The Mysteries (15 page)

14. Peri

I'd written an entire book devoted to mysterious disappearances, but I had not included Amy's. In fact, I'd never told anyone the whole story of how I'd found her, and I knew there was no reasonable way Hugh could have guessed, which suggested that what he'd told me about his last night with Peri was true—or at least was what he believed had happened.

Still, there was no sense in being
too
trusting, so when I settled down to work the next morning I ran a computer search on Hugh Bell-Rivers. I'd never heard of him before Ms. Lensky had given me his name and number, but I quickly discovered three Web sites devoted to him and his as-yet-unfinished, unreleased first feature film. One was the “official” site, another I suspected of being a canny marketing tool, the third was a semicoherent labor of love from an excitable fan, which included a “soul-baring” “very personal” interview. I was rather surprised to learn that even first-time writer-directors of unreleased films had their fans. But that was the Internet for you, making personal obsessions public.

Peri was evoked in the interview as the “girlfriend and muse” whose “heartrendingly sudden” disappearance had galvanized him into making his first film, a short subject titled
The Flower-Faced Girl
which was dedicated to her.

Q. Would you say you made that film to try to understand why she left, or to try to get her back?

HBR: No.

Q: Really? Not on any level? Being honest?

HBR: How could making a film get her back?

Q: Isn't that part of the reason why art gets made? Personal art, I mean, like the peacock spreading his tail to attract a mate, saying, look what a beautiful thing I've made, I'm so talented, how could you leave me?

HBR: I don't think so. People aren't peacocks, and anyway, if somebody is aroused by a film they usually want to sleep with the star—not the director or the writer or the cameraman.

Q: Well, OK. How about the other part of the question?

HBR: What? Oh, did I make the film to understand . . . well, you know, the fact is that I'd had the idea to make a short film based on the myth of Persephone and Demeter soon after I met Peri. It was something about the relationship between her and her mother, and then I came along; I was her first serious boyfriend. I was aware of this conflict, not in me, but in her, being drawn to me on the one hand, and being a woman, yet still wanting the comfort of being her mother's little girl. So even if there'd been nothing for me to come to terms with, if Peri hadn't left, I would have made the same film. Except that then it wouldn't have been the same film, if you see what I mean, because she would have played the main character, she would have been the star.

The only mention of Mider I could find was when Hugh referenced “The Wooing of Etain” as one of several “mythic sources” for the story told in
The Flower-Faced Girl.
He hadn't told his interviewer the story he'd told me, and nowhere was it suggested that Peri's “leaving” was a still-unsolved mystery.

I entered the name “Mider” into a couple of my favorite search engines. Among the more than twelve thousand references were a product, an organization, various people who had Mider for a family name—some of them newsworthy—as well as the figure from Celtic mythology, but nothing that seemed relevant.

Peri's name, and her picture, turned up on two sites dedicated to missing persons. Although her disappearance had not made the news, she'd been featured in
The Big Issue,
the magazine homeless people hawked on street corners.

While I was at it, I ran a background check on Laura Lensky. Even without her credit card number I was able to check out her credit rating, which was high. I also found out the name of the large corporation she worked for, and her job title. The pieces slotted together, all the little details confirming the image I'd already formed. She was who and what she'd said she was; the idea that she and Hugh might be coconspirators making up a story to draw me into some murky game was ridiculous.

One of the things common to all of the Hugh Bell-Rivers Web sites was an oddly murky, grainy-looking black-and-white video clip of Peri. It had probably been photo-shopped and digitally enhanced and remixed to achieve the archaic home-movie effect, but however it had been done, it was effective. She was turned away from the viewer, looking at something out of shot, a faint half smile on her beautiful face. It was like a snapshot; for a few seconds, I'd thought I was looking at a still photograph, until she slowly turned her head to stare directly, wide-eyed, right at me.

Even though I knew she had merely been staring into a camera, years ago, and if she'd been looking at anyone it would have been Hugh, still, the illusion was powerful enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. I felt like some credulous, ancient worshiper who'd just seen the statue of a goddess come to life.

I don't know how much of that magic was in Peri, and how much due to Hugh's video skills, but I was impressed enough to download, save, and replay it several times that afternoon. I was reminded of a short film I'd seen years ago, in college:
La Jetée.
That film, about a man from the future who is sent back into his own past, had been composed almost entirely of black-and-white stills, and the haunting, moody atmosphere had made a lasting impression on me. Although I'd never seen it since, it was still on my personal top ten list of great movies.

I wondered if the rest of
The Flower-Faced Girl
measured up to this one clip.

I picked up the phone and called Laura Lensky's office number. I was anticipating voice mail, and the usual irritating delays, but she had a secretary who put me through as soon as I told her my name.

“A quick question,” I said. “Where could I get a copy of
The Flower-Faced Girl
?”

“You've talked to Hugh? I've got a copy, on video.”

“Could you send it to me?” I glanced at my watch, confirmed that it was still early enough. “By messenger?”

“It's at home.”

I grimaced, disappointed. “Well, tomorrow?”

“How about tonight? You could come over and watch it and I could answer any other questions you've got. Now that you've heard Hugh's story, you'll probably want to know what I remember and, I don't know, take a look around the place.”

“What time?”

“I'll be home by seven; if you wanted to come a little after that . . . ?”

“That's good for me.”

“Do you need directions?”

“I've got your address and my trusty
A to Z.
If I get
very
lost, I'll give you a call.”

When I lived in Texas I went everywhere by car. Dallas and its surrounding sprawl were not designed for pedestrians, and the countryside, flat and featureless, had none of the inviting pathways you find in other parts of the world. People who walked anywhere but inside an air-conditioned shopping mall, or on a treadmill in a gym, were regarded with fear and loathing.

During my first few months in Britain I had a rented car, but I gave that up once I'd moved to London. I enjoyed exploring the city on foot, and living without a car was cheaper and easier than the alternative. Being a regular walker was useful, too. You noticed things at street level that drivers seldom saw. If I needed to go out of the city, I could always add a rental car to my expense sheet.

West Hampstead was not one of my usual stomping grounds, so I set off early that evening to give myself plenty of time to scout the territory. I took my briefcase with me, chiefly as a means of unobtrusively transporting a bottle of wine, but there was room alongside the
London A–Z
and my notebook for T. W. Rolleston's
Myths and Legends of the Celtic Race.

The previous day's rain had washed away some of the city's grime and left everything feeling fresher. In the balmy evening light lots of people were out, tidying their well-kept gardens or just taking the evening air. I passed Hampstead Cemetery. On Fortune Green joggers jogged, dog walkers scooped the poop, and kids of all ages zoomed past me on scooters and skates. I gazed without envy at the fine, big houses, feeling only a mild curiosity about the people who lived there. My English friends were much preoccupied with questions of class, and placing people according to background, accent, income, address, and other accoutrements, but although I'd learned to recognize the distinctions, I couldn't take them personally. Even after almost ten years I remained an outsider. I was like an anthropologist, there to observe the quaint customs of the British people, but not to judge or disparage them.

I walked past solid, redbrick mansion blocks and streets of Victorian terraces. I didn't go east of Finchley Road to Frognal or into Hampstead itself, where there was far more of architectural interest. I'd been there before. Today, I was sticking firmly to the limits of West Hampstead, of which the great architectural historian Nikolaus Pevsner had declared, “The houses and streets require no notice.” They might not require notice, but I was happy to look at them, anyway, and feel the tingle of happy anticipation. On even the most unpromising street I might find something previously unknown.

That evening I discovered, behind some of the most ordinary three-story Victorian terraces, a beautiful, hidden, communal garden. This was the English passion preserved even in an area where there was no room for separate houses with expansive grounds. And it was not for me: All I could do was peer through the iron railings of a locked gate, where I found my curiosity foiled by heavy shrubberies. This wasn't a park, but a garden to which only the local residents had keys.

Laura Lensky didn't live on a street with a private garden. Her address was part of an unimpressive Victorian semi that had been converted some time ago into two flats—or maisonettes, as they were probably called. A blue-flowering bush grew beside the front wall. I paused as I went through the gate and checked my watch. It was seven minutes past seven. I looked up at the upper front window, thinking of Hugh's description of his last sight of Peri, but there was no one standing there now.

Beside the front door were two buttons, one labeled
Biggs,
the other
Lensky
. I pressed
Lensky
and shortly received an answering buzz that unlocked the door. An overhead light came on as I entered the hall: I saw another door to my left, and a staircase straight ahead. Upstairs, a door opened, and I heard her call, “Mr. Kennedy?”

“It's Ian,” I called back. “I left Mr. Kennedy in the office.”

I bounded upstairs, pleased to see her smile; pleased, to tell the truth, by the sight of her in general. She looked more relaxed than she had on our first meeting. She was casually dressed in a light cotton sweater and jeans, and her figure was as attractively trim as I remembered.

I followed her into her living room, which was modestly furnished: a couple of two-seater couches, a table and chairs, and one wall covered with shelving units which housed the TV and video, sound system, CDs, tapes, and books. Even the pictures on the walls had the impersonal air that suggested they'd come, like the other furnishings, with the flat: reproductions of old British Rail advertisements from the 1950s promoting holidays in Scotland and Wales, and one bright, Mediterranean-looking landscape. The big room was open plan, divided by a breakfast bar from the small kitchen area.

“Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?”

“Well, actually . . .” I fumbled with the briefcase fastenings and pulled out the bottle of wine. “I brought this.”

“Merlot,” she said, looking at the label but making no move to take it from me. “Well, that's nice.” Her expression didn't match her words; she looked not just surprised, but something worse, and in that moment, my confidence completely deserted me. What had possessed me? She was a client, not my date. Although I'd had no romantic expectations of this evening, it was obvious she thought I did.

“We could wash down our popcorn with it while we're watching the movie,” I said. “I know Coke usually goes with popcorn, but, what can I say, I like wine. But that doesn't mean I
have
to have a drink, because I don't; I honestly don't have a problem with keeping a clear head, and if you'd rather, we can stick to water. I
would
like a drink of water, in fact, right now, because I'm thirsty. Really thirsty. Probably a sign that I've been talking too much.” I stopped abruptly, tilting my head in a manner I hoped was not only nonthreatening but appealing, and waited.

Her expression was unreadable. Then, to my surprised relief, she broke into a peal of laughter.

“I'm funny?” I asked hopefully.

“You're American!”

That was the last thing I'd expected to amuse her. “You're not telling me you've only just realized?”

She bit her lip, but that didn't stop her smile from spreading wider, and her dark eyes sparkled. “It was the way you said ‘water' that clinched it. Because otherwise you sound so totally, totally English!”

“Not to the English, I don't, I assure you.”