by Anna Porter
Twenty-odd years with a man like Eric, Marsha thought, you would grow to love him some. “There was another manuscript that came in from George Harris that week, wasn’t there? Something by a young Canadian writer about pig farming?”
“Oh yes. I read some of that myself. A lovely book, but I don’t think quite right for us.” She checked again in her stenographer’s book. “Here it is. I entered it on April 4th. When Pigs Do Fly. Came from Alice Roy, not Mr. Harris himself. You’re publishing that?”
“Maybe,” Marsha said.
Twenty-One
RICHER BY SIX NEW manuscripts she had promised to read immediately and one set of rolled galley proofs that looked as if it had done the rounds of every visiting American publisher before her, Marsha returned to the hotel.
She pulled out a file for her 5:00 meeting, straightened her blouse, fixed her hair. It seemed she had rushed through the day, constantly distracted by X’s Untitled manuscript. Would X contact her? Had X been encouraged by her responses at Schwarz’s? Did the woman represent X? Was she X?
When Marsha reached the lobby, Julian Ashby was already waiting. She was tempted to tell him about her new conspiracy theory, but he seemed pressed, checking his watch unobtrusively while she talked. Julian didn’t share Marsha’s enthusiasm for the manuscripts she had brought, and he had no interest in Larry’s proposal for a health-care series for over-fifties: “Actually, I found the idea in rather bad taste.”
Back in her room, she confronted a large pigeon sitting on the flashing light of the telephone. When Marsha reached for the receiver, it lumbered over to the windowsill with an attitude of hurt dignity.
The message was from Jerry. Call at the office. Did he think she was stupid? When had she ever called him at home?
He was lonely. He had been preparing for the trial of a client he didn’t like, in front of a judge who didn’t like him, against a prosecutor with a sense of mission, who was at least ten years Jerry’s junior. His analyst had gone to Mexico on holiday. Kate had suggested a month in the South of France to renew their marriage. Did Marsha think he was having a crisis of confidence? Did she think he should hop on the Concorde to London?
“How in hell would you explain an unexpected business trip to Kate? And to the Partners? They would have to be primed to cover for you. You’d be indebted to all of them. Can you imagine going through life being indebted to every one of them?”
He gave in without conviction when Marsha promised to return next Wednesday night. No side trip to Paris.
Marsha was grateful when he hung up. Maybe Judith was right. She had allowed herself to be used by Jerry as a substitute for a real relationship—because that was all she could handle: mutual physical comfort, a controlled environment, the knowledge that she was needed. Just as Judith had never rid herself of the guilts bestowed on her by her mother, Marsha couldn’t destroy the rigid confines of her own unloved childhood.
For a moment she stared out the window remembering Peter’s big untidy acacia tree.
Over a year had passed since she had exchanged anything but publishing talk with him, but it hadn’t been easy. Each time she saw him she had to remind herself to forget. And she had tried to believe that the night they had spent in her hotel room in Frankfurt had been merely casual and pleasant, though it had been neither.
Then there had been his letter.
She had fashioned a response that was cheerful, friendly, and hurriedly brisk. She had wanted to reestablish her perimeters. A long-distance love affair offered fewer consolations than an affair without love. Marsha’s life was inextricably set in New York, as Peter’s was in London. Though he had never acknowledged defeat, he gave up quickly enough, his letters returning to the “dictated but not signed” from his erratic handwriting.
Perhaps he had lied to her about The Dealer because he was competing for the world rights now that both Harris and Grafstein were dead. Perhaps he didn’t know the danger. Or maybe he did and was trying to protect her?
Tonight she would tell him everything she knew. Invite him to work with her.
She dressed with a sense of occasion. Her wine-colored Guy Laroche suit, a ruffled-neck shirt with long frilled cuffs that fanned out at the ends of the jacket sleeves, her mother’s old ruby-inset gold brooch a few inches below the neckline for tempered unapproachability, and wine-colored lipstick that made her feel like a foreign agent.
Peter, his tie still askew, arrived on time. He kissed her lightly on the cheek, old friends.
The champagne was already at the table. Sliced smoked salmon appeared as soon as they sat down. The maître d’, who might have been a veteran of the Great War, all but tugged his forelock when he saw Peter.
“Such a tragedy. A man in his prime. Yes…”
“I don’t know why you picked this place,” Peter mumbled.
“I thought it was your spot. We came here last year. And the year before. I was being nostalgic. Why?”
“This is where Eric died.”
“Shall we leave?”
“No. It would be somewhat embarrassing.”
But at the end of the champagne and smoked salmon, he suggested they might try the pub next door. It lacked the old-world charm of The Lion’s Head, but made up for it in ebullience.
He rewarded Marsha for her acquiescence with home-grown gossip, rumors of pending takeovers, and the newest revelations about Rupert Murdoch. He could not comprehend why the newspaper tycoon, a man known for his financial acumen, would invest in British publishing houses. Yet there he was, pitching to purchase yet another ailing old giant. He’d get no thanks for it either. The British remained tacitly unimpressed by his brash Australian aggressiveness.
What did she think of Nelson Roberts, Jr. taking over five of the UK’s leading papers? A quiet, reclusive, American vegetarian millionaire, at least he had the good sense not to flash his money around Britain in person.
Peter grew more animated in the amber light, his sharp features strengthened by the shadows, leaning forward on crossed arms as he shared confidences. She loved to watch him, lithe and energetic, basking in her appreciation. She would have liked to listen all evening. And she would have liked the evening to continue into the next day, but the unasked question was beginning to take over her thoughts, until, finally, she blurted it out.
“Peter, why did you show me that lovely novel set in Saskatchewan this morning, when you knew I was looking for another manuscript?”
He took a deep breath and, leaning back in his chair, asked in a quiet voice: “What other manuscript?”
“The one Eric Sandwell had been expecting to see that day. He was so excited he called you into his office and the two of you read it and talked about it. The one which went with George Harris’s letter.”
“We get so many manuscripts, I might have been momentarily confused. Could you elaborate? What is it about? Who is the author? You didn’t give me many clues when you phoned.” His face was now expressionless, controlled, his mouth set in a straight line, his eyes very still.
“All I know is it’s nonfiction and has been referred to, variously, as The Dealer and as ‘Untitled’ by X. George Harris was going to publish it, but he died before he could get around to it. Max Grafstein read it, and he died. He had offered George $1 million for the US rights…”
“I was told George Harris committed suicide.”
“The Toronto police department is now treating it as murder.”
“Grafstein was mugged.”
“True. But the same night his offices were broken into, and the manuscript vanished. I think this was the same manuscript George sent to Eric. Now Eric is dead.”
Peter’s glass slipped out of his hand and crashed to the table, spilling some of the beer over his pants.
“Damn. Damn.” He wiped at it with his white handkerchief.
The waitress lifted their glasses and mopped up the beer. “Another one, sir?”
Marsha said yes; Peter was still too busy with his knees. The wait
ress offered to help and Peter accepted gladly. The tension evaporated with the stain. When he looked up again, he was his former, composed self.
“Now that the slight diversion is over, perhaps you could enlighten me some more,” he said.
Marsha told him everything she knew except the part Jane MacIntyre had played.
“Quite a story,” Peter said. “Mysterious old ladies, disappearing witnesses, strange notes written in green ink, high stakes, a distinguished cast. But Eric wasn’t playing. He died of a heart attack. He was almost sixty. He had been driving himself too hard. And I have trouble with the rest of your suppositions—though, frankly, I like the tale.”
“And that’s what you really think?”
“That’s what I really think. And that I almost forgot something.” He pulled a small black package from his pocket and handed it to Marsha. “Last month I was in India to oversee the enthusiastic efforts of our Eastern sales force. I came across this chap.”
Marsha unwrapped a padded box and, inside, an antique porcelain elephant with a tiny blue saddle and gold-painted headdress, its trunk turned upward for good fortune, its ears swept back for optimism and speed.
“Such a perfect little figure, so brave and determined, he reminded me of you,” Peter said, gazing affectionately at the elephant. “Should fit right into your collection.”
“It’s absolutely beautiful,” Marsha said, holding it in the palm of her hand, letting the amber light warm its tiny form. Suddenly she was ashamed of having suspected him of duplicity.
“Maybe we should celebrate our meeting with a touch of port. Or brandy? There is a place in Essex I’d like to show you. My own handiwork. I’d like to prove to you that I have talents other than books.”
It was a crisp, clear Spring night outside—a wonderful time for a drive to the country.
***
There was something about the angle of his jaw that reminded Marsha of her father. Maybe it was the taut line from his ear to the corner of his mouth—the moving tension in the hollow of his cheek as his eyes dodged oncoming headlights. The narrow road curved sharply now that they had left the highway. The upper corners of his mouth puffed up, ingenuously, childlike. Her father had covered his mouth with a thick mustache.
She wondered whether it was Peter’s newly acquired image of clandestine intrigue that had put her in mind of her father. A man of too many secrets, no time for explanations. She remembered him locked in his study with fat gold-colored files and graying men with tight smiles and black briefcases. Mostly she remembered his hellos and goodbyes; the gifts he brought, odd-smelling dolls in crisp costumes with tall headdresses, tiny ornate boxes full of perfumed petals, carved figurines of ivory and sandalwood—her first elephants had arrived wrapped in silk-fancy embroidered jackets and lace shirts with colored ribbons. Jewels for her mother, candleholders, furs. Sometimes grotesquely stuffed animal heads that were banished to the basement.
When Marsha and her brothers had been allowed to watch him unpack, he would tell them strange stories about faraway places where the gifts were made. She wouldn’t know when he had gone again until she opened the hall closet looking for a dark place to hide, and saw that his big black suitcases were gone.
Peter stopped in front of a white farmhouse. He looked at her, waiting. She wanted him to hold her. She had resisted wanting anyone for so long. His lips were soft and faintly salty; his tongue tasted of beer. She could feel his heartbeat.
Then he was opening the car door, propelling her toward the house. He fumbled with the keys, kicked the door open, and they ran up some stairs in the dark. She saw only vague outlines of the furniture in the moonlight, the bed a large black shadow. He was pulling at the zipper on her skirt, the buttons on her blouse. His cock pressed against the hollow next to her hipbone as she lay back on the covers; her hands reached for his body as his hands and lips began to explore hers.
This was what she had wanted.
***
They lay listening to the grasshoppers in the farmer’s field below. Then Peter whispered, “I think I’m falling in love again.”
“Uhhum,” Marsha said, but she was already trying to separate herself from him. She felt exposed. Too warm and comfortable as her body fitted into his. She would have to raise the barriers again, fast, before she became accustomed to needing him.
“First time’s not much to go by. Usually.”
“You mean Frankfurt, in my hotel room?”
“That doesn’t count. I mean tonight. We’ll get better with practice.”
“Uhhum,” Marsha said. Why did men need reassuring? “Really, it was fine.”
“Fine?” he asked.
“Okay, great!” Marsha laughed.
“I’ll be better as I get to know you.” He was still uncertain. “Sometimes I think it would save a lot of time and grief if people exchanged simple questionnaires about what they liked the most. Everyone’s different. Right?”
“Right,” she said, though she hadn’t wanted to think about how different they were. She didn’t want to think about Jerry. Not now. “Though that would tend to destroy some of the spontaneity.”
“I suppose,” he chuckled.
“Marsha…” he said after a while.
“Yes?” She was glad he had stopped short of asking for her professional evaluation of his technique.
“I wish you’d stop all this nonsense about Eric.”
“I know.”
“It could be coincidence.”
“Yes. But it isn’t,” Marsha said.
“You’re sure of that?” he asked.
“Absolutely.” Marsha stretched out on the bed, her hands locked behind her head. The cool night air fanned her still-damp stomach. She could see him looking at the outline of her body in the moonlight. It felt beautiful.
“In that case,” Peter said with a sharp intake of breath, “you must try to become unsure again. Go home and forget the whole thing. While you’re still guessing.”
“What do you mean?” Her voice was suddenly hoarse.
“It’s not like you to be so obtuse. I’m trying to tell you you’re on treacherous ground. Please stop meddling. Please.”
“Is that a warning?” Marsha asked. She turned to look at him but it was too dark to see his face.
“The best I can do,” he said softly. “I only wish there was more.”
She became aware of the smell of his body, sharp and sweet where it had mingled with her own, as they lay side by side in silence. It was cooler now, a slight breeze billowing the curtains. Marsha listened to his slow, even breathing, wanting to quell her longing to touch him. Her frustration at his warning, his decision not to level with her, slowly dissolved into anger.
She found the bathroom, filled the old-fashioned tub to the brim and lay in water up to her chin. Afterward she pulled on her crumpled clothes, adding more distance between herself and Peter, and watched him for a while to make sure he was sleeping.
His face was smooth and boyish, his mouth slightly open, soft in the corners as though, at any moment, he was ready to grin at her. His dark eyelashes fluttered in the curved hollow under his eyes: he must have been dreaming.
She watched his chest rise and fall. When she touched him lightly, he didn’t respond. Marsha swallowed hard, wiped the dampness from her own eyes and turned her back on him.
She looked around the bedroom for the first time. It was wide and cavernous, but well-lit by the moon and the bathroom light. There were potted plants on the table near the windows, clothes in the walk-in closet, balls of dust and rumpled underwear under the bed. More underwear in the drawers, fat knitted sweaters, his shirts neatly folded. No hiding places for a manuscript.
Downstairs, the room was sparse and simple, the walls painted white, the oak floors polished and the broad wooden roof beams stained. No personal objects. No photographs, mementos, collectibles. Only wall-to-wall books, as in his office.
On the heavy oak round table, large enough and old enough to ha
ve served all King Arthur’s knights, there was a pile of manuscripts. She skimmed some of the typed pages. Within an hour she had determined that nothing on the table could be by X, though there were a couple of stories she wouldn’t have minded taking home with her.
She looked through a stack of brown folders marked, variously, The Chicago Sentinel, The Boston Evening Post, The Dallas Journal, The London News, and the names of other newspapers around the world. Each folder held a heap of clippings and tearsheets. They related to trouble spots in South America, Central America, the Middle East, Africa. There were stories about Nicaragua and the proposed withdrawal of US assistance from the contras; reports predicting defeat for the Salvadoran army when the US stopped funneling them arms and aid; stories of anti-American demonstrations in London, Berne, Beirut, Munich, Calcutta, tear gas in Ankara, bullets in Athens; lengthy interviews with nonviolent peace demonstrators.
In a separate folder there were headlines about the nuclear arms race, reports on research papers about nuclear winter, estimates of the number of dead in the case of limited nuclear warfare, related articles from various newspapers and magazines. Some lines had been underscored in yellow felt pen. “We can be safe from nuclear war only when the causes of military conflict have been removed.”… “In the unending search for security, the United States and its allies have acquired the means by which the human species might well be totally destroyed…”
The bookcases testified to Peter’s eclectic tastes. Czeslaw Milosz’s The Issa Valley, Russel Hoban’s Riddley Walker, The Jerome Biblical Commentary, Eisenhower’s Lieutenants, Little Gloria Happy at Last, histories, romances, fat contemporary novels, political commentaries, a multivolume science series. On the sideboard near the couch there was a copy of Jonathan Schell’s The Abolition and The Cold and the Dark, The World after Nuclear War by Ehrlich, Sagan, Kennedy and Roberts, Survival is Not Enough by Richard Pipes, A Passage to Peshawar by Reeves. The latter was lying open. She picked it up.
