Lovers and Liars Trilogy (41 page)

She was certain now that it could not. Lies and deceptions could not be partitioned off in that way. They were, she thought, like a disease, spreading from one limb to the rest of the body, tainting and corrupting an entire life. Also—and here she saw that room at the Ossorio again—two men were now dead. She remembered her telephone call with Stevey:
I’ve never been overseas,
he had said. He had finally made it, his first and his last overseas trip. And as she realized that, the anger and the outrage she felt made her oddly calm. Turning back, she looked at Pascal.

“Pascal,” she began, “you have to understand one thing. I’m not giving up on this. Not now. Do whatever you like. Talk to Jenkins if you must. Get me taken off this story if you must. I’ll still work on it—you can’t stop me, and neither can he. I’ll work on it with you or without you. I’ll go on working on it until I find out the truth. If Hawthorne is responsible, I’ll finish him.”

She made a small, quick gesture of the hand. “Choose, Pascal. With me or without me. Take your pick.”

Pascal looked at her in silence. He did not doubt for one moment that she meant what she said. She had spoken quietly, her face set and pale, her eyes never wavering from his face. This was neither bravado nor histrionics, but a quality he could recognize, for he had once shared it himself. A stubborn and insistent belief that truth could be revealed, and that it was the revelation of truth that was the heart and purpose of their work.

At that moment, looking at Gini, he saw and heard his own younger self. He was reminded how it had been when the work he did gave meaning to his life. He felt both shamed and strengthened, though he knew he could not tell Gini that.

Rising, he crossed to her. The moonlight made her hair silvery-white. Her eyes, looking up at him, were huge and dark in the pallor of her face. She was still trembling, he saw, and he knew that what she had seen earlier was still with her. Silently, he took her hand in his and drew her closer. He allowed himself to rest his hand against her throat, to loosen her hair, and then lift it back and away from her face. She gave a sharp intake of breath as he touched her. He allowed himself to catch her against him sharply, and cradle her head against his chest, although he knew what would be the consequence if he did.

He held her close, feeling the warmth of his body pass to hers. The immediate and familiar rightness of this passed like a shock through his whole body, and he sensed from her the same response. It was as if they fit, mind to mind, heart to heart, limb to limb, and at once this fitting brought back the desire her closeness had always provoked. He had known, even in memory, how overwhelming that desire had been. But touching her now, he understood that the memory, however intense, had been as nothing compared to this.

That she felt this also he could sense in every line of her body. When she drew back, looked up at him, he could see it in her eyes and face. Switching off the lamp, taking her hand, he drew her across to the bed, and they lay down together. Pascal held her quietly in his arms; they lay in the semidarkness, watching the moonlight ebb and flow. Pascal stroked her hair. After a while, he began to speak.

He had meant to tell her about their twelve years apart, about those years when he had felt so close to death, about the circumstances of his marriage, and indeed he told her many of those things, Gini lying silently, close beside him. But then he found that he wanted to take her back with him, further back, through the windings of the past. He spoke of their time in Beirut, then he went further back still, and spoke of his childhood, his mother and his long-dead father, that little village in Provence.

Some of this story was new to Gini, other parts of it he had spoken of before, in Beirut, and he could feel that as he was calmed by these memories, she was also. They were both lulled away from the events of that evening; the residual trembling in her body became still, her skin grew warm against his.

After a while, when he paused, she, too, began to speak. She took him with her, back into her past, her childhood. This she had never before discussed, and he began to see why their weeks in Beirut had ended as they did, long before she explained them herself, and went on, in the same level voice, to tell him how she had felt after leaving him, and how he had remained in her mind during the years since.

Pascal was deeply moved by this. As she spoke, he began to stroke her arm, to trace the vein that ran on the inside of her arm from elbow to wrist.

Such a deep, feathered, opium calm, to touch her like this. She trembled, and they turned in each other’s arms so they were closer still, and Pascal could peer into her face. She looked back at him mutely; he traced the line of her hair, of her brows, her eyes and her mouth. Gently, he stroked her throat, then her breasts. She gave a low moan and moved against him; pleasure made the muscles of her face lax. It became soft, then content. Pascal leaned over her and rested his lips against hers. They lay very still, then her mouth opened under his.

Her mouth tasted of the brandy, a little; her skin and her hair tasted of salt and sea winds and rain. They made love very slowly, feeling their way back to a past place. Pascal felt a multitude of tiny memories surface in the seas of his mind—this was her gesture, this her precise scent, feel, and touch. Recognition flooded through him; when he entered her body, he felt he rediscovered not only a woman he had loved, but also himself, the man he was.

Afterward, as they lay together, and the intensity of the pleasure slowly abated, Pascal thought about this act, which past poets, he had read, had described as a little death. On this occasion the words were wrong, he felt. There was no sensation of dying; he felt as if he had fallen a great distance, traveled a great distance; it felt like a rebirth.

They talked, and made love, for much of the night. Waking in her arms the next morning, he felt an absolute quietude, then the bewilderment of intense joy. He felt he had been deafened and blinded during the night, but that he now heard, saw, and touched with a new, more intuitive precision. Much though he longed to remain this way, to let the hours slip past, he knew that now was not the moment to operate in such a state.

So he roused himself deliberately. He did all the routine things which, usually, would make him alert. He showered, dressed, drank coffee, drank more coffee, called the desk, paced the room, ordered a taxi launch. He was determined, absolutely determined, that they would not miss the first flight out of this place.

They left for the airport much earlier than they needed, the launch weaving between the black piles that marked their channel through open water, the morning light still thin and gray, the mainland beyond obscured by greenish mist.

It was Monday morning, and they reached Venice’s small airport before eight. A few guards lolled about, holding guns. The girl on the check-in desk was yawning. Both flights, she said, were slightly delayed. They would have at least an hour’s wait.

It was only when she said “both flights” that Pascal remembered their plans, and the bookings he had made: for Gini, a direct flight back to London; for himself, a flight via Paris, with the onward journey to London booked for the five o’clock Paris-London flight. It was his visiting afternoon. Marianne was still on vacation, and he was due to see her for three hours at noon. How could he forget that? He began to swear, furious with himself, then he looked down at Gini, and he knew precisely why he’d forgotten.

“This is your fault,” he said, fighting down the happiness that threatened to creep into his voice. “Your fault, Gini. I don’t know where I am, or what in hell I’m doing. I can’t think….”

It seemed to him then that only one sensible course of action was open to him. He must cancel the visit to Marianne. “You’re not going back to London alone,” he said. “I won’t have you alone in that apartment.”

It was Gini who took him into the airport café, plied him with more coffee, and dissuaded him.

“You can’t do that,” she said. “You need to talk to your wife, Pascal. Marianne will be expecting to see you, looking forward to seeing you. It’s three hours, that’s all. You’ll be back in London by early evening. I’ll be perfectly all right.”

But Pascal could still see the room at the Palazzo Ossorio, and what they had found there. Gini could see that he was adamant, and that nothing would change his mind. No, no, no—he would not have her alone in that Islington flat.

It was Gini who came up with a compromise. Very well then, instead of going to Islington from the airport, she would go straight to Mary’s, and remain with Mary until Pascal returned to London later that night.

“You can even pick me up,” she said, “from Mary’s. I’ll wait for you there. I’ll call her now, just to make sure she’ll be in. You’ll see—it will be perfectly all right.” She paused. “And useful too. There’s a number of things I want to ask Mary about.” She looked around the empty departure lounge, the empty café. “Well, you know what I might want to ask her, I think.”

Pascal groaned. He started arguing again. Gini cut those arguments off. She knew from what he had told her the previous night that this meeting was of importance to him. She found a phone booth and called Mary. She got through easily. Mary, who always rose early, answered the phone on its second ring. She sounded pleased to hear from Gini, as always; she also, Gini thought, sounded slightly constrained, slightly anxious, and slightly odd.

“About midday?” she said. “Well, Gini, I’d love to see you darling, you know that. But I’m not sure if that will be possible. It’s a little difficult. What, darling—I can’t hear you very well, this is an awful line. …Well, if you really need to talk to me, darling, of course. It’s just that I may have to go out later, I’m not sure. Maybe if I called you back in an hour or so…”

Gini had not said from where she was calling. Now she said quickly, “No, Mary, don’t do that. You won’t be able to reach me. I’m rushing out now. I’m out and about all morning. What if I made it a little later, twelve-thirty, say, or one—or do you have to be somewhere for lunch?”

“No, no…it’s not lunch. I can’t explain now. I’ll explain when I see you, darling. It’s just—something rather horrid has come up, and…” Her voice faded, then returned. “I know, darling, there’s a very simple solution. You remember, we did it before once. I’ll leave my key with my next-door neighbor, you know, at number fifty-six. Then, if I do have to go out, you can let yourself in. I don’t want you standing around on my doorstep in this filthy weather. Yes, that’s the solution. I may well be here anyway, but if I’m not, darling, let yourself in, be nice to poor old Dog. I’ll leave you some sandwiches.”

“Mary—”

“No, let’s decide on that. If I do have to leave here, it won’t be for long. And if I’m delayed, well, at least I know where to reach you.” She paused. “Gini, is something wrong, darling? It isn’t…you aren’t…you haven’t had any problems with…it isn’t a man, I hope, darling?”

Gini smiled to herself. “Sort of,” she said. “In a way, yes.”

“Oh, Gini…not your Pascal, I hope? And I thought he seemed rather nice….No? What, darling? Fine, all right, that’s our plan. I’ll see you soon. Lots of love…”

Gini replaced the receiver thoughtfully. The details of this arrangement, she thought, were better not mentioned to Pascal. She frowned, still slightly puzzled, and returned to the café.

“Fine,” she said. “It’s all fixed. I’ll go to Mary’s, and then—” She stopped suddenly, unable to continue. All this, the words, the arrangements, the hows and whens, seemed very unimportant once she looked at Pascal. He rose now, and with a sudden urgent movement took her in his arms. He kissed her hair, her upturned face.

“You know I don’t want to be away from you one hour, one minute?” he said. “You do know that?”

He drew her to one side, into a quiet alcove, away from the impassive gaze of the carabinieri. There they stayed, in a muddle of words and embraces. Pascal felt unease and anxiety as well as great happiness; he nearly changed his plans twice, saying he must come with her after all. He could never quite decide, even long afterward, whether it would have turned out better, or worse, if he had.

It was only when her flight was finally called that he remembered, suddenly, the one thing he had not told her the previous night.

“Beirut,” he said. “Damn, Gini, it’s important you know this. You remember, when they broke into your flat, what they did. And I told you, it must be someone who knew how to hurt us, someone who knew about Beirut—”

“No one knows. Only my father. I told you—”

“Darling, you’re wrong. Mary knows. She made that very obvious at her party the other night. No, never mind how, there isn’t time. Just trust me. I’m right. She knows what happened, Gini, and I think she told someone else.”

“She wouldn’t do that. Never. Not Mary.”

He saw the mask of obstinacy start to settle on her face, and he caught her to him. “Not in a gossipy way—no, of course not. But if she was anxious—she might well confide in someone then. Ask their advice. Who’s been her closest friend, Gini, apart from you, ever since her husband died? Who’s been there, helping her through her widowhood, turning up with books, presents. …Who does she depend on, Gini?”

“John Hawthorne.”

“Exactly.” He drew back from her and looked down into her face, his eyes dark with concern. “If I’m right Gini, he sent someone to your apartment with the specific intention of doing the one thing he knew would cause you pain.”

He frowned. “Darling, promise me you’ll be careful. I don’t want him to hurt you.”

Gini reached up and kissed him. “I won’t let him do that. I won’t let anyone do that.” She started for the departure gate, then turned impulsively back to him.

“He doesn’t know what happened in Beirut anyway,” she said. “He may think he does, but he’s wrong. He doesn’t know, no one can know. Except us.”

T
HE ROOM WAS WARM
and hushed. In the distance a clock ticked. The street outside Mary’s house was quiet with just the occasional swish of tires. Through the window Gini could see that rain had given way to sleet. She had arrived later than she had estimated, to find a note from Mary and a neatly laid tray of sandwiches. Now, it was almost two. The light was already thick and yellowish. She leaned back in the armchair. She could feel sleep creeping up on her, but then, she had scarcely slept at all the previous night. She fought to stay awake, to think, but somnolence crept through her veins. It made her limbs feel heavy and her mind imprecise. What she would do, she decided, was wait for Mary, and then ask her more about the Hawthornes. She herself had just met them properly for the first time, after all: Such questions need not seem odd or out of place. She would ask Mary why she thought Lise had seemed so tense. She might even risk the mention of McMullen’s name. Mary might possibly know how and when his friendship with Lise began. She would lead Mary back down the winding paths of memory, of anecdote, and if there was a deception on her own part there, it was one which could be excused, she felt.