Vango (36 page)

Mary held her breath. She was pretending to shield her eyes as she shrieked in fright, but in fact she was spying proudly on the virtuoso skills of the young fighter pilot.

The plane completed its looping when it was level with the heather, which it sheared in a purple haze. It was now very close to the ground and heading directly for the horseman, who was in turn galloping toward the plane. Neither of them deviated at all.

At the last moment, Paul put his foot down on the accelerator, and the horse passed between the plane’s two floats.

Confronted by the castle for a second time, Paul realized there was no sense in what was he was doing.

He had no intention of sacrificing a horse he loved, or of decapitating a man he knew nothing about, still less of landing his seaplane on the ground when the only surface it tolerated was water.

And so Paul had to concede that his aim had been to dazzle a seventy-year-old woman who was sitting in the grass, waving admiringly up at him and the sky.

Aside from his elusive sister, Ethel, who was so often absent, Mary was the only person he had left to impress. Even on the day when he had become the youngest wing commander in the Royal Air Force, Paul had dined alone in his big castle.

The horseman disappeared into the forest.

The plane performed a final circuit to impress the public.

When he landed on the loch, a small boat came to meet him. Mary was in the bow.

Her comfortable arms hugged Paul. She wasn’t wearing her nightshirt anymore. She was wearing what she called her Sunday best, which consisted of the black outfit and apron she had donned every day since her thirtieth birthday, almost half a century ago. But, as a special treat, she was also wearing a sort of white choker that gave her a special Sunday look, according to the reflection in her tiny bedroom mirror.

“You were magnificent. I was scared stiff.”

You’d have thought she was talking to a trapeze artist after a night out at the circus. She kissed him.

“Bravo . . . bravo . . .”

“Tell me,” said Paul.

Suddenly, she recalled her own adventures.

“Oh, it’s dreadful,” she said.

“Tell me all about it.”

“I came in search of you instead of Peter. We’re very wary now. He’s busy mounting guard with his son.”

It was difficult to find anybody on the property on a Sunday. Paul insisted that everybody take the day off. The staff played at hide-and-seek in the castle in order not to show their faces. And Mary enjoyed sleeping late.

“Well? Who was he?” Paul still wanted to know.

“He got in through the window when I was up on the second-floor landing. If you only knew what a fright it gave me. I was hardly wearing a stitch. I mean, I was just about to go to the —”

“But what did he want?” interrupted Paul, who wasn’t eager to hear about Mary’s calls of nature in any more detail.

She leaned toward him and whispered in his ear, “He’s a common thief.”

She was speaking in hushed tones in the middle of the lake, as if the old carp or even the Loch Ness monster might overhear her secrets.

“So tell me what he stole. . . .”

She glanced to the left, then to the right, then took a deep breath before whispering even more quietly, “Nothing.”

Things were calm that night. Paul had gone on the prowl in the forest at dusk. He had found the hoofprints, but they disappeared into the bushes.

The next morning, just as everyone was getting up, there was the black horse, grazing on the castle’s lawn.

“Look,” Mary urged, opening Paul’s curtains.

So the horse thief hadn’t even stolen the horse.

Mary felt rather deflated.

“But what if it’s a fake?” she suggested.

“The thief?” inquired Paul, stretching his arms in front of the large window.

“No, the horse.”

“The horse?”

“Yes. It could be a fake.”

Paul scratched his head.

“A fake horse?”

“If he swapped your horse for another one.”

“Why?”

“To steal yours.”

Paul peered out the window. He was trying to keep a straight face.

“Well, it’s a very good job. For a fake.”

All day, Mary kept an eye on the animal that was tethered near the steps. She even kept guard for the night shift. She was convinced it was the Trojan horse and that it would open up in the middle of the night to release the intruder.

The suspense was dreadful. But the next day, she had to admit that all the horse had off-loaded was one or two shovelfuls of fresh manure.

The story had almost been forgotten by the following week, when Paul caught the thief.

“That’s him,” declared Mary in a state of great excitement.

Paul had discovered him snooping around in the castle cellars. He was a very young man who barely spoke any English. Paul took him up to the dining room, where he locked them both in.

A dozen people passed by the door that morning, curious to see in what state Master Paul was going to hand over the thief who hadn’t stolen anything.

Mary already felt sorry for the young man.

“I do hope Paul won’t be too hard on him. The child’s a vagabond. He didn’t know what he was doing. And Paul’s become very strict, now that he’s an officer.”

But she was almost vexed when the master of the castle came out alone, clearing a path through the little crowd gathered on the landing to say to Mary, “Give him some work clothes. We’ll keep him on to look after the horses.”

“But . . . Paul . . .”

“And feed him, Mary. He’s been sleeping rough in the woods for weeks.”

Paul headed off.

Mary soon found herself face-to-face with the thief. The crowd had dispersed.

“What’s your name?” she asked fiercely.

His answer comprised two syllables, which she translated into a good Scottish name that was more familiar to her ears.

“Andrew. Good. Well come on then, Andrew. And watch your step.”

She stopped to feel the young man’s shoulders.

“There’s not a lot of you. Some of Paul’s old clothes should fit you, but I’ll need to take up the sleeves. Take those shoes off for me. You’re making my wooden floors mucky.”

The boy was quick to obey her. She took his muddy shoes without making a disgusted face, like the washerwomen who spend their whole lives dealing with the grime of others. She was less bothered about clean hands than she was about maintaining a glistening waxed parquet floor.

They walked down an endless corridor, the young man padding behind her in his socks.

“Where do you come from?”

“From the East.”

She looked out the window in an easterly direction. He must have come from Nethy Bridge or Grantown, over that way. She felt sorry for anyone who had grown up beyond the grounds of the estate.

“Ah, from the east.”

“Yes, the East,” the boy repeated.

“And do they like roast beef over that way?”

A delicious smell was assailing their nostrils. Mary pushed open the kitchen door.

When someone had sad eyes and dirty shoes, it didn’t take long to win her over.

Ethel turned up two weeks later, in the middle of the night.

Her headlights slowly swept over the driveway leading up to the sleeping castle. An owl was flying low ahead of her.

Since her trip to Paris back in the summer, she had spent only a few days at Everland. Paul had given up remonstrating with her about how often she was away. The time they spent together was too short; they had to make the most of every second.

She parked in the garage, next to the stable. She had driven very slowly so as not to make any noise.

The car came to a halt.

At the back of the garage, in the glare of the headlights, Ethel had seen someone.

The young man was shading his eyes. He had come down from the manger that doubled as his bed. What was referred to as the garage was in fact part of the old stables, converted at the beginning of the century to accommodate cars.

Ethel switched off the engine but kept the headlights on. She opened the door.

“Good evening,” she said.

“Good evening.”

“What are you doing here?”

“My name is Andrew. I look after the horses.”

Andrei had ventured the only two sentences he could manage without an accent.

“You’re Russian.”

“Yes. From Moscow.”

He was covering his eyes with his forearm now. He was as dazzled as a rabbit in the headlights.

“Lift your arm, so I can see you.”

He did as he was told.

“Did Paul ask you to look after the cars?”

“No. The horses.”

Andrei hadn’t yet been able to glimpse the young woman’s face, but he could tell it was her.

Ethel. He had been expecting her for a month.

“If you’re looking after the horses, why are your hands in that state?”

He looked at his fingers, which were covered in grease. She switched off the headlamps.

He didn’t answer.

She took a few steps over the flagstones and turned on an electric bulb that hung over a workbench.

At last, he could see her.

She was wearing a navy-blue suit with white stripes, a short jacket, trousers that were too big for her, and, tucked under one arm, she was carrying a leather-lined gabardine bag.

Her hair was tied back. She looked very tired.

Ethel had driven for twelve hours from London, having spent the last three nights in places where people were more interested in dancing than sleeping.

She was watching Andrei with her eyes half closed while keeping her finger on the timer switch that operated the light.

“Well? Why are your fingers in that state?”

Andrei was alarmed. This girl saw everything.

She suspected something. He was sure of that.

“I enjoy mechanics,” he said.

“Why did he hire you?”

“I stole a horse.”

Mary had made him repeat this sentence as well, like a primary-school teacher making a child write out his mistake again and again. I stole a horse. I stole a horse. Andrew stole a horse.

“Do you think that’s a good reason?” demanded Ethel.

He didn’t know what to say. She went over to a bulky shape that was covered in a black cloth. Andrei was trembling, but this didn’t show in Paul’s clothes, which were too big on him and had been patched up by Mary.

Ethel tugged at the black shroud like a magician revealing what lay beneath.

“I hope you’re not messing around with my father’s car.”

“I enjoy mechanics,” Andrei repeated.

The car that had belonged to Ethel’s father was a white Silver Ghost Rolls-Royce, dated 1907. The best-looking automobile in the world. This particular car had been gathering dust for the last ten years. And Andrei had spent his nights restoring it to as good as new. He had cleaned each piece of the engine. It started up on the first try now.

“Who asked you to do that?”

“No one.”

“Does it work?”

“Yes.”

Andrei took a step toward the vehicle. He wanted to show off his handiwork. He had done everything with this aim in mind. Mary had told him how attached Ethel was to the car. So Andrei had set to work.

As instructed by Boris Petrovitch, he was keeping an eye on Everland, in the hope that one day Vango would pay a visit.

To succeed in his mission, he needed to win Ethel’s confidence. Andrei put his hand on the hood of the car.

“Stop!” Ethel shouted. “Take your hand away from there.”

Her eyes were half shut. There was a lump in her throat.

“I’m warning you. If you so much as touch that car again, I’ll throw you out!”

Ethel went into Paul’s bedroom and revived the fire by putting a log on it. He was asleep.

She sat in an armchair.

One day, she would no longer have the right to open the door to this bedroom in the middle of the night. She knew that. In fact, she was almost impatient for the day. Paul would have his own family. Doors would have to be knocked on, private apartments would be designated in the castle, the rules of the game would be rewritten.

At last something would change around here.

Ethel stretched her legs close to the flames.

For the two of them, the world had frozen on the day when their parents had died.

There were people growing old around them, but they wouldn’t let anything or anyone else in. A dark shroud had been placed over their world, just as it had over the Silver Ghost Rolls-Royce. And no one had the right to touch it.

Nothing had moved on. Paul’s airplane was a copy of the miniature one he used to play with as a child. And little Ethel had already learned how to drive, all that time ago, on her father’s knees.

There was nothing new on earth.

A single meteor had punctuated this long period, as far as Ethel was concerned. And that was Vango. She loved him. She loved him with all her heart.

When she stayed in smoky cafés until daylight, when the faces, the music, the fast life made her feel intoxicated, she knew she was running away from something that was missing.

It had all happened too quickly for her to catch him, for the world around her to warm up for good.

Paul found Ethel asleep in the armchair when he woke up. Delicately, he lifted her feet and put them on a footstool.

Soon she opened her eyes.

He smiled at her. He had put on some music in the little study next door.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he said.

“Me neither.”

She stroked his forehead.

“I saw your aviator friends in London.”

“They’re very lucky to see you so often, Ethel.”

“They’ve been wondering what you’re up to.”

“Nothing, as you can see. I don’t do anything. And you?”

“I’m trying to live.”

“You look sad, Ethel. Are you thinking about him?”

“Who?”

They were silent for a while, and then she said, “Your aviator friends say you don’t like partying.”

The music stopped. He shrugged.

“Each to his own party,” said Paul.

He got up to turn over the record in the study.

Flying with wild ducks, steering his plane under the natural arch formations in the cliffs near to Duncansby Head lighthouse, crossing deep rivers on horseback. These were all parties in his eyes.