No.” Lindsay shook her head and looked away. “I wish that were true, but I’m afraid it isn’t, Markov. Things don’t work that way. And anyway, I’m not right for him.”

“Why not? And don’t mention stretch marks again.”

“Because I’m not—oh—difficult enough, maybe. If he had me, he’d always be chasing something more. He’d want—something I could never provide.”

“I see.” Markov sighed, and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “You mean he’s
that
type?”

“I told you he had an edge, Markov. Think, dark side of the moon.”

“Sexually?” Markov said.

“Almost certainly. Emotionally as well. Intellectually too. Forget it, Markov. I’ve had time to think about this. I’ve been thinking about it for most of the day. Rowland and I—it would be like mixing wine and milk.”