After the Fire

by Belva Plain

  Still, even with Arnie there were complications. He didn't try very hard to hide what he wanted.

  “I suppose you meet a lot of men now that you're out in the world, right?”

  “Not many. I'm at Libretti's all day, and it's a long day.”

  “But there are other designers there.”

  “A lot of them don't like women, Arnie.”

  Then, as if teasing but not really teasing, he would smile and tell her that he was still “available.”

  “Better grab me before somebody else does, Hy. Take a look at me. Not bad, hey?”

  The lively face and the strong, athletic body were not bad at all. Yet something was missing. And a small pain darted across her forehead.

  On the first of July, Lina made a decision: It was time for Hyacinth to see the fabric houses of France. This would be a start, and the next visit abroad would be to Milan. In time she would need to see handwoven tweeds in Scotland and embroideries in India.

  “Oh, glamour!” exclaimed Francine when Hyacinth reported all this. “French flowers, music, food, and of course the fashions—oh, lucky you.” She was in raptures. Then suddenly subdued, she added, “I'm so happy for you, darling. You deserve it.”

  She meant, of course, after all the trouble you won't tell me about.

  Arnie, as ever, was enthusiastic. “Great. If I didn't have appointments a month ahead in this office, damned if I wouldn't pick up and go along. Listen, have a ball. The kids are fine and you can have a nice visit when you get back, so go and have fun, Hy. But not too much fun, if you get my meaning.”

  * * *

  Ten days later Hyacinth settled into a window seat. As she looked out at the activities on the tarmac, her thoughts turned to the last time she had gone overseas. The four years might have been four centuries in another life, or they might have been four days ago, so vivid was her recollection.

  From the first-class section, one had a view of every face as its owner slowly passed. And as always, with her innate curiosity, she wondered how much a face ever truly revealed. So she observed the passing file, thinking about each one, and then about herself, until gradually, after many minutes had passed and the plane was almost ready to take off, she had reached a conclusion: I am stronger now than I was on my last flight to Paris. I am more able to endure because I've had to. It was, and is still, a case of endure or founder.

  Without intending to, she sat up straight and tall. The seat was comfortable. On the tray lay a book, a Miche-lin guide, and a cold drink. Below the dark blue cuff of her perfect suit, one of Lina's best, there shone the polished circle of Francine's gold gift. At her feet lay the perfect lizard handbag that matched the perfect shoes. And she smiled, recalling Lina's injunction: “You are a walking advertisement now, and you must never forget it.” A sense of well-being, long unfamiliar, crept over her.

  The seat beside her was still vacant. And she was thinking that, with luck, she might even have the benefit of its added space, when a voice cried, “Well, imagine this!”

  She looked up to see Will Miller preparing to take the vacant seat.

  “I had no idea,” he said. “Did you?”

  His amazement was so ineptly acted that the very absurdity of it increased her anger and dismay.

  She replied sharply, “No, not at all. Nor did Lina either, I'm sure.”

  “Well, there's nothing much you can do about it now. They've pulled back the jetway, so you'll simply have to put up with me.”

  She saw at once that another change had come over him. The impersonal, courteous manner of the past few weeks was gone. It had only been a studied reaction to her own coolness toward him. She had known that all along, without wanting to know it. In its place there now appeared the man she had first known, determined and plain-spoken.

  She had needed to be alone….

  “You've been avoiding me,” he said.

  Not wanting to argue, she tried to placate. “No, no, I haven't. We had a nice afternoon at the Morgan Library, didn't we? At least I thought it was.”

  “When was that? Three weeks ago? Don't give me a foolish excuse, Hyacinth. All the rest of the time you've been busy. Always busy, you tell me, and I know very well you aren't.”

  “What do you mean?” Indignantly she drew away toward the window. “Who says I'm not busy?”

  “Common sense says so. Lina doesn't work you to death. She told me.”

  “She knows nothing about what I do after hours.”

  “She knows more than you think.”

  “Was this her idea? Yes, it must have been. Since you had left—oh, unexpectedly, of course—for San Francisco! What does she think she's doing? She has no right to interfere in my life.”

  “I don't want to quarrel about Lina. In fact, I don't want to quarrel at all. Turn around and look at the Statue of Liberty. Have you been up at the top lately?”

  “No.”

  “Neither have I, not since I was ten years old. We'll go as soon as we get back from this trip.”

  “What do you mean by ‘we’?”

  “What I said. Listen, Hyacinth. You've been putting on an act. Hard to get. Don't deny it, because I see it. It's very feminine and old-fashioned and sweet, and all right for a starter, but we've gotten beyond it. We got beyond it on the day we saw that boy on horseback in the park and you showed me the snapshots of Emma and Jerry.”

  “You don't know what you're talking about,” she said, very low.

  “Oh, but I do, and you know I do. You're saying one thing now, but your eyes are contradicting what you say. They're doing it right this minute.”

  Her eyes, to her exasperation, had filmed with tears, and it was simply because he had remembered the names of Jerry and Emma. Stalwart, are you, Hyacinth? And she turned to the window, where far below the city was falling away. On the screen before them, the map showed their route, northeast toward Boston, Halifax, Greenland—all those miles and hours locked into this seat.

  “I won't bother you,” Will said abruptly. “Read your book. I have one, too.”

  She had been looking forward to the book, a new novel by a good writer; it had the fresh feel of untouched books, the glossy jacket immaculate, and all those tantalizing pages inside, enough of them to last until lights out and for two more nights alone in a beautiful room at the hotel. And now it was all ruined.

  Her eyes read the opening sentence, but her mind made no sense of the words and they had to read it again. Her mind had gone flat and stupid, repeating the overhead sign: Fasten Seat Belts. She read it in French and again in English, until it turned into a senseless refrain: Fasten Seat Belts. At that point, becoming alarmed, she tried to control her mind. Listen here, she commanded it. Listen here, Hyacinth. You're doing all right, or you were until he came. Now let's go all over it again: You're not hanging on to anybody's coattails or crying on anybody's shoulder. You're supporting yourself and doing it very well. You don't owe a cent to anybody now that you've made Arnie accept your repayment. It's true that you have your lonely hours when you're not working—God, how lonely—but you get through them.

  Her mind faltered: Oh, if you could find a man for an uncomplicated relationship, he would be very, very welcome. He must be nice, like Arnie, only a great deal more—or perhaps only a little more—to your taste. But that sounds awful. “Your taste,” as if you were some superior arbiter selecting a man as one selects a melon or a chair. Will is definitely not the person for any uncomplicated relationship. And part of it all is your fault, you know it is. There were several times, and you remember them well, when you could have said something that would have ended it. But you didn't say it. You didn't want to say it. So you encouraged him, and now here you are. You really don't want to get involved again, do you? So for God's sake, pull yourself together, get rid of him firmly when we land, and go about your business.

  The flight attendant came with the dinner menus. Will read his, she read hers, and each gave his order without any consultation between them. It seemed t
o Hyacinth that the attendant was looking at them with some curiosity, as if she were deciding whether they were strangers or a couple. Not that it mattered what she decided.

  Why am I like this? she asked herself with a touch of the original adolescent consciousness of self. Why do I care what anybody thinks? You are you, and if people don't like you, there's nothing else you can do.

  They had both ordered the same hors d'oeuvre plate. Silently they ate and drank the aperitif that had come with it. After a few minutes, the silence began to seem unnatural. Even a pair of total strangers locked together a few inches apart for a long night would exchange a few cordial remarks.

  “Delicious,” she said, catching Will's glance. “You don't expect such food on a plane, do you?”

  “On a French plane, you do.”

  “Yes, they do know food, don't they?”

  Now wasn't that a banal remark? Perhaps it would after all have been better not to start any conversation.

  “If I remember, this isn't your first time over there.”

  “No, it's my first time on business, though.”

  “Ah yes, fabrics. It should be very interesting. Challenging.”

  “I'm looking forward to it.”

  Silence fell. Then, since heads normally move and eyes wander, their eyes met. Opals, thought Hyacinth, startled again by their extraordinary lucent color.

  “Listen,” Will said. “This is ridiculous. First you play the game, then I play the game. Men can play it, too, you know. But you began it, always having something to do every time I asked. Your mother was in the city with your great-aunt's second cousin's mother-in-law. Were you playing a game with me, or did you by any chance mean it? If you really mean it, please simply say so. Say: ‘Will Miller, I don't want to see you again. Leave me alone. Get out of my life.’ Say it, and I'll do it.”

  She looked toward the window. It was quite dark, and they were so high that no light of earth was visible. All everywhere was black. Where was the resolution that only a short while before had stiffened the spine of this brave little lady who was making a name for herself, owed nobody, and bore her tragedy in silence? A lump almost large enough to choke her rose to Hyacinth's throat and stuck there.

  Will Miller waited. Time passed, perhaps only a minute or two that might just as well have been an hour or two before he spoke again, saying softly, “I think you've given me your answer, Hyacinth.”

  Still, she could not bring herself to speak, but putting a hand on his arm, let it rest there. He did not move until at last she spoke.

  “I don't want to say ‘get out of my life.’ ”

  “What do you want to say?”

  A felony-murder, second degree.

  “I don't know.”

  “I believe you do,” he said quietly now. “I believe you're wary of a new relationship, and I can understand that because the old one was so painful. Am I right, Hyacinth?”

  “Painful.” The word came out with a gasp. “Oh, yes. Painful.”

  “I won't hurry you. But do we understand each other this time? Are we on a straight road now?”

  There was such conflict within her that she was physically racked with it. Deep shame filled her because concealment was a masquerade and a lie. And rage filled her that she, who had never meant harm to anybody on earth, should be so afflicted. This man here, so sensitive, perceptive, intelligent, proud, and kind, was no object of an unlearned young girl's infatuation; he was the man for her belated womanhood, and she knew it.

  So perhaps after all it would not be a wrong? It need not hurt him. How would he ever know, unless of course something—something should be discovered? But how was she, or how could anyone, let that possibility, or probability, control the rest of her life? If they could be happy together for however short or long a time, and then the feared disaster were to come upon her, it would not harm him too much. So then, really, was she committing so terrible a sin in saying yes? Was she?

  “Straight road?” he repeated.

  She nodded her assent, and he took her hand.

  They slept in spurts as people do on a night flight. Waking from time to time, they felt the warmth of each other's shoulders. The touch was as intimate as if they had many times before shared the same bed. As the plane rushed eastward, they awoke again at the same time to see the sunrise ahead.

  “Look!” cried Hyacinth. “It seems to be coming up out of the sea. Every day, faithful every day. It's a miracle.”

  “Yes, a miracle. Like love.”

  Lina, having one day asked Hyacinth casually where she had stayed before in Paris, had thoughtfully selected a different hotel.

  “Now you're not annoyed with her anymore, are you?” Will asked, adding somewhat mischievously, “You thought you fooled her, but you didn't. She's a pretty smart old lady.”

  “You got her to plan all this, didn't you? Adjoining rooms and everything?”

  “I can't say I didn't have a part in it. The adjoining rooms, though, were done for the sake of appearances. It looks more dignified that way, don't you think? More respectable.”

  The rooms were decorated with fruitwood and toile, his blue and hers pink, which made them laugh. Suddenly they were filled with laughter. You might expect to fall onto a bed for at least a short nap after a long and fairly uncomfortable night, but to the contrary, energized as if with oxygen, they ate an enormous breakfast and started out into a cool, sunny day. Turning toward the Tuileries, they walked hand in hand past the pond and on up toward an ice cream parlor where, at half past ten in the morning, they bought double cones. Seeing themselves reflected absurdly in a shop window, two adults burdened with two cameras, one map, one guidebook, one extra sweater, and ice cream cones, they had to laugh at themselves again.

  “I'm walking on air,” Will said.

  Yes, she thought, that's how it is. I could walk around the world, just start out now and keep on going. If I had wings, I couldn't feel any lighter. I'd go anyplace with him, anywhere at all. Just not to think, not to care.

  “What shall we do with this day?” he asked.

  “Let's just wander.”

  “No museums?”

  “Not today.”

  “I'm glad you said that. This is the day we begin. It will be our anniversary. Let's simply feel it.”

  So they wandered. They crossed a bridge and stopped for minutes simply to watch the boats. They passed the bookstalls, stopping to examine some books and buying two.

  “It keeps you from forgetting the language,” Will said.

  They went into a church. It seemed as if their feet always paused at the same places, first at the entrance and then at a pew where, without speaking, they both sat down. For half an hour they listened to an organ fugue resounding through the lofty silence, and then, still without speaking, they rose at the same time and went out.

  The music followed them into the street. “Was it Bach?” asked Hyacinth.

  “No. César Franck.”

  Through the streets, the alleys, and the unexpected shady spaces of the old city, they walked on. The morning's laughter died away, and in its place a lovely peace wrapped itself around them.

  When they stopped before a gallery window, it seemed as if by unspoken consensus they needed the same amount of time to look and were ready together to go on their way. At a café table under an umbrella on the sidewalk, they stopped for coffee and, drinking slowly, still not saying much of anything, observed the scene: a fruiterer's magnificent display, a woman with three poodles on a leash, and a passing car bedecked with bridal flowers. They were both carried beyond words. After a while, Will touched her arm and asked, “Shall we go back? Have we waited long enough?”

  If he could hear her heart beat! If a heart could speak!

  “I don't want to hurry you,” he said.

  She looked at him and smiled. “But I want you to hurry me.”

  Sliding between the louvered shutters, the afternoon light striped the carpet. Quietly Hyacinth stood in the center of t
he room and let him take off her clothes. His hands were firm and persistent; yet they were soft upon her. Neither of them spoke. He kissed her, and still she did not move, letting the sweetness stream over and through her. It was as if she had never been desired and cherished; always the wanting had been hers. Hers only. And she had never truly known adoration until now, standing here in this room. Her ignorance had not been bliss. This was bliss.

  After the first few days, when both had taken care of their business affairs, their time was free.

  “We don't have to rush home. I'll change the tickets and we'll take a few extra days. It's our honeymoon.”

  He had already made a list of things to see: a monastery, the menhirs in Brittany, Mont-Saint-Michel, and the Normandy beaches.

  “Anything to add? Any changes you want to make?”

  She had none except for one inn where she had stayed with Gerald on a rainy night of exasperation for him and worry for her.

  “All that's past,” he said when she told him, “and you are going to forget it.”

  “I have already.”

  Leaving the city, they turned the car toward the north, taking turns at the wheel. Often when the road was clear and Will drove, he held her hand. It seemed then to Hyacinth that strength was passing from one hand to the other, building a union between them. It was a marvel that they were so alike. When music came through the air, they both listened without interruption until the end. After so short a time together, they were able to foretell each other's quirks and habits; he liked his hot drinks hot, while she liked them warm; each of them wanted to read the newspaper undisturbed at breakfast; he had to sleep on his right side.