Lovers and Liars Trilogy (138 page)

She stopped. The expression on Pascal’s face had finally registered through her tears.

“You only just met him? When exactly did you meet him?”

“Pascal—does it matter? Please…”

“No. You answer me. When?”

“Last Friday.”

“Last Friday?” She saw his face blank with shock. “You mean you’ve known him less than three days?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” All the color ebbed from his face. “That’s how long it took him? Dear God. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe it of
you
.”

“Pascal—please…” He had begun to pace the room again. “I can’t let you think of it like that. It’s wrong. He didn’t maneuver me toward this—not once, not at all. We were simply working together. And then it happened…”

“No. You
let
it happen.” He swung back to her again, his face now tight with anger. “Let’s just be clear on that one point. You know as well as I do—in that situation, if it arises, there is always a moment when you choose, when you still have time to turn away. Before the kiss, before the certain sentence, before a certain glance is exchanged—you
choose.
So just spare me all the nice liberal lies, Gini, at least. Don’t tell me you can love one man and screw around at the same time with another. Spare me that. We both know it’s not true.”

“I
don’t
know that!” Her voice rose. “Pascal, it’s not always that simple. You can’t be so absolute.”

“Oh, but I can.” He met her eyes. “I am absolute. And so were you. Once.”

Gini believed what he said; this, too, had been her credo. She bent her head. She was terrified he would question her further so that she would have to admit the extent of her own disloyalty. She expected questions: how, when, where, why, how often: such crudities would, she knew, have leapt to her own lips had their situations been reversed. However much they intensified the pain, they were preferable to doubts.

So she waited for the questions, and when they did not come, began to understand that they had already been answered for Pascal by her gestures, expressions, and tone of voice. Or perhaps it was simply that Pascal was proud, refusing to ask questions that disgusted him.

To her surprise, he began trying to describe to her the circumstances of his journey here. At first she thought that this was because he could not bear to speak of anything more immediate. Then she realized: this description was a form of search—it was as if he were searching for her here, in the circumstances he described. That she understood: for it was against the yardstick of the events witnessed in Bosnia that they had both once measured love. He was asking her, obliquely, if she remembered that.

He had left Mostar in a U.N. convoy, he said, hitching a lift in the back of an army truck that was evacuating women and children and the seriously injured. The trip, over rough roads, had taken several hours. On those transports, generally, the children were beyond tears; sometimes their mothers, parted from husbands and families, not knowing if they would see them again, were similarly deadened; sometimes not. He had left Sarajevo, finally, at dawn the previous day, in the belly of a transport plane. That had taken him to a remote military air base in Germany. From there a series of connecting flights had been contrived; he had reached Amsterdam finally, a few hours after she left that city, around eleven the previous night.

He had had, he said, a
film
in his head: this film had sustained him throughout his trip. He would reach her room, walk into it: these were the words they might say to each other; these were the things they might then have done. This film, revised, had still been in his mind a few hours before, when, at six forty-five, he dialed her room at the St. Vincent for the fourth time in four hours—and Rowland McGuire picked up. Reaching this point in his account, he could not continue. She saw his face change, take on an expression she had often seen before, and which, in Bosnia, she had come to think of as his pre-firing-line look.

Pascal’s rivals, his ex-wife, and, indeed, even her father, had often accused him of having some adrenaline sickness, a death wish. Gini knew that to be untrue: Pascal always weighed very precisely the risks he took. It was true that he was less protective of his own safety than were most people, but he was not foolhardy. Before he made the decision to move forward into some danger, some firing line, there was that one brief, taut moment of assessment. This expression she saw on his face now, as he turned back to look at her for the first time since he began to speak. He was standing absolutely still, she saw, the light from the window slanting across the planes of his fierce, narrow, intelligent face. His gray eyes met hers steadily, and she knew he was weighing their past, what they had had—was perhaps weighing her against that morning’s events. She felt a lurch of fear then, for Pascal hated compromise, and she knew he was more than capable of walking out of this room now, of ending it quietly but firmly, and then never relenting, never coming back.

She gave a low cry, half anguish and half protest; his face changed. He crossed to her, and, touching her for the first time, took her hand in his.

“Listen to me. Look at me.” He turned her face to his. “Gini, we have to move beyond this. I can’t—at the moment I can’t see and I can’t think. Something must have been so terribly wrong. Darling—you’re so thin. Your hair. Your face—”

His voice became unsteady. He drew her toward him. “You’ve been hiding things from me—on the telephone, in your letters. I don’t mean that man—nothing to do with him. Gini, why did you do that? What’s
happened
to you since you left me? I thought we had no secrets from each other.”

He paused, his expression bewildered, his eyes searching her face. When she did not immediately reply, he clasped both her hands tight and forced her again to look at him.

“Right. This is what we do. We leave now—yes? We leave Paris together, by the first available flight. And then we go back to London, to our apartment, or some other quiet place, where we can be alone together and we can talk. We can retrieve this, but we have to do it at once. Now. Darling, look at me. Say you’ll do that.”

Gini hesitated; there was a silence, and that silence, he read. He released her hands and stepped back from her at once.

“You won’t do that?”

“Pascal—in a day or two, yes. I want that too—I want it more than anything else. But I can’t leave now, not today, it would be wrong of me to do that. I
have
to see this story through. I told you—a young girl is missing. I—I have to find her. I have to find the man she’s with. Two people have died as a result of him. I
cannot
walk away from this.”

There was a silence, a silence that terrified Gini. She could feel an ocean of words welling up inside her, some huge, deafening weight of emotion that had been too long dammed up. She could feel Pascal’s anger now; the tenderness and concern of a moment before had been wiped from his face.

“I see.” He gave her one long, cold, appraising look. “You cannot walk away from this story—or you cannot walk away from that man? Which is it, Gini? I’d like to be clear—very clear—about this.”

“It’s the story,” she replied quickly. “Nothing to do with Rowland McGuire. In fact, if I asked him, I’m sure
he
would leave, return to London—”

“You think so? I wouldn’t agree. I would say he’d be very reluctant to leave you. I very much doubt he’d return to London so obligingly. Judging from the way he looked and behaved this morning. Judging from the expression on his face.”

“Pascal—please. I’m sure you’re wrong. He’ll be regretting what’s happened. He’ll want to extricate himself.”

“Do you think I’m a complete fool?” He gave her a furious glance. “You think I don’t
know
what a man looks like in that situation? Don’t lie to me. You’d been making love all night—I knew that the instant he opened the door. I knew when he lied so gallantly on your behalf—and when you damn well let him do it. Christ…” Gini flinched at his violent gesture. “He is
not
going to walk away from this. He has no wish to extricate himself—quite the opposite. He made that crystal clear as I left that damn room.”

“Pascal, he did
not.
He said one word to you then…”

“One word was enough. What he said was irrelevant. I could see it in his face. If he’d hit me, he couldn’t have made it any clearer. And you damn well knew that. You know it now. You can’t meet my eyes. You’re either lying to me or lying to yourself. It wasn’t just some quick, meaningless fuck you both instantly regretted—was it?
Was
it?”

“I won’t answer that.”

“You already have.” He fought to regain control, turned away, then swung back. “So don’t try to foist the decision on him. It has to be your decision. Your choice.” He paused. “And think hard before you make it, because you won’t be revising it—tomorrow, or next week.” He gave her a look that cut her to the heart, in which anger mixed with the deepest regret. “We’ve been here before,” he went on in a tight voice. “Choose, Gini. Call it choosing between me and this story of yours if you like. There’s a plane in an hour, and I shall be on it. With you or without you. Goddammit!” His control finally snapped. He slammed his fist against the wall. “You think I’m going to plead with you now? You think I’m going to try to remind you of what we were, what we meant? I will not do that. I
will
not do that. If you love me, you’ll come with me. If you don’t, then this whole last year, most of my past, was a mistake. So choose, Gini, choose now. I won’t wait.”

“How can you say that? How can you do this? Did I ever give you that choice?” She swung around to him, her voice rising in sudden accusation. “You’ve been away nine
weeks,
Pascal. You said it would be three, at the most four. It’s
nine.
Did
I
do this to you? Did I say, if you love me, Pascal, you’ll get the next flight out of Sarajevo and come back? Did I
ever
say that?”

“You’re suggesting the situation is the same? Dear God, what’s the matter with you? Was I involved with a woman out there? No, I was not. I was faithful to you—I couldn’t have been anything else—and you damn well knew that. I left you in no doubt as to my feelings, not when I spoke to you, not when I wrote. I’m not asking you to choose between me and your work now. I’m asking you to choose which matters more to you—me, or the man who persuaded you into bed last night.”

“He did not do that—I told you. And he has nothing to do with this. I’m asking for a few days, that’s all—Pascal, I can’t explain. In Amsterdam—I
swore
to myself I’d do this.”

“You’ve sworn a lot of things.” He gestured at the letters he had tossed aside on the bed. “You want to remind yourself of some of the things you swore to me? You’ve obviously forgotten them. They can’t have been too deeply meant.”

“That isn’t true! Pascal—can’t you understand? I’m not trying to excuse what I did. But you must see—while you were away my life didn’t just
stop.
I was alone, week after week. I was
changed
by what I saw in Bosnia—and I couldn’t tell you about that. I couldn’t tell you how ill and desperate and mad I felt. I wanted you to be free, so you could work—and so I couldn’t even tell you how much I longed to have you back. Do you know how hard it was
not
saying that? Week after week. I was so sure you’d come back for Christmas. I was certain—I can make up films too, Pascal, did you ever think of that? I can imagine. I had this Christmas film in my head. I saw—oh, stupid things, perhaps, our first Christmas together. In our apartment. A tree. I bought a tree. And stars. I bought you presents and wrapped them up. And then you
didn’t
come.”

“Gini?” He moved toward her. “Darling—what are you saying? You told me none of this. At Christmas you said it didn’t matter. You said we’d have Christmas when I came back. You said—”

“I
know
what I said.” She could no longer control the tears that had begun to spill down her face. “But it wasn’t what I thought. What I felt. I hoped—I was so sure that you must understand. I thought—even Pascal can’t stay out there forever. He must miss me. He must
want
to come back. And then—it was when I saw Helen. I had lunch with Helen, and she said—”

He had begun to move closer, was reaching for her; at the mention of his ex-wife’s name, he stopped dead.

“What? You saw Helen? When? You never told me that.”

“Before Christmas. I could see she thought I was stupid. She knew you better than I did. She knew you wouldn’t come back for Christmas, or the New Year. She told me how it was when she was married to you. How she could never reach you. How she had to cope with Marianne all on her own—and I thought, yes, she’s right, Pascal
is
dedicated, that’s what he’s like, and it’s why I love him. Except—”

She stopped. Pascal’s eyes had darkened with anger. He caught hold of her arm.

“You finish this,” he said. “Go on. Except what?”

“Except it was
destroying
me, Pascal. Never knowing where you were, if you were safe. Not being able to tell you what I felt. It was tearing me apart
now
—and when she said that, when she said how it was, I thought—that’s how it would be if
I
had Pascal’s child. I’d be a second Helen. The baby would be a second Marianne. And you’d
still
be an absentee father, just the way she said.”

“Dear God, never say that to me.” He caught both arms in a painful grip and shook her hard. “Look at you…” He wrenched her face toward him. “I can see the marks of that man’s hands on your throat. I can
smell
him on you, and you talk to me about my wife and my child? You know what that marriage was like—you know what kind of hell it was. If it hadn’t been for my daughter…”

“Oh, I know you love Marianne…” Gini fought to break his grip. “Why are you here in Paris now, Pascal? Don’t lie to me. Don’t tell me that you suddenly decided you had to see me. I
know
what finally brought you back—and it wasn’t me at all. You’re here because it’s Marianne’s birthday next week.”

He hit her then, so hard she fell to the floor. The blow knocked her against the base of the bed, and she crouched there, shielding her face. He had never hit her before, and the blow was so unexpected and so painful that her vision went black. Pascal caught hold of her and pulled her back to her feet.