Lovers and Liars Trilogy (157 page)

“No problem. There’s a load of his papers up there. Notes, letters, some weird kind of diary he kept. Plus there’s your colleague’s tapes, of course. All evidence, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

“Not for release to the press until a much later stage. So, should any journalist happen on some of that evidence—in the melee, when my back was turned… I’d have to launch an inquiry, of course.”

“Without doubt.”

“Though the trouble with such inquiries is—they tend to get nowhere. Too much paperwork… You know how it is.”

“I’m grateful.”

“No need.” Martigny shivered, and drew his overcoat around him. “You want to join me for a meal later? My wife will cook us something.”

“I’d like that.” Rowland gave him a glance. “And then we could always share that brandy.”

Martigny laughed. He slapped Rowland on the shoulder, then made a gesture which was expressive and deeply French.

“They’re bringing them out now. I’ll leave you alone until they’ve gone.”

“Is it that damn obvious?” Rowland averted his face.

Martigny gave Rowland one last glance of quiet and half-amused sympathy, then moved away. An astute man, Rowland thought, and also a tactful one. The next instant, tensing, he forgot him. There was movement by the portico, shouts from reporters, a sudden blaze of TV lights.

A police car had drawn up at the foot of the steps. Gini and Pascal Lamartine were ushered out fast, flanked by police. Rowland caught a glimpse of a woman’s white face; Lamartine’s left arm was around her shoulders; her fair head was bent. Lamartine paused as she ducked into the waiting car first. For one brief instant Rowland could clearly see his face. Etched upon it was an expression of love and of concern that spoke to Rowland across the distance that separated them: it said
married.
It marked a boundary that Rowland was not prepared to cross.

Or so he told himself then, frowning into the fine rain, forcing himself to remain in the shadows, invisible; the honorable thing to do. Rowland watched the car pull away fast. Sirens curled through the damp air. His own decision—made then, made earlier?—angered him, but he accepted its ethics even as he felt the first cut of sharp and bitter regret.

It was then, as the car rounded a corner and disappeared, that he began to plan his own disengagement from Gini. It would have to be contrived, he told himself, so that it caused the least guilt, and the fewest repercussions—at least in her case. He would have to lie to her. In a distant way, he wondered whether, when the moment came, he would be able to do so effectively. Could he lie as well as he had claimed to her he could, he wondered. Could he lie so well that she would never suspect?

“Ready?” Martigny called to him.

Rowland nodded, and crossed to his side. They were bringing out the stretcher and body bag as he and Martigny reached the lobby. A glint of light on black plastic; some difficulty in maneuvering this load out of the elevator cage. Rowland thought: an ignominious departure. He averted his eyes.

Upstairs, confronted with that pink shrine of a bedroom, he paused. He had imagined this room, as it was described to him by Juliette de Nerval. He had imagined it again as he waited in that police van. Yet it was not as his mind’s eye had seen it. He had not foreseen this much blood, this much debris. He passed his hand across his eyes: this room, his own life—both seemed to him fantastically unreal.

He looked at the wreckage steadily, then Martigny beckoned to him and they went into the sitting room. Martigny quietly drew him aside and thrust a pile of press clippings and handwritten papers into his hands.

My Biography,
Star had written in a small, neat hand:

They tried to tell me my mother was this hooker, and my father one of her johns. After she died, when I was around two years old, I was fostered out to this sister of hers, who was married to some GI Joe, & lived near Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I guess they didn’t like me, because they got rid of me pretty soon, and when I was around four I got dumped in the first of the homes. This version of events is one big lie. Now I know the truth, which feels real good. So let me explain: this is who I am…

Rowland felt pity: he could identify with this. Wouldn’t we all like the answer to that question, he thought; wouldn’t we all like to say with certainty—
this is who I am.
He sheafed through the papers, seeing the handwriting deteriorate further on as Star explained a quest that had gone murderously wrong. He switched on Gini’s tape recorder, then quickly switched it off again as he heard her voice. All the components he needed for an immediate story were here. He had learned self-discipline, and so patiently, and with no outward sign of disquiet, he retired to a corner of the room and set himself to work.

They finally allowed Gini to leave the hospital the next morning. At seven, when Pascal was sedated and sleeping, a car was provided to take her back to her hotel. Gini climbed into it meekly, then gladly sensing the driver’s indifference, persuaded him to drop her off. She was desperate to be alone, just to walk and breathe and think, so she made her way back slowly, by a circuitous route, breathing in the cool damp air, watching the eastern sky lighten, listening to the echo of her own footsteps along the still, almost deserted streets.

She walked down to the Seine and stood on the quay for a while, watching the slide of the water, watching the events of the past days, and the past night. She watched the questions she had seen in Pascal’s eyes, the questions he was too wise to voice. She watched the police ask questions, to which her patient replies felt correct but not right. She watched the consultant explain, gesturing at shadows on X rays, that this was a compound fracture, necessitating a complex operation, in which steel pins would have to be inserted in the arm, here and here and here. She watched herself, alone with the consultant now, in a small anteroom: “He must be able to use his hands,” she said to the man. “It’s his right arm that is broken. He’s a photographer. A very fine photographer. He has to be able to work quickly. He has to be deft. You do understand?”

The man—eminent in his profession—said in a kind way that he did understand, that he already knew this.

His reassurances seemed to come at her from a great distance. She could feel sense fragmenting. She felt that this man was not hearing her, or not fully understanding her, so she brushed aside his remarks about postsurgical therapy, patient cooperation, and a period of healing that would take, at the very least, six months.

She reiterated her fears, and her arguments, until suddenly midsentence, she realized she was not asking this eminent man to cure any injury Star had inflicted; she was asking him to cure
all
the injuries, especially those she had inflicted herself.

Those words, as such, were not said, but she felt that the doctor sensed something of her meaning; he read, maybe, the pain and the guilt and the distress she felt. He chose—and it was perhaps a wise choice—to ascribe her reaction entirely to shock. Gini, who knew this to be untrue, did not argue. She consented to the prescribed interlude of quiet and rest. She was led to a small room; she lay down on a narrow hospital bed. In order to hasten the departure of the nurse assigned to her, she pretended to sleep, and lay there with closed eyes, watching with mortification and sick despair reenactment after reenactment of her own shame, of her betrayal not just of Pascal, but also of herself.

Fatigue and misery and self-reproach made her grip on these events begin to slacken eventually. For the first half hour, all she could see, fearfully repeated, were her own actions, that night at the St. Vincent. Yes, it was true; she had done these unimaginable things, and said these unimaginable things, but as they danced before her eyes, as she made herself reexamine them, they began to seem not more real, but less. Her tired mind rebelled. She began to feel that it was not she who had acted in this way, but some other Gini, a woman who had sprung up unheralded from nowhere, a succubus, a dream woman, a mirror woman who had stepped out from the glass and for a few hours reversed the rules of life, so north became south, and right, left.

Grasping at this idea, and despising herself for doing so, she fell into a restless, feverish sleep. And in the sleep, up from her unconscious, came a man who might have been Rowland McGuire, who spoke with his accent but did not have his face. This man rearranged all these actions in yet another form; he consoled, and with a promissory air, said no, she was reading the sentences all the wrong way; if she would only let him rearrange the words in a different order, she would understand. With a conjuror’s hands he took the words “shame” and “self-betrayal,” and they spelled out “love” and “hope.” She watched all those bright vowels and consonants sparkle in the air, and just when they were suggesting to her that a right might lie beyond a wrong, she awoke, crying out.

Now, looking down at a gray city river, the dream eddied into her mind, then slipped out of reach. She felt a terrible despondency, a conviction that she could understand those events no better than she could understand that impulse which had come to her out of the air and had made it possible, just hours before, to pull a trigger, fire a weapon, end a life. Turning away from the flux and current of the water, she fixed her eyes on the loveliness of the particular buildings in front of her as their outlines emerged in the strengthening light. If understanding and reason failed her, she thought, beginning to walk again, then duty and precept and principle would have to suffice.

I have no choice, she said to herself; I have no choice; I have made my promises, I am almost a wife.

She increased her pace, repeating this litany to herself. She loved Pascal, and with repetition, this litany gathered strength. By the time she reached the hotel, she was convinced this strength was more than sufficient to carry her through any parting from Rowland McGuire—and a parting, a final and absolute one, she also planned and scripted as she walked.

But confronted with him later that day, across the nervous and narrow expanse of her hotel room, she could see only the banalities and untruths of that carefully prepared script. One look at his face told her: that speech had been contrived for a different and lesser man, some man she had allowed her mind to invent. It would be unpardonable to speak it now, an insult to him, and also to herself.

She was afraid to look at him, and terrified of what would happen if he touched her. So she edged away from him as he stood awkwardly by the door, wearing an overcoat, booked on a London flight. She turned her face to the window with its view of Paris lights. Her carefully stacked arguments fell apart in her mind. I have no choice, she repeated silently and fiercely to herself—but even that sentence, so reassuring, so clearly true a few hours earlier, now failed her. Choice entered the room with him; his physical proximity made every certainty shift.

She turned finally to look at him. He was frowning. He glanced back at the door as if regretting he had come here, then he began speaking. Gini could scarcely hear his words, let alone make sense of them, though their sense was clear enough. She knew at once, instinctively and with absolute certainty, that he, too, had planned some careful exodus speech, and was duly beginning upon it.

It would have been easier for them both had he been able to continue with it. But the increasing strain was evident, in his gestures and tone, in his pale, tense face. He negotiated, by sheer force of will, just three sentences. Then abruptly, with a sudden angry gesture, he stopped.

That occasion was not the first on which Rowland had seen Gini that day, and their previous encounters had given him, he realized now, a misplaced confidence. They had met first that morning, in the doorway of this same room, when their conversation had been brief: stiff inquiries on Rowland’s part as to her welfare, and Lamartine’s; equally stiff reassurances on Gini’s part. Rowland’s mind burned with the unsaid, but a night spent working, filing copy, had left him convinced that he possessed the resolve to act. That afternoon, when to his surprise Gini insisted on working with him, filing more copy on a story that even blasé Max admitted to be a scoop, he had remained obstinately convinced he had the willpower to negotiate this.

He had sat next to Gini, editing her copy on screen. He watched her words scroll; he watched the cursor move; he watched words delete and paragraphs shift. He was aware of the ironies of the procedure, aware that his skills as an editor would shortly be required in a rather different context. He thought as he worked: if I put it in this way, if I use this particular phrase, if I’m careful to delete that emotion; he glanced at her set profile, then quickly away. It seemed to him that any script he concocted would involve not only the deletion of truth, but also of himself.

He felt capable of effecting his plan, nonetheless. He experienced some indecision after Gini left, when briefly his own feelings rebelled, and he twice postponed his London flight. But he was sure by the time he finally came down to this room to say good-bye that he had such weaknesses under control. It might well be that during this brief interview he had to make Gini think ill of him, but he was prepared for that. Being proud by nature, it was not easy for him to envisage losing her respect, but if such a reaction facilitated her disengagement from him, it was a price he was determined should be met.

Yet something began to fail him almost at once.

He allowed himself, finally, to look at her. She was standing by the window with her face averted. He let his eyes rest on the light of her hair, the pale curve of her throat, the soft grayish dress she was wearing. The longing he felt for her then was intense. It was not physical desire, though he knew perfectly well that surge would overwhelm him immediately if he were unwise enough to move forward, or touch her. It was a longing beyond explanation, and certainly the other side of reason, a longing for the joy she alone could now gift. He knew how insubstantial this power was: he knew it was compounded of a thousand frail elements, much intuition, some instinct, some irrational hope, yet it was tensile, as irresistible as steel cables, a winch. He could feel it winding him in, winding him in, through a silence that first whispered, then spoke. He knew she listened to the language of that silence as intuitively as he did. She turned slowly back to meet his gaze, and he was one inch away from the complete certainty that she not only knew, but felt as he did.