The Other Side of Midnight (34 page)

“I will,” Catherine said fervently. “I promise.”

“To stop drinking will be the most difficult part.”

“No, it won’t,” Catherine said. And as she said it, she knew it was true. The doctor had been right: She had been drinking in order to escape. Now she had a goal, she knew where she was going. She was going to win back Larry. “I won’t touch another drop,” she said firmly.

The doctor saw the look on her face and nodded, satisfied. “I believe you, Mrs. Douglas.”

Catherine rose to her feet. It amazed her how clumsy and awkward her body was, but all that would change now. “I’d better go out and start buying some skinny clothes,” she smiled.

The doctor wrote something on a card. “This is the address of the clinic. They will be expecting you. I will see you again after you have had your examination.”

On the street Catherine looked for a taxi, then she thought,
to hell with that. I might as well start getting used to exercise
. She began to walk. She passed a shop window and stopped to stare at her reflection.

She had been so quick to blame Larry for the disintegration of their marriage without ever questioning
what share of the blame was hers. Why would he want to come home to someone who looked like she did? How slowly and subtly this stranger had crept in without her being aware of it. She wondered how many marriages had died in this same way, not with a bang—
and there certainly hasn’t been much of that lately
, Catherine thought, wryly—but with a whimper, just like good old T.S. Eliot said. Well, that was all in the past. From now on she would not look back, she would only look ahead to the wonderful future.

Catherine had reached the fashionable Salonika district. She was walking past a beauty parlor and on a sudden impulse she turned and went inside. The reception room was white marble, large and elegant. A haughty receptionist looked at Catherine disapprovingly and said, “Yes, may I help you?”

“I want to make an appointment for tomorrow morning,” Catherine said. “I want everything. The works.” The name of their top hair stylist suddenly popped into her head. “I want Aleko.”

The woman shook her head. “I can give you an appointment, Madame, but you will have to take someone else.”

“Listen,” Catherine said firmly, “you tell Aleko that he either takes me or I’ll go around Athens telling everyone I’m one of his regular customers.”

The woman’s eyes opened wide in shocked surprise. “I—I will see what I can do,” she said hastily. “Come in at ten in the morning.”

“Thanks,” Catherine grinned. “I’ll be here.” And she walked out.

Ahead of her she saw a small taverna with a sign in the window that read “MADAME PIRIS—FORTUNE-TELLING.” It seemed vaguely familiar and she suddenly remembered the day that Count Pappas had told her a story about Madame Piris. It was something about a policeman and a lion—but she could not remember the details. Catherine did not believe in for-tune-tellers
and yet the impulse to go in was irresistible. She needed reassurance, someone to confirm her feeling about her wonderful new future, to tell her that life was going to be beautiful again, worth living again. She opened the door and walked inside.

After the bright sunshine it took Catherine several moments to get used to the cavernous darkness of the room. She made out a bar in the corner and a dozen tables and chairs. A tired-looking waiter walked up to her and addressed her in Greek.

“Nothing to drink, thank you,” Catherine said. She enjoyed hearing herself say the words and she repeated them. “Nothing to drink. I want to see Madame Piris. Is she here?”

The waiter gestured toward an empty table in the corner of the room and Catherine walked over and sat down. A few minutes later, she felt someone standing at her side, and looked up.

The woman was incredibly old and thin, dressed in black, with a face that had been washed by time into desiccated angles and planes.

“You asked to see me?” Her English was halting.

“Yes,” Catherine said. “I would like a reading, please.”

The woman sat down and raised a hand, and the waiter came over to the table bearing a cup of thick black coffee on a small tray. He set it down in front of Catherine.

“Not for me,” Catherine said. “I…”

“Drink it,” Madame Piris said.

Catherine looked at her in surprise, then picked up the cup and took a sip of the coffee. It was strong and bitter. She put down the cup.

“More,” the woman said.

Catherine started to protest, then thought,
What the hell. What they lose on the fortune-telling, they make up on the coffee
. She swallowed another mouthful. It was vile.

“Once more,” Madame Piris said.

Catherine shrugged and took a final sip. In the bottom of the cup were thick, viscous dregs. Madame Piris nodded, reached over and took the cup from Catherine. She stared into it for a long time, saying nothing. Catherine sat there feeling foolish.
What’s a nice, intelligent girl like me doing in a place like this, watching an old Greek nut staring into an empty coffee cup?

“You come from a faraway place,” the woman said suddenly.

“Bull’s eye,” Catherine said flippantly.

Madame Piris looked up into her eyes and there was something in the look of the old woman that chilled Catherine.

“Go home.”

Catherine swallowed. “I—I am home.”

“Go back where you came from.”

“You mean—America?”

“Anywhere. Get away from this place—quickly!”

“Why?” Catherine said, a sense of horror slowly filling her. “What’s wrong?”

The old woman shook her head. Her voice was harsh and she was finding it difficult to get the words out. “It is all around you.”

“What
is?”

“Get out!” There was an urgency in the woman’s voice, a high, shrill keening sound like an animal in pain. Catherine could feel the hair on her scalp begin to rise.

“You’re frightening me,” she moaned. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

The old woman shook her head from side to side, her eyes wild. “Go away before it gets you.”

Catherine felt a panic rising in her. It was difficult for her to breathe. “Before
what
gets me?”

The old woman’s face was contorted with pain and terror. “Death. It is coming for you.” And the woman rose and disappeared into the back room.

Catherine sat there, her heart pounding, her hands trembling, and she clasped them tightly together to stop them. She caught the waiter’s eye and started to order a drink, but stopped herself. She was not going to let a crazy woman spoil her bright future. She sat there breathing deeply until she had gotten control of herself, and after a long time she rose, picked up her purse and gloves and walked out of the taverna.

Out in the dazzlingly bright sunlight Catherine felt better again. She had been foolish to let an old woman frighten her. A horror like that should be arrested instead of being allowed to terrify people.
From now on
, Catherine told herself,
you’ll stick to fortune cookies
.

She stepped into her apartment and looked at the living room, and it was as though she were seeing it for the first time. It was a dismaying sight. Dust was thick everywhere, and articles of clothing were strewn around the room. It was incredible to Catherine that in her drunken haze she had not even been aware of it. Well, the first exercise she was going to get was making this place look spic and span. She was starting toward the kitchen when she heard a drawer close in the bedroom. Her heart leaped in sudden alarm, and she moved cautiously toward the bedroom door.

Larry was in the bedroom. A closed suitcase lay on his bed, and he was finishing packing a second suitcase. Catherine stood there a moment, watching him. “If those are for the Red Cross,” she said, “I already gave.”

Larry glanced up. “I’m leaving.”

“Another trip for Demiris?”

“No,” he said without stopping, “this one’s for me. I’m getting out of here.”

“Larry…”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

She moved into the bedroom fighting for self-control. “But—but there is. There’s a lot to discuss. I went to see a doctor today and he told me I’m going to be fine.” The words were coming out in a torrent. “I’m
going to stop drinking and…”

“Cathy, it’s over. I want a divorce.”

The words hit her like a series of blows to the stomach. She stood there, clamping her jaw tight so that she would not retch, trying to fight down the bile that rose in her throat. “Larry,” she said, speaking slowly to keep her voice from trembling, “I don’t blame you for the way you feel. A lot of it is my fault—maybe most of it—but it’s going to be different. I’m going to change—I mean
really
change.” She held out her hand pleadingly. “All I ask is a chance.”

Larry turned to face her and his dark eyes were cold and contemptuous. “I’m in love with someone else. All I want from you is a divorce.”

Catherine stood there a long moment, then turned and walked back into the living room and sat on the couch, looking at a Greek fashion magazine while he finished packing. She heard Larry’s voice saying, “My attorney will be in touch with you” and then the slam of a door. Catherine sat there carefully turning the pages of the magazine, and when she had come to the end she set it down neatly in the center of the table, went into the bathroom, opened the medicine chest, took out a razor blade and slashed her wrists.

There were ghosts in white and they floated around her and then drifted away into space with soft whispers in a language that Catherine could not understand, but she understood that this was Hell and that she had to pay for her sins. They kept her strapped down on the bed, and she supposed that was part of her punishment, and she was glad of the straps because she could feel the earth spinning around through space and she was afraid she was going to fall off the planet. The most diabolical thing they had done was to put all her nerves on the outside of her body so that she felt everything a thousandfold, and it was unbearable. Her body was alive with terrifying and unfamiliar noises. She could hear the blood as it ran through her veins, and it was like a roaring red river moving through her. She heard the strokes of her heart, and it sounded like an enormous drum being pounded by giants. She had no eyelids and the white light poured into her brain, dazzling her with its brightness. All the muscles of her body were alive, in constant, restless motion like a nest of snakes under her skin ready to strike.

Five days after Catherine had been admitted to Evangelismos Hospital, she opened her eyes and found herself in a small, white hospital room. A nurse in a starched white uniform was adjusting her bed, and Dr. Nikodes had a stethoscope to her chest.

“Hey, that’s cold,” she protested weakly.

He looked at her and said, “Well, well, look who’s awake.”

Catherine moved her eyes slowly around the room. The light seemed normal and she could no longer hear
the roaring of her blood or the pounding of her heart or the dying of her body.

“I thought I was in Hell.” Her voice was a whisper.

“You have been.”

She looked at her wrists. For some reason, they were bandaged. “How long have I been here?”

“Five days.”

She suddenly remembered the reason for the bandages. “I guess I did a dumb thing,” she said.

“Yes.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and said, “I’m sorry,” and opened them and it was night and Bill Fraser was sitting in a chair beside her bed, watching her. Flowers and candy were on her bedside table.

“Hi there,” he said cheerfully. “You’re looking much better.”

“Better than what?” she asked weakly.

He put his hand over hers. “You really gave me a scare, Catherine.”

“I’m so sorry, Bill.” Her voice started to choke up, and she was afraid that she was going to cry.

“I brought you some flowers and candy. When you’re feeling stronger, I’ll bring you some books.”

She looked at him, at his kind strong face, and she thought:
Why don’t I love him? Why am I in love with the man I hate? Why did God have to turn out to be Groucho Marx?
“How did I get here?” Catherine asked.

“In an ambulance.”

“I mean—who found me?”

Fraser paused. “I did. I tried phoning you several times and when you didn’t answer I got worried and broke in.”

“I suppose I should say thanks,” she said, “but to tell you the truth, I’m not sure yet.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Catherine shook her head and the movement caused her head to begin throbbing. “No,” she said in a small voice.

Fraser nodded. “I have to fly home in the morning. I’ll keep in touch.”

She felt a gentle kiss on her forehead and closed her eyes to shut out the world and when she opened them again, she was alone and it was the middle of the night.

Early the next morning Larry came to visit her. Catherine watched him as he walked into the room and sat down in a chair next to her bed. She had expected him to be drawn-looking and unhappy, but the truth was that he looked wonderful, lean and tan and relaxed. Catherine wished desperately that she had had a chance to comb her hair and put on some lipstick.

“How do you feel, Cathy?” he asked.

“Terrific. Suicide always stimulates me.”

“They didn’t expect you to pull through.”

“I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

“It’s true though, isn’t it, Larry? You’d have been rid of me.”

“For Christ’s sake, I don’t want to be rid of you that way, Catherine. All I want is a divorce.”

She looked at him, this bronzed, handsome man she had married, his face a little more dissipated now, his mouth a little harder, his boyish charm worn a bit thin. What was she hanging onto? Seven years of dreams? She had given herself to him with such love and high hopes and she could not bear to let them go, could not bear to admit that she had made a mistake that had turned her life into a barren wasteland. She remembered Bill Fraser and their friends in Washington and the fun they had known. She could not remember the last time she had laughed aloud, or even smiled. But none of that really mattered. In the end the reason that she would not let Larry go was that she still loved him. He was standing there waiting for an answer. “No,” Catherine said. “I’ll never give you a divorce.”

Larry met Noelle that night at the deserted monastery of Kaissariani in the mountains and reported his conversation with Catherine.

Noelle listened intently and asked, “Do you think she will change her mind?”

Larry shook his head. “Catherine can be as stubborn as hell.”

“You must speak to her again.”

And Larry did. For the next three weeks he exhausted every argument he could think of. He pleaded, cajoled, raged at her, offered her money, but nothing moved Catherine. She still loved him, and she was sure that if he gave himself a chance he could love her again.

“You’re my husband,” she said stubbornly. “You’re going to be my husband until I die.”

He repeated what she had said to Noelle.

Noelle nodded. “Yes,” she said.

Larry looked at her, puzzled. “Yes, what?”

They were lying on the beach at the villa, fluffy white towels spread out beneath them, shielding their bodies from the hot sand. The sky was a deep, blazing blue, dotted with white patches of cirrus clouds.

“You must get rid of her.” She rose to her feet and strode back to the villa, her long graceful legs moving smoothly across the sand. Larry lay there, bewildered, thinking that he must have misunderstood her. Surely she had not meant that she wanted him to
kill
Catherine.

And then he remembered Helena.

They were having supper on the terrace. “Don’t you see? She doesn’t deserve to live,” Noelle said. “She’s holding onto you to be vengeful. She’s trying to ruin your life, our lives, darling.”

They lay in bed smoking, the glowing embers of the
cigarette ends winking into the infinity of the mirrors covering the ceiling.

“You would be doing her a favor. She’s already tried to kill herself. She wants to die.”

“I could never do it, Noelle.”

“Couldn’t you?”

She stroked his naked leg, gently moving up toward his belly, making small circles with the tips of her fingernails.

“I’ll help you.”

He started to open his mouth to protest, but Noelle’s two hands had found him, and they began working on him, moving in opposite directions, one softly and slowly, the other one hard and quickly. And Larry moaned and reached for her and put Catherine out of his mind.

Sometime during the night Larry awakened in a cold sweat. He had dreamed that Noelle had run away and left him. She was lying in bed next to him, and he took her in his arms and held her close. He lay awake the rest of the night, thinking what it would do to him if he lost her. He was not aware that he had made any decision, but in the morning while Noelle was preparing breakfast, Larry said suddenly, “What if we’re caught?”

“If we’re clever, we won’t be.” If she was pleased by his capitulation, she gave no sign of it.

“Noelle,” he said earnestly, “every busybody in Athens knows that Catherine and I don’t get along. If anything happened to her, the police would be damned suspicious.”

“Of course they would be,” Noelle agreed calmly. “That is why everything will be planned very carefully.”

She served them both and then sat down and began to eat. Larry pushed his plate away from him, his food untasted.

“Isn’t it good?” Noelle asked, concerned.

He stared at her, wondering what kind of person she was, able to enjoy a meal while she was planning the murder of another woman.

Later, sailing on the boat, they talked about it further, and the more they talked about it, the more of a reality it became, so that what had begun as a casual idea had been fleshed out with words until it had become a fact.

“It must look like an accident,” Noelle said, “so that there will be no police investigation. The police in Athens are very clever.”

“What if they
should
investigate?”

“They won’t. The accident will not happen here.”

“Where, then?”

“Ioannina.” She leaned forward and began to talk. He listened to her as she elaborated on her plan, meeting every objection that he raised, improvising brilliantly. At the end when Noelle finished, Larry had to admit that the plan was flawless. They could really get away with it.

Paul Metaxas was nervous. The Greek pilot’s usually jovial face was drawn and tense and he could feel a nervous tic pulling at the corner of his mouth. He had had no appointment with Constantin Demiris, and one did not simply barge in on the great man, but Metaxas had told the butler it was urgent, and now Paul Metaxas found himself standing in the enormous hallway of Demiris’ villa, staring at him and stammering clumsily, “I—I am terribly sorry to bother you, Mr. Demiris.” Metaxas surreptitiously wiped the sweaty palm of his hand against the leg of his flight uniform.

“Has something happened to one of the planes?”

“Oh, no, sir. I—It’s—it’s a personal matter.”

Demiris studied him without interest. He made it a policy never to get involved in the affairs of his underlings. He had secretaries to handle that kind of thing for him. He waited for Metaxas to go on.

Paul Metaxas was becoming more nervous by the
second. He had spent a lot of sleepless nights before making the decision that had brought him here. What he was doing now was alien to his character and therefore distasteful, but he was a man of fierce loyalty, and his first allegiance was to Constantin Demiris.

“It’s about Miss Page,” he said, finally.

There was a moment of silence.

“Come in here,” Demiris said. He led the pilot into the paneled library and closed the doors. Demiris took a flat Egyptian cigarette out of a platinum case and lit it. He looked at the perspiring Metaxas. “What about Miss Page?” he asked, almost absently.

Metaxas swallowed, wondering if he had made a mistake. If he had estimated the situation correctly, his information would be appreciated, but if he was mistaken…

He cursed himself for his rashness in having come here, but he had no choice now but to plunge ahead.

“It’s—it’s about her and Larry Douglas.” He watched Demiris’ face, trying to read his expression. There was not even the faintest flicker of interest. Christ! Metaxas forced himself to stumble on. “They—they’re living in a beach house together in Rafina.”

Demiris flicked the ash of the cigarette into a gold, dome-shaped ashtray. Metaxas had the feeling that he was about to be dismissed, that he had made a terrible blunder and that it was going to cost him his job. He had to convince Demiris that he was telling the truth. The words began spilling out of him. “My—my sister is a housekeeper in one of the villas there. She sees the two of them on the beach together all the time. She recognized Miss Page from her pictures in the paper, but she didn’t think anything about it until a couple of nights ago when she came down to the airport to have dinner with me. I introduced her to Larry Douglas and—well, she told me he was the man Miss Page is living with.”

Demiris’ olive black eyes stared at him, completely devoid of expression.

“I—I just thought you would want to know,” Metaxas finished lamely.

When Demiris spoke, his voice was toneless. “What Miss Page does with her private life is her own affair. I am sure she would not appreciate anyone’s spying on her.”

Metaxas’ forehead was beaded with sweat. Jesus Christ, he had gotten the whole situation wrong. And he had only wanted to be loyal. “Believe me, Mr. Demiris, I was only trying to…”

“I am sure you thought you were serving my best interests. You were mistaken. Is there anything else?”

“No—no, sir.” Metaxas turned and fled.

Constantin Demiris leaned back in his chair, his black eyes fixed on the ceiling, staring at nothing.

At nine o’clock the following morning Paul Metaxas received a call to report to Demiris’ mining company in the Congo, where Metaxas was to spend ten days ferrying equipment from Brazzaville to the mine. On a Wednesday morning on the third flight his plane crashed into the dense, green jungle. No traces of Metaxas’ body or the wreckage were ever found.

Two weeks after Catherine was released from the hospital, Larry came to visit her. It was a Saturday evening, and Catherine was in the kitchen preparing an omelet. The sounds of cooking had prevented her from hearing the front door open, and she was not aware of Larry’s presence until she turned and saw him standing in the doorway. She jumped involuntarily, and he said, “Sorry if I scared you. I just dropped in to see how you were getting along.”

Catherine felt her heart beating faster and despised herself because he could still affect her that way.

“I’m just fine,” she said. She turned and took the omelet out of the pan.

“Smells good,” Larry said. “I haven’t had time for dinner. If it isn’t too much trouble, would you mind fixing me one of those?”

She looked at him a long moment, then shrugged.

She made him dinner but she was so unnerved by his presence that Catherine could not eat a bite. He talked to her, telling her about a flight he had just made and an amusing anecdote about one of Demiris’ friends. He was the old Larry, warm and charming and irresistible as though nothing had gone wrong between them, as though he had not smashed their lives together.

When dinner was over, Larry helped Catherine wash and dry the dishes. He stood next to her at the sink, and his nearness gave her a physical ache. How long had it been? It did not bear thinking about.