by Tanith Lee
She lay over him, her lips on his. He kissed her softly.
"You're a child," he said.
"I'm thirteen."
"Too young," he said. "If you were fifty. TOO young."
"No, I'm not young."
"No, you're not. But this is." He passed his hands, both of them, over her body and her hair.
Ruth began to kiss him. She kissed his mouth until his mouth tensed and changed and took hers. She put her arms around his neck, her live hand and her dead hand. Then she drew back. She lifted off her jumper like a wreath, and reaching behind her, clumsy from the burn of the ice, undid her brassiere.
Her white breasts were full yet high, firm, with budded points.
"Don't seduce me," he said.
"Please," she said.
The tears were on her face like splashed gems. Her eyes were wide and black and crazed with life.
Malach traced her breasts with his hands, then with his lips.
"Old men," he said, "and young girls."
"How old," she said, "how old are you?"
"I remember the pyramids."
Ruth sighed. She clasped his head, the mantle of white hair, holding him to her.
But he held her away. "I lied."
"No," Ruth said. "You told the truth."
He lowered her down, until she was beneath him. Then he stripped both of them, until they were equally naked.
His body was tawny and hers white. The hair at his groin was like the ice which had burned her. She stared at him, at the weapon of his sex. She turned her head not to see.
"No," he said. "Look at me."
He stroked her. She clung to him. The entry of his flesh into hers was harsh and savage.
"You're hurting me."
"Yes."
"I don't mind it. I want to die. I want to die for you."
He kissed her, moving inside her, the pain like a cathedral built up toward heaven, arches and pinnacles, bronze and air.
She turned her neck. "Drink my blood Please. I want you to."
"Hush," he said.
"I love you," she said, "don't leave me. I love you."
He cried out, as he had in pain. She looked and saw his eyes, and in the depths of them, as if in polished mirrors, the ages of the earth, truth or lies, fire and darkness.
CHAPTER 35
NOBBI MOVED THROUGH THE SAGE AND gold door of Vittoria's and glanced about uneasily. It was a quarter to twelve, but the lunchtime drinkers had already assembled. He had seen plenty of them before, but they might not remember him. Mr. Glass's lads.
Luke was over by the walled pool, at the little secluded table under the yucca tree. He raised his hand. It was tanned and manicured with a plain silver wedding ring.
Nobbi, uncomfortable in his suit, went down the tessellated steps and through the wine bar toward him.
Vittoria's was in dark green, with black glass and spotlights. Tall ferns massed in tubs and stone goddesses rose from the shrubbery. The pool was walled in York stone, with boulders carved from Derbyshire, over which tumbled a small crystal fountain. Golden fish sprang through the water.
On Luke's table was a briefcase, and a green dish with tiny strips of liver. He had been feeding the Venus's flytrap in the urn.
Luke wore a silvery gray suit, a milk-blue shirt and a tie like a pale blush. He smiled a regular white smile of which three teeth were capped, but no one need ever know but Luke's expensive dentist.
"Hi, Nobbi. Good to see you. How are things?"
Luke spoke well. His north London slurs had beer ironed out, about the time the teeth were knocked out ol his mouth in Hammersmith.
"I'm okay. It's just the thing I spoke to Mr. Glass about."
"Right. Well, let's get a drink, shall we?" A girl came at once, maybe a mindreader. "What'll you have. Nobbi?"
"Any beer?" asked Nobbi, without much hope.
The girl mentioned some names that sounded like trouble spots in the news. Nobbi shook his head. He racked his brains, which were busy elsewhere. What was that wine Star gave him? That was all right. But no name would come.
"Just bring us," said Luke buoyantly, "some champagne. You know the one."
Champagne. Did that mean it was good news? Nobbi could tell, Luke had had a sniff of something, maybe in the back of the taxi, or the gents. He was bright and alert. One of Mr. Glass's star boys.
Someone like this, obviously unwed, and a bit younger, for Tracy. Yes, that would be okay. In the Corporation. Look after her. Make her happy. But not a user. Nobbi did not like the idea of Tray with a husband who snorted coke, even if only as an occasional stimulant.
"How's business?" asked Luke, as if he really cared.
"That's fine. Everything's fine. Apart from Tracy."
"Yes, sure. They're a worry, aren't they, girls. My kid's only three, but she already gives me sleepless nights."
"You see," said Nobbi, battling on, "she's gone off before, like I told Mr. Glass. But never so bloody long. Not a word off of her. Nothing."
"Pretty girl," said Luke, "your Tracy."
"Yes, she's lovely," said Nobbi. "That's the trouble. These bloody blokes take a fancy to her and then they drop her, and there she is, in some bother."
"You're a pessimist, Nobbi."
"No, I ain't, but I've seen what happened before. And even Marilyn, now she's started. It was Christmas. It really got her down. Tray never even sent a card. She's always been with us, Christmas."
"Well. Maybe this is something special, Nobbi."
"Is it?" Nobbi stared Luke out, and Luke lowered his gentlemanly eyes.
"Hold on, old man. Here's our wine."
The girl had come, with a boy to open the dark green bottle, which was first displayed to Luke.
The cork came out with a rich pop.
"No, I won't taste it, it'll be just fine. Just pour, and leave the bottle."
The girl and boy went away.
Luke sipped his champagne.
"Exactly what I needed. Only flew in from New York this morning. And came straight from the airport here."
"Good of you," Nobbi muttered.
"Mr. Glass was very particular. He appreciates you, Nobbi. You've done some good work."
Nobbi recalled abruptly the very first job. The patched up wall with something behind it. Working at four in the morning, plastering to the rays of battery lamps. Ask no questions.
"And Mr. Glass," said Luke, "wanted me to see you, explain things."
"Look," said Nobbi, "I just want to know where she is. My girl. That's all. And I know Mr. Glass, with his contacts, he can—"
"Oh, yes, he can, Nobbi. Now go on. Take a drink. It's terrific stuff."
Nobbi looked at the champagne. He raised the glass and had a mouthful. Like sour fruit juice with Andrews in it. Star would have liked it, though. She had taste. He was just a pig.
"Lovely," said Nobbi.
"That's good. Drink up. We can have another bottle."
"Maybe," said Nobbi, "you're going to tell me they ain't been able to find her."
"Tracy? Oh no, Nobbi. No. We know where she is."
"Thank Christ for that."
"And she's absolutely fine, Nobbi."
"Where?"
"Ah, yes. Well, Nobbi. That's the problem."
Nobbi put down the laxative wine and set his fists on the table. He felt overdressed, his tie a garrote, and his waistband pressing. He was hot under the spotlights, and outside the ferns and gilded glass the reality of January murk lay on the street.
"Look, I don't want to offend no one. But I don't want no bloody nonsense. I asked Mr. Glass if he would find my Tray, and now I want to know—"
"You see, Nobbi, old man. Tracy is with someone a bit special. And we can't interfere. Mr. Glass wouldn't like it."
"Who the hell is it?"
"Some people. Just… some people. Very important people. Mr. Glass wouldn't want to upset them. And with the best intentions in the world, you busting in there—"
"You bet
I'd bust in there." Nobbi was red and sweating. He leaned forward over the champagne glasses, the liver. "What do I have to do to get you to cough it up?"
"Now, Nobbi. Calm down. This isn't going to help. We don't want a scene."
"You know what I want, you Brylcreemed cretin."
Luke frowned with his entire face. Then smoothed the frown away. He was good with an iron.
"I'll forget you said that, Nobbi. You're tense. Have a drink."
"I don't want no drink."
"Have a drink and pull yourself together."
Nobbi sat back suddenly. He lost his redness.
"I'm sorry. I never ought to have said that."
"Forget it, Nobbi. You're under stress."
Nobbi drained the champagne. He watched Luke fill up his glass again.
A tall slim woman with sculpted hair and dangling earrings came across the room and stood over their table.
"Everything all right, Luke?"
"Sure, Stephanie."
"Would you like some company? I've got two girls who'd love to meet you."
"That's okay, Stephanie. Not right now."
"Ciao," said Stephanie, and drifted away.
Nobbi felt rough. The champagne had turned his stomach, and he should never have spoken like that to this ponced-up bugger.
Luke seemed to bear no grudge.
He said, soothingly, "You'll just have to be patient a little longer, Nobbi. That's all it needs."
"I don't see why," Nobbi said.
Luke finished another glass of champagne. He half turned his head, and the girl and boy began to get out another bottle.
"Did you happen to hear," said Luke, "about that accident over the river? Mulley's operation."
"Mulley's… Yeah. Gas main, weren't it?"
"No, Nobbi. It wasn't. And you remember Chas? Arms dislocated and lungs full of lemonade."
"Mr. Glass can't be happy about that."
"Mr. Glass believes that, in this case, it's better to turn a blind eye."
Nobbi absorbed this. He felt sore, as if he had been kicked. The world was full of shit. And she was only little.
"You mean some cunt blew up Mulley's place and this same cunt's got my bleeding daughter?"
The second champagne came.
They waited while the bottle was displayed and the cork popped and the wine poured, and the boy and girl left them.
"I don't want none of this."
"No. All right, Nobbi. Just take it easy."
"You take it easy. You fucking tell me what you mean."
"Tracy is perfectly safe. But yes, substantially. The same people. They're—strong. Mr. Glass won't touch them. That's all there is to it, Nobbi." Luke stared Nobbi out now. Luke's eyes were like brown marbles, faintly flecked with wine and cocaine. "Got to accept it, I'm afraid. Nothing we can do. Not a thing."
"My Christ," said Nobbi.
Luke leaned back. He wanted to be kind now.
"Mr. Glass realizes this has been a strain. He suggested you took a break. Take the wife on a little holiday. The villa at Malta's free, or there's Corfu if you fancy—"
"No," said Nobbi.
"All expenses paid, Nobbi. Fly executive class. Marilyn would love it."
"Yeah," said Nobbi. "I'll think about it."
His heart pounded like lead.
"But you do understand, don't you, Nobbi? I mean, Mr. Glass wouldn't like it if you hadn't understood."
"I understand."
"That's good, Nobbi."
Nobbi drank the poison in his glass. Luke smiled on him. Nobbi was a good man.
"How about some oysters, Nobbi?"
It was sleeting, and Marilyn was at the hairdresser's, with Jason. In the lounge Van Gogh's Sunflowers eyed Nobbi malevolently.
He went out into the garden, into the sleet.
On one side of the swimming pool, covered now, a rock garden full of gnomes filled him with a sense of all futility. He walked over and let himself into his office.
The stuffed lion sat on his desk. It looked reproachful.
"Bloody useless," said Nobbi.
He took out one of his cigars and stood gazing at it.
They knew. They knew and they would not say. And he had to buckle under. Because he was helpless.
He sat down at the desk, and he thought back to that day she had phoned him. "Where are you?"
"London. Just wanted to talk to you… He's famous. Don't nag."
Some bloody rock singer. Some weird place. In London. London.
The conversation had been doubly frustrating too, because an ice-cream van had been there, gurning outside the box.
Nobbi stiffened. He put down the cigar and pointed at the lion. "Christ."
How could he have forgotten that? The van playing that tune so loud he could barely hear what Tray said to him. And it was an outlandish tune. Some classical stuff, he thought. If only he could remember how it went—
Nobbi got up again, and walked round the room, trying, trying-He could hear it, just upstairs in his brain, just too far away to make it out.
Nobbi struggled, and his blood roared in his ears, so he could not hear the tune at all.
The sleet slashed at Stella's windows. She had drawn the curtains, a restful light brown with green leaves. There was a wonderful smell of roasting beef, slowly cooked since morning until it had the consistency of butter.
They went into the bedroom to make love.
Nobbi put his hand on Star's warm thigh. "I'm sorry, love."
"Am I doing something wrong?"
"What you're doing's lovely. But I just—can't keep my mind on it. It's worrying about her, you see."
"Oh, Nobbi, poor Nobbi."
They sat in the main room while the joint cooked, and held hands. He was glad to be near her, she was restful. Quiet.
In the background faint music played. Something classical, but not the right one.
"It's this bleeding tune. If I was to get it, I'd hum it to you. You'd know it, Star."
"I might not."
"Yes you would. I've heard it myself. Don't know where."
They ate dinner, the roast beef with creamed potatoes, Yorkshire pudding as good as the Old Girl's, steamed celery, garden peas, and fried mushrooms. Nobbi liked the food but he did not eat very much. Star gave him beer.
They went to bed early and lay in the dark, pressed close.
In the middle of the night, Star woke up. She woke because Nobbi was sitting bolt upright in the bed.
"What is it?" She was frightened.
"I got it," he said. "Star—listen—"
Star listened as Nobbi growled out the tune he had heard the ice-cream van play behind Tray's weightless voice, the unsuitable melody of that long hot summer.
"Are you sure?" said Star.
"Yeah—that's it. I know that's it."
"It seems odd—"
"Do you know it?"
"Yes. It's 'The Thieving Magpie.' Rossini."
Nobbi swore, uncomprehending, triumphant.
"They all have their own areas," Nobbi said. "D'you see? I can get a couple of my own boys on to it. I can find her, now."
CHAPTER 36
IF SHE CONCENTRATED, SHE COULD hear him playing.
Far below.
Below even the stairs, somewhere down in the dark under her heart.
But this was not Adamus. It was Kei, Michael's lover. It was possible to tell, anyway, that the musician was not the same. There was none of Adamus's violence, or breadth. Rachmaninov, she thought. Song without words. How apt.
Rachaela walked off the staircase and into the white and gold drawing room. Premonitions of sunset soaked the windows. It was so early. The long winter-January night would soon be here.
Up in the tarot window, the knight knelt before his burning tower. The colors reflected in the scratched table which said Good-bye.
No one else was in the room. The television was off.
The other windows, roses, palaces, flamed softly.
&nbs
p; / said I'd go away. Over and over I've said it. And here I am.
Rachaela sat down at the table, and put her hands on the scratches.
Somewhere in the house, probably, was Althene.
Usually, once a day, Rachaela and Althene would meet each other. If at no other time, in the evening, at the hour of dining. At Christmas there had been a complex dinner. Everyone had sat through it, Camillo also, with Lou. Tray had been along the table, next to Miranda. She had worn one of Miranda's dresses, presumably a little taken in. Tray's tan had faded to white, where Lou's had turned a dire obdurate yellow.
And Althene. At Christmas Althene had worn a silver dress. Rachaela had never seen a silver dress before which did not look vulgar, unpleasant. But Althene's dress was exquisite, like something from a description in a fairy book… the silver of moonlight on waves, something like that.
Althene was trapped here, too. She must be waiting for Malach. Or some order from Malach.
She did not seem to find the situation uncomfortable. She was level and polite. Her eyes never rested on Rachaela. There was the palest whiff of arrogance, which might be the cloak of embarrassment, anger, or contempt.
And I.
Rachaela tried to examine herself frankly. She went about the house, or walked on the common, consciously avoiding Althene where possible—Oh, she has gone out, I must not; Ah, she is in the white room, I will not go down. Such things. And when they chanced to pass, greeting each other quietly, soullessly, a sting like an electric shock.
Rachaela thought, I'm like some silly schoolgirl with a crush on the prefect.
She dreamed about Althene. Some nights, some days when she slept, the dreams went on and on, until she would force herself awake, exhausted.
The dreams were rarely sexual. Generally Rachaela was lost. She would search for Althene in enormous frightened pain. Occasionally she would glimpse her, but always unavailably, in the carriage of a rushing train, on the roof of some high building without steps.
Then again, there was a dream in which Althene and she walked together through some amorphous place. Althene talked to her in a language Rachaela could not fathom, perhaps medieval French—but what did that matter? The analogy was clear enough.
Twice, an erotic dream. In one, Althene wore the fabulous lingerie, not green but black, and Lou's black wedding veil of long ago. In the other, Althene had pulled the sheet up over her body. "Don't look." And Rachaela pulled the sheet away and woke up. Neither was satisfying, but left her electrified, aroused.
